Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Wednesday. — You are entirely right about those poems of Horne’s — I spoke only of the effect of the first glance, and it is a principle with me to begin by welcoming any strangeness, intention of originality in men — the other way of safe copying precedents being so safe! So I began by praising all that was at all questionable in the form ... reserving the ground-work for after consideration. The Elf-story turns out a pure mistake, I think — and a common mistake, too. Fairy stories, the good ones, were written for men and women, and, being true, pleased also children; now, people set about writing for children and miss them and the others too, — with that detestable irreverence and plain mocking all the time at the very wonder they profess to want to excite. All obvious bending down to the lower capacity, determining not to be the great complete man one is, by half; any patronizing minute to be spent in the nursery over the books and work and healthful play, of a visitor who will presently bid good-bye and betake himself to the Beefsteak Club — keep us from all that! The Sailor Language is good in its way; but as wrongly used in Art as real clay and mud would be, if one plastered them in the foreground of a landscape in order to attain to so much truth, at all events — the true thing to endeavour is the making a golden colour which shall do every good in the power of the dirty brown. Well, then, what a veering weathercock am I, to write so and now, so! Not altogether, — for first it was but the stranger’s welcome I gave, the right of every new comer who must stand or fall by his behaviour once admitted within the door. And then — when I know what Horne thinks of — you, dearest; how he knew you first, and from the soul admired you; and how little he thinks of my good fortune ... I could not begin by giving you a bad impression of anything he sends — he has such very few rewards for a great deal of hard excellent enduring work, and none, no reward, I do think, would he less willingly forego than your praise and sympathy. But your opinion once expressed — truth remains the truth — so, at least, I excuse myself ... and quite as much for what I say now as for what was said then! ‘King John’ is very fine and full of purpose; ‘The Noble Heart,’ sadly faint and uncharacteristic. The chief incident, too, turns on that poor conventional fallacy about what constitutes a proper wrong to resist — a piece of morality, after a different standard, is introduced to complete another fashioned morality — a segment of a circle of larger dimensions is fitted into a smaller one. Now, you may have your own standard of morality in this matter of resistance to wrong, how and when if at all. And you may quite understand and sympathize with quite different standards innumerable of other people; but go from one to the other abruptly, you cannot, I think. ‘Bear patiently all injuries — revenge in no case’ — that is plain. ‘Take what you conceive to be God’s part, do his evident work, stand up for good and destroy evil, and co-operate with this whole scheme here’ — that is plain, too, — but, call Otto’s act no wrong, or being one, not such as should be avenged — and then, call the remark of a stranger that one is a ‘recreant’ — just what needs the slight punishment of instant death to the remarker — and ... where is the way? What is clear?

  — Not my letter! which goes on and on — ’dear letters’ — sweetest? because they cost all the precious labour of making out? Well, I shall see you to-morrow, I trust. Bless you, my own — I have not half said what was to say even in the letter I thought to write, and which proves only what you see! But at a thought I fly off with you, ‘at a cock-crow from the Grange.’ — Ever your own.

  Last night, I received a copy of the New Quarterly — now here is popular praise, a sprig of it! Instead of the attack I supposed it to be, from my foolish friend’s account, the notice is outrageously eulogistical, a stupidly extravagant laudation from first to last — and in three other articles, as my sister finds by diligent fishing, they introduce my name with the same felicitous praise (except one instance, though, in a good article by Chorley I am certain); and with me I don’t know how many poetical crétins are praised as noticeably — and, in the turning of a page, somebody is abused in the richest style of scavengering — only Carlyle! And I love him enough not to envy him nor wish to change places, and giving him mine, mount into his.

  All which, let me forget in the thoughts of to-morrow! Bless you, my Ba.

  E.B.B. to R.B.

  Wednesday.

  [Post-mark, January 7, 1846.]

  But some things are indeed said very truly, and as I like to read them — of you, I mean of course, — though I quite understand that it is doing no manner of good to go back so to ‘Paracelsus,’ heading the article ‘Paracelsus and other poems,’ as if the other poems could not front the reader broadly by a divine right of their own. ‘Paracelsus’ is a great work and will live, but the way to do you good with the stiffnecked public (such good as critics can do in their degree) would have been to hold fast and conspicuously the gilded horn of the last living crowned creature led by you to the altar, saying ‘Look here.’ What had he to do else, as a critic? Was he writing for the Retrospective Review? And then, no attempt at analytical criticism — or a failure, at the least attempt! all slack and in sentences! Still these are right things to say, true things, worthy things, said of you as a poet, though your poems do not find justice: and I like, for my own part, the issuing from my cathedral into your great world — the outermost temple of divinest consecration. I like that figure and association, and none the worse for its being a sufficient refutation of what he dared to impute, of your poetical sectarianism, in another place — yours!

