Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  One natural consequence of this terrible sorrow is a long break in her correspondence. It is not until the beginning of 1841 that she seems to have resumed the thread of her life and to have returned to her literary occupations. Her health had inevitably suffered under the shock, and in the autumn of 1840 Miss Mitford speaks of not daring to expect more than a few months of lingering life. But when things were at the worst, she began unexpectedly to take a turn for the better. Through the winter she slowly gathered strength, and with strength the desire to escape from Torquay, with its dreadful associations, and to return to London. Meanwhile her correspondence with her friends revived, and with Horne in particular she was engaged during 1841 in an active interchange of views with regard to two literary projects. Indeed, it was only the return to work that enabled her to struggle against the numbing effect of the calamity which had overwhelmed her. Some time afterwards (in October 1843) she wrote to Mrs. Martin: ‘For my own part and experience — I do not say it as a phrase or in exaggeration, but from very clear and positive conviction — I do believe that I should be mad at this moment, if I had not forced back — dammed out — the current of rushing recollections by work, work, work.’ One of the projects in which she was concerned was ‘Chaucer Modernised,’ a scheme for reviving interest in the father of English poetry, suggested in the first instance by Wordsworth, but committed to the care of Horne, as editor, for execution. According to the scheme as originally planned, all the principal poets of the day were to be invited to share the task of transmuting Chaucer into modern language. Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, Horne, and others actually executed some portions of the work; Tennyson and Browning, it was hoped, would lend a hand with some of the later parts. Horne invited Miss Barrett to contribute, and, besides executing modernisations of ‘Queen Annelida and False Arcite’ and ‘The Complaint of Annelida,’ she also advised generally on the work of the other writers during its progress through the press. The other literary project was for a lyrical drama, to be written in collaboration with Horne. It was to be called ‘Psyché Apocalypté,’ and was to be a drama on the Greek model, treating of the birth and self-realisation of the soul of man.

  The sketch of its contents, given in the correspondence with Horne, will make the modern reader accept with equanimity the fact that it never progressed beyond the initial stage of drafting the plot. It is allegorical, philosophical, fantastic, unreal — everything which was calculated to bring out the worst characteristics of Miss Barrett’s style and to intensify her faults. Fortunately her removal from Torquay to London interrupted the execution of the scheme. It was never seriously taken up again, and, though never explicitly abandoned, died a natural death from inanition, somewhat to the relief of Miss Barrett, who had come to recognise its impracticability.

  Apart from the correspondence with Horne, which has been published elsewhere, very few letters are left from this period; but those which here follow serve to bridge over the interval until the departure from Torquay, which closes one well-marked period in the life of the poetess.

  To Mrs. Martin

  December 11, 1840.

  My ever dearest Mrs. Martin, — I should have written to you without this last proof of your remembrance — this cape, which, warm and pretty as it is, I value so much more as the work of your hands and gift of your affection towards me. Thank you, dearest Mrs. Martin, and thank you too for all the rest — for all your sympathy and love. And do believe that although grief had so changed me from myself and warped me from my old instincts, as to prevent my looking forwards with pleasure to seeing you again, yet that full amends are made in the looking back with a pleasure more true because more tender than any old retrospections. Do give my love to dear Mr. Martin, and say what I could not have said even if I had seen him.

  Shall you really, dearest Mrs. Martin, come again? Don’t think we do not think of the hope you left us. Because we do indeed.

  A note from papa has brought the comforting news that my dear, dear Stormie is in England again, in London, and looking perfectly well. It is a mercy which makes me very thankful, and would make me joyful if anything could. But the meanings of some words change as we live on. Papa’s note is hurried. It was a sixty-day passage, and that is all he tells me. Yes — there is something besides about Sette and Occy being either unknown or misknown, through the fault of their growing. Papa is not near returning, I think. He has so much to do and see, and so much cause to be enlivened and renewed as to spirits, that I begged him not to think about me and stay away as long as he pleased. And the accounts of him and of all at home are satisfying, I thank God....

  There is an east wind just now, which I feel. Nevertheless, Dr. Scully has said, a few minutes since, that I am as well as he could hope, considering the season.

  May God bless you ever!

  Your gratefully attached

  BA.

  To Mrs. Martin

  March 29, 1841.

  My dearest Mrs. Martin, — Have you thought ‘The dream has come true’? I mean the dream of the flowers which you pulled for me and I wouldn’t look at, even? I fear you must have thought that the dream about my ingratitude has come true.

  And yet it has not. Dearest Mrs. Martin, it has not. I have not forgotten you or remembered you less affectionately through all the silence, or longed less for the letters I did not ask for. But the truth is, my faculties seem to hang heavily now, like flappers when the spring is broken. My spring is broken, and a separate exertion is necessary for the lifting up of each — and then it falls down again. I never felt so before: there is no wonder that I should feel so now. Nevertheless, I don’t give up much to the pernicious languor — the tendency to lie down to sleep among the snows of a weary journey — I don’t give up much to it. Only I find it sometimes at the root of certain negligences — for instance, of this toward you.

