R.
E.B.B. to R.B.
[Post-mark, March 21, 1846.]
I do not understand how my letters limp so instead of flying as they ought with the feathers I give them, and how you did not receive last night, nor even early this morning, what left me at two o’clock yesterday. But I understand now the not hearing from you — you were not well. Not well, not well ... that is always ‘happening’ at least. And Mr. Moxon, who is to have his first sheet, whether you are well or ill! It is wrong ... yes, very wrong — and if one point of wrongness is touched, we shall not easily get right again — as I think mournfully, feeling confident (call me Cassandra, but I cannot jest about it) feeling certain that it will end (the means being so persisted in) by some serious illness — serious sorrow, — on yours and my part.
As to Monday, Mr. Kenyon said he would come again on Sunday — in which case, Monday will be clear. If he should not come on Sunday, he will or may on Monday, — yet — oh, in every case, perhaps you can come on Monday — there will be no time to let you know of Mr. Kenyon — and probably we shall be safe, and your being in town seems to fix the day. For myself I am well enough, and the wind has changed, which will make me better — this cold weather oppresses and weakens me, but it is close to April and can’t last and won’t last — it is warmer already. Beware of the notes! They are not Ba’s — except for the insolence, nor EBB’s — because of the carelessness. If I had known, moreover, that you were going to Moxon’s on Monday, they should have gone to the fire rather than provoked you into superfluous work for the short interval. Just so much are they despised of both EBB and Ba.
I am glad I did not hear from you yesterday because you were not well, and you must never write when you are not well. But if you had been quite well, should I have heard? — I doubt it. You meant me to hear from you only once, from Thursday to Monday. Is it not the truth now that you hate writing to me?
The Athenæum takes up the ‘Tales from Boccaccio’ as if they were worth it, and imputes in an underground way the authorship to the members of the ‘coterie’ so called — do you observe that? There is an implication that persons named in the poem wrote the poem themselves. And upon whom does the critic mean to fix the song of ‘Constancy’ ... the song which is ‘not to puzzle anybody’ who knows the tunes of the song-writers! The perfection of commonplace it seems to me. It might have been written by the ‘poet Bunn.’ Don’t you think so?
While I write this you are in town, but you will not read it till Sunday unless I am more fortunate than usual. On Monday then! And no word before? No — I shall be sure not to hear to-night. Now do try not to suffer through ‘Luria.’ Let Mr. Moxon wait a week rather. There is time enough.
Ever your
Ba.
R.B. to E.B.B.
Sunday.
[Post-mark, March 23, 1846.]
Oh, my Ba — how you shall hear of this to-morrow — that is all: I hate writing? See when presently I only write to you daily, hourly if you let me? Just this now — I will be with you to-morrow in any case — I can go away at once, if need be, or stay — if you like you can stop me by sending a note for me to Moxon’s before 10 o’clock — if anything calls for such a measure.
Now briefly, — I am unwell and entirely irritated with this sad ‘Luria’ — I thought it a failure at first, I find it infinitely worse than I thought — it is a pure exercise of cleverness, even where most successful; clever attempted reproduction of what was conceived by another faculty, and foolishly let pass away. If I go on, even hurry the more to get on, with the printing, — it is to throw out and away from me the irritating obstruction once and forever. I have corrected it, cut it down, and it may stand and pledge me to doing better hereafter. I say, too, in excuse to myself, unlike the woman at her spinning-wheel, ‘He thought of his flax on the whole far more than of his singing’ — more of his life’s sustainment, of dear, dear Ba he hates writing to, than of these wooden figures — no wonder all is as it is?