  For me, it is all quite kind enough — only I object, on my own part also, to being reviewed in the ‘Seraphim,’ when my better books are nearer: and also it always makes me a little savage when people talk of Tennysonianisms! I have faults enough as the Muses know, — but let them be my faults! When I wrote the ‘Romaunt of Margret,’ I had not read a line of Tennyson. I came from the country with my eyes only half open, and he had not penetrated where I had been living and sleeping: and in fact when I afterwards tried to reach him here in London, nothing could be found except one slim volume, so that, till the collected works appeared ... favente Moxon, ... I was ignorant of his best early productions; and not even for the rhythmetical form of my ‘Vision of the Poets,’ was I indebted to the ‘Two Voices,’ — three pages of my ‘Vision’ having been written several years ago — at the beginning of my illness — and thrown aside, and taken up again in the spring of 1844. Ah, well! there’s no use talking! In a solitary review which noticed my ‘Essay on Mind,’ somebody wrote ... ‘this young lady imitates Darwin’ — and I never could read Darwin, ... was stopped always on the second page of the ‘Loves of the Plants’ when I tried to read him to ‘justify myself in having an opinion’ — the repulsion was too strong. Yet the ‘young lady imitated Darwin’ of course, as the infallible critic said so.

  And who are Mr. Helps and Miss Emma Fisher and the ‘many others,’ whose company brings one down to the right plebeianism? The ‘three poets in three distant ages born’ may well stare amazed!

  After all you shall not by any means say that I upset the inkstand on your review in a passion — because pray mark that the ink has over-run some of your praises, and that if I had been angry to the overthrow of an inkstand, it would not have been precisely there. It is the second book spoilt by me within these two days — and my fingers were so dabbled in blackness yesterday that to wring my hands would only have made matters worse. Holding them up to Mr. Kenyon they looked dirty enough to befit a poetess — as black ‘as bard beseemed’ — and he took the review away with him to read and save it from more harm.

  How could it be that you did not get my letter which would have reached you, I thought, on Monday evening, or on Tuesday at the very very earliest? — and how is it that I did not hear from you last night again when I was unreasonable enough to expect it? is it true that you hate writing to me?

  At that word, comes the review back from dear Mr. Kenyon, and the letter which I enclose to show you how it accounts reasonably for the ink — I did it ‘
in a pet,’ he thinks! And I ought to buy you a new book — certainly I ought — only it is not worth doing justice for — and I shall therefore send it back to you spoilt as it is; and you must forgive me as magnanimously as you can.

  ‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico’ — do you think so? I hope not indeed! vo quietando — and everything else that I ought to do — except of course, that thinking of you which is so difficult.

  May God bless you. Till to-morrow!

  Your own always.

  Mr. Kenyon refers to ‘Festus’ — of which I had said that the fine things were worth looking for, in the design manqué.

  E.B.B. to R.B.

  Friday Morning.

  [Post-mark, January 9, 1846.]

  You never think, ever dearest, that I ‘repent’ — why what a word to use! You never could think such a word for a moment! If you were to leave me even, — to decide that it is best for you to do it, and do it, — I should accede at once of course, but never should I nor could I ‘repent’ ... regret anything ... be sorry for having known you and loved you ... no! Which I say simply to prove that, in no extreme case, could I repent for my own sake. For yours, it might be different.

  Not out of ‘generosity’ certainly, but from the veriest selfishness, I choose here, before God, any possible present evil, rather than the future consciousness of feeling myself less to you, on the whole, than another woman might have been.

  Oh, these vain and most heathenish repetitions — do I not vex you by them, you whom I would always please, and never vex? Yet they force their way because you are the best noblest and dearest in the world, and because your happiness is so precious a thing.

  Cloth of frieze, be not too bold,

  Though thou’rt matched with cloth of gold!

  — that, beloved, was written for me. And you, if you would make me happy, always will look at yourself from my ground and by my light, as I see you, and consent to be selfish in all things. Observe, that if I were vacillating, I should not be so weak as to tease you with the process of the vacillation: I should wait till my pendulum ceased swinging. It is precisely because I am your own, past any retraction or wish of retraction, — because I belong to you by gift and ownership, and am ready and willing to prove it before the world at a word of yours, — it is precisely for this, that I remind you too often of the necessity of using this right of yours, not to your injury, of being wise and strong for both of us, and of guarding your happiness which is mine. I have said these things ninety and nine times over, and over and over have you replied to them, — as yesterday! — and now, do not speak any more. It is only my preachment for general use, and not for particular application, — only to be ready for application. I love you from the deepest of my nature — the whole world is nothing to me beside you — and what is so precious, is not far from being terrible. ‘How dreadful is this place.’

  To hear you talk yesterday, is a gladness in the thought for to-day, — it was with such a full assent that I listened to every word. It is true, I think, that we see things (things apart from ourselves) under the same aspect and colour — and it is certainly true that I have a sort of instinct by which I seem to know your views of such subjects as we have never looked at together. I know you so well (yes, I boast to myself of that intimate knowledge), that I seem to know also the idola of all things as they are in your eyes — so that never, scarcely, I am curious, — never anxious, to learn what your opinions may be. Now, have I been curious or anxious? It was enough for me to know you.

