Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Shall I be too late for the post, I wonder? Wilson tells me that you were followed up-stairs yesterday (I write on Saturday this latter part) by somebody whom you probably took for my father. Which is Wilson’s idea — and I hope not yours. No — it was neither father nor other relative of mine, but an old friend in rather an ill temper.

  And so good-bye until Tuesday. Perhaps I shall ... not ... hear from you to-night. Don’t let the tragedy or aught else do you harm — will you? and try not to be ‘weary in your soul’ any more — and forgive me this gloomy letter I half shrink from sending you, yet will send.

  May God bless you.

  E.B.B.

  R.B. to E.B.B.

  Wednesday Morning,

  [Post-mark, August 27, 1845.]

  On the subject of your letter — quite irrespective of the injunction in it — I would not have dared speak; now, at least. But I may permit myself, perhaps, to say I am most grateful, most grateful, dearest friend, for this admission to participate, in my degree, in these feelings. There is a better thing than being happy in your happiness; I feel, now that you teach me, it is so. I will write no more now; though that sentence of ‘what you are expecting, — that I shall be tired of you &c.,’ — though I could blot that out of your mind for ever by a very few words now, — for you would believe me at this moment, close on the other subject: — but I will take no such advantage — I will wait.

  I have many things (indifferent things, after those) to say; will you write, if but a few lines, to change the associations for that purpose? Then I will write too. —

  May God bless you, — in what is past and to come! I pray that from my heart, being yours

  R.B.

  E.B.B. to R.B.

  Wednesday Morning,

  [Post-mark, August 27, 1845.]

  But your ‘Saul’ is unobjectionable as far as I can see, my dear friend. He was tormented by an evil spirit — but how, we are not told ... and the consolation is not obliged to be definite, ... is it? A singer was sent for as a singer — and all that you are called upon to be true to, are the general characteristics of David the chosen, standing between his sheep and his dawning hereafter, between innocence and holiness, and with what you speak of as the ‘gracious gold locks’ besides the chrism of the prophet, on his own head — and surely you have been happy in the tone and spirit of these lyrics ... broken as you have left them. Where is the wrong in all this? For the right and beauty, they are more obvious — and I cannot tell you how the poem holds me and will not let me go until it blesses me ... and so, where are the ‘sixty lines’ thrown away? I do beseech you ... you who forget nothing, ... to remember them directly, and to go on with the rest ... as directly (be it understood) as is not injurious to your health. The whole conception of the poem, I like ... and the execution is exquisite up to this point — and the sight of Saul in the tent, just struck out of the dark by that sunbeam, ‘a thing to see,’ ... not to say that afterwards when he is visibly ‘caught in his fangs’ like the king serpent, ... the sight is grander still. How could you doubt about this poem....

  At the moment of writing which, I receive your note. Do you receive my assurances from the deepest of my heart that I never did otherwise than ‘believe’ you ... never did nor shall do ... and that you completely misinterpreted my words if you drew another meaning from them. Believe me in this — will you? I could not believe you any more for anything you could say, now or hereafter — and so do not avenge yourself on my unwary sentences by remembering them against me for evil. I did not mean to vex you ... still less to suspect you — indeed I did not! and moreover it was quite your fault that I did not blot it out after it was written, whatever the meaning was. So you forgive me (altogether) for your own sins: you must: —

  For my part, though I have been sorry since to have written you such a gloomy letter, the sorrow unmakes itself in hearing you speak so kindly. Your sympathy is precious to me, I may say. May God bless you. Write and tell me among the ‘indifferent things’ something not indifferent, how you are yourself, I mean ... for I fear you are not well and thought you were not looking so yesterday.

  Dearest friend, I remain yours,

  E.B.B.

  E.B.B. to R.B.

  Friday Evening.

  [Post-mark, August 30, 1845].

  I do not hear; and come to you to ask the alms of just one line, having taken it into my head that something is the matter. It is not so much exactingness on my part, as that you spoke of meaning to write as soon as you received a note of mine ... which went to you five minutes afterwards ... which is three days ago, or will be when you read this. Are you not well — or what? Though I have tried and wished to remember having written in the last note something very or even a little offensive to you, I failed in it and go back to the worse fear. For you could not be vexed with me for talking of what was ‘your fault’ ... ‘your own fault,’ viz. in having to read sentences which, but for your commands, would have been blotted out. You could not very well take that for serious blame! from me too, who have so much reason and provocation for blaming the archangel Gabriel. — No — you could not misinterpret so, — and if you could not, and if you are not displeased with me, you must be unwell, I think. I took for granted yesterday that you had gone out as before — but to-night it is different — and so I come to ask you to be kind enough to write one word for me by some post to-morrow. Now remember ... I am not asking for a letter — but for a word ... or line strictly speaking.

  Ever yours, dear friend,

  E.B.B.

  R.B. to E.B.B.

  [Post-mark, August 30, 1845.]

  This sweet Autumn Evening, Friday, comes all golden into the room and makes me write to you — not think of you — yet what shall I write?