Here is a pure piece of the old Chorley leaven for you, just as it reappears ever and anon and throws one back on the mistrust all but abandoned! Chorley knows I have not seen that Powell for nearly fifteen months — that I never heard of the book till it reached me in a blank cover — that I never contributed a line or word to it directly or indirectly — and I should think he also knows that all the sham learning, notes &c., all that saves the book from the deepest deep of contempt, was contributed by Heraud (a regular critic in the ‘Athenæum’), who received his pay for the same: he knows I never spoke in my life to ‘Jones or Stephens’ — that there is no ‘coterie’ of which I can, by any extension of the word, form a part — that I am in this case at the mercy of a wretched creature who to get into my favour again (to speak the plain truth) put in the gross, disgusting flattery in the notes — yet Chorley, knowing this, none so well, and what the writer’s end is — (to have it supposed I, and the others named — Talfourd, for instance — are his friends and helpers) — he condescends to further it by such a notice, written with that observable and characteristic duplicity, that to poor gross stupid Powell it shall look like an admiring ‘Oh, fie — so clever but so wicked’! — a kind of D’Orsay’s praise — while to the rest of his readers, a few depreciatory epithets — slight sneers convey his real sentiments, he trusts! And this he does, just because Powell buys an article of him once a quarter and would expect notice. I think I hear Chorley — ’You know, I cannot praise such a book — it is too bad’ — as if, as if — oh, it makes one sicker than having written ‘Luria,’ there’s one comfort! I shall call on Chorley and ask for his account of the matter. Meantime nobody will read his foolish notice without believing as he and Powell desire! Bless you, my own Ba — to-morrow makes amends to R.B.
E.B.B. to R.B.
Tuesday.
[Post-mark, March 24, 1846.]
How ungrateful I was to your flowers yesterday, never looking at them nor praising them till they were put away, and yourself gone away — and that was your fault, be it remembered, because you began to tell me of the good news from Moxon’s, and, in the joy of it, I missed the flowers ... for the nonce, you know. Afterward they had their due, and all the more that you were not there. My first business when you are out of the room and the house, and the street perhaps, is to arrange the flowers and to gather out of them all the thoughts you leave between the leaves and at the end of the stalks. And shall I tell you what happened, not yesterday, but the Thursday before? no, it was the Friday morning, when I found, or rather Wilson found and held up from my chair, a bunch of dead blue violets. Quite dead they seemed! You had dropped them and I had sate on them, and where we murdered them they had lain, poor things, all the night through. And Wilson thought it the vainest of labours when she saw me set about reviving them, cutting the stalks afresh, and dipping them head and ears into water — but then she did not know how you, and I, and ours, live under a miraculous dispensation, and could only simply be astonished when they took to blowing again as if they never had wanted the dew of the garden, ... yes, and when at last they outlived all the prosperity of the contemporary white violets which flourished in water from the beginning, and were free from the disadvantage of having been sate upon. Now you shall thank me for this letter, it is at once so amusing and instructive. After all, too, it teaches you what the great events of my life are, not that the resuscitation of your violets would not really be a great event to me, even if I led the life of a pirate, between fire and sea, otherwise. But take you away ... out of my life! — and what remains? The only greenness I used to have (before you brought your flowers) was as the grass growing in deserted streets, ... which brings a proof, in every increase, of the extending desolation.
Dearest, I persist in thinking that you ought not to be too disdainful to explain your meaning in the Pomegranates. Surely you might say in a word or two that, your title having been doubted about (to your surprise, you might say!), you refer the doubters to the Jewish priest’s robe, and the R
abbinical gloss ... for I suppose it is a gloss on the robe ... do you not think so? Consider that Mr. Kenyon and I may fairly represent the average intelligence of your readers, — and that he was altogether in the clouds as to your meaning ... had not the most distant notion of it, — while I, taking hold of the priest’s garment, missed the Rabbins and the distinctive significance, as completely as he did. Then for Vasari, it is not the handbook of the whole world, however it may be Mrs. Jameson’s. Now why should you be too proud to teach such persons as only desire to be taught? I persist — I shall teaze you.
This morning my brothers have been saying ... ‘Ah you had Mr. Browning with you yesterday, I see by the flowers,’ ... just as if they said ‘I see queen Mab has been with you.’ Then Stormie took the opportunity of swearing to me by all his gods that your name was mentioned lately in the House of Commons — is that true? or untrue? He forgot to tell me at the time, he says, — and you were named with others and in relation to copyright matters. Is it true?
