tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55632966164432518852023-11-15T06:27:48.402-08:00My Barrett Browning BlogThe Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.comBlogger301125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-58841076517969778452013-03-06T13:45:00.001-08:002013-03-31T14:22:54.762-07:00March 6, 2013<div align="center">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Happy Birthday Greetings</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">to</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">Elizabeth Barrett Browning </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">on the </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large;">207th Anniversary of Her Natal Day</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Rather than a letter today I offer a description of Mrs. Browning by Nathaniel Hawthorne written in Florence, June 9, 1858:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Mrs. Browning met us at the door of the drawing-room, and greeted us most kindly - a pale, small person, scarcely embodied at all; at any rate, only substantial enough to put forth her slender fingers to be grasped, and to speak with a shrill, yet sweet, tenuity of voice. Really, I do not see how Mr. Browning can suppose that he has an earthly wife any more than an earthly child; both are of the elfin-race, and will flit away from him some day when he least thinks of it. She is a good and kind fairy, however, and sweetly disposed towards the human race, although only remotely akin to it. It is wonderful to see how small she is, how pale her cheek, how bright and dark her eyes. There is not such another figure in this world; and her black ringlets cluster down into her neck, and make her face look the whiter by their sable profusion. I could not form an judgement about her age; it may range any where within the limits of human life, or elfin-life. When I met her in London, at Lord Houghton's breakfast-table she did not impress me so singularly; for the morning light is more prosaic that the dim illumination of the great tapestried drawing-room; and besides, sitting next to her, she did not have occasion to raise her voice in speaking, and I was not sensible what a slender voice she has. It is marvellous to me how extraordinary, so acute, so sensitive a creature, can impress us, as she does, with the certainty of her benevolence. It seems to me there were a million chances to one that she would have been a miracle of acidity and bitterness."</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Elsewhere Hawthorne noted that her speaking voice was,</span> "...as if a grasshopper should speak."</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Happy you could stop by our world, Mrs. Browning.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-44679707688246069922013-02-20T00:00:00.000-08:002013-02-20T00:00:06.097-08:00February 20, 1852<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is one note extant that Mrs. Browning wrote to Browning after they were married. Their child was ill and she had to send for Browning at a society dinner on February 20, 1852:</span><br />
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"Darling,<br />
You had better I think bring Dr. Macarthy or somebody with you to see Baby. He had had another attack, decidedly worse in character, & though he is now asleep, yet it may return, & we ought to know what to do at once--Don't be frightened. You know I lose my head--but really it is best that you shd. bring some one--Your Ba-"The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-36220311686311782232013-02-14T00:00:00.000-08:002013-02-14T00:00:20.528-08:00February 14<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I could not resist a love letter on Valentine's Day, although this letter from Browning is postmarked May 10, 1846. As usual he tries to muddle it up, but his meaning actually comes through pretty clear:</span><br />
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"I am always telling you, because always feeling, that I can
express nothing of what goes from my heart to you, my Ba: but there is a certain
choice I have all along exercised, of subjects on which I would <i>try</i> and
express somewhat—while others might be let alone with less disadvantage. <strong>When we
first met, it was in your thought that I loved you only for your poetry .. I
think you thought that</strong>: and because one <i>might</i> be imagined to love that
and not you,—<strong>because everybody must love it, indeed, that is worthy, and yet
needs not of necessity love you,—yet <i>might</i> mistake, or determine to love
you thro’ loving <i>it</i></strong> .. for all these reasons, <strong>there was not the immediate
demand on me for a full expression of my admiration for your intellectuality</strong>,—do
you see?—<strong>rather, it was proper to insist as little as possible on it, and speak
to the woman, Ba, simply</strong>—and so I have tried to speak,—partly, in truth, <strong>because
I love <i>her</i> best, and love her mind by the light and warmth of her
heart</strong>—reading her verses, saying 'and these are Ba’s',—<strong>not kissing her lips
because they spoke the verses. </strong>But it does not follow that I have lost the sense
of any delight that has its source in you, my dearest, dearest,—however I may
choose to live habitually with certain others in preference. <strong>I would shut myself
up with you, and die to the world, and live out fifty long,—long lives in bliss
through your sole presence</strong>—but it is no less true that <strong>it will also be an
ineffable pride</strong>,—something too sweet for the name of pride,—<strong>to avow myself,
before anyone whose good opinion I am solicitous to retain,</strong> as <i>so</i>
distinguished by you—it is <i>too</i> sweet, indeed,—<strong>so I guard against it,—for
frequent allusion to it, might</strong>, .. (as I stammer, and make plain things
unintelligible) .. might <strong>cause you to misconceive me</strong>, .. which would be dreadful
.. for after all, Ba’s head has given the crown its worth,—though a wondrous
crown it is, too!– <strong>All this means .. the avowal we were speaking of, will be a
heart’s pride—above every other pride whenever you decide on making such an
avowal. </strong>You will understand as you do ever your own RB"</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not that there is anything wrong with kissing a genius--but it is incidental to the genius that the kissing takes place. Just to be clear.</span></div>
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—On getting home I found letters and letters—the best being a
summons to meet Tennyson at Moxon’s on Tuesday,—and the frightfullest .. nay, I
will send it. Now, Ba, hold my hand from the distant room, tighter than ever, at
about 8. o’clock on Wednesday, .. for I must go, I fear. 'Unaccustomed as I am
to public speaking ..' &c &c 'ἐα, ἐα, ἀπεχε, φευ [ah, ah, refrain alas].' Then Mr Kenyon writes that his friend
Commodore Jones is returned to England in bad health and
that he must away to Portsmouth and see him. So I do not go on Monday. While I
was away Chorley’s brother (John Chorley)
called,—having been put to the trouble of a journey hither for nothing.</div>
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I have been out this morning—to church with my sister—and the sun
shone almost oppressively,—but now all is black, and threatening. How I send
my heart after your possible movements, my own all-beloved! Care for yourself,
and for me. <strong>But a few months more</strong>,—if God shall please! May He bless you.</div>
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Ever your own RB</div>
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Hail and rain—at a quarter to four o’clock!"</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Happy Valentine's Day to all the Blogoleers out there in BarrettBrowningBlogland!</span></div>
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The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-88228473262984416152013-01-25T04:16:00.000-08:002013-01-25T04:16:41.046-08:00October 17, 1858<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As an encore I want to share a brief extract from a letter Mrs. Browning wrote to her sister Arabel. She is writing from Paris. It gives a glimpse of daily life with the Browning family as Mrs. B goes shopping with her eight year old son and her maid Annunciata. Browning's sister Sarianna also makes a guest appearance. I get a kick out of this because it reflects her light touch and her frustration with her husband's frugality:</span><br />
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"Let me see what I have to tell you of our doings, less sad than <em>that</em>. In the first place-My bonnet came home very, very pretty--but as there was something I wanted changed, I went the next morning to have it done & to pay for it, Annunciata & Peni going with me,--& Robert gave me two napoleons for the purpose. On our arrival at the Modiste's,...purse gone!-Dropped in the street! Imagine the agreeable surprise!- So I had to retrace my steps in a deep state of humiliation-Penini full of compassion, proposed my waiting in a shop, while he ran on to 'tell Papa & get it over' -- & when I objected that 'we must confess our own sins',..'no,' said he, 'I won't <em>let</em> you- I'll be the priest this time!' So, off he ran full speed, & by the time I reached the door of our apartment, there was Robert perfectly magnanimous & forgiving, coming to pity & bring more money. It was very, very good of him- Still, as I say, he is human, & I expect to be reminded of it three times a day to the Day of Judgement."<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We can see who holds the purse stings--and who doesn't! Of course, I looked these coins up on Wiki and the gold napoleons came in 20 and 40 franc denominations. And yes, at that time, the French were using real gold as currency. Apparently Pen was expecting the worst. But read on mon chere!</span><br />
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"Since then, I have been out buying last purchases, generally <strong>under guardianship</strong>-Twice, Sarianna arrived just as I was going out, & so accompanied me. Once, Robert went himself- I have bought a warm petticoat-'English'--red & black--twelve francs, & a pretty parasol, ten francs. Robert has bought an artist's manikin--& an opera glass, single, of great power for 30 francs-"<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Robert went on a splurge there! As for the manikin and opera glass: so much for Mr. Frugality. And she was the one who needed guardianship! The difference being: she didn't care what he spent-she didn't care about money.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't know about you, but I am very interested in this red and black 'English' petticoat. That is a fairly radical color combination. Something else of note, she seems in pretty robust health (for her) in 1858, walking about Paris in the middle of October. I am guessing that the cool weather hadn't set in yet.</span><br />
<br />The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-75837660565887713582013-01-23T04:17:00.000-08:002013-01-23T04:17:18.408-08:00Not a Farewell...<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I started this blog a year ago on a whim. Part of me believed that I could never sustain it for a year, but the letters were so interesting the blog really wrote itself. I enjoyed the research it took to interpret the letters. Perhaps because I started it on a whim there are things I would have done differently. The main think I would have done differently would have been beginning at the beginning of the courtship and follow it through until they left for Italy. As it was I squeezed two years-or more-together on one page. But it wasn't a fatal error. You and I both survived.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Also, when I began, and for a time, I included letters from other years and to other people. But over time I became more interested in following the thread of the courtship letters. Also, during this time I read the two volume set of Mrs. Browning's letters to her sister Arabel. I finished those letters at about the same time as the blog wound down. Mrs. Browning's sister Henrietta died in November 1860 and as her health began to fail her in late 1860 and early 1861 the depression she was going through seemed to be affecting me as I nightly read her letters. She seemed at times to lose her faith and talk herself back into it in the same paragraph. Her letters to Arabel were cathartic. At one point Arabel was apparently offended by Mrs. Browning's seeming lecture on not embracing grief and she had to explain that she was referring to herself and not Arabel. And then Mrs. Browning died all over again, 152 years later. My rational mind laughs at the absurdity of being sad about it, she would be very old indeed if she lived on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have also read many biographies over the past year and most of them are really bad. Only the more modern ones give me any hope for the profession of literary biographer. Too many of them have a strange prejudice against one or the other of the poets. Biographers are judgemental and so very orthodox. I plead with any of you to read the primary material rather than taking the biographers word for anything. I have read some real howlers from the biographer fraternity. They take quotes out of context, apply quotes to the wrong year, the wrong circumstance and the wrong poem. Many of the biographers of the early twentieth century made a romantic hash of the love story, making Browning into some kind of demi-god and Miss Barrett into something of a simpleton. What I make of them may be a irrelevant, but Browning was not a god and Miss Barrett was not a simpleton. Their relationship was not understood by them; I have no claim on understanding it any better than they did. I think Browning was a very conventional man, very conservative in many ways. He was no iconoclast, he conformed in almost every way to societal standards and norms. Mrs. Browning was far more unconventional in her thoughts and really very brave. She was not scared to tell the world, through her poetry, that she admired Napoleon III and supported the struggle for Italian unification. She became unpopular in her home country for her political views. She did not care. She was also very bold in her religion. She embraced and rejected most Christian religions. She went to Catholic Mass and many other mix and match services. She scandalized her conservative sister by allowing her young son to reenact the mass in exact detail in the drawing room. I think she was more interested that this young boy could remember all the words and actions of the priests and reproduce them, than worried that he might absorb the meaning and become a papist. Her letters are full of antidotes where she described things that she did which upset her conservative husband. (She let her dog Flush run free in the church with the other Italian dogs and he urinated on the altar, which she found amusing and Browning found appalling. He couldn't take her anywhere!) She was boldly anti-slavery, writing a very shocking (for the time--tepid for today) poem about a slave, pregnant by her master, who kills the offspring of the rape. She wrote about the conditions of child labor and in her masterwork took on the state of 19th century women, addressing rape, the class system, the education of women and the inability of women to choose their own profession. She was not scared. But Browning was.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have mentioned many times in the blog that Browning was in a perpetual state of embarrassment. Some may call this modesty. But this seems to point to his conventionality. His wife embarrassed him on a regular basis. He was embarrassed by her politics and by her interest in spiritualism. The editors who publish the letters of the Browning's usually begin with an explanation of why they are publishing private letters. These discussion are often uncomfortable sessions in which they quote Browning's letters(!) explaining why he didn't want their letters published. He spent quite a bit of time in his later years trying to retrieve his wife's letters from people who might publish them and burning his own. Usually they quote from letters Browning wrote to his brother-in-law George Barrett in which Browning appeals to George and the other Barrett brothers to protect Mrs. Browning after his death. He is embarrassed especially by her enthusiastic interest in Spiritualism. He believed that this interest would ruin her reputation. Her unconventional religious inquiries seem pretty mainstream today and even conservative. From reading her letters it is perfectly clear that she desperately wanted to communicate with the dead but her experiments were almost total failures. She was not blind to this and always wanted controls and proof but seldom got proof, although she did get a lot of excited testimony about phenomena other people had experienced.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Browning letters which remain are, for the most part, not especially interesting. The letters to his sister and later his son are mostly missing. Sarianna was his only intimate receiving letters. Even his letters to Isa Blagdon, which are interesting, are not especially revealing. They do not compare in power to the letters of his wife. I think ultimately he could not bring himself to destroy her letters because he knew how brilliant they are. And Mrs. Browning, I believe, knew that her letters might be published one day. I suspect she wrote, especially to her literary correspondents, with this in mind. And she was amazingly prolific; Wedgestone Press predicts that the entire set of the Browning Correspondence will run to forty volumes. However, she specifically and angrily stated she wanted people to wait until she was dead before they picked through her letters.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I often tell people that Mrs. Browning's letter remind me of "Letters from 'Nam". She wrote to each person for that person. A specific audience. Her letters to her sisters for the most part stuck to family news, sisterly news. She didn't discuss literature and politics to a great extent with her sisters and she shaped her religious discussions with them to reflect what she could agree with them about, occasionally tossing in a recommended book that would help to explain her less than conventional views. Trying to explain the brilliance of George Sand she recommended the less her salacious offerings. Her letters to her brother George have a totally different tone. She wrote to her brother on a higher level, treating him as a brother to be teased but as an intellectual equal. Which is not to say that she wasn't willing to portray herself as a weak and feeble woman, if it was required. Her letter to George at the time of her marriage and retreat from Wimpole Street is brilliant. The tone is perfect, reflecting excellent reasoning. It is not overly emotional nor pleading. It did not work, George did not forgive her for several years, but I suspect that it wasn't the fault of the letter, but instead, the fact that George had to protect his own position in the Barrett household which kept him from embracing her life change. Another of her brilliant letters was written two months prior to her death, even as her letters to Arabel were reflecting her personal despair. She had submitted a poem to be published in Cornhill Magazine which was rejected on decency grounds by the editor William Makepiece Thackeray. Her response to him was clever and witty and defended her poem as highly moral, simply addressing a difficult subject. It in no way reflected the personal turmoil she was emerging from nor her poor health and wonderfully illustrates how her letters are tailored to her audience.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I want to comment as well about our poets relationship after they left England. Miss Barrett's fears that Browning would be disappointed in her and that he would throw his life away taking care of her dogged her to the end. Her health did improve a great deal in the sun of Italy but she remained fragile and gradually she withdrew physically more and more. You can see glimpses of her frustration in her letters to her sisters. The couple were together so much you see the frayed edges, almost always touched on with humor. We saw glimpses of Browning's temper in the courtship letters--never directed to her. We also saw how Miss Barrett feared verbal confrontations of any kind. We see in Mrs. Browning's letters to Arabel that there were times when she had to explain her husband's ill humors and address Arabel's contention that they were always quarreling during their visit to England. There were periods where Mrs. Browning did not speak to her husband about certain topics, usually spiritualism but also politics. She also grew frustrated at her husband's careful way with money. He never wanted to be accused of milking his wife dry--he was so very scrupulous--and she did not care. She knew he was honest to a fault. He took care of her to the very end. He carried her everywhere. Her descriptions of him bundling her up against the cold and cramming her head first into the carriage like a very large package are wonderful examples of her light touch. At one point in Rome he had to carry her up 88 steps to their apartment. She was very tiny and he was very strong. (They also used a devise called "The Queens Chair" to get her up the stairs.) Some biographers try to contend that his poems reflect his disappointment in her and their relationship. I do not believe that. For a man who burned almost all of his personal letters to write poems about his frustration with his wife I find ridiculous. Of course his poems reflected life, but we can see that he was able to address all situations from many angles. I think some people are desperate to find a thesis for their dissertations. After her death he did begin addressing her in his poems but these poems suggest a mythification, a longing, a frustration with his own long life and finally an acceptance. He did not have much luck with women after his wife's death although I suspect he was an incorrigible flirt. He loved the attention of pretty ladies. What man doesn't? But what does this all add up to? They were normal. But extraordinarily normal. They had a extraordinarily normal marriage. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, I am going to take a bit of a break from the blog. I am not going to stop completely. There will be a special treat on February 20 that you can look forward to. It is the only extant letter written by Mrs. Browning to her husband after they left England in 1846. I won't tease you too much. I may even pop back in before that if I find something of interest. I was able to get volume 6 of the correspondence for next to no money on eBay. They are $110.00 a volume if you buy them new so I consider myself lucky to have gotten this volume for $16.00.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I also would like to thank the editors of the most recent edition of the courtship letters for not suing me for copyright infringement. The letters are in the public domain, you can get them on The Gutenberg Project website, but I suspect that I may have been in violation of some law. I used their footnotes to guide my research. A shocking admission I know.</span><br />
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<br />The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-48155666100567713982013-01-19T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-19T00:00:11.604-08:00January 19, 1846<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning rethinks his letter of the 18th, on the 19th:</span><br />
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"Monday Mg</div>
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Love, if you knew but how vexed I was, so very few minutes after
my note left last night, how angry with the unnecessary harshness into which
some of the phrases might be construed—you would forgive me, indeed– But, when
all is confessed and forgiven, the fact remains—<strong>that it would be the one trial I
<i>know</i> I should not be able to bear,—the repetition of those
'scenes'—intolerable—not to be written of, even—my mind <i>refuses</i> to form a
clear conception of them–"</strong></div>
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<strong></strong> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning would beat down Papa Barrett if he hurt Miss Barrett. Emotionally speaking, of course. Oh yeah, I think he might. Well, maybe not. But I like to think he would.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
___________________________________________________________</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
"My own loved letter is come—and the news,—of which the reassuring
postscript lets the interrupted joy flow on again. Well, and I am not to be
grateful for that,—nor that you <i>do</i> 'eat your dinner'?– Indeed you will be
ingenious to prevent me! <strong>I fancy myself meeting you on 'the stairs'—stairs and
passages generally, and galleries, (ah, those indeed!)—all, with their
picturesque <i>accidents</i>, of landing-places, and spiral heights &
depths, and sudden turns, and visions of half-open doors</strong> into what Quarles calls
'mollitious chambers'—<strong>and above all,
<i>landing-places</i></strong>—<strong>they are my heart’s delight– I would come upon you unaware
on a landing-place in my next dream!</strong> <strong>One day we may walk in the galleries round
and over the inner-court of the Doges’ Palace at Venice,</strong>—and read, on tablets
against the wall, how such an one was banished for an 'enormous dig (intacco)
into the public treasure'—another for .. what you are not to know because his
friends have got chisels and chipped away the record of it—underneath the
'giants' on their stands, and in the midst of the <i>cortile [courtyard]</i> the bronze fountains whence the girls draw
water–"</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning really does like this idea of wandering around passages and stairs looking for someone. There are two poems in Men and Women, published in 1855, which this passage make me think of. <em>Love in a Life</em> and <em>Life in a Love</em> both have this theme of chasing after someone.</span></div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Love in a Life</span></div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<pre><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Room after room,
I hunt the house through
We inhabit together.
Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her,
Next time, herself!—not the trouble behind her
Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume!
As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew,—
Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.
Yet the day wears,
And door succeeds door;
I try the fresh fortune—
Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.
<strong>Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter.
Spend my whole day in the quest,—who cares?