  More than enough! You have ‘left undone’ — do you say? On the contrary, you have done too much, — you are too much. My cup, — which used to hold at the bottom of it just the drop of Heaven dew mingling with the absinthus, — has overflowed all this wine: and that makes me look out for the vases, which would have held it better, had you stretched out your hand for them.

  Say how you are — and do take care and exercise — and write to me, dearest!

  Ever your own —

  Ba.

  How right you are about ‘Ben Capstan,’ — and the illustration by the yellow clay. That is precisely what I meant, — said with more precision than I could say it. Art without an ideal is neither nature nor art. The question involves the whole difference between Madame Tussaud and Phidias.

  I have just received Mr. Edgar Poe’s book — and I see that the deteriorating preface which was to have saved me from the vanity-fever produceable by the dedication, is cut down and away — perhaps in this particular copy only!

  Tuesday is so near, as men count, that I caught myself just now being afraid lest the week should have no chance of appearing long to you! Try to let it be long to you — will you? My consistency is wonderful.

  R.B. to E.B.B.

  Friday Morning.

  As if I could deny you anything! Here is the Review — indeed it was foolish to mind your seeing it at all. But now, may I stipulate? — You shall not send it back — but on your table I shall find and take it next Tuesday — c’est convenu! The other precious volume has not yet come to hand (nor to foot) all through your being so sure that to carry it home would have been the death of me last evening!

  I cannot write my feelings in this large writing, begun on such a scale for the Review’s sake; and just now — there is no denying it, and spite of all I have been incredulous about — it does seem that the fact is achieved and that I do love you, plainly, surely, more than ever, more than any day in my life before. It is your secret, the why, the how; the experience is mine. What are you doing to me? — in the heart’s heart.

  Rest — dearest — bless you —

  E.B.B. to R.B.

  Saturday.

  [Post-mark, January 10, 1846.]

  Kindest and dearest you are! — that is ‘my secret’ and for the others, I leave them to you! — only it is no secret that I should and must be glad to have the words you sent with the book, — which I should have seen at all events be sure, whether you had sent it or not. Should I not, do you think? And considering what the present generation of critics really is, the remarks on you may stand, although it is the dreariest impotency to complain of the want of flesh and blood and of human sympathy in general. Yet suffer them to say on — it is the stamp on the critical knife. There must be something eminently stupid, or farewell criticdom! And if anything more utterly untrue could be said than another, it is precisely that saying, which Mr. Mackay stands up to catch the reversion of! Do you indeed suppose that Heraud could have done this? I scarcely can believe it, though some things are said rightly as about the ‘intellectuality,’ and how you stand first by the brain, — which is as true as truth can be. Then, I shall have ‘Pauline’ in a day or two — yes, I shall and must, and will.

  The ‘Ballad Poems and Fancies,’ the article calling itself by that name, seems indeed to be Mr. Chorley’s, and is one of his very best papers, I think. There is to me a want of colour and thinness about his writings in general, with a grace and savoir faire nevertheless, and always a rightness and purity of intention. Observe what he says of ‘many-sidedness’ seeming to trench on opinion and principle. That, he means for himself I know, for he has said to me that through having such largeness of sympathy he has been charged with want of principle — yet ‘many-sidedness’ is certainly no word for him. The effect of general sympathies may be evolved both from an elastic fancy and from breadth of mind, and it seems to me that he rather bends to a phase of humanity and literature than contains it — than comprehends it. Every part of a truth implies the whole; and to accept truth all round, does not mean the recognition of contradictory things: universal sympathies cannot make a man inconsistent, but, on the contrary, sublimely consistent. A church tower may stand between the mountains and the sea, looking to either, and stand fast: but the willow-tree at the gable-end, blown now toward the north and now toward the south while its natural leaning is due east or west, is different altogether ... as different as a willow-tree from a church tower.

  Ah, what nonsense! There
is only one truth for me all this time, while I talk about truth and truth. And do you know, when you have told me to think of you, I have been feeling ashamed of thinking of you so much, of thinking of only you — which is too much, perhaps. Shall I tell you? it seems to me, to myself, that no man was ever before to any woman what you are to me — the fulness must be in proportion, you know, to the vacancy ... and only I know what was behind — the long wilderness without the blossoming rose ... and the capacity for happiness, like a black gaping hole, before this silver flooding. Is it wonderful that I should stand as in a dream, and disbelieve — not you — but my own fate? Was ever any one taken suddenly from a lampless dungeon and placed upon the pinnacle of a mountain, without the head turning round and the heart turning faint, as mine do? And you love me more, you say? — Shall I thank you or God? Both, — indeed — and there is no possible return from me to either of you! I thank you as the unworthy may ... and as we all thank God. How shall I ever prove what my heart is to you? How will you ever see it as I feel it? I ask myself in vain.