Mr. Hornblower Gill is the author of a Hymn to Passion week, and wrote to me as the ‘glorifier of pain!’ to remind me that the best glory of a soul is shown in the joy of it, and that all chief poets except Dante have seen, felt, and written it so. Thus and therefore was matured his purpose of writing an ‘ode to joy,’ as I told you. The man seems to have very good thoughts, ... but he writes like a colder Cowley still ... no impulse, no heat for fusing ... no inspiration, in fact. Though I have scarcely done more than glance at his ‘Passion week,’ and have little right to give an opinion.
If you have killed Luria as you helped to kill my violets, what shall I say, do you fancy? Well — we shall see! Do not kill yourself, beloved, in any case! The ιοστεφανοι Μουσαι had better die themselves first! Ah — what am I writing? What nonsense? I mean, in deep earnest, the deepest, that you should take care and exercise, and not be vexed for Luria’s sake — Luria will have his triumph presently! May God bless you — prays your own
Ba.
R.B. to E.B.B.
Tuesday Afternoon.
[Post-mark, March 24, 1846.]
My own dearest, if you do — (for I confess to nothing of the kind), but if you should detect an unwillingness to write at certain times, what would that prove, — I mean, what that one need shrink from avowing? If I never had you before me except when writing letters to you — then! Why, we do not even talk much now! witness Mr. Buckingham and his voyage that ought to have been discussed! — Oh, how coldly I should write, — how the bleak-looking paper would seem unpropitious to carry my feeling — if all had to begin and try to find words this way!
Now, this morning I have been out — to town and back — and for all the walking my head aches — and I have the conviction that presently when I resign myself to think of you wholly, with only the pretext, — the make-believe of occupation, in the shape of some book to turn over the leaves of, — I shall see you and soon be well; so soon! You must know, there is a chair (one of the kind called gondóla-chairs by upholsterers — with an emphasized o) — which occupies the precise place, stands just in the same relation to this chair I sit on now, that yours stands in and occupies — to the left of the fire: and, how often, how always I turn in the dusk and see the dearest real Ba with me.
How entirely kind to take that trouble, give those sittings for me! Do you think the kindness has missed its due effect? No, no, I am glad, — (knowing what I now know, — what you meant should be, and did all in your power to prevent) that I have not received the picture, if anything short of an adequate likeness. ‘Nil nisi — te!’ But I have set my heart on seeing it — will you remember next time, next Saturday?
I will leave off now. To-morrow, dearest, only dearest Ba, I will write a longer letter — the clock stops it this afternoon — it is later than I thought, and our poor crazy post! This morning, hoping against hope, I ran to meet our postman coming meditatively up the lane — with a letter, indeed! — but Ba’s will come to-night — and I will be happy, already am happy, expecting it. Bless you, my own love,
Ever your —
E.B.B. to R.B.
Tuesday Evening.
[Post-mark, March 25, 1846.]
Ah; if I ‘do’ ... if I ‘should’ ... if I shall ... if I will ... if I must ... what can all the ‘ifs’ prove, but a most hypothetical state of the conscience? And in brief, I beg you to stand convinced of one thing, that whenever the ‘certain time’ comes for to ‘hate writing to me’ confessedly, ‘avowedly,’ (oh what words!) I shall not like it at all — not for all the explanations ... and the sights in gondola chairs, which the person seen is none the better for! The ειδωλον sits by the fire — the real Ba is cold at heart through wanting her letter. And that’s the doctrine to be preached now, ... is it? I ‘shrink,’ shrink from it. That’s your word! — and mine! Dearest, I began by half a jest and end by half-gravity, which is the fault of your doctrine and not of me I think. Yet it is ungrateful to be grave, when practically you are good and just about the letters, and generous too sometimes, and I could not bear the idea of obliging you to write to me, even once ... when.... Now do not fancy that I do not understand. I understand perfectly, on the contrary. Only do you try not to dislike writing when you write, or not to write when you dislike it ... that, I ask of you, dear dearest — and forgive me for all this over-writing and teazing and vexing which is foolish and womanish in the bad sense. It is a way of meeting, ... the meeting in letters, ... and next to receiving a letter from you, I like to write one to you ... and, so, revolt from thinking it lawful for you to dislike.... Well! the Goddess of Dulness herself couldn’t have written this better, anyway, nor more characteristically.