But 'tis twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore,
Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!</strong></span></span><strong>
</strong></pre>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Life in a Love</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Escape me?<br sb_id="ms__id1833" />Never---<br sb_id="ms__id1834" />Beloved!<br sb_id="ms__id1835" />While I am I, and you are you,<br sb_id="ms__id1836" /> So long as the world contains us both,<br sb_id="ms__id1837" /> Me the loving and you the loth<br sb_id="ms__id1838" /><strong>While the one eludes, must the other pursue. </strong>My life is a fault at last, I fear:<br sb_id="ms__id1840" /> It seems too much like a fate, indeed!<br sb_id="ms__id1841" /> Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed.<br sb_id="ms__id1842" />But what if I fail of my purpose here?<br sb_id="ms__id1843" />It is but to keep the nerves at strain,<br sb_id="ms__id1844" /> To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall,<br sb_id="ms__id1845" />And, baffled, get up and begin again,---<br sb_id="ms__id1846" /> <strong>So the chase takes up one's life ' that's all. </strong>While, look but once from your farthest bound</span><br sb_id="ms__id1848" /> </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">At me so deep in the dust and dark,<br sb_id="ms__id1849" />No sooner the old hope goes to ground</span> <span style="font-size: x-small;">Than a new one, straight to the self-same mark,<br sb_id="ms__id1851" />I shape me---<br sb_id="ms__id1852" />Ever<br sb_id="ms__id1853" />Removed!</span></span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But what is lasting love but a continual interest in the one you love, a constant ambition to remain in love and discover something new to love in your love?</span><br />
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"So <i>you</i> too wrote French verses?– Mine were of less lofty
argument—one couplet makes me laugh now for the reason of its false quantity– I
translated the Ode of Alcæus,—and the last couplet ran thus ..</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
Harmodius, et toi, cher Aristogĭton!</div>
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙<br />
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙<br />
Comme l’astre du jour, brillera votre nom!<br />
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
[Harmodious, and you too, dear Aristogiton!</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
Your names will shine like the
morning star!]</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
The fact was, I could not bear to hurt my French Master’s
feelings—who inveterately maltreated 'αι’s and οι’s' and in this instance, an
'ει'– <strong>But 'Pauline' is altogether of a different
sort of precocity—you shall see it when I can muster resolution to transcribe
the explanation which I know is on the fly-leaf of a copy here– </strong>Of that work, the Athenæum said <…>—now, what outrageous folly,—I care, and you
care, precisely nothing about its sayings and doings—yet here I talk!"</div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He crossed out a few lines of what the Athenæum 'said' about <em>Pauline</em>. I mean why bother? And how funny that he explains to her that Pauline is a 'different sort of precocity.' Indeed! She will see soon enough.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"Now to you—Ba! When I go thro’ sweetness to sweetness, at
'<i>Ba'</i> I stop last of all, and lie and rest. That is the quintessence of
them all,—they all take colour and flavour from that– So, dear, dear Ba, <strong>be glad
as you can to see me tomorrow</strong>– God knows how I embalm every such day,—<strong>I do not
believe that one of the <i>forty</i> is confounded with
another in my memory</strong>. So, <i>that</i> is gained and sure for ever. And of
letters, <strong>this makes my 104th</strong> and, like Donne’s Bride, 'I take / My jewels from
their boxes; call / My Diamonds, Pearls and Emeralds, and make / Myself a
constellation of them all!'–Bless you, my own
Beloved!"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Forty visits. From May to January that makes about eight a month. That's a pretty good pace for Mr. Barrett not to have caught on at all. No wonder he gets upset when she takes off with this Browning fellow. Who does he think he is? Mister Barrett trusted her. I wonder what he thought was going on between these two when he was away in the city. Oh dear, think of the melancholy thoughts of his ruined daughter who had to run away with her lover. The shame of this failure of a father and protector. That is my attempt at advocacy for Mr. Barrett.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"—I am much better to-day—<strong>having been not so well yesterday—whence
the note to you, perhaps!</strong> <strong>I put that to your charity for construction.</strong> By the
way, let the foolish and needless story about my whilome friend be of this use, that it records one of the
traits in that same generous lover of me, I once mentioned, I remember—<strong>one of
the points in his character which</strong>, I told you, <strong><i>would</i> account, if you
heard them, for my parting company with a good deal of warmth </strong>of attachment to
myself."</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mr. Footnote offers no help in telling us who this friend was who was so cruel to his wife, but apparently Miss Barrett knows who he is referring to.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
What a day! <strong>But you do not so much care for rain, I think</strong>. My
mother is no worse, but still suffering sadly.</div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
Ever your own, dearest—ever–RB"</div>
<div class="CLOSE">
</div>
<div class="CLOSE">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, we are back where I began this blog a year ago. We have met again, midpoint in the proceedings.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-19143665789386732852013-01-18T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-18T04:13:22.740-08:00January 18, 1846<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We get two letters to play with today. First, Miss Barrett is not happy with Chorley's review of Browning's <em>Dramatic Romances and Lyrics</em> in <i>The Athenæum</i>:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Sunday.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
Your letter came just after the hope of one had past—the latest
saturday post had gone, they said: & <strong>I was beginning to be as vexed as
possible</strong>, looking into the long letterless sunday. Then, suddenly came the
knock—the postman redivivus .. just when it seemed so beyond hoping for––it was
half past eight, observe .. & there had been a post at nearly eight—suddenly
came the knock, & your letter with it. Was I not glad, do you think?"</div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't know. How vexed would it be possible for Miss Barrett to get? Would she throw the crockery and upset the table if she didn't get a letter? </span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"And you call the Athenæum 'kind & satisfactory'? <strong>Well—I was
angry instead</strong>. To make us wait so long for an ‘article’ like <i>that</i>, was
not over-kind certainly, nor was it 'satisfactory' to class <strong>your peculiar
qualities</strong> with other contemporary ones, <strong>as if they were not peculiar</strong>. It seemed to me cold & cautious, ..
from the causes perhaps which you mention .. but the extracts will work their
own way <strong>with everybody who knows what poetry is</strong>, & for others, let the
critic do his worst with them. <strong>For what is said of 'mist' I have no
patience,—because I who know when you are obscure </strong>& never think of denying
it in some of your former works, do hold that <strong>this last number is as clear</strong> &
self sufficing to a common understanding, as far as the expression & medium
goes, as any book in the world, & that <strong>Mr Chorley was bound in verity to say
so</strong>. If I except that one stanza, you know, it is to make the general observation
stronger. And then <strong>'mist' is an infamous word for
your kind of obscurity– You never <i>are</i> misty, not even in Sordello ..
never vague</strong>. Your graver cuts deep sharp lines always—& <strong>there is an
extra-distinctness in your images & thoughts</strong>, from the midst of which,
crossing each other infinitely, <strong>the general significance seems to escape</strong>. So
that <strong>to talk of a ‘mist,’ when you are obscurest, is an impotent thing to do——
Indeed it makes me angry."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First she was preparing to be vexed, now she is angry. Her discussion of Browning's obscurity not being 'misty' nor 'vague' may or may not be true. But note the vehemence. Her objection to this criticism may be valid, but hardly anger inducing. This is a demonstration of her loyalty and her constancy. She makes a more valid point in her next paragraph:</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"But the suggested virtue of 'selfrenunciation' only made me
smile, because it is simply nonsense .. nonsense which proves itself to be
nonsense at a glance. <strong>So genius is to renounce itself .. <i>that</i> is the new
critical doctrine, is it?</strong> Now is it not foolish? <strong>To recognize the poetical
faculty of a man, & then to instruct him in 'selfrenunciation' in that very
relation—or rather, to hint the virtue of it, & hesitate the dislike of his
doing otherwise?</strong> What atheists these
critics are after all—& <strong>how the old heathens understood the divinity of
gifts</strong>, better, beyond any comparison. We may take shame to ourselves, looking
back–"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you are going to renounce yourself to make yourself more popular with the general reader, this is all well and good. However, if you choose not to, if you choose to create poetry that is not readily accessible for the general reader you must be prepared to be rejected by the general reader. You cannot then call the reviewers who write for a general readership 'fools'. I look at this in contrast to Browning's argument in favor of dueling. He argued that to live in society you must conform to societal norms. Miss Barrett strongly rejected this and felt that you must do what is morally correct, no matter the circumstance. She is consistent here with her argument that Browning must not renounce his 'genius' to conform to the ignorance of the public and the reviewers. Browning, of course, did attempt for a time to be more commercially viable and was still rejected and ultimately went his own way and came to public acceptance through the back door of romantic myth; revered by academia and mythologized by the reading public.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"Now, shall I tell you what I did yesterday. It was so warm, so
warm, <strong>the thermometer at 68</strong> in this room, that I took it into my head to call it
April instead of January, & put on a cloak & <strong>walked down stairs into the
drawing room</strong> .. walked, mind!– <strong>Before, I was carried by one of my brothers</strong>, ..
<strong>even to the last autumn-day when I went out</strong> … I never walked a step for fear of
the cold in the passages. But yesterday it was so wonderfully warm, & <strong>I so
strong besides</strong>—it was a feat worthy of the day—& <strong>I surprised them all</strong> as
much as if I had walked out of the window instead. <strong>That kind dear Stormie who
with all his shyness & awkwardness has the most loving of hearts in him,
said that he was ‘<i>so</i> glad to see me’!–</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Well!—<strong>setting aside the glory of it</strong>, it would have been as wise
perhaps if I had abstained .. our damp detestable climate reaches us otherwise
than by cold, & I am not quite as well as usual this morning <strong>after an
uncomfortable feverish night</strong>—not very unwell, mind, nor unwell at all in the
least degree of consequence: & <strong>I tell you, only to show how susceptible I
really am still, though 'scarcely an invalid' say the complimenters."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, well, this is a development. I wonder if she walked back up the stairs, for that can be the challenge. But an improvement. It is interesting to see her leak this information to Browning. From the way she words it it seems that he was unaware of the fact that she could not walk down the stairs. I wonder what his reaction to this information will be, both known and unknown. He knows she is an 'invalid' but I wonder if he knows the extent of her incapacity. I have to doubt it, given the very timid nature of their relationship.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"What a way I am from your letter .. that letter .. or seem to be
rather—for one may think of one thing & yet go on writing distractedly of
other things. <strong>So you are ‘grateful’ to my sisters .. <i>you</i></strong>! Now I beseech
you not to talk such extravagances,—I mean such extravagances as words like
these <i>imply</i>—& there are far worse words than these, in the letter ..
such as I need not put my finger on,—<strong>words which are sense on my lips but no
sense at all on yours, & which make me disquietedly sure that you are under
an illusion.</strong> Observe!—<strong><i>certainly</i> I should not choose to have a
'<i>claim'</i> see</strong>! <strong>Only, what I object to, in ‘illusions’, ‘miracles’, &
things of that sort, is the want of continuity common to such.</strong> When Joshua
caused the sun to stand still, it was not for a year even!– Ungrateful, I am!"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">See how she dissects each word and makes excruciating points? I do see the distinction that she is trying to make--that miracles and illusions are short term things. But here again--as with the objection to the description of Browning's poetry as 'misty'-- she seem to be overly semantic in her arguments. Picking nits as the older folks like to say. Yes, she does seem 'ungrateful' when she goes on that way. But here again, she is safe with Browning, he will never fault her, although he might get frustrated with her negative argumentation. She, however, can't help herself, she is humble to a fault.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"And 'pretty well' means 'not well' I am afraid—or I should be
gladder still of the new act– You will tell me on tuesday what 'pretty well'
means, & if your mother is better—or I may have a letter tomorrow
––dearest!– May God bless you!–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>Tomorrow too, at half past three oclock, how joyful I shall be
that my 'kind considerateness' decided not to receive you until tuesday. My very
kind considerateness, .. which made me eat my dinner, today!–</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
Your own Ba–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
A hundred letters I have, by this last, .. to set against
Napoleon’s Hundred Days—did you know <i>that</i>?</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
So much better I am tonight! it was nothing but a little chill
from the damp—the fog, you see!–"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She ends on a cheery note. What does Browning have to say for himself? OH NO! Another epic:</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Sunday Evening.</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
You may have seen, I put off all the weighty business-part of the
letter—but I shall do very little with it now: to be sure, a few words will
serve, because you understand me, and believe in <i>enough</i> of me– First
then, <strong>I am wholly satisfied, thoroughly made happy in your assurance</strong>—<strong>I would
build up an infinity of lives</strong>, if I could plan them, one on the other, <strong>and all
resting on you, on your word– I fully believe in it,</strong>—of my feeling, the
gratitude, let there be no attempt to speak. <strong>And for 'waiting',—'not
hurrying',—I leave all with you henceforth—all you say is most wise, most
convincing."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY1">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning is responding here to Miss Barrett's letter of the 15th in which she describes her father's reaction and presumed reaction to any move by his children into the married state. Her letter rather sets Browning off:</span></div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"On the saddest part of all,—silence. You understand, and I can
understand thro’ you. Do you know, that <strong>I never <i>used</i> to dream unless
indisposed, and rarely then</strong>—(of late I dream of you, but quite of late)—<strong>and
<i>those</i> nightmare dreams have invariably been of <i>one</i> sort—I stand by
(powerless to interpose by a word even) and see the infliction of tyranny on the
unresisting—man or beast</strong> (generally the last)—and I wake just in time not to
die: <strong>let no one try this kind of experiment on me or mine!</strong> Tho’ I have observed
that by a felicitous arrangement, <strong>the man with the whip puts it into use with an
old horse commonly</strong>: <strong>I once knew a fine specimen</strong> of the boilingly passionate,
desperately respectable on the Eastern principle that reverences a madman—<strong>and
this fellow, whom it was to be death to oppose, (some bloodvessel was to
break)</strong>—<strong>he, once</strong> at a dinner party at which I was present, <strong>insulted his wife</strong> (a
young pretty simple believer in his awful immunities from the ordinary terms
that keep men in order)—<strong>brought the tears into her eyes and sent her from the
room .. purely to 'show off' in the eyes of his guests</strong> .. (all males,
law-friends &c <strong>he being a lawyer.</strong>) This feat accomplished, he, too, <strong>left us
with an affectation of compensating relentment, to 'just say a word and
return'</strong>—and no sooner was his back to the door than <strong>the biggest, stupidest of
the company</strong> began to remark <strong>'what a fortunate thing it was that Mr So & So
had such a submissive wife—not one of the women who would resist,—that is,
attempt to resist</strong>—and so exasperate our gentleman into .. Heaven only knew
what!'– <strong>I said it <i>was</i>, in one sense, a fortunate thing,—because one of
those women,</strong> without necessarily being the lion-tressed Bellona [the goddes of war], <strong>would richly give him his desert, I
thought</strong>– 'Oh, indeed? <strong>No—<i>this</i> man was not to be opposed, wait, you might,
till the fit was over, and then try what kind argument could do'—and so forth to
unspeakable nausea.</strong> Presently we went up-stairs—there sate the wife with dried
eyes and a smile at the tea table—<strong>and by her, in all the pride of conquest, with
her hand in his, our friend—disposed to be very good-natured of course</strong>– I
listened <i>arrectis auribus</i><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="D2178-00C0003"><span class="CALLOUT"></span></a>[with ears pricked]—and in a minute he
said he did not know somebody I mentioned– I told him, <i>that</i> I easily
conceived—<strong>such a person would never condescend to know <i>him</i>, &c, and
treated him to every consequence ingenuity could draw from that text—and at the
end marched out of the room,—</strong>and the valorous man, <strong>who had sate like a post, got
up, took a candle, followed me to the door, and only said in unfeigned wonder,
'what <i>can</i> have possessed you, my <i>dear</i> B?</strong>' —All which I as much
expected beforehand, as that the above-mentioned man of the whip keeps it quiet
in the presence of an ordinary-couraged dog– <strong>All this is quite irrelevant to
<i>the</i> case .. indeed, I write to get rid of the thought altogether</strong>: but <strong>I
do hold it the most stringent duty of all who can, to stop a condition, a
relation of one human being to another which God never allowed to exist between
Him and ourselves–</strong> <i>Trees</i> live and die, if you please, and accept will for
a law—<strong>but with us, all commands surely refer to a previously-implanted
conviction in ourselves of their rationality and justice</strong>—or why declare that
'the Lord <i>is</i> holy, just and good'
unless there is recognized and independent conception of holiness and goodness,
to which the subsequent assertion is referable? 'You know what <i>holiness</i>
is, what it is to be good? Then, He <i>is</i> that'—not, '<i>that</i> is
so—because <i>he</i> is that'; tho’, of course, when once the converse is
demonstrated, this, too, follows, and may be urged for practical purposes– All
God’s urgency, so to speak, is on the <i>justice</i> of his judgments,
<i>rightness</i> of his rule: yet why? one might ask—if one <i>does</i> believe
that the rule <i>is</i> his,—why ask further?– <strong>Because, his is a 'reasonable
service', once for all–"</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love this: "...to stop a condition...which God never allowed to exist between Him and ourselves...but with us, all commands surely refer to a previously-implanted conviction in ourselves of their rationality and justice....Because, his is a 'reasonable service', once for all-" Hey, that Browning is a Christian and a Gentleman! The implications here are immense.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"Understand why I turn my thoughts in this direction—<strong>if it is
indeed as you fear—and no endeavour, concession, on my part will avail, under
any circumstances</strong>—(and by endeavour, I mean all heart & soul could bring the
flesh to perform)—<strong>in that case, you will not come to me with a shadow past hope
of chasing–</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>The likelihood is—I over frighten myself for you, by the
involuntary contrast with those here</strong>—you allude to them—if I went with this
letter downstairs and said simply 'I want this taken to the direction
to-night—and am unwell & unable to go—will you take it now?' —<strong>My father
would not say a word,—or rather would say a dozen cheerful absurdities about his
'wanting a walk', 'just having been wishing to go out' &c</strong>– At night he sits
studying my works—illustrating them (I will bring you drawings to make you
laugh)—and <i>yesterday</i> I picked up a crumpled bit of paper .. 'his notion
of what a criticism on this last number ought to be,—none, that have appeared,
satisfying him!'– So judge of what he will say!—(And my mother loves me just as
much more as must of necessity be–)"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have to say that Mr. Barrett would surely do the same for his daughter, I cannot imagine that he would not. It is a simple enough thing to mail a letter, but I get his drift: his family will support him no matter what; Miss Barrett lives under a will that will not bend to her need for marriage.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"Once more, understand all this .. for the clock scares me of a
sudden—I meant to say more—far more.</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
But may God bless you ever—my own dearest, my Ba–</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
I am wholly your RB. (<i>Tuesday</i>)."</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A strong letter from Browning with a little show of anger and frustration on his part. Perfectly understandable in the circumstances. Miss Barrett's reaction will, I am sure, soften the harsh tone.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-46622040208726199872013-01-17T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-17T04:04:00.318-08:00January 17, 1846<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning sends the only letter today:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Saturday.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
Did my own Ba, in the prosecution of her studies, get to a book
on the forb .. no, <i>un</i>forbidden shelf—wherein Voltaire pleases to say that
'si Dieu n’existait pas, il faudrait l’inventer [If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him]'?– I
feel, after reading these letters, .. as ordinarily after seeing you, sweetest,
or hearing from you .. that if <i>marriage</i> did not exist, I should
infallibly <i>invent</i> it. I should say, no words, no <i>feelings</i> even, do
justice to the whole conviction and <i>religion</i> of my soul—and tho’ they may
be suffered to represent some one minute’s phase of it, yet, in their very
fulness and passion they do injustice to the <i>unrepresented</i>, <i>other
minute’s</i>, depth and breadth of love .. which let my whole life (I would say)
be devoted to telling and proving and exemplifying, if not in one, then in
another way—let me have the plain palpable power of this,—the assured time for
this .. something of the satisfaction .. (but for the fantasticalness of the
illustration) .. something like the earnest joy of some suitor in Chancery if he
could once get Lord Lyndhurst into a room with him,
and lock the door on them both, and know that his whole story <i>must</i> be
listened to now, and the 'rights of it',—dearest, the love unspoken now you are
to hear 'in all time of our tribulation, in all time of our wealth .. at the
hour of death, and'—</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
If I did not <i>know</i> this was so,—nothing would have been
said, or sought for—(your friendship, the perfect pride in it, the wish for, and
eager co-operation in, your welfare, all that is different, and, seen now,
nothing.)</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
I will care for it no more, dearest. I am wedded to you now– I
believe no human being could love you more—that thought consoles me for my own
imperfection—for when <i>that</i> does strike me, as so often it will,—<strong>I turn
round on my pursuing self, and ask—'What if it <i>were</i> a claim, then</strong>,—what
is in Her, demanded rationally, equitably, in return for what were in you—do you
like <i>that</i> way?'—and I do <i>not</i>, Ba—<i>you</i>, even, might not—when
people everyday buy improveable ground, and eligible sites for building, and
don’t want every inch filled up, covered over, done to their hands! So take me,
and make me what you can and will—and tho’ never to be <i>more</i> yours, yet
more <i>like</i> you, I may and must be– Yes, indeed .. best, only love!"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He does go on and on sometimes trying to find some indefinable proof of his love. He does this in his poems too, going at a subject again and again trying to squeeze a proof out of his mind and onto the paper. It works here, in this setting, for this audience however, because she enjoys puzzling out his meanings. His questioning if there is a claim on her may be an attempt to suss out if there <em>is</em> a claim on her or simply him going over and over in his mind all possible scenarios or a proof that he is not worthy of her. He is certainly a constant wooer.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"And am I not grateful to your Sisters—entirely grateful for that
crowning comfort,—it is 'miraculous', too, if you please—for <i>you</i> shall
know me by finger-tip intelligence or any art magic of old or new times .. but
they do not see me, know me—and <strong>must moreover be jealous of you</strong>, chary of you,
<strong>as the daughters of Hesperus, of wonderers and wistful lookers up at the gold
apple</strong>—yet instead of 'rapidly levelling eager eyes'—they
are indulgent? Then .. shall I wish capriciously they were <i>not</i> your
sisters, not so near you, that there might be a kind of grace in loving them for
it? but what grace can there be when .. yes, I will tell you—<i>no</i>, I will
not—it is foolish—and it is <i>not</i> foolish in me to love the table and
chairs and vases in your room–"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Hesperides were three nymphs who guarded the Garden of the Hesperides. Here is what Wikipedia say:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"The <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Garden of the Hesperides</span> is Hera's
orchard in the west, where either a single tree or a grove of
immortality-giving golden apples grew. The apples were planted from the fruited
branches that Gaia gave to her as a wedding gift when Hera accepted Zeus. <strong>The
Hesperides were given the task of tending to the grove, but occasionally
plucked from it themselves.</strong> <strong>Not trusting them</strong>, Hera also placed in the garden a
never-sleeping, <strong>hundred-headed dragon named Ladon</strong> as an additional safeguard.