  It must be for another time ... after Monday, when I am to see you, you know, and hear if the headache be gone, since your note would not round to the perfection of kindness and comfort, and tell me so.

  God bless my dearest friend.

  R.B.

  I am much better — well, indeed — thank you.

  R.B. to E.B.B.

  [Post-mark, August 30, 1845.]

  Can you understand me so, dearest friend, after all? Do you see me — when I am away, or with you — ’taking offence’ at words, ‘being vexed’ at words, or deeds of yours, even if I could not immediately trace them to their source of entire, pure kindness; as I have hitherto done in every smallest instance?

  I believe in you absolutely, utterly — I believe that when you bade me, that time, be silent — that such was your bidding, and I was silent — dare I say I think you did not know at that time the power I have over myself, that I could sit and speak and listen as I have done since? Let me say now — this only once — that I loved you from my soul, and gave you my life, so much of it as you would take, — and all that is done, not to be altered now: it was, in the nature of the proceeding, wholly independent of any return on your part. I will not think on extremes you might have resorted to; as it is, the assurance of your friendship, the intimacy to which you admit me, now, make the truest, deepest joy of my life — a joy I can never think fugitive while we are in life, because I know, as to me, I could not willingly displease you, — while, as to you, your goodness and understanding will always see to the bottom of involuntary or ignorant faults — always help me to correct them. I have done now. If I thought you were like other women I have known, I should say so much! — but — (my first and last word — I believe in you!) — what you could and would give me, of your affection, you would give nobly and simply and as a giver — you would not need that I tell you — (tell you!) — what would be supreme happiness to me in the event — however distant —

  I repeat ... I call on your justice to remember, on your intelligence to believe ... that this is merely a more precise stating the first subject; to put an end to any possible misunderstanding — to prevent your henceforth believing that because I do not write, from thinking too deeply of you, I am offend
ed, vexed &c. &c. I will never recur to this, nor shall you see the least difference in my manner next Monday: it is indeed, always before me ... how I know nothing of you and yours. But I think I ought to have spoken when I did — and to speak clearly ... or more clearly what I do, as it is my pride and duty to fall back, now, on the feeling with which I have been in the meantime — Yours — God bless you —

  R.B.

  Let me write a few words to lead into Monday — and say, you have probably received my note. I am much better — with a little headache, which is all, and fast going this morning. Of yours you say nothing — I trust you see your ... dare I say your duty in the Pisa affair, as all else must see it — shall I hear on Monday? And my ‘Saul’ that you are so lenient to.

  Bless you ever —

  E.B.B. to R.B.

  Sunday.

  [August 31, 1845.]

  I did not think you were angry — I never said so. But you might reasonably have been wounded a little, if you had suspected me of blaming you for any bearing of yours towards myself; and this was the amount of my fear — or rather hope ... since I conjectured most that you were not well. And after all you did think ... do think ... that in some way or for some moment I blamed you, disbelieved you, distrusted you — or why this letter? How have I provoked this letter? Can I forgive myself for having even seemed to have provoked it? and will you believe me that if for the past’s sake you sent it, it was unnecessary, and if for the future’s, irrelevant? Which I say from no want of sensibility to the words of it — your words always make themselves felt — but in fulness of purpose not to suffer you to hold to words because they have been said, nor to say them as if to be holden by them. Why, if a thousand more such words were said by you to me, how could they operate upon the future or present, supposing me to choose to keep the possible modification of your feelings, as a probability, in my sight and yours? Can you help my sitting with the doors all open if I think it right? I do attest to you — while I trust you, as you must see, in word and act, and while I am confident that no human being ever stood higher or purer in the eyes of another, than you do in mine, — that you would still stand high and remain unalterably my friend, if the probability in question became a fact, as now at this moment. And this I must say, since you have said other things: and this alone, which I have said, concerns the future, I remind you earnestly.