I will tell you how it is. You have spoilt me just as I have spoilt Flush. Flush looks at me sometimes with reproachful eyes ‘a fendre le coeur,’ because I refuse to give him my fur cuffs to tear to pieces. And as for myself, I confess to being more than half jealous of the ειδωλον in the gondola chair, who isn’t the real Ba after all, and yet is set up there to do away with the necessity ‘at certain times’ of writing to her. Which is worse than Flush. For Flush, though he began by shivering with rage and barking and howling and gnashing his teeth at the brown dog in the glass, has learnt by experience what that image means, ... and now contemplates it, serene in natural philosophy. Most excellent sense, all this is! — and dauntlessly ‘delivered!’
Your head aches, dearest. Mr. Moxon will have done his worst, however, presently, and then you will be a little better I do hope and trust — and the proofs, in the meanwhile, will do somewhat less harm than the manuscript. You will take heart again about ‘Luria’ ... which I agree with you, is more diffuse ... that is, less close, than any of your works, not diffuse in any bad sense, but round, copious, and another proof of that wonderful variety of faculty which is so striking in you, and which signalizes itself both in the thought and in the medium of the thought. You will appreciate ‘Luria’ in time — or others will do it for you. It is a noble work under every aspect. Dear ‘Luria’! Do you remember how you told me of ‘Luria’ last year, in one of your early letters? Little I thought that ever, ever, I should feel so, while ‘Luria’ went to be printed! A long trail of thoughts, like the rack in the sky, follows his going. Can it be the same ‘Luria,’ I think, that ‘golden-hearted Luria,’ whom you talked of to me, when you complained of keeping ‘wild company,’ in the old dear letter? And I have learnt since, that ‘golden-hearted’ is not a word for him only, or for him most. May God bless you, best and dearest! I am your own to live and to die —
Ba.
Say how you are. I shall be down-stairs to-morrow if it keeps warm.
Miss Thomson wants me to translate the Hector and Andromache scene from the ‘Iliad’ for her book; and I am going to try it.
The Biographies
Ca’ Rezzonico, Venice — it was while staying here in his son’s home that Browning died.
ROBERT BROWNING by G.K. Chesterton
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
Robert Browning by George Frederic Watts, c. 1867
CHAPTER I
BROWNING IN EARLY LIFE
On the subject of Browning’s work innumerable things have been said and remain to be said; of his life, considered as a narrative of facts, there is little or nothing to say. It was a lucid and public and yet quiet life, which culminated in one great dramatic test of character, and then fell back again into this union of quietude and publicity. And yet, in spite of this, it is a great deal more difficult to speak finally about his life than about his work. His work has the mystery which belongs to the complex; his life the much greater mystery which belongs to the simple. He was clever enough to understand his own poetry; and if he understood it, we can understand it. But he was also entirely unconscious and impulsive, and he was never clever enough to understand his own character; consequently we may be excused if that part of him which was hidden from him is partly hidden from us. The subtle man is always immeasurably easier to understand than the natural man; for the subtle man keeps a diary of his moods, he practises the art of self-analysis and self-revelation, and can tell us how he came to feel this or to say that. But a man like Browning knows no more about the state of his emotions than about the state of his pulse; they are things greater than he, things growing at will, like forces of Nature. There is an old anecdote, probably apocryphal, which describes how a feminine admirer wrote to Browning asking him for the meaning of one of his darker poems, and received the following reply: “When that poem was written, two people knew what it meant — God and Robert Browning. And now God only knows what it means.” This story gives, in all probability, an entirely false impression of Browning’s attitude towards his work. He was a keen artist, a keen scholar, he could put his finger on anything, and he had a memory like the British Museum Library. But the story does, in all probability, give a tolerably accurate picture of Browning’s attitude towards his own emotions and his psychological type. If a man had asked him what some particular allusion to a Persian hero meant he could in all probability have quoted half the epic; if a man had asked him which third cousin of Charlemagne was alluded to in Sordello, he could have given an account of the man and an account of his father and his grandfather. But if a man had asked him what he thought of himself, or what were his emotions an hour before his wedding, he would have replied with perfect sincerity that God alone knew.
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 365