However, in the mythology surrounding the Judgement of Paris, the Goddess of
Discord Eris managed to enter the garden, pluck a golden apple, inscribe it
'To the most beautiful' (Ancient Greek: Kallistei) and roll it into
the wedding party (which she had not been invited to), in effect causing the Trojan
Wars."</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the myth of Hercules, he was given the task of stealing the apples and he supposedly slew the dragon, Ladon, to steal the apples. Browning as Hercules? She probably thought so.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here is a nice depiction of the three nymphs by Frederick, Lord Leighton called <em>The Garden of the Hesperides. </em>Note the Golden Apples in the tree. Imagine the three Barrett sisters lounging so.</span> <br />
<br />
<a class="image" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Garden2315.jpg"><img alt="" class="thumbimage" height="202" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d8/Garden2315.jpg/200px-Garden2315.jpg" srcset="//upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d8/Garden2315.jpg/300px-Garden2315.jpg 1.5x, //upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/d8/Garden2315.jpg/400px-Garden2315.jpg 2x" width="200" /></a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But why does he see Miss Barrett's sisters as jealous of her? Perhaps just to fit his own myth.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"Let me finish writing to-morrow; it would not become me to utter
a word against the arrangement .. and Saturday promised, too—but though all
concludes against the early hour on Monday, yet—but this is wrong—<strong>on Tuesday it
shall be, then,—thank you, dearest</strong>! You let me keep up the old proper form, do
you not?– I shall continue to thank, and be gratified &c as if I had some
untouched fund of thanks at my disposal to cut a generous figure with on
occasion! And so, now, for your kind considerateness <i>thank you</i> .. <i>that
I</i> say, which God knows, <i>could</i> not say, if I died ten deaths in one to
do you good, 'you are repaid'–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
To-morrow I will write, and answer more– I am pretty well—and
will go out to-day,—tonight. My Act is done, and copied—I will bring it. Do you
see the Athenæum? By Chorley surely—and
kind and satisfactory. I did not expect any notice for a long time—<strong>all that
about the 'mist', 'unchanged manner' and the like is politic concession to the
Powers that Be .. because he might tell me that and much more with his own lips
or unprofessional pen, and be thanked into the bargain—yet he does not</strong>– But I
fancy he saves me from a rougher hand—<strong>the long extracts answer every
purpose</strong>."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Which just goes to show: there is what the writer thinks and there is what the writer says and there is what the writer writes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
"There is all to say yet—tomorrow!and ever, ever your own,—God bless you! RB</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
Admire the clean paper .. I did not notice that I have been
writing on a desk where a candle fell! See the bottoms of the other pages!"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Good grief! Ink blots and candle grease. Browning is such a man.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-38561251025240186002013-01-15T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-15T04:22:44.706-08:00January 15, 1846<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning has had Miss Barrett's letter upbraiding him for asking a cruel question and now we get his response. Could you stand the suspense?</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Thursday–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
Dearest, dearer to my heart minute by minute, I had no wish to
give you pain, God knows. No one can more readily consent to let a few years
more or less of life go out of account,—<strong>be lost</strong>—but as I sate by you, you so
full of the truest life, for this world as for the next,—<strong>and was struck by that
possibility, all that might happen were I away, in the case of your continuing
to acquiesce .. dearest, it <i>is</i> horrible</strong>,—I could not but speak—if in
drawing you, all of you, closer to my heart, I hurt you whom I
would—<i>outlive</i> .. yes,—I cannot speak here—forgive me, Ba.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
My Ba, you are to consider now for me: <strong>your health, your
strength—it is all wonderful; that is not my dream, you know—but what all see</strong>:
now, steadily care for us both—<strong>take time, take counsel if you choose; but at the
end tell me what you will do for your part</strong>—thinking of me as utterly devoted,
soul and body, to you, living wholly in your life, seeing good and ill, only as
you see,—<strong>being</strong> yours as your hand is,—or<strong> as your Flush, rather</strong>. <strong>Then I will, on
my side, prepare</strong>. <strong>When I say 'take counsel'—I reserve my last right, the man’s
right of first speech. <i>I</i> stipulate, too, and require to say my own
speech in my own words or by letter ..
remember!</strong> But this living without you is too tormenting now. So begin thinking:
as for Spring, as for a New Year, <strong>as for a New Life</strong>.–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
I went no farther than the door with Mr Kenyon—& <strong>he must see
the truth; and—you heard the playful words which had a meaning all the same.</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
No more of this; only, think of it for me, love!"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He turned that around beautifully. She upbraided him for daring to mention what she would do if anything happened to him and he used the opportunity to drive home the point he was really trying to make: she needed to get the heck out of her father's house, whether he was with her or not. Her health was improving and she needed to get moving. Excellent parry Browning.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
___________________________________________________________</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
"One of these days I shall write a long letter—on the omitted
matters, unanswered questions, in your past letters: the present joy still makes
me ungrateful to the previous one,—but I remember—<strong>we are to live together one
day, love!</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Will you let Mr Poe’s book lie
on the table on Monday, if you please, that I may read what he <i>does</i> say,
with my own eyes? <i>That</i> I meant to ask, too!</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
How too, too kind you are—<strong>how you care for so little that affects
me!</strong> I am very much better—I went out yesterday, as you found: to-day I shall
walk, beside seeing Chorley. And certainly, certainly I would go away for a week
if so I might escape being ill (and away from you) a fortnight—<strong>but I am
<i>not</i> ill—</strong>and will care, as you bid me, beloved! So, you will send, and
take all trouble,—and all about that crazy Review! Now, you should not!– I will
consider about your goodness. I hardly know if I care to read that kind of book
just now."</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He is handling all of her objections beautifully. But now he has an objection. She was upset about the thought of him dying, he is upset at the thought of her reading 'Pauline'. He is really embarrased by it:</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"Will you, and must you have 'Pauline'? <i>If</i> I could pray you
to revoke that decision! <strong>For it is altogether foolish and <i>not</i> boylike—and
I shall, I confess, hate the notion of running over it—yet commented it must
be,—more than mere correction! I was unluckily <i>precocious</i>—but I had
rather you <span class="SMALLCAPS">saw</span> real infantine efforts .. (verses at
six years old,—and drawings still earlier)—than
this ambiguous, feverish—. Why not wait? When you speak of the 'Bookseller'—I
smile, in glorious security—having a whole bale of sheets at the house-top: he
never knew my name even!—and I withdrew these after a very little time."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Miss Barrett, who examines every word of his letters, must surely see that he does not want her to read 'Pauline'. I don't know about her, but it certainly makes <em>me</em> want to read it! And how happy he is to note that there is no chance of her getting a copy at the bookseller. The 'glorious security' of not being a best seller! For all of you thrill seekers, </span><a href="http://www.telelib.com/authors/B/BrowningRobert/verse/misc/pauline.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">you can read 'Pauline' here</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: blue;">,</span> and see what Browning was embarrassed about. It is actually one of Browning's easier to understand works, which may be part of what embarrasses him: it's too revealing. For those who do not have an extra hour to spare here are the first few lines:</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pauline, mine own, bend o’er me—thy soft breast<br />Shall pant to mine—bend o’er me—thy sweet eyes,<br />And loosened hair, and breathing lips, arms<br />Drawing me to thee—these build up a screen<br />To shut me in with thee, and from all fear,<br />So that I might unlock the sleepless brood<br />Of fancies from my soul, their lurking place,<br />Nor doubt that each would pass, ne’er to return<br />To one so watched, so loved, and so secured.<br />But what can guard thee but thy naked love?</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, you get the idea. Pretty sexy for a mid-Victorian. I don't think he relished the idea of Miss Barrett reading about some other woman's panting breast. But hey, he obviously prefers Miss Barrett's panting breast, so she shouldn't worry. He refers to Pauline's 'calm eyes' in this poem and Miss Barrett often refers to Browning as 'calm eyed' which makes me think he eventually let her read the poem. Modesty, they name is Browning.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"And now—here is a vexation: may I be with you (for this once)
next Monday, at <i>two</i> instead of <i>three</i> o’clock? Forster’s business
with the new Paper obliges him, he says, to restrict his choice of days to
<i>Monday</i> next —and give up <i>my</i>
part of Monday—I will never for fifty Forsters .. now, sweet, mind that! Monday
is no common day, but leads to a <i>Saturday</i> .. and if, as I ask, I get
leave to call at 2—and to stay till 3½—though I then lose nearly half an
hour—yet all will be comparatively well. If there is any difficulty—<strong>one word and
I re-appoint our party, his and mine</strong>,—for the day the paper breaks down—not so
long to wait, it strikes me!</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Now, bless you, my precious Ba– I am your own. —your own RB"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And next we hear from Miss Barrett who brings forth two letters today--well, they both get postmarked the same day anyway:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Thursday morning. </div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
Our letters have crossed; &, mine being the longest, I have a
right to expect another directly, I think. I have been calculating,—& it
seems to me .. now what I am going to say may take its place among the
paradoxes, .. that I gain most by the short letters. Last week the only long one
came last, & I was quite contented that the ‘old friend’ should come to see you on saturday &
make you send me two instead of the single one I looked for: it was a clear gain
the little short note, and the letter arrived all the same. I remember when I
was a child, liking to have two shillings & sixpence better than half a
crown—and now it is the same with this fairy money .. which will never turn all
into pebbles, or beans .. whatever the chronicles may say of precedents.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Arabel did tell Mr Kenyon (she told me) that 'Mr Browning would
soon go away' .. in reply to an observation of his, that ‘he would not stay as I
had company’ .. & altogether it was better:—the lamp made it look late. <strong>But
you do not appear in the least remorseful for being tempted of my black devil,
my familiar, to ask such questions & leave me under such an impression</strong>—‘mens
conscia recti [The consciousness of right]’ too!!–"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, she can't be too upset by his upsetting inquiry--she is teazing him about it. She obviously hasn't received the letter you just read. I had an idea when I read her letter that it was a bit of affectation on her part.</span> </div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"And Mr Kenyon will not come until next Monday perhaps– How am I?
But I am too well to be asked about. <strong>Is it not a warm summer?</strong> <strong>The weather is as
‘miraculous’ as the rest</strong>, I think– It is you who are unwell & make people
uneasy, .. dearest– Say how you are, & promise me to do what is right &
try to be better. The walking, the changing of the air, the leaving off Luria ..
do what is right, I earnestly beseech you– <strong>The other day, I heard of Tennyson
being ill again</strong>, .. too ill to write a simple note to his friend Mr Venables who
told George. <strong>A little more than a year ago, it would
have been no worse a thing to me to hear of your being ill than to hear of his
being ill!– How the world has changed since then! To <i>me</i>, I mean."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I like that observation that only a year before news of a Browning illness would have brought no more than an aside--if that--in a letter to a friend.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"Did I say <i>that</i> ever .. that 'I knew you must be tired'—?
And it was not even so true as that the coming event threw its shadow
before?___________</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
<i>Thursday night</i></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
I have begun on another sheet– I could not write here what was in
my heart—yet I send you this paper besides to show how I was writing to you this
morning. In the midst of it came a female friend of mine & broke the thread—the visible thread,
that is.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
And now, even now, <strong>at this safe eight oclock, I could not be safe
from somebody, who, in her goodnature & my illfortune, must come & sit
by me—& when my letter was come … 'why would’nt I read it? What wonderful
politeness on my part, she would not & could not consent to keep me from
reading my letter—she would stand up by the fire rather.'</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>No, no, three times no</strong>. Brummel got into the carriage before the
Regent, .. (didnt he?) but <strong>I persisted in not
reading my letter in the presence of my friend. A notice on my punctiliousness
may be put down tonight in her ‘private diary’.</strong> I kept the letter in my hand
& only read it with those sapient ends of the fingers which the mesmerists
make so much ado about, & which really did seem to touch a little of what
was inside. <strong>Not <i>all</i>, however, happily for me!– Or my friend would have
seen in my eyes what <i>they</i> did not see.</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
May God bless you!– Did I ever say that I had an objection to
read the verses at six years old .. or see the drawings either? I am reasonable
you observe!– <strong>Only, ‘Pauline’, I must have <i>some day</i></strong>– Why not without the
emendations? But if you insist on them, I will agree to wait a little .. if you
promise <i>at last</i> to let me see the book which I will not show .. <strong>Some day,
then! you shall not be vexed, nor hurried for the day—some day—— Am I not
generous?</strong> And <i>I</i>, was ‘precocious’ too, & used to make rhymes over my
bread & milk when I was nearly a baby .. only really it was mere echo-verse,
that of mine, & had nothing of mark or of indication, such as I do not doubt
that yours had. <strong>I used to write of virtue with a large ‘V,’& ‘Oh Muse’ with
a harp, & things of that sort. At nine years old I wrote what I called ‘an
epic’—& at ten various tragedies, French & English, which we used to act
in the nursery– There was a French ‘hexameter’ tragedy on the subject of
Regulus—but I cannot even smile to think of it now, there are so many grave
memories</strong> .. which time has made grave .. hung around it. How I remember sitting
in 'my house under the sideboard,' in the diningroom, concocting one of the
soliloquies beginning</div>
<br />
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
'Qui suis je? autrefois un general Romain:</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
Maintenant esclave de Carthage je souffre en vain.'</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
[What am I? In the past a Roman general brave,</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
In Carthage’ hands today a
vainly suffering slave.]</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
Poor Regulus!– <strong>Cant you conceive how fine it must have been
altogether?</strong> And these were my ‘maturer works,’ you are to understand, .. and
'the moon was bright at ten oclock at night' years before. <strong>As to the gods &
goddesses, I believed in them all quite seriously, & reconciled them to
Christianity, which I believed in too after a fashion</strong>, as some greater
philosophers have done .. & <strong>went out one day with my pinafore full of little
sticks, (& a match from the housemaids cupboard) to sacrifice to the blue
eyed Minerva who was my favorite goddess on the whole because she cared for
Athens</strong>. As soon as I began to doubt about my goddesses, <strong>I fell into a vague sort
of general scepticism, .. & though I went on saying 'the Lord’s prayer' at
nights</strong> & mornings, & the 'Bless all my kind friends' afterwards, <strong>by the
childish custom</strong> .. yet I ended this liturgy with a supplication which I found in
‘King’s memoirs’ & which took my fancy & met my general views exactly ..
<strong>'O God, if there be a God, save my soul, if I have a soul'</strong>. Perhaps the theology of many thoughtful
children is scarcely more orthodox than this: but indeed it is wonderful to
myself sometimes how I came to escape, <i>on the whole</i>, as well as I have
done, considering the commonplaces of education in which I was set, with
strength & opportunity for breaking the bonds all round into liberty &
license. <strong>Papa used to say .. 'Dont read Gibbon’s history—it’s not a proper book–
Dont read ‘Tom Jones’—& none of the books on <i>this</i> side, mind'</strong>– So I
was very obedient & never touched the books on <i>that</i> side, <strong>& only
read instead, Tom Paine’s Age of Reason, & Voltaire’s Philosophical
Dictionary, & Hume’s Essays, & Werther, & Rousseau, & Mary
Woolstoncraft .. books, which I was never suspected of looking towards, &
which were not 'on <i>that</i> side' certainly, but which did as well."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY1">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Miss Barrett's idea of ‘precocious’seems quite different from Browning's. Miss Barrett writes of childhood precocity, Browning's was a more mature model. It will be a nice surprise for her. But, as I said before, he is perfectly safe with her. It does not matter what he wrote, she will praise the poetic attempts and the brilliance of his conception.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"How I am writing!– And what are the questions you did not answer?
I shall remember them by the answers I suppose—but your letters always have a
fulness to me & I never seem to wish for what is not in them.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
But this is the end <i>indeed</i>."</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, it's the end of this letter, to continue in the next--apparently after she has read his letter which her visitor kept her from:</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Thursday Night. </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
Ever dearest—how you can write touching things to me,—& how
my whole being vibrates, as a string, to these! How have I deserved from God
& you all that I thank you for? Too unworthy I am of all! Only, it was not,
dearest beloved, what you feared, that was 'horrible', .. <strong>it was what you
<i>supposed</i>, rather! It was a mistake of yours. And now we will not talk of
it any more."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY1">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, hopefully that will be the end of that. But I doubt it. She does like to teaze.</span></div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
"Friday morning–</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
For the rest, I will think as you desire: but I have thought a
great deal, & there are certainties which I know; & I hope we
<i>both</i> are aware that <strong>nothing can be more hopeless than our position in
some relations & aspects</strong>, though you do not guess perhaps that the very
approach to the subject is shut up by dangers, & that from the moment of a
suspicion entering <i><strong>one mind</strong></i>, we should be able to meet <strong>never again in
this room, nor to have intercourse by letter through the ordinary channel. I
mean, that letters of yours, addressed to me here, would infallibly be stopped
& destroyed——if not opened.</strong> Therefore it is advisable to hurry on nothing—on
these grounds it is advisable. <strong>What should I do if I did not see you nor hear
from you, without being able to feel that it was for your happiness? What should
I do for a month even?</strong> And then, I might be thrown out of the window <strong>or its
equivalent</strong>– I look back shuddering to the dreadful scenes in which poor
Henrietta was involved <strong>who never offended as I have offended</strong> .. years ago which
seem as present as today. She had forbidden the subject to be referred to until
that consent was obtained—& at a word she gave up all—at a word. In fact she
had no true attachment, as I observed to Arabel at the time: a child never
submitted more meekly to a revoked holiday. <strong>Yet how she was made to suffer– Oh,
the dreadful scenes!—and only because she had seemed to feel a little</strong>. I told
you, I think, that there was an <strong>obliquity</strong> [perversity of thought].. an eccentricity—<strong>or something beyond</strong>
.. on one class of subjects. <strong>I hear how her knees were made to ring upon the
floor, now! she was carried out of the room in strong hysterics, & I, who
rose up to follow her, though I was quite well at that time & suffered only
by sympathy; fell flat down upon my face in a fainting-fit. Arabel thought I was
dead."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wow, pretty dramatic. I would have loved to have seen that. While the idea of falling to your knees so hard as to ring seems fairly painful, with all those petticoats perhaps it sounded worse than it was. I suppose it was the brothers who had to haul Henrietta out of the room with all her arms and legs flailing and skirt and petticoats getting in the way of the doorjamb. And Ba falling on her face, boy howdy, there was no padding there. Only cool, collected Arabel stayed upright. Browning should have married Arabel, but then, she didn't have the requisite skill at praising his poetry (no matter what) and the guaranteed income of Miss Barrett. Just sayin'.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"I have tried to forget it all—but now I must remember<strong>—&
throughout our intercourse <i>I have remembered</i>. It is necessary to remember
so much as to avoid such evils as are evitable, & for this reason I would
conceal nothing from you.</strong> Do <i>you</i> remember besides, <strong>that there can be no
faltering on my 'part', & that, if I should remain well, which is not proved
yet, I will do for you what you please & as you please to have it done.</strong> But
there is time for considering!"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am not so sure about that 'as you please to have it done' part. I think she means that in her way--that she will go with him if he wants her to--but the manner of it will be as she is pleased to have it done. Browning wanted to tell Mr. Barrett, in one way or another, and she would not have it.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"Only .. as you speak of ‘counsel’, <strong>I will take courage to tell
you that my <span class="SMALLCAPS">sisters know</span>—. Arabel is in most of my
confidences, & being often in the room with me, taxed me with the truth long
ago—she saw that I was affected from some cause—& I told her.</strong> We are as safe
with both of them as possible—& <strong>they thoroughly understand that if <i>there
should be any change it would not be</i> <span class="SMALLCAPS">your
fault</span> .. I made them understand that thoroughly</strong>. From themselves I have
received nothing but the most smiling words of kindness & satisfaction (—I
thought I might tell you so much:) they have too much tenderness for me to fail
in it now. <strong>My brothers, it is quite necessary not to draw into a dangerous
responsibility– I have felt that from the beginning & shall continue to feel
it—though I hear, & can observe that they are full of suspicions &
conjectures, which are never unkindly expressed. I told you once that we held
hands the faster in this house for the weight over our heads.</strong> But the absolute
<i>knowledge</i> would be dangerous <strong>for</strong> my brothers: with my sisters it is
different, & I could not continue to conceal from <i>them</i> what they had
under their eyes—and then, Henrietta is in a like position– It was not wrong of me to let them know
it?—no?–</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
Yet of what consequence is all this to the other side of the
question? <strong>What, if <i>you</i> should give pain & disappointment where you
owe such pure gratitude——.</strong> But we need not talk of these things now. <strong>Only you
have more to consider than <i>I</i>, I imagine, while the future comes on."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning has nothing to consider, it seems to me. His family supports him, I am sure all his family knows he is in love and engaged to Miss Barrett, he has no job, no responsibilities and he will be gaining an income by marrying Miss Barrett. The only thing that might hurt him is his reputation if Miss Barrett should die or her family makes a fuss. But what reputation? For a penniless poet it might enhance his standing to be a renegade. So, overall, I would say that Browning has nothing much to consider at all.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"Dearest, <strong>let me have my way in one thing</strong>: let me see you on
<i>tuesday</i> instead of on monday—on tuesday at the old hour– Be reasonable
& consider– Tuesday is almost as near as the day before it; & on monday,
<i>I</i> shall be hurried at first, <strong>lest Papa should be still in the house</strong>, (no
harm, but an excuse for nervousness! & I cant quote a noble Roman as you
can, to the praise of my conscience!) & <i>you</i> will be hurried at last,
lest you should not be in time for Mr Forster. On the other hand, I will not let
you be rude to the Daily News,––no, nor to the Examiner– Come on tuesday, then,
instead of monday, <strong>& let us have the usual hours in a peaceable way</strong>, ..
& if there is no obstacle, … that is, if Mr Kenyon or some equivalent
authority should not take note of your being here on tuesday, why <strong>you can come
again on the saturday afterwards</strong> .. I do not see the difficulty. Are we agreed?