  Dearest Mrs. Martin, receive my sympathy, our sympathy, in the anxiety you have lately felt so painfully, and in the rejoicing for its happy issue. Do say when you write (I take for granted, you see, that you will write) how Mrs. B —— is now — besides the intelligence more nearly touching me, of your own and Mr. Martin’s health and spirits. May God bless you both!

  Ah! but you did not come: I was disappointed!

  And Mrs. Hanford! Do you know, I tremble in my reveries sometimes, lest you should think it, guess it to be half unkind in me not to have made an exertion to see Mrs. Hanford. It was not from want of interest in her — least of all from want of love to you. But I have not stirred from my bed yet. But, to be honest, that was not the reason — I did not feel as if I could, without a painful effort, which, on the other hand, could not, I was conscious, result in the slightest shade of satisfaction to her, receive and talk to her. Perhaps it is hard for you to fancy even how I shrink away from the very thought of seeing a human face — except those immediately belonging to me in love or relationship — (yours does, you know) — and a stranger’s might be easier to look at than one long known....

  For my own part, my dearest Mrs. Martin, my heart has been lightened lately by kind, honest Dr. Scully (who would never give an opinion just to please me), saying that I am ‘quite right’ to mean to go to London, and shall probably be fit for the journey early in June. He says that I may pass the winter there moreover, and with impunity — that wherever I am it will probably be necessary for me to remain shut up during the cold weather, and that under such circumstances it is quite possible to warm a London room to as safe a condition as a room here. So my heart is lightened of the fear of opposition: and the only means of regaining whatever portion of earthly happiness is not irremediably lost to me by the Divine decree, I am free to use. In the meantime, it really does seem to me that I make some progress in health — if the word in my lips be not a mockery. Oh, I fancy I shall be strengthened to get home!

  Your remarks on Chaucer pleased me very much. I am glad you liked what I did — or tried to do — and as to the criticisms, you were right — and they sha’n’t be unattended to
if the opportunity of correction be given to me.

  Ever your affectionate

  BA.

  To H.S. Boyd

  August 28, 1841.

  My very dear Friend, — I have fluctuated from one shadow of uncertainty and anxiety to another, all the summer, on the subject to which my last earthly wishes cling, and I delayed writing to you to be able to say I am going to London. I may say so now — as far as the human may say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ of their futurity. The carriage, a patent carriage with a bed in it, and set upon some hundreds of springs, is, I believe, on its road down to me, and immediately upon its arrival we begin our journey. Whether we shall ever complete it remains uncertain — more so than other uncertainties. My physician appears a good deal alarmed, calls it an undertaking full of hazard, and myself the ‘Empress Catherine’ for insisting upon attempting it. But I must. I go, as ‘the doves to their windows,’ to the only earthly daylight I see here. I go to rescue myself from the associations of this dreadful place. I go to restore to my poor papa the companionships family. Enough has been done and suffered for me. I thank God I am going home at last.

  How kind it was in you, my very kind and ever very dear friend, to ask me to visit you at Hampstead! I felt myself smiling while I read that part of your letter, and laid it down and suffered the vision to arise of your little room and your great Gregory and your dear self scolding me softly as in the happy olden times for not reading slow enough. Well — we do not know what may happen! I may (even that is probable) read to you again. But now — ah, my dear friend — if you could imagine me such as I am! — you would not think I could visit you! Yet I am wonderfully better this summer; and if I can but reach home and bear the first painful excitement, it will do me more good than anything — I know it will! And if it does not, it will be well even so.

  I shall tell them to send you the ‘Athenaeum’ of last week, where I have a ‘House of Clouds,’ which papa likes so much that he would wish to live in it if it were not for the damp. There is not a clock in one room — that’s another objection. How are your clocks? Do they go? and do you like their voices as well as you used to do?

  I think Annie is not with you; but in case of her still being so, do give her (and yourself too) Arabel’s love and mine. I wish I heard of you oftener. Is there nobody to write? May God bless you!

  Your ever affectionate friend,

  E.B.B.

  To H.S. Boyd

  August 31, 1831 [sic].

  Thank you, my ever dear friend, with almost my last breath at Torquay, for your kindness about the Gregory, besides the kind note itself. It is, however, too late. We go, or mean at present to go, to-morrow; and the carriage which is to waft us through the air upon a thousand springs has actually arrived. You are not to think severely upon Dr. Scully’s candour with me as to the danger of the journey. He does think it ‘likely to do me harm;’ therefore, you know, he was justified by his medical responsibility in laying before me all possible consequences. I have considered them all, and dare them gladly and gratefully. Papa’s domestic comfort is broken up by the separation in his family, and the associations of this place lie upon me, struggle as I may, like the oppression of a perpetual night-mare. It is an instinct of self-preservation which impels me to escape — or to try to escape. And In God’s mercy — though God forbid that I should deny either His mercy or His justice, if He should deny me — we may be together in Wimpole Street in a few days. Nelly Bordman has kindly written to me Mr. Jago’s favourable opinion of the patent carriages, and his conviction of my accomplishing the journey without inconvenience.