  My dearest friend — you have followed the most generous of impulses in your whole bearing to me — and I have recognised and called by its name, in my heart, each one of them. Yet I cannot help adding that, of us two, yours has not been quite the hardest part ... I mean, to a generous nature like your own, to which every sort of nobleness comes easily. Mine has been more difficult — and I have sunk under it again and again: and the sinking and the effort to recover the duty of a lost position, may have given me an appearance of vacillation and lightness, unworthy at least of you, and perhaps of both of us. Notwithstanding which appearance, it was right and just (only just) of you, to believe in me — in my truth — because I have never failed to you in it, nor been capable of such failure: the thing I have said, I have meant ... always: and in things I have not said, the silence has had a reason somewhere different perhaps from where you looked for it. And this brings me to complaining that you, who profess to believe in me, do yet obviously believe that it was only merely silence, which I required of you on one occasion — and that if I had ‘known your power over yourself,’ I should not have minded ... no! In other words you believe of me that I was thinking just of my own (what shall I call it for a motive base and small enough?) my own scrupulousness ... freedom from embarrassment! of myself in the least of me; in the tying of my shoestrings, say! — so much and no more! Now this is so wrong, as to make me impatient sometimes in feeling it to be your impression: I asked for silence — but also and chiefly for the putting away of ... you know very well what I asked for. And this was sincerely done, I attest to you. You wrote once to me ... oh, long before May and the day we met: that you ‘had been so happy, you should be now justified to yourself in taking any step most hazardous to the happiness of your life’ — but if you were justified, could I be therefore justified in abetting such a step, — the step of wasting, in a sense, your best feelings ... of emptying your water gourds into the sand? What I thought then I think now — just what any third person, knowing you, would think, I think and feel. I thought too, at first, that the feeling on your part was a mere generous impulse, likely to expand itself in a week perhaps. It affects me and has affected me, very deeply, more than I dare attempt to say, that you should persist so — and if sometimes I have felt, by a sort of instinct, that after all you would not go on to persist, and that (being a man, you know) you might mistake, a little unconsciously, the strength of your own feeling; you ought not to be surprised; when I felt it was more advantageous and happier for you that it should be so. In any case, I shall never regret my own share in the events of this summer, and your friendship will be dear to me to the last. You know I told you so — not long since. And as to what you say otherwise, you are right in thinking that I would not hold by unworthy motives in avoiding to speak what you had any claim to hear. But what could I speak that would not be unjust to you? Your life! if you gave it to me and I put my whole heart into it; what should I put but anxiety, and more sadness than you were born to? What could I give you, which it would not be ungenerous to give? Therefore we must leave this subject — and I must trust you to leave it without one word more; (too many have been said already — but I could not let your letter pass quite silently ... as if I had nothing to do but to receive all as matter of course so!) while you may well trust me to remember to my life’s end, as the grateful remember; and to feel, as those do who have felt sorrow (for where these pits are dug, the water will stand), the full price of your regard. May God bless you, my dearest friend. I shall send this letter after I have seen you, and hope you may not have expected to hear sooner.

  Ever yours,

  E.B.B.

  Monday, 6 p.m. — I send in disobedience to your commands, Mrs. Shelley’s book — but when books accumulate and when besides, I want to let you have the American edition of my poems ... famous for all manner of blunders, you know; what is to be done but have recourse to the parcel-medium? You were in jest about being at Pisa before or as soon as we were? — oh no — that must not be indeed — we must wait a little! — even if you determine to go at all, which is a question of doubtful expediency. Do take more exercise, this week, and make war against those dreadful sensations in the head — now, will you?

  SEPTEMBER, 1845

  R.B. to E.B.B.

  Tuesday Evening.

  [Post-mark, September 3, 1845.]

  I rather hoped ... with no right at all ... to hear from you this morning or afternoon — to know how you are — that, ‘how are you,’ there is no use disguising, is, — vary it how one may — my own life’s question. —

  I had better write no more, now. Will you not tell me something about you — the head; and that too, too warm hand ... or was it my fancy? Surely the report of Dr. Chambers is most satisfactory, — all seems to rest with yourself: you know, in justice to me, you do know that I know the all but mockery, the absurdity of anyone’s counsel ‘to be composed,’ &c. &c. But try, dearest friend!

  God bless you —

  I am yours

  R.B.

  R.B. to E.B.B.

  Tuesday Night.

  [Post-mark, September 3, 1845.]

  Before you leave London, I will answer your letter — all my attempts end in nothing now —

  Dearest friend — I am yours ever

  R.B.

  But meantime, you will tell me about yourself, will you not? The parcel came a few minutes after my note left — Well, I can thank you for that; for the Poems, — though I cannot wear them round my neck — and for the too great trouble. My heart’s friend! Bless you —

  E.B.B. to R.B.

  [Post-mark, September 4, 1845.]<
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  Indeed my headaches are not worth enquiring about — I mean, they are not of the slightest consequence, and seldom survive the remedy of a cup of coffee. I only wish it were the same with everybody — I mean, with every head! Also there is nothing the matter otherwise — and I am going to prove my right to a ‘clean bill of health’ by going into the park in ten minutes. Twice round the inner enclosure is what I can compass now — which is equal to once round the world — is it not?

  I had just time to be afraid that the parcel had not reached you. The reason why I sent you the poems was that I had a few copies to give to my personal friends, and so, wished you to have one; and it was quite to please myself and not to please you that I made you have it; and if you put it into the ‘plum-tree’ to hide the errata, I shall be pleased still, if not rather more. Only let me remember to tell you this time in relation to those books and the question asked of yourself by your noble Romans, that just as I was enclosing my sixty-pounds debt to Mr. Moxon, I did actually and miraculously receive a remittance of fourteen pounds from the selfsame bookseller of New York who agreed last year to print my poems at his own risk and give me ‘ten per cent on the profit.’ Not that I ever asked for such a thing! They were the terms offered. And I always considered the ‘per centage’ as quite visionary ... put in for the sake of effect, to make the agreement look better! But no — you see! One’s poetry has a real ‘commercial value,’ if you do but take it far away enough from the ‘civilization of Europe.’ When you get near the backwoods and the red Indians, it turns out to be nearly as good for something as ‘cabbages,’ after all! Do you remember what you said to me of cabbages versus poems, in one of the first letters you ever wrote to me? — of selling cabbages and buying Punches?