On tuesday, at three oclock. Consider, besides, that the monday arrangement
would hurry you in every manner, & leave you fagged for the evening—no, I
will not hear of it. Not, on my account, not on yours!–</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
Think of me on monday instead, & write before. Are not these
two lawful letters? And do they not deserve an answer?</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
My life was ended when I knew you, & if I survive myself it
is for your sake:—<i>that</i> resumes all my feelings & intentions in
respect to you. <strong>No 'counsel' could make the difference of a grain of dust in the
balance.</strong> It <i>is so</i>, & not otherwise. If you changed towards me, it
would be better for you I believe—& <strong>I should be only where I was before</strong>.
While you do <i>not</i> change, <strong>I look to you for my first affections & my
first duty—& nothing but your bidding me, could make me look away.</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
In the midst of this, Mr Kenyon came, & I felt as if I could
not talk to him. No—he does not 'see how it is'. He may have passing thoughts
sometimes, but they do not stay long enough to produce .. even an opinion. <strong>He
asked if you had been here long.</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
It may be wrong & ungrateful, but <strong>I do wish sometimes that
the world were away</strong> .. even the good Kenyon-aspect of the world.</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
And so, once more .. may God bless you!</div>
<div class="CLOSE">
I am wholly yours–</div>
<div class="BODY3">
<i>Tuesday</i>, remember! And say that you agree."</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So all is right with the world again. (No, I could not resist.)</span></div>
<br />
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-84058863686109570912013-01-14T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-14T00:00:06.191-08:00January 14, 1846<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Does Browning answer the charges of being a cad and making his lady cry in his letter today?</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Wednesday.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
Was I in the wrong, dearest, to go away with Mr Kenyon? <strong>I <i>well
knew and felt</i> the price I was about to pay</strong> .. but the thought <i>did</i>
occur that he might have been informed my probable time of departure was that of
his own arrival—and that he would not know how very soon, alas, I should be
<i>obliged</i> to go—so .. <strong>to save you any least embarrassment in the world, I
got—just that shake of the hand, just that look—and no more!</strong> And was it all for
nothing, all needless after all? So I said to myself all the way home.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
When I am away from you—a crowd of things press on me for
utterance .. 'I will say them, not write them,' I think:—when I see you—all to
be said seems insignificant, irrelevant,—'they can be written, at all events'—I
think <i>that</i> too. So, feeling so much, I say so little!</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
I have just returned from Town and write for the Post—but
<i>you</i> mean to write, I trust–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
<i>That</i> was not obtained, that promise, to be happy with as
last time!</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
How are you?—tell me, dearest—a long week is to be waited
now!</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Bless you, my own, sweetest Ba.</div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
I am wholly your RB"</div>
<div class="CLOSE">
</div>
<div class="CLOSE">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No, he does not respond to Miss Barrett's letter of the 13th! He must not have received it yet. And he writes on as if his only sin were leaving at the wrong time and the only crime was not getting his farewell snog. The tension builds. Can my heart stand the strain?</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-84141956270393532292013-01-13T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-13T10:09:40.705-08:00January 13, 1846<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">January 13, 1846 Browning called on Miss Barrett in her room at Wimpole Street and they were interrupted in their tete a tete by Mr. Kenyon, who often ruins their fun. Miss Barrett did not like the tone of the meeting and wrote that evening to express her displeasure:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Tuesday Night</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
Ah Mr Kenyon! how he vexed me today. To keep away all the ten
days before, & to come just at the wrong time after all! It was better for
you .. I suppose .. I believe .. to go with him down stairs—yes, it certainly
was better! it was disagreeable enough to be very wise! <strong>Yet I, being addicted to
every sort of superstition turning to melancholy, did hate so breaking off in
the middle of that black thread .. (do you remember what we were talking of when
they opened the door?)</strong> that I was on the point of saying 'Stay one moment',
which I should have repented afterwards for the best of good reasons. Oh, I
<i>should</i> have liked to have ‘fastened off’ that black thread, & taken
one stitch with a blue or a green one!"</div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How shocking it would have been if Mr. Browning would have stayed for one moment more! Think of the gossip that would have spread around the drawing rooms of London!</span></div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"You do not remember what we were talking of? <strong>what <i>you</i>,
rather, were talking of</strong>? And what <i>I</i> remember, at least, because <strong>it is
exactly the most unkind & hard thing you ever said to me</strong> .. ever dearest—so
I remember it by that sign!– <strong>That you should say such a thing to me—!—</strong>think what
it was, for indeed <strong>I will not write it down here</strong>—it would be worse than Mr
Powell! Only the foolishness of it (I mean, the foolishness of it alone) saves
it, smooths it to a degree!—the foolishness being the same as if you asked a man
where he would walk when he lost his head. Why, if you had asked St Denis
<i>beforehand</i>, he would have thought
it a foolish question."</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This makes me laugh because I imagine Browning walking down the street at a brisk pace, reading this letter as he walks, thinking, "What did I say? I have no memory....hmmm....we were discussing the weather and the lack of flowers and she said something about her sister and I said my sister was the same way. What was it I was saying?"</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"And you!—you, who talk so finely of never, never doubting,—of
being such an example in the way of believing & trusting——it appears, after
all, that you have an imagination apprehensive (or comprehensive) of <strong>'glass
bottles'</strong> like other sublunary creatures, & worse than some of them– For
mark, that I never went any farther than to the stone-wall-hypothesis of your
forgetting me!– <i>I</i> always stopped there—& never climbed to the top of
it over the broken-bottle fortification, <strong>to see which way you meant to walk
afterwards.</strong> And you, to ask me so coolly—<strong>think what you asked me. That you
should have the heart to ask such a question!"</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So Browning and I are trying to piece this together. In Browning's last letter (an epic) he was discussing the impossibility of his 'ceasing to love' and 'changing' (i.e. the only possibility would be if he lost his senses) and included this odd (although not for Browning) analogy: "A man <i>may</i> never leave his writing desk without seeing safe in one corner
of it the folded slip which directs the disposal of his papers in the event of
his reason suddenly leaving him—or he may never go out into the street without a
card in his pocket to signify his address to those who may have to pick him up
in an apoplectic fit—but if he once <strong>begins to fear he is growing a glass bottle,
and, <i>so</i>, liable to be smashed,</strong>—do you see?" Okay, what in the heck did he ask her that was so upsetting. I mean what would come after her ceasing to love him? An affair with another man? Suicide and Death? I am at my wits end here. But she's not, on she goes.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"And the reason—! And it could seem a reasonable matter of doubt
to you whether I would go to the south for my health’s sake—— And I answered
quite a common ‘no’ I believe—<strong>for you bewildered me for the moment</strong>—& I have
had tears in my eyes two or three times since, just through thinking back of it
all .. <strong>of your asking me such questions</strong>. Now did I not tell you when I first
knew you, that I was leaning out of the window? True,
<i>that</i> was—I was tired of living .. unaffectedly tired. All I cared to live
for was to do better some of the work which, after all, was out of myself &
which I had to reach across to do. But I told you. <strong>Then, last year, .. for
duty’s sake I would have <i>consented <strike>perhaps</strike></i> to go
to Italy!</strong>—but if you really fancy that I would have struggled in the face of all
that difficulty, .. or struggled, indeed, anywise, to compass such an object as
<i>that</i>—<strong>except for the motive of your caring for it & me .. why you know
nothing of me after all—nothing!–</strong> And now, take away the motive .. & I am
where I was .. leaning out of the window again. To put it in plainer words ..
(as you really require information—) I should let them do what they liked to me
till I was dead—only <i>I would’nt go to Italy</i> .. if anybody proposed Italy
out of contradiction. In the meantime I do entreat you never to talk of such a
thing to me any more."</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh my heavens! He made her cry! The cad! Okay, so this leaning out of the window thing sounds to me like she was expecting death by falling (I jest, I jest) or death anyway. So now she is saying she would have <em>consented</em> to go to Italy? Really? I thought she fought very hard to go last year. Now she is saying she simply would have consented 'perhaps' to go? Is this revisionist history? Ah, no, she is saying she would not have bothered to have fought to go <em>but for him</em>. Okay, I've got that. She is trying to make some distinction here that I am struggling with. I am guessing here with this melodramatic thrust of "I should let them do what they liked to me till I was dead—only <em>I would’nt go to Italy..." </em>that she didn't care a bit about Italy without him. Perhaps he was asking her if she would go to Italy without him if anything happened to him. I go back to her comment about looking over the stone wall beyond his ceasing to love her. What she sees 'beyond the stone wall' is death. I have it!!!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">She does make things difficult. Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Is all this angst 'put on' as a demonsration of her affection? Perhaps.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
"You know, if you were to leave me by your choice & for your
happiness, it would be another thing. <strong>It would be very lawful to talk of
<i>that</i>– & observe! I perfectly understand that you did not think of <i>doubting me</i> .. so to speak!– But you thought, all the same, that if such a thing happened, I should be capable of doing so & so."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If he were to leave her of his own choice would be one thing--but for him to leave her due to his death--oh dear. I guess it is easier for her to contemplate her own death than his. So, if he was asking her if she would go to Italy without him after his death I can see how that may upset her. A bit. But she is carrying on so. So the cruelest, hardest thing he ever said to her was to consider that if in the event of his death she would go to Italy for her health anyway. She says she told him 'no' but it would have been a better teaze if she said 'yes, I will find me a fancy man to take me.' But she would never do that.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"Well– I am not quarrelling– I am uneasy about your head rather–
That pain in it .. what can it mean? <strong>I do beseech you to think of me just so
much as will lead you to take regular exercise everyday, never missing a
day,—since to walk till you are tired on tuesday & then not to walk at all
until friday, is <i>not</i> taking exercise, nor the thing required.</strong> Ah, if you
knew how dreadfully natural every sort of evil seems to my mind, <strong>you would not
laugh at me for being afraid</strong>. I do beseech you .. dearest!– And then, Sir John
Hanmer invited you, besides Mr Warburton ..
& <strong>suppose you went <i>to him</i> for a very little time .. just for the
change of air? or if you went to the coast somewhere</strong>. Will you consider, &
do what is right, <i>for me</i>? <strong>I do not propose that you should go to Italy,
observe, nor any great thing at which you might reasonably hesitate</strong>. And .. <strong>did
you ever try smoking as a remedy?</strong> If the nerves of the head chiefly are affected
it might do you good, I have been thinking– Or without the smoking, to breathe
where tobacco is burnt,—<strong><i>that</i> calms the nervous system in a wonderful
manner, as I experienced once myself when, recovering from an illness, I could
not sleep, & tried in vain all sorts of narcotics & forms of hop-pillow
& inhalation, yet was tranquillized in one half hour by a <i>pinch</i> of
<i>tobacco</i> being burnt in a shovel near me. Should you mind it very much?
the trying, I mean?"</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She is becoming Miss Bossy Boots here. First she beats him over the head for upsetting her and then she berates him for not taking enough exercise and then she wants to send him away. She is upset. And the idea of her, with her weak chest breathing tobacco smoke is a bit unnerving.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
<i>"Wednesday</i>/ For <strong>‘<i>Pauline</i>’</strong> .. when I had named it to
you I was on the point of sending for the book to the booksellers—then suddenly
I thought to myself that I would wait & hear <strong>whether you very, very much
would dislike my reading it.</strong> See now! Many readers have done virtuously, but
<i>I</i>, (in this virtue I tell you of) surpassed them all!– And now, because I <i>may</i>, I
'<i>must</i> read it'—: & as there are misprints to be corrected, will you
do what is necessary, or what you think is necessary, & <strong>bring me the book on
monday? Do not send—bring it—</strong>! In the meanwhile I send back the review which I
forgot to give to you yesterday in the confusion– Perhaps you have not read it
in your house, & in any case there is no use in my keeping it—.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Shall I hear from you, I wonder? Oh my vain thoughts, <strong>that will
not keep you well</strong>!– <strong>And, ever since you have known me, you have been
worse—<i>that</i>, you confess</strong>!,—& what if it should be the crossing of my
bad star? <i>You</i>, of the ‘Crown’ & the ‘Lyre’, to seek influences from this ‘chair of
Cassiopeia’!!. I hope she will forgive me for using her
name so!– I might as well have—compared her to a professorship of poetry in the
university of Oxford, according to the latest election. You know, the qualification, there, is, …
<i>not to be a poet</i>.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
How vexatious, yesterday! The stars (talking of <i>them</i>) were
out of spherical tune, .. through the damp weather, perhaps—and that scarlet sun
was a sign! First Mr Chorley!—& last, dear Mr Kenyon,—<strong>who <i>will</i> say
tiresome things without any provocation</strong>. Did you walk with him his way, or did
he walk with you yours? or did you only walk down stairs together?</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Write to me! Remember that <strong>it is a month to monday</strong>– Think of your
very own who bids God bless you when she prays best for herself!–</div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
EBB.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
Say particularly how you are—<strong>now do not omit it</strong>. And will you
have Miss Martineau’s books when I can lend them to you? Just at this moment I <i>dare not</i>,
because they are reading them here.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>Let Mr Mackay have his full proprietary in his ‘Dead Pan’—which
is quite a different conception of the subject, & executed in blank verse
too. I have no claims against him, I am sure!–</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
But for the <i>man</i>!—— To call him a poet! A prince &
potentate of Commonplaces, such as he is!– I have seen his name in the Athenæum
attached to a lyric or two .. poems, correctly called fugitive,—more than
usually fugitive!—but I never heard before that his hand was in the prose
department."</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ever the honest judge of poems, she dismisses the liable against Mr. MacKay who wrote the poem about Pan. She sees no plagiarism in his blank verse!</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I can hardly wait to see Browning's response to this over-wrought letter. For all her excitement, she does seem to be in a fairly good humor. She just doesn't like the idea of Browning being dead.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-34397714367432590932013-01-11T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-11T00:00:01.188-08:00January 11, 1846<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We shall hear from Browning today who makes up for his recent meager letters with an epic (for him):</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Sunday.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
I have no words for you, my dearest,—I shall never have–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
You are mine, I am yours. Now, <strong>here is one sign</strong> of what I said:
<strong>that I must love you more than at first </strong>.. a little sign, and to be looked
narrowly for or it escapes me, but then <strong>the increase</strong> it shows <strong><i>can</i> only be
little,</strong> so very little now—and as the fine French Chemical Analysts bring
themselves to appreciate matter in its refined stages <strong>by <i>millionths</i></strong>, so—! At first I only thought of being
<i>happy</i> in you,—in your happiness: now I most think of you <strong>in the dark
hours that must come</strong>– I shall grow old with you, and die with you—<strong>as far as I
can look into the night I see the light with me</strong>: and surely with that provision
of comfort one should turn with fresh joy and renewed sense of security to the
sunny middle of the day,—<strong>I am in the full sunshine now</strong>,—and <i>after</i>, all
seems cared for—is it too homely an illustration if I say <strong>the day’s visit is not
crossed by uncertainties as to the return thro’ the wild country at nightfall?</strong>–
Now Keats speaks of 'Beauty—that <i>must</i> die—and Joy whose hand is ever at
his lips, bidding farewell.' [Keats' 'Ode on Meloncholy'] And <i>who</i> spoke
of—looking up into the eyes and asking 'And <i>how long</i> will you love us'? [EBB's 'Cry of the Human'] —<strong>There is a Beauty that will not die, a Joy
that bids no farewell, dear dearest eyes that will love forever!"</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And people think his poetry is hard to understand. But essentially he is repudiating despair. He rejects the notion that beauty must die and that he must bid farewell to joy because: he will love her forever. "--and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death." She will comprehend.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"And <i>I</i>—am to love no longer than I can– Well, dear—and when
I <i>can</i> no longer—<strong>you will not blame me?</strong>—you will do only as ever, kindly
and justly,—hardly more: <strong>I do not pretend to say I have chosen to put my fancy
to such an experiment, and consider how <i>that</i> is to happen, and what
measures ought to be taken in the emergency</strong>—because in the 'universality of my
sympathies' I certainly number a very lively one with my own heart and soul, and
<strong>cannot amuse myself by such a spectacle as their supposed extinction or
paralysis</strong>,—<strong>there is no doubt I should be an object for the deepest commiseration</strong>
of you or any more fortunate human being:—and I hope that <strong>because such a
calamity does not obtrude itself on me as a thing to be prayed against</strong>, it is no
less duly implied with all the other visitations from which no humanity can be
altogether exempt—<strong>just as God bids us ask for the continuance of the 'daily
bread',—'battle, murder and sudden death' lie behind doubtless</strong>—I repeat, and
perhaps in so doing, <strong>only give one more example</strong> <strong>of the instantaneous conversion
of that indignation we bestow in another’s case, into wonderful lenity when it
becomes our own,</strong> .. that I only contemplate the <i>possibility</i> you make me
recognize, with pity, and fear .. no anger at all,—and imprecations of
vengeance, <i>for what</i>? —Observe, <strong>I only speak of cases <i>possible</i>; of
sudden impotency of mind,—that <i>is</i> possible—there <i>are</i> other ways of
'<i>changing'</i>, 'ceasing to love' </strong>&c <strong>which it is safest not to think of
nor believe in</strong>– A man <i>may</i> never leave his writing desk without seeing
safe in one corner of it the folded slip which directs the disposal of his
papers <strong>in the event of his reason suddenly leaving him</strong>—or he may never go out
into the street without a card in his pocket to signify his address <strong>to those who
may have to pick him up in an apoplectic fit</strong>—<strong>but if he once begins to fear he is
growing a glass bottle, and, <i>so</i>, liable to be smashed,</strong>—do you see? And
now, love, dear heart of my heart, my own, only Ba—see no more—<strong>see what I
<i>am</i></strong>, what God in his constant mercy ordinarily grants to those who have,
as I, received already so much,—much, past expression! It is but .. if you will
so please—at worst, forestalling the one or two years, for my sake; for you
<i>will</i> be as sure of me <i>one</i> day as I can be now of myself—<strong>and why
not <i>now</i> be sure?</strong> See, love—a year is gone by—we were in one relation when
you wrote at the end of a letter 'Do not say I do not tire you' (by
writing)—'<i>I am sure I do'</i>– A year has gone by–
<i>Did you tire me then</i>? <i>Now</i>, you tell me what is told; for my sake,
sweet, let the few years go by,—we are married—and my arms are round you, and my
face touches yours, and I am asking you, '<i>Were you not</i> to me, in that dim
beginning of 1846, a joy beyond all joys, a life added to and transforming mine,
the good I choose from all the possible gifts of God on this earth, for which I
seem to have lived,—which accepting, I thankfully step aside and <strong>let the rest
get what they can</strong>,—of what, it is very likely, they esteem more—for why should
my eye be evil because God’s is good,—why should I grudge that, giving them, I
do believe, infinitely less, he gives them a content in the inferior good and
belief in its worth—I should have wished <i>that</i> further concession, that
illusion as I believe it, for their sakes—but I cannot undervalue my own
treasure and so scant the only tribute of mere gratitude which is in my power to
pay.'– Hear this said <i>now before</i> the few years, and believe in it
<i>now</i>, <i>for then</i>, dearest!"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What is he on about? Why does he have to add all this rigmarole? I thought one of the basic rules of writing was that you only address one idea per paragraph. He is all over the map here. About a third of the way through the paragraph he says he is going to, "....only give one more example..." So let me jump to the chase for him: 'Dear Ba, stop doubting my love and trust me fully.' See, pretty simple.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Actually, he is pretty amusing here, for all my tormenting. His analysis of the amount of the increase of his love by the millionth part is fun and his refusal to 'amuse himself' by contemplating the extinction or paralysis of his love for her and the image of him planning for the emergency thereof by leaving a note on how to handle the affair of his heart if he loses his mind. Would we call this examining an absurdity with an absurdity? Bottom line: He loved her a year ago and she didn't believe him and yet here he is a year later, as constant as a stopped clock.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
___________________________________________________________</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
"Must you see 'Pauline'? At least then let me wait a few days,—to
correct the misprints which affect the sense, and to write you the history of
it; <strong>what is necessary you should know before you see it."</strong><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here is the text of an explanation Browning gave for 'Pauline'--probably not the explanation he gave Miss Barrett:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="NB1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"The following Poem was written in pursuance of a foolish plan which
occupied me mightily for a time, and which had for its object <strong>the enabling me to
assume & realize I know not how many different characters;—</strong>meanwhile the
world was never to guess that 'Brown, Smith, Jones, & Robinson' (as the
spelling books have it) the respective authors of this poem, the other novel,
such an opera, such a speech &c &c were no other than one and the same
individual. <strong>The present abortion was the first work of the <i>Poet</i> of the
batch, who would have been more legitimately <i>myself</i> than most of the
others;</strong> but I surrounded him with all manner of (to my then notion) poetical
accessories, and had planned quite a delightful life for him.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="NB2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Only this crab remains of the shapely Tree of Life in this Fool’s
paradise of mine.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="NCR">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">RB"</span></i></div>
<div class="NCR">
<em><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></em> </div>
<div class="NCR">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So he is declaring that the poet in the poem is a character--which he was-- but much like himself. Hmmm...perhaps more like himself than he cared to admit? Thus, the total escape into characters to avoid too EMBARRASSING self exposure. </span></div>
<div class="NCR">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="NCR">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Now for a rant:</span></div>
<br />
"That article I suppose to be by Heraud ..