  May God bless you, my dear dear friend! Give my love to dearest Annie! Perhaps, if I am ever really in Wimpole Street, safe enough for Greek, you will trust the poems to me which you mention. I care as much for poetry as ever, and could not more.

  Your affectionate and grateful

  ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

  CHAPTER III. 1841-1843

  In September 1841 the journey from Torquay was actually achieved, and Miss Barrett returned to her father’s house in London, from which she was never to be absent for more than a few hours at a time until the day, five years later, when she finally left it to join her husband, Robert Browning. Her life was that of an invalid, confined to her room for the greater part of each year, and unable to see any but a few intimate friends. Still, she regained some sort of strength, especially during the warmth of the summer months, and was able to throw herself with real interest into literary work. In a life such as this there are few outward events to record, and its story is best told in Miss Barrett’s own letters, which, for the most part, need little comment. The letters of the end of 1841 and beginning of 1842 are almost entirely written to Mr. Boyd, and the main subject of them is the series of papers on the Greek Christian poets and the English poets which, at the suggestion of Mr. Dilke, then editor of the ‘Athenaeum,’ she contributed to that periodical. Of the composition of original poetry we hear less at this time.

  To H.S. Boyd

  50 Wimpole Street: October 2, 1841.

  My very dear Friend, — I thank you for the letter and books which crossed the threshold of this house before me, and looked like your welcome to me home. I have read the passages you wished me to read — I have read them again: for I remember reading them under your star (or the greater part of them) a long while ago. You, on the other hand, may remember of me, that I never could concede to you much admiration for your Gregory as a poet — not even to his grand work ‘De Virginitate.’ He is one of those writers, of whom there are instances in our own times, who are only poetical in prose.

  The passage imitative of Chryses I cannot think much of. Try to be forgiving. It is toasted dry between the two fires of the Scriptures and Homer, and is as stiff as any dry toast out of the simile. To be sincere, I like dry toast better.

  The Hymns and Prayers I very much prefer; and although I remembered a good deal about them, it has given me a pleasure you will approve of to go through them in this edition. The one which I like best, which I like far best, which I think worth all the rest (‘De Virginitate’ and all put together), is the second upon page 292, beginning ‘Soi charis.’ It is very fine, I think, written out of the heart and for the heart, warm with a natural heat, and not toasted dry and brown and stiff at a fire by any means.

  Dear Mr. Boyd, I coveted Arabel’s walk to you the other day. I shall often covet my neighbour’s walks, I believe, although (and may God be praised for it!) I am more happy — that is, nearing to the feeling of happiness now — than a month since I could believe possible to a heart so bruised and crushed as mine has [been] be at home is a blessing and a relief beyond what these words can say.

  But, dear Mr. Boyd, you said something in a note to Arabel some little time ago, which I will ask of your kindness to avoid saying again. I have been through the whole summer very much better; and even if it were not so I should dread being annoyed by more medical speculations. Pray do not suggest any. I am not in a state to admit of experiments, and my case is a very clear and simple one. I have not one symptom like those of my old illness; and after more than fifteen years’ absolute suspension of them, their recurrence is scarcely probable. My case is very clear: not tubercular consumption, not what is called a ‘decline,’ but an affection of the lungs which leans towards it. You know a blood-vessel broke three years ago, and I never quite got over it. Mr. Jago, not having seen me, could scarcely be justified in a conjecture of the sort, when the opinions of four able physicians, two of them particularly experienced in diseases of the chest, and the other two the most eminent of the faculty in the east and west of England, were decided and contrary, while coincident with each other. Besides, you see, I am becoming better — and I could not desire more than that. Dear Mr. Boyd, do not write a word about it any more, either to me or others. I am sure you would not willingly disturb me. Nelly Bordman is good and dear, but I can’t let her prescribe for me anything except her own affection.

  I hope Arabel
expressed for me my thankful sense of Mrs. Smith’s kind intention. But, indeed, although I would see you, dear Mr. Boyd, gladly, or an angel or a fairy or any very particular friend, I am not fit either in body or spirit for general society. I can’t see people, and if I could it would be very bad for me. Is Mrs. Smith writing? Are you writing? Part of me is worn out; but the poetical part — that is, the love of poetry — is growing in me as freshly and strongly as if it were watered every day. Did anybody ever love it and stop in the middle? I wonder if anybody ever did?...

  Believe me your affectionate

  E.B.B.

  To H.S. Boyd

  50 Wimpole Street: December 29, 1841.

  My dear Friend, — I should not have been half as idle about transcribing these translations if I had fancied you could care so much to have them as Arabel tells me you do. They are recommended to your mercy, O Greek Daniel! The last sounds in my ears most like English poetry; but I assure you I took the least pains with it. The second is obscure as its original, if it do not (as it does not) equal it otherwise. The first is yet more unequal to the Greek. I praised that Greek poem above all of Gregory’s, for the reason that it has unity and completeness, for which, to speak generally, you may search the streets and squares and alleys of Nazianzum in vain. Tell me what you think of my part.