about two thirds .. and the rest,—or a little less—by that Mr Powell—<strong>whose
unimaginable, impudent vulgar stupidity</strong> you get some inkling of in the 'Story
from Boccaccio'—of which the <strong><i>words</i> quoted were <i>his</i>, I am sure—as sure as that he knows not
whether Boccaccio lived before or after Shakespeare, whether Florence or Rome be
the more northern city,—one word of Italian in general, or letter of Boccaccio’s
in particular</strong>.– When I took pity on him once on a time and helped his verses
into a sort of grammar and sense, <strong>I did not think he was
a <i>buyer</i> of other men’s verses, to be printed as his own,—thus he
<i>bought</i> two modernizations of Chaucer .. 'Ugolino' & another
story—from Leigh Hunt .. and one, 'Sir Thopas' from Horne .. and printed them as
his own .. as I learned only last week</strong>: he
paid me extravagant court and, seeing no harm in the mere folly of the man, <strong>I
was on good terms with him—till ten months ago he grossly insulted a friend of
mine who had written an article for the Review—(</strong>which is as good as <i>his</i>, <strong>he being
a large proprietor of the delectable property</strong>, and influencing the voices of his
co-mates in council)—well, <strong>he insulted my friend, who had written that article
at my special solicitation, and did all he could to avoid paying the price of
it– Why?– Because the poor creature had actually taken the article to the Editor
<i>as one by his friend Serjt Talfourd contributed for pure love of him</i>,
<i>Powell-the-aforesaid</i>,—cutting, in consequence, no inglorious figure in
the eyes of Printer & Publisher!– </strong>Now <strong>I was away all this time in Italy</strong> or
he would never have ventured on such a piece of childish impertinence: and <strong>my
friend being a true gentleman, and quite unused to this sort of 'practice', in
the American sense, held his peace and went without his 'honorarium'– But on my
return, I enquired—and made him make a proper application—which Mr Powell
treated with all the insolence in the world .. because, as the event showed, the
having to write a cheque for 'the Author of <i>the</i> Article'</strong>—that author’s
name <i>not</i> being Talfourd’s .. <i>there</i> was certain disgrace! Since
then (ten months ago—) I have never seen him—and <strong>he accuses <i>himself</i>,
observe, of 'sucking my plots while I drink his tea'</strong>—one
as much as the other! And now <strong>why do I tell you this, all of it?</strong> Ah,—now you
shall hear! Because, <strong>it has often been in my mind to ask you what <span class="SMALLCAPS">you</span> know of this Mr Powell, or ever knew:</strong> for he, (<strong>being
profoundly versed in every sort of untruth</strong>, as every fresh experience shows
me—and the rest of his acquaintance—) <strong>he told me long ago, 'he used to
correspond with you, and that he quarrelled with you'</strong>—<strong>which I supposed to
mean—that he began by sending you his books—(as with me and everybody)—and that,
in return for your note of acknowledgement, he had chosen to write again, and
perhaps, again—is it so?</strong> Do not write one word in answer to me .. <strong>the name of
such a miserable nullity, and husk of a man, ought not to have place in your
letters .. and <i>that way</i> he would get near to me again,—near indeed this
time!– So <i>tell</i> me, in a word—or do not tell me."</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now that was some juicy literary gossip. I love the part where rather than admitting that Seargent Talfourd did not write the article published under his name Powell makes the check out to "The Author of the Article". And Browning demonstrates a perfect roundabout when he asks her if she has ever dealt with Powell and then says don't tell him or do, but don't write. Mr. Footnote says that the unnamed friend of Browning, who wrote the review published under Talfourd's name, was Joseph Arnould.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"How I never say what I sit down to say! How saying the little
makes me want to say the more! How the least of little things, once taken up as
a thing to be imparted to you, <strong>seems to need explanations and commentaries,—all
is of importance to me—every breath you breathe, every little fact (like this)
you are to know!</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
I was out last night—to see the rest of Frank Talfourd’s
theatricals,—and met Dickens and his set—so my
evenings go away! If I do not bring the <i>Act</i> you must forgive me—yet I shall .. I think; the roughness
matters little in this stage– <strong>Chorley says very truly that a tragedy implies as
much power <i>kept back</i> as brought out—very true that is—I do not, on the
whole, feel dissatisfied</strong> .. as was to be but expected .. with the effect of this
last—the <i>shelve</i> of the hill, whence the end is seen, you continuing to go
down to it .. <strong>so that at the very last you may pass off into a plain and so
away—not come to a stop like your horse against a church wall.</strong> It is all in long
speeches—the <i>action</i>, <i>proper</i>, is in them—they are no descriptions,
or amplifications—but here .. <strong>in a drama of this kind, all the <i>events</i>,
(and interest,) take place in the <i>minds</i> of the actors .. somewhat like
Paracelsus in that respect</strong>; you know, or don’t know, that <strong>the general charge
against me</strong>, of late, from the few quarters I thought it worth while to listen
to, <strong>has been that of abrupt, spasmodic writing—they will find some fault with
this, of course.</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>How you know Chorley! That is precisely the man, that willow
blowing now here now there—precisely! </strong>I wish he minded the Athenæum, its silence
or its eloquence, no more nor less than I—but he goes on painfully plying me
with invitation after invitation, only to show me, I feel confident, that
<i>he</i> has no part nor lot in the matter: I have <i>two</i> kind little notes
asking me to go on Thursday & Saturday .. <strong>See the absurd position of us
both; he asks more of my presence than he can want, just to show his own kind
feeling, of which I do not doubt,—and I must try and accept more hospitality
than suits me, only to prove my belief in that same!</strong> For myself—if I have vanity
which such Journals can raise,—would the praise of them raise it, <strong>they who
praised Mr Mackay’s own, own Dead Pan,
quite his own, the other day (—By the way, Miss Cushman informed me the other
evening that the gentleman had written a certain 'Song of the Bell' ..
'singularly like Schiller’s,—<i>considering that Mr M. had never</i> seen it!'–
I am told he writes for the Athenæum, but don’t know—)..."</strong><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning is implying here that Mackay's "own, own" poem "The Death of Pan" was a rip off of Miss Barrett's "The Dead Pan" backed up by Miss Cushman's observation that Mackay had written "Song of the Bell" without having read Schiller's poem on the same subject. And the Athenæum reviewer was too dim to recognize it as such.</span><br />
<br />
"...would that sort of praise be flattering,
or his holding the tongue—which Forster, deep in the mysteries of the craft,
corroborated my own notion about—as pure willingness to hurt, and confessed
impotence and little clever spite, and enforced sense of what may be safe at the
last– <strong>You shall see they will not notice .. unless a fresh publication alters
the circumstances .. until some seven or eight months—as before; and then they
<i>will</i> notice, and <i>praise</i>, and tell anybody who cares to enquire,
'<i>So</i> we noticed the work'</strong>– So do not you go expecting justice or injustice
till I tell you: <strong>it amuses me to be found writing so, so anxious to prove I
understand the laws of the game, when that game is only 'Thimble-rig' and for
prizes of gingerbread-nuts–</strong> Prize or no prize, Mr Dilke <i>does</i> shift the
pea, and so did from the beginning—as Charles Lamb’s pleasant <i>sobriquet</i>
(—Mr <i>Bilk</i>, he would have it—) testifies– Still he behaved kindly to that
poor Frances Brown—let us forget
him."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dilke had published some poems of a blind Irish poetess in the Athenæum and brought her some income and notice.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"And now, my Audience, my crown-bearer, my path-preparer—I am with
you again and out of them all—there, <i>here</i>, in my arms, is my
<i>proved</i>, <i>palpable success</i>!—my life, my poetry,—gained nothing, oh
no!—but this found them, and blessed them. —On Tuesday I shall see you,
dearest. I am much better,—well today—are you well—or 'scarcely to be called an
invalid'? Oh, when I <i>have</i> you, am by you–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Bless you, dearest. And be very sure you have your wish about the
length of the week—still Tuesday must come! and with it your own, happy,
grateful</div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
RB"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning was on a rant today. I kind of enjoyed his ventilation. I imagine that he will be relieved to be 'by' Miss Barrett so he can vent without having to write it all out.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="ZU6">
</div>
<br />
<div class="ZU6">
</div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-14006404470968480502013-01-10T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-10T00:00:03.549-08:00January 10, 1846<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let's begin with Miss Barrett today:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"saturday.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
Kindest & dearest you are!—that is 'my secret'! and for the
others, I leave them to you!—only it is no secret that I should & 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 & blood & 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’, &
how <strong>you stand first by the brain,—which is as true as truth can be</strong>. <strong>Then, I
<i>shall have </i>‘<i>Pauline</i>’ <i>in a day or two</i>—yes, I shall &
must .. & <i>will</i>."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY1">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning does not want Miss Barrett to read 'Pauline' and yet he need not worry. Despite his protestations of youth she is probably the one person in the world who will take it for what it is. I suspect he is embarrassed by the autobiographical touches but she will be more interested in the poetry. She always is. And he is always embarrassed, that is his normal condition.</span></div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"The ‘Ballad poems & fancies’, the article calling itself by
that name, seems indeed to be <strong>Mr Chorley’s, & is one of his very best
papers, I think. There is to me a want
of colour & thinness about his writings in general, with a grace &
savoir faire nevertheless, & always a rightness & purity of intention</strong>–
Observe what he says of ‘many sidedness’ seeming to trench on opinion &
principle. That, he means for himself I know, <strong>for he has said to me that through
having such largeness of sympathy he has been charged with want of principle</strong>—yet
‘many sidedness’ is certainly no word for him. The effect of <strong>general sympathies
may be evolved both from an elastic fancy & from breadth of mind—& it
seems to me that he rather <i>bends</i> to a phase of humanity & literature
than contains it .. than comprehends it.</strong> Every part of a truth implies the
whole,—& to accept truth all round, does not mean the recognition of
contradictory things: <strong>universal sympathies cannot make a man inconsistent, but,
on the contrary, sublimely consistent–</strong> A church tower may stand between the
mountains & the sea, looking to either, & stand fast: but the willow
tree at the gable-end, blown now toward the north & now toward the south
while its natural leaning is due east or west, is different altogether
.. <i>as</i> different as a willow tree from a church tower–"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I suspect Miss Barrett sees herself as a church tower, looking both to the mountain and the sea and standing fast.</span> </div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"Ah, what nonsense! There is only one truth for me all this time,
while I talk about truth & truth. And do you know, when you have told me to
think of you, <strong>I have been feeling ashamed of thinking of you so much, of
thinking of only you—which <i>is</i> too much, perhaps</strong>. 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 .. & only
<i>I</i> know what was behind .. the long wilderness <i>without</i> the
‘footstep’, .. without the blossoming rose .. & <strong>the capacity for happiness</strong>,
like a black gaping hole, before this silver flooding. <strong>Is it wonderful that I should stand as in a
dream, & disbelieve</strong> .. not <i>you</i> .. <strong>but my own fate?</strong> Was ever any one
taken suddenly from a lampless dungeon & placed upon the pinnacle of a
mountain, without the head turning round & the heart turning faint, as mine
do? And you love me <span class="SMALLCAPS">more</span>, you say?– Shall I thank
you or God? Both, .. indeed—& there is no possible return from me to either
of you! I thank you as the unworthy may .. & 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–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Have so much faith in me, my only beloved, as to <strong>use me simply
for your own advantage & happiness, & to your own ends </strong>without a thought
of any others—<i>that</i> is all I could ask you with any disquiet as to the
granting of it– May God bless you!–</div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
Your Ba</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
But you have the review <i>now</i>—surely?</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
The Morning Chronicle attributes the authorship of ‘Modern Poets’
(<i>our</i> article) to Lord John Manners—so I
hear this morning– I have not yet looked at the paper myself. The Athenæum,
still abominably dumb!–"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning writes but a short note today:</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Saturday.</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
This is <i>no</i> letter—love,—I make haste to tell you—to-morrow
I will write: for here has a friend been calling and consuming my very destined
time, and every minute seemed the last that was to be,—and an old, old friend he
is, beside—so—you must understand my defection,
when only this scrap reaches you to-night!– Ah, love,—you are my unutterable
blessing,—I discover you, more of you, day by day,—hour by hour, I do think;—I
am entirely yours,—one gratitude, all my soul becomes when I see you over me as
now. —God bless my dear, dearest</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="CLOSE">
RB</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
My 'Act Fourth' is done—but
too roughly this time! I will tell you–</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
One kiss more, dearest!</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
Thanks for the Review–"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nope, nothing to say. Discuss amongst yourselves.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-7063163224597112012013-01-09T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-09T00:00:19.800-08:00January 9, 1846<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Miss Barrett received Mr. Browning in her room at Wimpole Street on January 8th and Miss Barrett continues their conversation in letters the next day.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Friday morning</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
You never think, ever dearest, that I ‘repent’—why what a word to
use! You never could <i>think</i> such a word for a moment! If you were to leave
me even, .. to decide that it is best for you to do it, & 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 & loved you .. no! Which I say
simply to prove that, in <i>no</i> extreme case, could I repent for my own sake–
<strong>For yours, it might be different.</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
<i>Not</i> out of ‘generosity’ certainly, but from the veriest
selfishness, I choose here before God, any possible present evil, <strong>rather than
the future consciousness of feeling myself less to you, on the whole, than
another woman might have been.</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>Oh, these vain & most heathenish repetitions!—</strong>do I not vex
you by them, <i>you</i> whom I would always please, & never vex? Yet they
force their way because you are the best noblest & dearest in the world,
& because your happiness is so precious a thing.</div>
<br />
<div class="ZU6">
</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
Cloth of frieze, be not too bold,</div>
Though thou’rt matched with cloth of gold!–<br />
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
.. <span class="SMALLCAPS">that</span>, beloved, <strong>was written for
<i>me</i></strong>. And you, <strong>if you would make me happy, .. <i>always</i></strong> will look at
yourself from my ground & by my light, as I see you, & <strong>consent to be
selfish in all things</strong>."</div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The quote is from the gentleman Charles Brandon who married the widowed sister of Henry VIII (she had been married to the King of France), Mary Tudor. He had this sewn onto his devise at the jousting tournament held at the time of their wedding, noting his humble origins. It can be seen in at least one of the extant paintings of Mary Tudor. Frieze in this context refers to simple embroidered cloth:</span></div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cloth
of Gold do not despise,<br />Tho' thou art matcht with Cloth of Frieze;<br />Cloth
of Frieze, be not too bold,<br />Tho' thou art matcht with Cloth of Gold</span></span></div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
"Observe, that <strong>if I were <i>vacillating</i>, I shd not be
so weak as to teaze 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 &
ownership, & am ready & 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
& strong for both of us, & of guarding your happiness which is mine– I
have said these things ninety & nine times over, & over & over have
you replied to them, .. as yesterday</strong>! & now, do not speak any more. It is
only my preachment for general use, & not for particular application,—only
to be <i>ready</i> for application. <strong>I love you from the deepest of my nature—the
whole world is nothing to me beside you</strong>—& <strong>what is so precious, is not far
from being terrible.</strong> 'How <i>dreadful</i> is this place'."</div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Miss Barrett is full of interesting quotes today. This is Genesis 28:17: "And he was afraid, and said, How dreadful is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven."<br sb_id="ms__id4268" />Another instance where Browning takes on a heavenly aspect.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"To hear you talk yesterday, <strong>is a gladness in the thought for
today</strong>, .. it was with such a full assent that I listened to every word. <strong>It is
true</strong>, I think, <strong>that we see things</strong> (things apart from ourselves) <strong>under the same
aspect & colour—& 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 <i>you</i> so well</strong>, (yes, I boast to myself of that intimate
knowledge) <strong>that I seem to know also the <i>idola [images] </i>of
all things as they are in your eyes</strong>—<strong>so that never, scarcely, I am curious, ..
never anxious, to learn what your opinions may be–</strong> Now, <span class="SMALLCAPS">have</span> I been curious or anxious? <strong>It was enough for me to
know <i>you</i>.</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
More than enough! <strong>You have 'left undone'</strong> .. do you say? <strong>On the
contrary, you have done too much .. you <span class="SMALLCAPS">are</span> too
much– My cup</strong>, .. which used to hold at the bottom of it just the drop of
Heaven-dew mingling with the absinthus, .. <strong>has overflowed with all this
wine—& <i>that</i> makes me look out for the vases, which would have held it
better, had you stretched out your hand for them.</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Say how you are .. & do take care & exercise—& write
to me, dearest!</div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
Ever your own–</div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
Ba</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
How right you are about Ben Capstan,—& the illustration by
the <i>yellow clay</i>. That is precisely what
I meant, .. said with more precision than I could say it. <strong>Art without an ideal
is neither nature nor art.</strong> The question involves the whole difference between
Madame Tussaud & Phidias.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
I have just received Mr Edgar Poe’s book—& I see that the
deteriorating preface which was to have saved me from the vanity-fever
produceable by the dedication, is cut down & away—perhaps in this particular
copy only!–"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is the book dedicated to Miss Barrett but supposedly with a preface that criticized her poetry. Apparently the critical preface never appeared.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"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? <strong>My consistency is wonderful."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Methinks the visit on January 8th was a huge success, Miss Barrett seems a bit giddy. Yet still she cannot shake the notion that she will ruin his life. I am nearing the end of the two volumes of letters written by Mrs. Browning to her sister Arabel after her marriage (Mrs. Browning's, not Arabel's). In the last months of her life, as her health is breaking down, Mrs. Browning returns to this theme of her weakness hurting others or holding them back from what they would do if not for her. She never in her life sees her true worth. And yet, 166 years later, we sit at our computers and read and learn from her letters and life. And her humor. My consistency is wonderful, indeed.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Browning sends a short note:</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Friday Mg</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
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—<i>c’est convenu [it is agreed]</i>!The other precious volume has not yet come to hand (nor to foot—) all
thro’ your being so sure that to carry it home would have been the death of me
last evening!</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
I cannot write my feelings in this large writing, begun on such a
scale for the Reviews’ sake—and just now .. there is no denying it .. and spite
of all I have been incredulous about .. <strong>it does seem that the feat <i>is</i>
achieved and that I <span class="SMALLCAPS">do</span> love you, plainly, surely,
more than ever, more than any day in my life before.</strong> —It is your secret, the
why the how,—the experience is mine: <strong>what are you doing to me?—in the heart’s
heart–</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
Rest—dearest—bless you–"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, their meeting must have been quite invigorating. She is giddy and he loves her more. And even Browning the metaphysician is showing some humor.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-41557541796073720192013-01-07T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-07T03:46:18.327-08:00January 7, 1846<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Miss Barrett writes to Mr. Browning today:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Wednesday.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
But some things are indeed said very truly & as I like to
read them .. of <i>you</i>, 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 & 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 & will
<i>live</i>, but the way to do you good with the stiffnecked public (such good
as critics can do in their degree) wd have been to <strong>hold fast & conspicuously
the gilded horn of the last living crowned creature led by you to the altar,
saying ‘Look <i>here</i>’. </strong>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 & in sentences! Still <strong>there are
right things, true things, worthy things, said of you as a poet, though your
poems do not find justice</strong>:—& <strong>I like, for my own part, the issuing from my
cathedral into your great world .. the outermost temple of divinest
consecration</strong>—I like that figure & association, &
none the worse for its being a sufficient refutation of what <strong>he dared to impute,
of your poetical sectarianism, in another place——<i>yours</i>!!!"</strong></div>
<div class="BODY1">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She is referring to Warburton's review of Browning--in The Review. I believe there is poetical sectarianism. There is good poetry and there is bad poetry. There is classic form and there is rap or should I just be categorical and say crap. Or to be more politically correct: doggerel.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"For me, it is all quite kind enough—only I object, on my own part
also, to being reviewed in the <i>Seraphim</i>, when my better books are nearer:
& also it always makes me a little <strong>savage</strong> when people talk of
Tennysonianisms! I have faults enough
as the Muses know, .. <strong>but let them be <i>my</i> faults</strong>! When I wrote the Romaunt
of Margret, <strong>I had not read a line of Tennyson</strong>. I came from the country with my
eyes only half open, & he had not penetrated where I had been living &
sleeping: & in fact when I afterwards tried to reach him here in London,
nothing cd be found except one slim volume, so that, till the collected works
appeared .. favente Moxon [with the help of Moxon], .. <strong>I was ignorant of
his best <i>early</i> productions, & 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
.. & thrown aside, & taken up again in the spring of 1844. Ah, well!</strong>
there’s no use, talking! In a solitary review which noticed my Essay on Mind,
somebody wrote .. ‘this young lady imitates Darwin’—&
I never could <i>read</i> 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, <strong>as the infallible critic said so–"</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The fun part about this objection to being compared with Erasmus Darwin (writer of poems on natural history) is that the review she is referring to was in 1826, twenty years previous. What a long memory she had for criticism!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"And who are Mr Helps & Miss Emma Fisher & the ‘many
others’, whose company brings one down to the right
plebeianism? The ‘three poets in three distant ages born’ may well stare amazed!</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
After all <strong>you shall not by any means say that I upset the
inkstand on your review in a passion</strong>—because <strong>pray mark that the ink has over-run
some of your praises</strong>, & that <strong>if I had been angry to the overthrow of an
inkstand, it would not have been precisely <i>there</i>.</strong> It is the second book spoilt by me within
these two days—& <strong>my fingers were so dabbled in blackness yesterday that to
wring my hands wd only have made matters worse</strong>. Holding them up to Mr Kenyon
they looked dirty enough to befit a poetess—as black ‘as bard beseemed’—& <strong>he took the review away with him to
read & save it from more harm."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For some reason I always imagine her fingers covered in ink. She must have written at high speed given the volume of letters she produced. But then, she must have been expert at controlling the ink flow. If you look at the scans of her letters she has relatively few ink blots. Browning is far more blotchy with his letters. They may explain why he had his sister write out all of his poems to be sent to the publishers.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"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?—<strong>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 <i>hate</i> writing to
me?</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
At that word, comes the review back from dear Mr Kenyon & the
letter which I enclose to show you how <strong>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 .. & I
shall therefore send it back to you spoilt as it is,—and you must forgive me as
magnanimously as you can."</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico [the unknown is ever magnified]’ ..
do you think <i>so</i>? I hope not indeed! <i>vo guizzando [you darting]</i> .. & everything else that I ought to
do——except of course,<strong> <i>that</i> thinking of you which is so difficult.</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
May God bless you—. Till tomorrow!</div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
Your own always–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
Mr Kenyon refers to Festus—of which I had said that the fine
things were worth looking for, in the design manqué [lacking]."</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She is full of the teaze today. First she accuses him of hating to write to her and she torments him that she has difficulty thinking of him. They are getting along famously.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-16844168293358109352013-01-06T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-06T00:00:02.438-08:00January 6, 1846<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We shall have two letters from Browning today because he sends a note with The Review:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Tuesday Mg</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
I this minute receive the Review—a
poor business, truly! Is there a reason for a man’s wits dwindling the moment he
gets into a critical High-place to hold forth?– I have only glanced over the
article however. <span style="font-family: inherit;"><strong>Well, one day <i>I</i> am to write of you, dearest, and it must
come to something rather better than <i>that</i>!</strong></span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
I am forced to send now what is to be sent at all. Bless you,
dearest. I am trusting to hear from you–</div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
Your own</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
And I find by a note from a fairer friend and favourer of mine
that in the 'New Quarterly' 'Mr Browning' figures pleasantly as 'one without any
sympathy for a human being!'– <strong>Then, for newts and
efts, at all events!"</strong></div>
<div class="BODY3">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh dear, so much for the 'romance' of being reviewed together--when you both are poorly reviewed. I suppose that could make you happy victims.</span></div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Next comes the proper letter, which is long indeed for Browning. Expect some convoluted reasoning ahead, prepare yourselves.</span></div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Tuesday Night.</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
But, my sweet, <strong>there is safer going in letters than in visits</strong>, do
you not see? In the letter, one may go to the utmost limit of one’s supposed
tether without danger—there is the distance so palpably between the most
audacious step <i>there</i>, and the next .. which is no where, seeing it is not
in the letter: quite otherwise in personal intercourse, where any indication of
turning to a certain path, even, might possibly be checked not for its own fault
but lest, the path once reached and proceeded in, some other forbidden turning
might come into sight, we will say: <strong>in the letter</strong>, all ended <i>there</i>, just
there .. and you may think of that, and forgive,—at all events, <strong>may avoid
speaking irrevocable words</strong>—and when, as to me, those words are intensely
<i>true</i>, <i><strong>doom-words</strong></i>—think, dearest! Because, as I told you once, what
most characterizes my feeling for you is the perfect <i>respect</i> in it, the
full <i>belief</i> .. (I shall get presently to poor Robert’s very avowal of 'owing you all esteem'!)– It is on that I build,
and am secure—for <strong>how should I know</strong>, of myself, <strong>how to serve you</strong> and be properly
yours <strong>if it all was to be learnt by my own interpreting</strong>, and <strong>what you</strong> professed
to <strong>dislike you were to be considered as wishing for</strong>, and <strong>what liking</strong>, as it
seemed, <strong>you were loathing at your heart</strong>, and if so many 'noes' made a 'yes', and
'one refusal no rebuff' and all that horrible
bestiality which stout gentlemen turn up the whites of their eyes to, when they
rise after dinner and, pressing the right hand to the left side say, 'The toast
be dear woman!' Now, love, with this feeling in me from the beginning,—I do
believe,—<i>now</i>, when I am utterly blest in this gift of your love and least
able to imagine what I should do without it,—<strong>I cannot but believe</strong>, I say, <strong>that
had you given me once a 'refusal'—clearly derived from your own feelings, and
quite apart from any fancied consideration for my interests</strong>,—had this come upon
me, whether slowly but inevitably in the course of events, or suddenly as
precipitated by any step of mine,—<strong>I should, <i>believing you</i>, have never
again renewed directly or indirectly such solicitation,</strong>—<strong>I should have begun to
count how many other ways were yet open to serve you and devote myself to you ..
but <i>from the outside</i>, now, and not in your livery!</strong> Now, if I should have
acted thus under <i>any</i> circumstances, <strong>how could I but redouble my
endeavours at precaution after my own foolish</strong> … you know, and forgave long
since, and I, too, am forgiven in my own eyes, for the cause, tho’ not the
manner—but <strong>could I do other than keep 'farther from you' than in the letters,
dearest?</strong> For your own part in that matter, seeing it with all the light you have
since given me (and <i>then</i>, not inadequately by my own light) I could, I
<i>do</i> kiss your feet, kiss every letter in your name, <strong>bless you with my
whole heart and soul if I could pour them out, from me, before you, to stay and
be yours</strong>,—when I think on your motives and pure perfect generosity– It was the
plainness of <i>that</i> which <strong>determined me to wait and be patient</strong> and grateful
<strong>and your own for ever in any shape or capacity you might please to accept</strong>– <strong>Do
you think that because I am so rich now, I could not have been most rich, too,
<i>then</i>—in what would seem little only to <i>me</i>, only with this great
happiness?</strong> I should have been proud beyond measure & <strong>happy past all desert,
to call and be allowed to see you simply, speak with you and be spoken to—what
am I more than others?</strong> Don’t think this mock-humility—<i>it is not</i>—<strong>you take
me in your mantle, and we shine together</strong>, but I know my part in it! <strong>All this is
written breathlessly on a sudden fancy that you <i>might</i> </strong>.. if not now, at
some future time, .. <strong>give other than this, the true reason, for that discrepancy
you see, that nearness in the letters, that early farness in the visits!</strong> And,
love, all love is but a passionate <i>drawing closer</i>– I would be one with
you, dearest,—let my soul press close to you, as my lips, dear life of my
life."</div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He just turned on the lawn mower at the beginning and then after a warm up lit the afterburners with that one. I was not with him at the beginning of the paragraph when he implied there was greater danger of speaking irrevocable words than in writing irrevocable words. It seems to me that if you misspeak you can judge the listener's response and apologize and adjust more quickly than with a letter. With a letter you cannot see the reaction unless the reader chooses to let you see. And the response may be a lie, masking their true feelings. However, once you get beyond this seeming inconsistency his reasoning makes a certain amount of sense. He essentially was frightened after his first flubbed visit and subsequent letter that if he made too sudden a move with her that he would scare her off, so he played the perfect gentleman until he could work it all out through the letters. But what a lovely paragraph with all his talk of pouring out his heart and soul to her so that they could stay with her, and the longing he had just to be with her, see her and hear her voice. Men.</span></div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
"Wednesday/ <strong>You are entirely right about those poems of Horne’s</strong>. <strong>I spoke only of the effect of the first
glance</strong>, 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
<i>so</i> safe! So I began by praising all that was at all questionable in the
form .. <strong>reserving the ground-work for after consideration</strong>. <strong>The Elf-story turns out a pure mistake, I think</strong>—and a
common mistake, too. <strong>Fairy Stories, the good ones, were written for men &
women, and, being true, pleased also children</strong>—now, people set about writing for
children and miss them and the others, too,—with that <strong>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</strong>– Keep
us from all that!– <strong>The Sailor-language is good in its way</strong>,—but as wrongly used in Art as real clay
& mud would be, if one plastered them on 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– <strong>Well, then, what a veering weathercock am I, to write so and now,
<i>so</i>! Not altogether,—for first it was but the stranger’s welcome I gave</strong>,
the right of every newcomer who must stand or fall by his behavior once admitted
within the door—and then—<strong>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 <i>could</i> <span class="SMALLCAPS">not</span> 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 <i>none</i>, no reward, I do
think, would he less willingly forego than your praise & sympathy</strong>– But your
own opinion once expressed—truth remains the truth—so, at least, <strong>I excuse myself
.. and quite as much for what I say <i>now</i> as for what was said <i>then</i>!</strong>
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—<strong>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– '</strong>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 &
destroy evil, and coöperate with this whole scheme here'—<i>that</i> is plain,
too,—but, call Otto’s conduct <i>no</i> 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 <span class="SMALLCAPS">is</span>
clear?"</div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, once he finds that it is okay with Miss Barrett to criticise Horne's poetry he takes it apart, not for it's rhythm and rhyme but for its lack of proper motivation and morality. That is typical Browning, always examining people's motives. To Browning's credit, he did touch on this objection to the fairy story in his letter to Horne, but gently, gently. And how genuinely he seems to sympathize with Horne for all his hard work with Miss Barrett, and how meager his reward. Horne did not even get a visit to Wimpole Street, poor sad lonely man.</span></div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"—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! <strong>But at a
thought I fly off with you, 'at a cock crow from the Grange'</strong>– Ever your own RB"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He is quoting Lady Geraldine's Courtship to her. You know he has her ballads memorized. He can't help himself.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
"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 <i>three other</i> articles, <strong>as my sister finds by diligent fishing</strong>,
they introduce my name with the same felicitous praise—(except one instance,
though, in a good article by Chorley I am certain)—and <i>with</i> me—I don’t
know how many poetical <i>crétins</i> 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–</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
All which, let me forget in the thoughts of to-morrow! Bless you,
my Ba."</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So Browning, who is so used to bad reviews, gets several good mentions and finds it "stupidly extravagant laudation". My oh my, he should simply write his own reviews.</span></div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-65969142069487375732013-01-05T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-05T00:00:05.928-08:00January 5 and 8, 1846 Letters to Horne<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let's see what Miss Barrett wrote to her friend and erstwhile collaborator Richard H. Horne about his poems and contrast that to what she said to Browning about same. The letter is postmarked January 5, 1846:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2" xmlns="">
"Monday.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1" xmlns="">
I thank you my dear Mr Horne for your kindness in the
gift of your Ballads & Romances, & for all the pleasure I have had in
the work. The ‘Monk of Swineshead Abbey’ & the ‘Three Knights,’ & the
unforgotten ‘Delora’ strike different keys, & are all three deep with
various music. The monk is very vigorous & significant, & in the three
Knights, I like your satyr who swears by his horn, & your giant who wakes
'like a giant from his slumbers' & swears like the same. What I like least
in the volume .. now, you know, <strong>I always persist in telling the truth</strong>, .. is the
Elf-story .. though I enjoy the beginning & the end just as you would have
me. <strong>But .. but</strong> .. I eschew Grandmama Grey & her nightcap & ‘the small
dog’ who is not 'the small boy,' entirely, for <i>machinery</i>: <strong>it is no right
machinery for the elves, in my mind, & I say what I think.</strong> The familiar
& the supernatural are brought too close together perhaps—‘shoetye &
blue sky’ .. as you say in your Apocrypha– Now look at Drayton’s talk of the
fairies—how pure & musical <i>that</i> is!– I hold that a Grandmama Grey
would never have sight of a real elf, <strong>let her put on her spectacles ever so!–</strong>
The opening of the poem has great beauty, & so has the close of it, as I
said & must say again!– And <i>that</i> surprises me, that you should allow
yourself to wander from the keynote after the fashion you choose.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2" xmlns="">
But the monks—but the knights—oh we must all thank you
for these things just as I do!–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2" xmlns="">
& Ben Capstan has vigour & meaning too—<strong>only that
I object a little to his Doric which is not sweet Doric, & take the liberty
of thinking it unlawful.</strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="BODY2" xmlns="">
<strong>Scotch is lawful–"</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2" xmlns="">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2" xmlns="">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She is referring here to the Doric dialect of Northeast Scotland.</span></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="BODY2" xmlns="">
<strong>"But I shd object to <i>Zum</i>mezetshire! <i>I</i>, for
one!–</strong></div>
<strong>
</strong><br />
<div class="BODY2" xmlns="">
<strong>And I shd object to Cockneyism á <i>fortiori [for a stronger reason]</i>.</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2" xmlns="">
Wrong perhaps!—<strong>but I tell you the truth.</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2" xmlns="">
And so, you go to Ireland, to wrestle with the one man
there!—or to patronize him peradventure. Do you go
directly, & is it a prospect which pleases you?– I wish you the most
satisfying of successes in the dirt of politics, & <strong>hands still white for the
Muses.</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2" xmlns="">
May God bless you for this year & other years!–
Success to this book, especially!–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2" xmlns="">
<strong>If you could see what a tangle my thoughts are in, you
would smile!</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE" xmlns="">
Ever most truly & gratefully</div>
your friend<br />
Elizabeth B Barrett.<br />
<br />
<div class="BODY3" xmlns="">
What a beautiful image <i>that</i> is in illustration of
the transiency of life ..</div>
<br />
<div class="ZNSTYLE" xmlns="">
‘—the <i>shadow of the windmill sails</i></div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE" xmlns="">
<i>Across yon slope of sunny green</i>’</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3" xmlns="">
It strikes me much."</div>
<div class="BODY3" xmlns="">
</div>
<div class="BODY3" xmlns="">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, she is certainly consistent. She could only get away with that with a true friend. That was a review, not a 'thanks for sending the book'. Remind me not to send her my poetry. But they are used to working together and trying to get things right for publication, so I am sure that he is used to her corrections.</span></div>
<div class="BODY3" xmlns="">
</div>
<div class="BODY3" xmlns="">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning writes to Horne on January 8, 1846:</span></div>
<div class="BODY3" xmlns="">
</div>
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Jan. 8. ’46</div>
<div class="BODY3" xmlns="">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
My dear Horne,</div>
<div class="BODY3" xmlns="">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
I very sincerely congratulate you <strong>on the fine things in this new
volume</strong>– The Swinestead Monk
is admirable, and the Camelott adventure, sylvan, 'to the height'—perfect! Bedd
Gelert is most beautiful too– These I only particularize because the Reviews
will be sure to compliment you especially on The Bohemian Story—tho’ its greatest value to me, by the side
of the others, is in the proof it gives to those same Reviewers that, as Carlyle
has it, Pegasus can furl wing and ride post if it please him at an approved
pace, in an accepted and allowed path– <strong>There
is good sailor-logic and sailor-language in Ben’s adventure, and a funny
tingling pelt of ferns, woodriff, lichens and such like forest-wrack in the Elf
legend</strong>—and if I rather wish the children away, Grandmama Grey and all, it is
because <strong>all good stories, Fairy or otherwise are <i>meant</i> for grown-up men,
and children only like them in their childish degree</strong>—children should know their
place and look between our knees at such work—not make us look over their heads
thro’ the halfopened door, as if stealing a fearful joy! Delora remains
Delora!</div>
<div class="BODY3" xmlns="">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>For the whole, thanks and admiration</strong>, now and ever, my dear
Horne, from</div>
<div class="BODY3" xmlns="">
</div>
<div class="CLOSE">
your RB</div>
<div class="BODY3" xmlns="">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
Shall I never be satisfied and see reprinted that capital 'Merrie
Devil of Edmonton' which first gave me a taste of your quality? It would have
gone well between any two in this collection. And remember that the suppression
of the notes to Delora is only the printer’s affair–</div>
<div class="BODY3" xmlns="">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
Shall I be so ungrateful as to leave out the famous Bear
History ["The Good-Natured Bear"]? It is furry—warm and genial."</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You can tell that Browning and Horne are acquaintances and not good friends. A very kind, good natured thank you from Browning strikes just the right note of thank you, touching on the things he likes and just a hint of dissatisfaction with the fairy story.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-30467360329542689692013-01-04T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-04T04:11:49.928-08:00January 4, 1846<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Both Browning and Miss Barrett have a lot to say about Mr. Horne's newly published book of poems "Ballad Romances". Miss Barrett and Mr. Horne have been great friends for some time, writing and publishing together and planning to write together and not doing it. Let's first hear from Browning:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Sunday Night. </div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
Yesterday, nearly the last thing, I bade you 'think of me'– I
wonder if you could misunderstand me in that?– As if my words or actions or any
of my ineffectual outside-self <i>should</i> be thought of, <strong>unless to be
forgiven!</strong> But I do—dearest—feel confident that <strong>while I am in your mind</strong>,—cared
for, <strong>rather than thought about</strong>,—no great harm can happen to me—and as, <strong>for great
harm to reach me, it must pass thro’ you,</strong>—you will care for yourself,—<i>my</i>
self, best self!"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh boy, that was a good one. That Browning, what a metaphysician!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"Come, let us talk: I found Horne’s book at home, and have had time to see that fresh
beautiful things are there—I suppose 'Delora' will stand alone still—but I got
pleasantly smothered with that odd shower of wood-spoils at the end, the
dwarf-story,—cup-masses and fern and spotty yellow leaves,—all that, I love
heartily—and there is good sailor-speech in the 'Ben Capstan'—<strong>though he does
knock a man down with a 'crow-bar'—instead of a marling-spike or, even, a
belaying-pin</strong>! The first tale, tho’ good, seems least new and individual .. but I
must know more– <strong>At one thing I wonder</strong>—<strong>his not reprinting a quaint clever
<i>real</i> ballad</strong>, published before 'Delora', <strong>on the 'Merry Devil of
Edmonton'</strong>—the first of his works I ever read—no, the
very first piece was a single stanza, if I remember, in which was this line
<strong>'When bason-crested Quixote, lean and bold,' .. good, is it not?</strong> Oh, while it strikes me, <strong>good, too,
<i>is</i> that Swineshead-Monk-ballad</strong>! Only I miss the old chronicler’s touch on
the method of <strong>concocting the poison 'Then stole this Monk into the garden and
under a certain herb, found out a Toad, which, squeezing into a cup,' &c
something to that effect.</strong> I suspect, <i>par
parenthèse [incidentily]</i>, <strong>you have found out by this time my odd
liking for 'vermin'—you once wrote '<i>your</i> snails'—and certainly snails are
old clients of mine—but efts</strong>!—<strong>Horne traced a line to me</strong>—in the rhymes of a
'’prentice-hand' I used to look over
and correct occasionally—<strong>taxed me (last week) with having altered the wise line
'Cold as a <i>lizard</i> in a <i>sunny</i> stream' to 'Cold as a newt hid in a
shady brook'</strong>—<strong>for 'what do <i>you</i> know about newts'? he asked of the
author—who thereupon confessed. But never try and catch a speckled grey lizard
when we are in Italy, love—and you see his tail hang out of the chink of a wall,
his winter-house—because the strange tail will snap off, drop from him and stay
in your fingers—and tho’ you afterwards learn that there is more desperation in
it and glorious determination to be free, than positive pain—(so people say who
have no tails to be twisted off)—and tho’, moreover, the tail grows again after
a sort—<i>yet</i> .. don’t do it, for it will give you a thrill!</strong> What a fine
fellow our English water-eft is,—'Triton paludis Linnæi'—<i>e come guizza</i>! [Triton of a Linnaean lake’—and how it darts!] —(<i>that</i> you can’t say in another
language; cannot preserve the little in-and-out-motion along with the straight
forwardness!)—<strong>I always loved all those wild creatures God '<i>sets up for
themselves'</i> so independently of us, so successfully,</strong> with their strange
happy minute inch of candle, as it were, to light them,—while we run about and
against each other with our great cressets and fire-pots. <strong>I once saw a solitary
bee nipping a leaf round till it exactly fitted the front of a hole,—his nest,
no doubt,—or tomb, perhaps—'Safe as Œdipus’s grave-place, ’mid Colone’s olives
swart'</strong> [EBB's The Lost Bower]—(kiss me, my Siren!)—well, it seemed awful
to watch that bee—he seemed so <i>instantly</i> from the teaching of God!
Ælian says that .. <strong>a <i>frog</i>, does he
say?—some animal, having to swim across the Nile, never fails to provide himself
with a bit of reed, which he bites off and holds in his mouth transversely and
so puts from shore gallantly .. because when the water-serpent comes swimming to
meet him, there is the reed, wider than his serpent-jaws, and no hopes of a
swallow that time—now fancy the two meeting heads, the frog’s wide eyes and the
vexation of the snake!</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Now, see! do I deceive you? Never say <i>I</i> began by letting
down my dignity 'that with no middle flight intends to soar above the Aonian
Mount!'–"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For all you blogileers who do not have Dictionary.com at hand--an eft is an immature newt. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning reveals here that he is nothing but a male geek, loving all manner of wee beasties. I have a sneaking suspicion that Miss Barrett is a bit geeky too, in a lady-like way, having had a youth running about the English countryside. But more of that later.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"My best, dear, dear one,—<strong>may you be better, less
<i>depressed</i></strong>, .. <strong>I can hardly imagine frost reaching you if I could be by
you. Think what happiness you mean to give me</strong>,—what a life,—what a death! <strong>'I may
change'—too true,—yet, you see, as an eft was to me at the beginning so it
continues– I <i>may</i> take up stones and pelt the next I see—but—do you much
fear that?–</strong> Now, <i>walk</i>, move, <i>guizza, anima mia dolce [dart, my sweet soul]</i>. Shall I not know one day how far your
mouth will be from mine as we walk? May I let that stay .. dearest—(the
<i>line</i> stay, not the mouth)."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, the image of Miss Barrett as a newt being pelted by Browning is not very comforting. But he tries to save it with a kiss. Do you think that will work? So he moves onto a different track:</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"I am not very well to-day—or, rather, have not been
so—<i>now</i>, I am well and <i>with you</i>– I just say that, very needlessly,
but for strict frankness’ sake. Now, you are to write to me soon, and tell me
all about yourself, and to love me ever, as I love you ever, and bless you, and
leave you in the hands of God– My own love!"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Distracting her by telling her that he is unwell is always a good ploy, it takes her out of herself.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
"Tell me if I do wrong to send <i>this</i> by a morning post—so as
to reach you earlier than the evening—when you will .. write to me?</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Don’t let me forget to say that I shall receive the Review
to-morrow, and will send it directly."</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Review is where Browning and Miss Barrett will be reviewed together, which Browning thinks is highly romantic. </span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, we have heard Browning's random and wandering thoughts; more bugs than poetry. What does Miss Barrett have to say on the subject?</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Sunday– </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
When you get Mr Horne’s book you will understand how, after
reading just the first & the last poems, <strong>I could not help speaking coldly a
little of it—& in fact, estimating his power as much as you can do, I did
think & do, that the last was unworthy of him, & that the first might
have been written by a writer of one tenth of his faculty. But last night I read
the ‘Monk of Swineshead Abby’ & the ‘Three Knights of Camelott’ & ‘Bedd
Gelert’ & found them all of different stuff, better, stronger, more
consistent, & read them with pleasure & admiration.</strong> Do you remember this application, among the
countless ones of shadow to the transiency of life? I give the first two lines
for clearness–<br />
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
‘Like to the cloud upon the hill</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
We are a moment seen</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
Or the <i>shadow of the windmill-sails</i></div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
<i>Across yon sunny slope of green</i>.’<br />
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
New or not, & I dont remember it elsewhere, it is just &
beautiful I think. Think how the shadow of the windmill-sail just touches the
ground on a bright windy day! the shadow of a bird flying is not faster!– Then
the ‘Three Knights' has beautiful things,
with more definite & distinct images than he is apt to show—for his
character is a vague grand massiveness .. like Stonehenge—or at least, if
'towers & battlements he sees' they are ‘bosomed high’ in dusky clouds ..
it is a 'passion-created imagery' which has no clear outline. In this ballad of
the ‘Knights’ , & in the Monks too, we may <i>look at</i> things, as on the
satyr who swears by his horns & makes riot with his kind afterwards, ‘While, <i>holding beards</i>, they dance
in pairs’ .. & that is all excellent &
reminds one of those fine sylvan festivals, in Orion. But now tell me if you
like altogether ‘Ben Capstan’ & <strong>if you consider
the sailor-idiom to be lawful in poetry––because I do not indeed.</strong> On the same
principle we may have Yorkshire & Somersetshire ‘sweet Doric’,—& do
recollect what it ended in of old, in the Blowsibella heroines– Then for the elf story [The poem is 'The Elf of the Woodlands: a Child’s Story'] .. <strong>why should such things be written by men
like Mr Horne? I am vexed at it. Shakespeare & Fletcher did not write so
about fairies:—Drayton did not.</strong> Look at the exquisite Nymphidia, with its subtle
sylvan consistency, & then at the lumbering course .. ‘machina intersit [let no god interfere]' .. Grandmama Grey! .. to say nothing of
the ‘small dog’ that is’nt the ‘small boy’– <strong>Mr
Horne succeeds better on a larger canvass, & with weightier material .. with
blank verse rather than lyrics. He cannot make a fine stroke. He wants subtlety
& elasticity in the thought & expression– </strong>Remember, <strong>I admire him
honestly & earnestly</strong>. No one has admired more than I, the ‘Death of
Marlowe’, scenes in Cosmo, & Orion in much of it– But now tell me if you can
accept with the same stretched out hand all these lyrical poems? <strong>I am going to
write to him as much homage as can come truly. Who combines different faculties
as you do; striking the whole octave? No one, at present in the world."</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That last line explains the whole paragraph: Browning has spoiled her for all other poets. She doesn't like Horne's sailor ballad (Browning did not like it because it does not include death by harpoon as opposed to the more lubberly crowbar) or his elf story, they both agree they did not like the first poem. But she does praise Horne where she will. She has never been shy about her opinions on poetry, be the writer friend of foe. (We will leave out Browning because he can do no wrong.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"Dearest, after you went away yesterday & I began to consider,
I found that there was nothing to be so over-glad about in the matter of the
letters, for that, sunday coming next to saturday, the best now is only as good
as the worst before, & <strong>I cant hear from you until monday .. monday! Did
<i>you</i> think of <i>that</i> .. you who took the credit of acceding so
meekly!– I shall not praise you in return at any rate.</strong> I shall have to wait ..
till what oclock on monday,––tempted in the meanwhile to fall into controversy
against the 'new moons & sabbath days'
& the pausing of the post in consequence.</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
You never guessed perhaps .. what I look back to at this moment
in the physiology of our intercourse, … the curious double feeling I had about
you .. <strong>you personally, & you as the writer of these letters</strong>, .. & <strong>the
crisis of the feeling</strong>, when I was positively vexed & jealous of myself for
<strong>not</strong> succeeding better in <strong>making a unity of the two. I could not</strong>!– And moreover I
could not help but that <strong>the writer of the letters seemed nearer to me</strong>, long ..
long .. & in spite of the postmark .. <strong>than did the personal visitor who
confounded me, & left me constantly under such an impression of its being
all dream-work on his side</strong>, that I have stamped my feet on this floor with
impatience to think of having to wait so many hours before the ‘candid’ closing
letter cd come with its confession of an illusion. <strong>‘People say’, I used to
think, ‘that women <i>always</i> know .. & certainly I do not know</strong> .. &
therefore .. therefore’– The logic crushed on like Juggernaut’s car. <strong>But in the
letters it was different: the dear letters took me on the side of my own ideal
life where I was able to stand a little upright & look round. I could read
such letters for ever & answer them after a fashion .. that, I felt from the
beginning.</strong> But <i>you</i>—!."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This little outburst is very interesting. Browning spoke to her of love in his letters, but not when they were together. I can see why this would be confusing. With just the words of the letters he could simply be producing a play or drama on paper. "Dream-work" as she calls it. I can not help but look back to the passage that he marked through in this letter of December 31st: "and <i>then</i> I seem to have said <i>nothing</i> of my feeling to you—nothing
whatever: <Indeed I so far conform myself to your pleasure, as I understand
it, as never to <i>try</i>, even, to express>." He seems hesitant to speak or "express" himself to her in person, which has made her doubtful as well. Two shy people trying to get together. Not always easy, but they certainly persistent.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
"Monday. Never too early can the light come. Thank you for my
letter!– <strong>Yet you look askance at me over ‘newt & toad,’ & praise so the
Elf story that I am ashamed to send you my ill humour on the same head. And you
really like <i>that</i>? admire it? Grandmama Grey & the night caps &
all? & 'shoetye & blue sky'? --and
is it really wrong of me … to like certainly some touches & images, but not
the whole, .. not the poem as a whole? I can take delight in the fantastical,
& in the grotesque—but here there is a want of life & consistency, as it
seems to me!—the elf is no elf & speaks no elf-tongue! it is not the right
key to touch, .. this, .. for supernatural music.</strong> So I fancy at least—but I will
try the poem again presently. <strong>You must be right—unless it should be your
over-goodness opposed to my over-badness– I will not be sure</strong>. Or you wrote
perhaps in an accidental mood of most excellent critical smoothness, such as Mr
Forster did his last Examiner in, <strong>when he gave the all-hail to Mr Harness as
one of the best dramatists of the age!! Ah
no!—</strong>not such as Mr Forster’s. <strong>Your soul does not enter into his secret—there
can be nothing in common between you.</strong> For him to say such a word—he who knows—or
ought to know!—— And now let us agree & admire the bowing of the old
minstrel over 'Bedd Gelert’s' unfilled grave–</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
‘The <i>long</i> beard <i>fell</i> like <i>snow</i> into the
grave</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
With solemn grace’.</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
<strong>A poet, a friend, a generous man Mr Horne is, even if no laureate
for the fairies.</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Uh oh. I predict that Browning will totally agree with Miss Barrett on the subject of Horne's poetry. It is inevitable.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
I have this moment a parcel of books viâ Mr Moxon—Miss
Martineau’s two volumes—& Mr Bailey
sends his ‘Festus’ very kindly, ..
& 'Woman in the nineteenth century' from America from a Mrs or a Miss
Fuller– How I hate those ‘Women of England’
‘Women & their mission’ & the rest– As if any possible good were to be
done by such expositions of rights & wrongs.</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
Your letter would be worth them all, if <i>you</i> were less
<i>you</i>! I mean, just this letter, .. all alive as it is with crawling
buzzing wriggling cold-blooded warm-blooded creatures .. as all alive as your
own pedant’s book in the tree. And do you know, <strong>I
think I like frogs too—particularly the very little leaping frogs, which are so
highhearted as to emulate the birds. I remember being scolded by my nurses for
taking them up in my hands & letting them leap from one hand to the other.
But for the toad!—why, at the end of the row of narrow beds which we called our
gardens when we were children, grew an old thorn, & in the hollow of the
root of the thorn, lived a toad, a great ancient toad, whom I, for one, never
dared approach too nearly. That he ‘wore a jewel in his head’ I doubted nothing at all– You might see
it glitter if you stooped & looked steadily into the hole. And on days when
he came out & sate swelling his black sides, I never looked steadily,—I
would run a hundred yards round through the shrubs, deeper than knee-deep in the
long wet grass & nettles, rather than go past him where he sate</strong>,—<strong>being
steadily of opinion in the profundity of my natural history-learning, that if he
took it into his toad’s head to spit at me I should drop down dead in a moment,
poisoned as by one of the Medici.</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
Oh—and I had a field-mouse for a pet once, & should have
joined my sisters in a <strong>rat’s nest</strong> if I had not been ill at the time: (as it was,
the little rats were tenderly smothered by over-love!) and <strong>blue-bottle flies I
used to feed,</strong> & hated your spiders for them,—yet no, not much. <strong>My aversion
proper .. call it horror rather .. was for the silent, cold, clinging, gliding
<i>bat</i>,</strong>—& even now, I think, I could not sleep in the room with that
strange bird-mouse-creature, <strong>as it glides round the ceiling silently, silently
as its shadow does on the floor– If you listen or look, there is not a wave of
the wing—the wing never waves! A bird without a feather!—a beast that flies!—and
so cold!—as cold as a fish!– It is the most supernatural-seeming of natural
things– And then to see how when the windows are open at night those bats come
sailing .. without a sound—& go .. you cannot guess where!—fade with the
night-blackness!"</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Aren't bats wonderful? I love them. Although I do fear the rabies in them. I bet Browning had a thing for bats too, they are just the type of thing male geeks like.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"You have not been well—which is my first thought if not my first
word. Do walk, & do not work,—& think .. what I could be thinking of, if
I did not think of <i>you</i> .. dear, dearest! ‘As the doves fly to the
windows,’ so I think of you! <strong>As the prisoners think
of liberty, as the dying think of Heaven, so I think of you. </strong>When I look up
straight to God .. nothing, no one, used to intercept me—now there is
<i>you</i>—only you under Him! <strong>Do not use such words as those therefore any
more, nor say that you are not to be thought of so & so– You are to be
thought of every way.</strong> You must know what you are to me if you know at all what
<i>I</i> am,—& what I should be but for <i>you</i>.</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>So .. love me a little, with the spiders & the toads &
the lizards! love me as you love the efts</strong>—and I will believe in <i>you</i> as
you believe .... in Ælian– Will <i>that</i> do?</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="CLOSE">
Your own–</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
Say how you are when you write—<i>& write</i>."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They certainly covered the topics today. Tomorrow we will look at what each actually wrote to Horne about his poems. That will certainly be educational.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-87515489045912126892013-01-01T00:00:00.000-08:002013-01-01T08:29:09.013-08:00January 1, 1846<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Miss Barrett mis-dates her News Years letter, which is common for most of us at least once a year. But who is to notice except transcribers who note that the correct date is found on the postmark.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
Jan. 1. 1845. [<i>sic</i>, for 1846]</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
"How good you are—how best! It is a favorite play of my memory to
take up the thought of what you were to me (to my mind gazing!) years ago, as
the poet in an abstraction .. then the thoughts of you .. a little clearer, in
concrete personality, as Mr Kenyon’s friend, who had dined with him on such a
day, or met him at dinner on such another, & said some great memorable thing
‘on wednesday last’,& enquired kindly
about <i>me</i> perhaps on thursday, .. till I was proud! .. & so, the
thoughts of you .. nearer & nearer (yet still far!) as the Mr Browning who
meant to do me the honor of writing to me, & who did write; & who asked
me once in a letter (does he remember?) 'not to lean out of the window while his
foot was on the stair'! .. to take up all
those thoughts, & more than those, one after another, & <strong>tie them
together with all <i>these</i>, which cannot be named so easily</strong>—<strong>which cannot be
classed in botany & Greek</strong>. It is a nosegay of mystical flowers, looking
strangely & brightly, .. & keeping their May-dew through the
Christmases—better even than <i>your</i> flowers!—And I am not ‘ashamed’ of
mine, .. be very sure! no!"</div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1845 was quite a year for Miss Barrett, she may well celebrate the progression of the year. And she cannot so easily name her thoughts.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>"For the siren, I never suggested to you any such thing—why you do
not pretend to have read such a suggestion in my letter certainly. <i>That</i>
would have been most exemplarily modest of me!</strong> would it not, O Ulysses?"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Perhaps she didn't mean it that way, but that is what it brought to his mind. She is <em>his</em> Siren.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
And you meant to write, .. you <span class="SMALLCAPS">meant</span>!—& went to walk in ‘Poets’ lane’ instead, (in
the 'Aonius of Highgate,') which I remember to
have read of—does not Hunt speak of it in his memoirs<strong>?—& so now there is
another track of light in the traditions of the place, & people may talk of
the pomegranate-smell between the hedges.</strong> So you really have <i>hills</i> at New
Cross, & not hills by courtesy? I was at Hampstead once—& there was
something attractive to me in that fragment of heath with its wild smell, thrown
down .. like a Sicilian rose from Proserpine’s lap when the car drove away, .. into all that arid civilization,
'laurel-clumps & invisible visible fences', as you say!—& the grand,
eternal smoke rising up in the distance, with its witness against nature!–
People grow severely in jest about cockney landscape—but is it not true that the
trees & grass in the close neighbourhood of great cities, must of necessity
excite deeper emotion than the woods & valleys will, a hundred miles off ..
where human creatures ruminate stupidly as the cows do .. the ‘county families’
es-<i>chewing</i> all men who are not ‘landed proprietors’ .. & the farmers
never looking higher than to the fly on the uppermost turnip-leaf! Do you know
at all what English country-life is, which the English praise so, &
‘moralize upon into a thousand similies’, as
that one greatest, purest, noblest thing in the world .. the purely English
& excellent thing?– <strong>It is to my mind simply & purely abominable, & I
would rather live in a street than be forced to live it out, .. that English
country-life,</strong>—for <strong>I dont mean life in the country. The social exigencies .. why,
nothing <i>can</i> be so bad—nothing!–</strong> That is the way by which Englishmen grow
up to top the world in their <strong>peculiar line of respectable absurdities."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She honors Browning with the notion that one day people will include him in the same pantheon with Keat and Shelley by the scent of Pomegranate in the country lane. Aonia was the dwelling place of the Muses. She refers to the abduction of Proserpine (Persephone in the Greek) by Pluto. She had been gathering flowers in the plains of Enna when Pluto grabbed her and took her into the underworld in his chariot.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Miss Barrett's reference to this particular myth is not, I think, random. </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Proserpina" target="_blank"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pop over here to read a summary of the myth.</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Proserpine's mother Cere's was the goddess of the Earth and she demanded that Proserpine be returned and began turning the earth into a desert until her daughter was returned. Jupiter ordered Pluto to give up Proserpine, but Pluto forced Proserpine to eat <strong>pomegranate seeds</strong> (the seeds of death) so that she could not return to the land of the living permanently. Proserpine's return is the spring and the summer and when she returns to the underworld the earth begins to die again. In some versions of the story Proserpine eats the seeds voluntarily. Also of interest is that Mary and Percy Shelley wrote a child's play about Proserpine, so of course Browning was very familiar with the story on that front, although both our poets were more than well versed in the classics. So, while Browning may have thought of Miss Barrett as Andromeda, perhaps she saw herself as Proserpine.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And, no, she does not appear to enjoy the stress of country society. I doubt she would like the stress of urban society either. She very carefully avoids it.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"Think of my talking so as if I could be vexed with any one of
them! <i>I</i>!– On the contrary I wish them all a happy new year <strong>to abuse one
another, or visit each of them his nearest neighbour whom he hates, three times
a week, because ‘the distance is so convenient,’ .. & give great dinners in
noble rivalship: (venison from the Lord Lieutenant against turbot from London!)
& talk popularity & gamelaws by turns to the tenantry, & beat down
tythes to the rector.</strong> This glorious England of ours,—with its peculiar glory of
the rural districts!!– And <i>my</i> glory of patriotic virtue, who am so happy
in spite of it all .. & make a pretence of talking .. talking .. while I
think the whole time of your letter. I think of your letter—I am no more a
patriot than <i>that</i>!–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
May God bless you, best & dearest! <strong>You say things to me which
I am not worthy to listen to for a moment,</strong> .. even if I were deaf dust the next
moment .. I confess it humbly & earnestly as before God.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Yet He knows, .. if the entireness of a gift means anything, ..
that I have not given with a reserve—that I am yours in my life & soul, for
this year & for other years. <strong>Let me be used <i>for</i> you rather than
<i>against</i> you!—& that unspeakable, immeasurable grief of feeling myself
a stone in your path, a cloud in your sky .. may I be saved from it!—pray it for
<i>me</i> .. for <i>my</i> sake rather than <i>yours</i></strong>. For the rest, I thank
you, I thank you. You will be always to <i>me</i>, what today you are—& that
is all!––I am your own–"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Forever, in her mind, she will remain unworthy of him. She is the perfect woman. For Browning.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-24682378969745995532012-12-31T00:00:00.000-08:002012-12-31T00:00:18.487-08:00December 31, 1845<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning sends the last letter of the year to Miss Barrett:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Wednesday. Dec. 31. 1845.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
I have been properly punished for so much treachery as went to
that re-urging the prayer that <i>you</i> would begin writing, when all the time
(—after the first of those words had been spoken which bade <i>me</i> write—) I
was full of purpose to send my own note last evening,—one which should do its
best to thank you:—but see, the punishment! At home I found a note from Mr
Horne—on the point of setting out for Ireland, too unwell to manage to come over
to me,—anxious, so he said, to see me before
leaving London, and with only Tuesday or to-day to allow the opportunity of it,
if I should choose to go and find him out: so I considered all things and
determined to go—but not till so late, did I determine, on Tuesday, that there
was barely time to get to Highgate .. wherefore no letter reached you to beg
pardon .. and now this underserved —beyond the usual
undeservedness,—this last-day-of-the-year’s gift—do you think or not think my
gratitude weighs on me? When I lay this with the others, and remember what you
have done for me—I do bless you—so as I cannot but believe must reach the
all-beloved head all my hopes and fancies and cares fly straight to. <strong>Dearest,
whatever change the new year brings with it, we are together</strong>—I can give you no
more of myself—indeed, you give me now—(back again if you choose, but changed
and renewed by your possession—) the powers that seemed most properly mine: I
could only mean that, by the expressions to which you refer—only could mean <strong>that
you were my crown and palm branch, now and forever, and so, that it was a very
indifferent matter to me if the world took notice of that fact or no</strong>–—Yes,
dearest, <strong>that <i>is</i> the meaning of the prophecy</strong>—which I was stupidly blind
not to have read and taken comfort from long ago– <strong>You <span class="SMALLCAPS">are</span> the veritable
Siren</strong>—and you 'wait me', and will sing 'song for song'– <strong>And this is my first song, my true
song—this love I bear you</strong>– I look into my heart and then let it go forth under
that name—love—I am more than mistrustful of many other feelings in me: they are
not earnest enough,—so far, not true enough—but this is all the flower of my
life which you call forth and which lies at your feet."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At her mention of Landor's verses (see her previous letter) he suddenly reinterprets them: Miss Barrett is the true Siren. This theme of her Siren-ism will continue in these letters, despite her initial protest. After all, Sirens brought doom to men. Although she was certain that she was going to bring doom to Browning. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>"Now let me say it</strong>––what you are to remember:—<strong>that if I had the
slightest doubt, or fear, I would utter it to you on the instant</strong>—secure in the
incontested stability of the main <i>fact</i>, even though the heights at the
verge in the distance should tremble and prove vapour—and there would be a deep
consolation in your forgiveness—indeed, yes,—but I tell you, on solemn
consideration, it does seem to me that,—once take away the broad & general
words that admit in their nature of any freight they can be charged with,—<strong>put
aside love, and devotion, and trust—and <i>then</i> I seem to have said
<i>nothing</i> of my feeling to you—nothing whatever:</strong> <Indeed I so far
<strong>conform myself to your pleasure,</strong> as I understand it, <strong>as never to <i>try</i>,
even, to express</strong>>. "</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The bracketed sentence was lightly crossed out by Browning--who perhaps wanted it to be read after all. There is more to expression than speech or writing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"I will not write more now—on this subject—believe you are my
blessing and infinite reward beyond possible desert in intention,—my life has
been crowned by you, as I said. May God bless you ever—thro’ you I shall be
blessed. May I kiss your cheek and pray this, my own, all-beloved?</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
I must add a word or two of other things: I am very well now,
quite well—am walking and about to walk. Horne—or rather his friends—<strong>reside in
the very lane Keats loved so much—Millfield Lane</strong>: <strong>Hunt lent me once the little
copy of the first Poems dedicated to him—and on the title-page was recorded in
Hunt’s delicate charactery that 'Keats met him with this, the presentation-copy,
or whatever was the odious name,—in M. Lane—called Poets’ Lane by the gods–
Keats came running, holding it up in his hand'–
Coleridge had an affection for the place, and Shelley '<i>knew'</i> it</strong>—and I can
testify it is green and silent, with pleasant openings on the grounds and ponds,
thro’ the old trees that line it– But the hills here are far more open and wild
and hill-like,—not with the eternal clump of evergreens and thatched summer
house .. to say nothing of the 'invisible railing' miserably visible every
where."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That is just the sort of literary gossip Miss Barrett eats up. He is referring to James Leigh Hunt--most refer to him as Leigh Hunt--in case anyone wonders.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"You very well know <strong><i>what</i> a vision it is you give me—when
you speak of <i>standing up by the table</i> to care for my flowers</strong> .. (which I
will never be ashamed of again, by the way—I will say for the future,—'here are
my best'—in this as in other things) .. Now, do you remember, that <strong>once I bade
you not surprize me out of my good-behaviour by standing to meet me unawares as
visions do, some day—but now—omne <i>ignotum [the unknown]</i>? No,
dearest!"</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sounds like he is getting a hankering to "express" himself to the standing Miss Barrett. Think of the scandal!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"Ought I to say there will be two days more? till Saturday—and if
one word comes, <i>one</i> line—think!</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
I am wholly yours—yours, beloved! RB"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning's New Years Eve letter is far more decorous than his hung over Christmas letter. Let's hope he does not attempt a letter on the 1st.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-22643314228637220102012-12-30T14:25:00.000-08:002012-12-30T14:25:00.542-08:00December 30, 1845<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Miss Barrett sends forth a letter from Wimpole Street following Browning's visit of the 29th:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Tuesday.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
When you are gone I find your flowers; & you never spoke of
nor showed them to me—so instead of yesterday I thank you today—thank you. Count
among the miracles, that your flowers live with me—I accept <i>that</i> for an
omen, dear—dearest! Flowers in general, all the flowers, die of despair when
they come into the same atmosphere .. <strong>used to do it so
constantly & observably that it made me melancholy & I left off for the
most part having them here.</strong> Now, you see, how they put up with the close room,
& <strong>condescend to me & the dust!—</strong>it is true & no fancy! To be sure
<strong>they know that I care for them & that I stand up by the table myself to
change their water & cut their stalks freshly at intervals .. <i>that</i>
may make a difference perhaps. Only the great reason must be that they are
yours, & that you teach them to bear with me patiently."</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The last of the Sonnet Sequence refers to the flowers:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Belovëd, thou hast brought me many flowers<br />Plucked in the garden, all the summer through,<br />And winter, and it seemed as if they grew<br />In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.<br />So, in the like name of that love of ours,<br />Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,<br />And which on warm and cold days I withdrew<br />From my heart’s ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers<br />Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,<br /><strong>And wait thy weeding</strong>; yet here’s eglantine,<br />Here’s ivy!—take them, </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong>as I used to do<br />Thy flowers,</strong> and keep them where they shall not pine.<br />Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,<br />And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"Do not pretend even, to misunderstand what I meant to say
yesterday of dear Mr Kenyon. His blame would fall as my blame of myself has
fallen: he would say .. will say .. 'it is ungenerous of her to let such a risk
be run! I thought she would have been more generous.' There, is Mr Kenyon’s
opinion as I forsee it! <strong>Not that it would be spoken, you know! he is too kind</strong>.
And then, he said to me last summer, somewhere à propos to the flies or
butterflies, that he had 'long ceased to wonder at any extreme of foolishness
produced by—<i>love'</i>– <strong>He will of course think you very very foolish, but not
ungenerously foolish like other people——</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>Never mind. I do not mind indeed.</strong> I mean, that, having said to
myself worse than the worst perhaps of what can be said against me by any who
regard me at all, & feeling it <strong>put to silence by the fact that you <i>do</i>
feel so & so for me,—</strong>feeling that fact to be an answer to all, .. I cannot
mind much, in comparison, <strong>the railing at second remove</strong>.– <strong>There will be a nine
days railing of it & no more!—and if on the ninth day, you should not
exactly wish never to have known me, the better reason will be demonstrated to
stand with us.</strong> On this one point the wise man cannot judge for the fool his
neighbour. If you <i>do</i> love me, <strong>the inference is
that you would be happier with than without me—& whether you do, you know
better than another: so I think of <i>you</i> & not of <i>them</i> .. always
of <span class="SMALLCAPS">you</span>!</strong> When I talked of being afraid of dear Mr
Kenyon, I just meant that <strong>he makes me nervous</strong> with his all-scrutinizing
spectacles, put on for ‘great occasions,’ & his questions which seem to
belong to the spectacles, they go together so!—<strong>and then I have no presence of
mind</strong>, as you may see without the spectacles. <strong>My only way of hiding (when people
set themselves to look for me) would be the old child’s way of getting behind
the window curtains or under the sofa:—& even <span class="SMALLCAPS">that</span> might not be effectual if I had recourse to it now–
Do you think it would?</strong> Two or three times I have fancied that Mr Kenyon
suspected something—but if he ever <i>did</i>, <strong>his only reproof was a
reduplicated praise of <i>you</i>—he praises you always & in relation to
every sort of subject."</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is the first time that she seems to not question their relationship. Always she is pushing him away but here she seems to be comforting Browning. This does not negate her reservations that he would be better off without her holding her back, but rather an observation that she does not care what anyone will think except Browning.</span> </div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"What a <i>misomonsism</i> you
fell into yesterday, you who have so much great work to do which no one else can
do except just yourself!—& <strong>you, too, who have courage & knowledge, &
must know that every work, with the principle of life in it, <i>will live</i></strong>,
let it be trampled ever so under the heel of a faithless & unbelieving
generation—yes, that <strong>it will live like one of your toads, for a thousand years
in the heart of a rock.</strong> <strong>All men can teach</strong> at second or third hand, as you said
.. by prompting the foremost rows .. by tradition & translation:—all,
<strong><i>except poets</i>, who must preach their own doctrine & sing their own
song,</strong> to be the means of any wisdom or any music, <strong>& therefore have stricter
duties thrust upon them, & may not lounge </strong>in the στοα [portico] like the conversation-teachers. <strong>So much I
have to say to you, till we are in the Siren’s island, … & <i>I</i>, jealous
of the Siren!–</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
— <strong>'The Siren waits thee singing song for song,'</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
says Mr Landor. <strong>A prophecy which refuses to class you with the
‘mute fishes,’ precisely as I do.</strong></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>And are you not my ‘good’—all my good now—my only good ever</strong>? The
Italians would say it better without saying more."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, I do believe that Miss Barrett is working at cheering up Browning today. He must have been down in the dumps when he came to visit yesterday. She is setting him on his charger and sending him out to teach the world with his poetry. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"I had a letter from Miss Martineau this morning who accounts for
her long silence by the supposition, .. put lately to an end by scarcely
credible information from Mr Moxon, she says .. <strong>that I was out of England,—gone
to the South from the 20th of September.</strong> She calls herself the strongest of
women, & talks of 'walking fifteen miles one day & writing fifteen pp.
another day without fatigue'—also of <strong>mesmerizing & of being infinitely happy
except in the continued alienation of two of her family who cannot forgive her
for getting well by such unlawful means</strong>. And she is to write again to tell me of
Wordsworth, & promises to send me her new work in
the meanwhile—all very kind.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
So here is my letter to you which you asked for so 'against the
principles of universal justice.' <strong>Yes, very unjust—very unfair it was—only, you
make me do just as you like in everything.</strong> Now confess to your own conscience
that even if I had not a lawful claim of a debt against you, I might come to ask
charity with another sort of claim, oh 'son of humanity.' <strong>Think how much more
need of a letter <i>I</i> have than you can have, .. & that if you have a
giant’s power, ‘tis tyrannous to use it like a giant’</strong>– <strong>Who would take tribute from the desert? How
I grumble</strong>. <i>Do</i> let me have a letter directly! remember that no other light
comes to my windows, & that I wait 'as those who watch for the morning'—'lux mea [my light]!'</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
May God bless you—and mind to say how you are <i>exactly</i>, and
dont neglect the walking, <i>pray</i> do not!</div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
Your own–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She doesn't grumble much at all in this letter, building up her man and ending with a mild teaze. She's a sweet girl.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-36856682048006288562012-12-27T00:00:00.000-08:002012-12-27T00:00:08.654-08:00December 27, 1845<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Miss Barrett responds to Mr. Browning's Christmas Day letter, such as it was, as briefly as she can today before moving on to a more comfortable subject--poetry:</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Saturday.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
Yes indeed, I have 'observed that way in' you, &<strong> not once,
& not twice, & not twenty times, but oftener than any</strong>, .. & almost
every time .. do you know, .. <strong>with an uncomfortable feeling</strong> from the reflection
that <strong><i>that</i> is the way for making all sorts of mistakes dependent on &
issuing in exaggeration. It is the very way!—the highway–"</strong></div>
<div class="BODY1">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, we all notice that Browning takes one bit of a subject, pins it to his mat, and dissects it until it is tortured. As he does in life he does in poetry. And she makes a light and obvious observation that such dissections magnify and exaggerate faults.</span></div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"For what you say in the letter here otherwise, I do not deny the
truth .. as partial truth:—I was speaking generally quite. Admit that I am not
apt to be extravagant in my ‘esprit de sexe’: <strong>the Martineau doctrine of
intellectual equality &c, I gave them up, you remember, like a woman—most
disgracefully,</strong> as Mrs Jameson would tell me. But <strong>we are not on that ground
now—we are on ground worth holding a brief for!—& when women fail
<i>here</i> .. it is not so much our fault. Which was all I meant to say from
the beginning."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I do not necessarily agree with her that women are the intellectual inferior of men, but suspect that she threw that in to soften her rhetoric. At that time especially, women were not given the educational opportunities of men. However, I do agree with her in the point she was trying to make about women in their relation with men: Women were and <em>are</em> held to a different and higher standard than men in affairs of the heart. Men can be permitted changes of heart, shall we say, at any stage of a relationship and any change might actually be blamed on the woman, whereas a woman must always be constant and is given very little leeway, except in cases of extreme provocation. Less so today where almost anything goes for both parties, although women are still often blamed, and often blame themselves when men behave badly. Browning does not see this weakness in men because he is a gentleman and so he expects honourable behavior in all men. Miss Barrett wins this argument, but not with a knock out--strictly on points. She does not even bother to scold or teaze him too harshly. She probably realizes he was drunk or 'out of sorts' when he wrote his letter.</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So, she turns to his poetry, where she points out that he gets it right:</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"It reminds me of the exquisite analysis in your <strong>Luria, this third
act</strong>, of the worth of a woman’s sympathy,—indeed of the exquisite double-analysis
of unlearned & learned sympathies. Nothing could be better, I think, than
this, .....</div>
<br />
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
'To the motive the endeavour, the heart’s self</div>
Your quick sense looks; you crown & call aright<br />
The soul of the purpose ere ’tis shaped as act<br />
Takes flesh i’ the world, & clothes itself a king—'<br />
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
except the characterizing of the ‘learned praise,’ which comes afterwards in its fine subtle
truth. What would those critics do to you, to what degree undo you, <strong>who would
deprive you of the exercise of the discriminative faculty of the
metaphysicians? </strong>As if a poet could be great without it! <strong>They might as well
recommend a watchmaker to deal only in faces, in dials, & not to meddle with
the wheels inside!</strong> You should tell Mr Forster so–"</div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The implicit message here is: Browning is better reflected in his poetry than his letter of December 25th. Yes, she has a very light touch.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
And speaking of ‘Luria,’ which grows on me the more I read, ..
how fine he is when the doubt breaks on him—I mean, where he begins .. ‘why
then, all is very well’. It is most affecting,
I think, all that process of doubt—& that reference to the friends at home
(which at once proves him a stranger, & intimates, by just a stroke, that he
will not look home for comfort out of the new foreign treason) is managed by you
with singular dramatic dexterity ....</div>
<br />
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
‘so slight, so slight</div>
And yet it tells you they are dead & gone’!–<br />
And then, the direct approach ..<br />
<br />
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
‘You now, so kind here, all you Florentines,</div>
What is it in your eyes?––'<br />
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
Do you not feel it to be success, .. ‘<i>you</i> now’? <i>I</i>
do, from my low ground as reader. The whole breaking round him of the cloud,
& the manner in which he <i>stands</i>, facing it, .. I admire it all
thoroughly. Braccio’s vindication of Florence strikes me as almost too
<i>poetically</i> subtle for the man—but nobody could have the heart to wish a
line of it away—<i>that</i> would be too much for critical virtue!–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
I had your letter yesterday morning early. The postoffice people
were so resolved on keeping their Christmas, that they would not let me keep
mine– No post all day, after that general post before noon, which never brings
me anything worth the breaking of a seal.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Am I to see you on monday? <strong>If there should be the least, least
crossing of that day, .. anything to do, anything to see, anything to listen
to—remember how tuesday stands close by, & that another monday comes on the
following week.</strong> Now I need not say <i>that</i> every time, & you will please
to remember it—Eccellenza!–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
May God bless you–</div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
Your EBB–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
From the <i>New Monthly Magazine</i>, 'The admirers of Robert
Browning’s poetry, & they are now very numerous, will be glad to hear of the
issue by Mr Moxon of a <i>seventh</i> series of the renowned Bells &
delicious Pomegranates, under the title of Dramatic Romances & Lyrics.' "</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How lightly she disposes of his rotten letter and turns him around to his higher--and she would probably say truer self. He writes today as well, quite briefly:</span></div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Saturday 4.p.m.</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
I was forced to leave off abruptly on Christmas morning—and now I
have but a few minutes before our inexorable post leaves: I hoped to return from
Town earlier. But I can say something—and Monday will make amends. 'Forever' and
forever I <i>do</i> love you, dearest—love you with my whole heart—in life, in
death–</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
___________________________________________________________</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
Yes,—I did go to Mr Kenyon’s—<strong>who had a little to forgive in my
slack justice to his good dinner</strong>—but was for the rest, his own kind self—and I
went, also, to Moxon’s—who said something about my number’s going off 'rather
heavily'—so let it!"</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Still too hung over to enjoy his dinner at Kenyon's.</span></div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"—Too good, <i>too</i>, too indulgent you are, my own Ba, to
'acts' first or last; but all the same, I am glad and encouraged. <i>Let</i> me
get done with these, and better things will follow–</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
Now, bless you, ever my sweetest—I have you ever in my thoughts–
And on Monday, remember, I am to see you–</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="CLOSE">
Your own RB"</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hopefully he will be sobered up by Monday. Men.</span></div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="ZU6">
</div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-82141180253883378192012-12-25T00:00:00.000-08:002012-12-25T00:00:02.715-08:00Decmber 25, 1845<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning sends a letter on Christmas Day:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"25th Dec.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
My dear Christmas gift of a letter! I will write back a few
lines—(all I can, having to go out now)—just that I may forever .. certainly
during our mortal 'forever'—mix my love for you, and, as you suffer me to say,
your love for me .. dearest! .. these shall be mixed with the other loves of the
day and live therein,—as I write, and trust, and know— forever! While I live I
will remember what was my feeling in reading, and in writing, and in stopping
from either .. as I have just done .. to kiss you and bless you with my whole
heart– Yes, yes, bless you, my own!</div>
<div class="CENTERRULE">
_________</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
All is right, all of your letter .. admirably right and just in
the defence of the women <strong>I <i>seemed</i> to speak against; and only
seemed</strong>—because that is a way of mine <strong>which you must have observed</strong>,—that foolish
<strong>concentrating of thought and feeling</strong>, for a moment, on some one little spot of a
character or anything else indeed, and, in the attempt to do justice and develop
whatever may seem ordinarily to be overlooked in it,—<strong>that over vehement
<i>insisting</i> on</strong>, and giving an <strong>undue prominence to</strong>, the same—which has the
effect of <strong>taking away from the importance of the rest</strong> of the related objects
<strong>which</strong>, in truth, <strong>are not considered at all</strong> .. or they would also rise
proportionally when subjected to the same (.. that is, <strong>correspondingly magnified
and dilated</strong> ..) light and concentrated feeling; so, you remember, the old
divine, <strong>preaching on 'small sins,' in his zeal to expose the tendencies &
consequences usually made little account of,</strong> was led to maintain the said <strong>small
sins to be 'greater than great ones.'</strong> <i>But then</i> .. <strong>if you look on the
world <i>altogether</i></strong>, and accept the small natures, in their usual
proportion, with the greater .. <strong>things do not look <i>quite</i> so bad</strong>; because,
the conduct which <i>is</i> atrocious in those higher <strong>cases, of proposal and
acceptance</strong>, <i>may</i> be no more than the claims of the occasion justify—(wait
and hear!)—in certain other cases where the thing sought for and granted is
avowedly less by a million degrees; it shall all be traffic, exchange-"</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have to stop him right here. Yes, I did notice that he did have this "foolish concentrating of thought and feeling" and so did everyone else and that is why no one likes his poetry. Just sayin'. But I had to pause here in mid-sentence to ask: What kind of Christmas letter is this? Has he been in the egg-nog? Out all night with the boys? He is just crazy out of control here. But let us go on or we may never make it to New Years.</span></div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
"(counting
spiritual gifts as only coin, for our purpose)—but surely <strong>the formalities and
policies and decencies all vary with the nature of the thing trafficked for</strong>—a
man makes up his mind during half his life to acquire a Pitt-diamond or a
Pilgrim-pearl—and gets witnesses and testimony and so
forth—but, surely, when I pass a shop where oranges are ticketed up seven for
six pence I offend no law by sparing all words and putting down the piece with a
certain authoritative ring on the counter: If instead of diamonds you
want—(being a king or queen)—provinces with live men on them .. there is so much
more diplomacy required,—new interests are appealed to .. high motives
<i>supposed</i>, at all events—whereas, when, in Naples, a man asks leave to
black your shoe in the dusty street 'purely for the honor of serving your
Excellency' you laugh and would be sorry to find yourself without a 'grano' or
two—(six of which, about, make a farthing)– <strong>Now, do you not see?</strong> Where so little
is to be got, why offer much more? If a man knows that .. <strong>but I am teaching you!</strong>
<strong>All I mean is, that</strong>, in Benedick’s phrase, <strong>'the world must go on'</strong>– He who honestly wants his wife to sit at
the head of his table and carve .. that is be his <i>help-meat</i> (not 'help
mete for him')—he shall assuredly find a girl of his degree who wants the
table to sit at,—and some dear friend to mortify, who <i>would</i> be glad of
such a piece of fortune—and if that man offers that woman a bunch of
orange-flowers and a sonnet, instead of a buck-horn-handled sabre-shaped knife,
sheathed in an 'Every Lady Her Own Market-Woman, Being a Table of' &c &c
<i>then</i>, I say, he is——.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
Bless you, dearest—the clock strikes—and time is none .. but ..
bless you!</div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
Your own RB"</div>
<div class="CLOSE">
</div>
<div class="CLOSE">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, Merry Christmas to you Mr. Browning. I am not at all sure that he himself knew where he was going with this. Thank heaven the clock struck. Essentially: men act the way they do to get the woman they want. From this I gather that if a man acts like a pig he will get a pig. But that is not true. A man will act like a gentleman to get a lady and be masking his true pig nature. And as for him 'teaching' Miss Barrett. No. He was lecturing but he was not teaching. Letter grade F. Now go sleep it off Mr. Browning and try again when you have sobered up.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-10741603433571352712012-12-21T00:00:00.000-08:002012-12-21T04:14:36.516-08:00December 21, 1845<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Both our poets were busy writing today; letters, not poetry. Let's hear from Browning first:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Sunday Night.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
Now, '<i>ought'</i> you to be 'sorry you sent that letter,' which
made, & makes me so happy—so happy—can you bring yourself to turn round and
tell one you have so blessed with your bounty that there was a mistake, and you
meant only half that largess? <strong>If you are not sensible that you <i>do</i> make me
most happy by such letters</strong>, and do not warm in the reflection of your own rays, <strong>
then I <i>do</i> give up indeed the last chance of procuring <i>you</i>
happiness;</strong> My own 'ought,' which
you object to, <strong>shall be withdrawn—being only a pure bit of selfishness,—I felt,
in missing the letter of yours, next day, that I <i>might</i> have drawn it down
by one of mine,—if I had begged never so gently, the gold would have
fallen—<i>there</i> was my omitted duty to myself which you properly blame</strong>– I
should stand silently and wait and be sure of the ever-remembering goodness.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>Let me count my gold</strong> now—and rub off any speck that stays the
full shining. First—<i>that thought</i> .. I told you,—I pray you, pray you,
sweet—never that again—or what leads, never so remotely or indirectly to it! On
<i>your own fancied ground</i>—the fulfilment would be of necessity fraught with
every woe that can fall in this life. I am yours for ever—if you are not
<i>here</i>, with me—what then? Say, you take all of yourself away but—just
enough to live on,—then, <i>that</i> defeats every kind purpose .. as <strong>if you cut
away all the ground from my feet</strong> but so much as serves for bare standing room ..
<strong>why still, I <i>stand</i> there</strong>—and is it the better that I have no broader
space, when off <i>that</i> you cannot force me? <strong>I have your memory, the
knowledge of you, the idea of you printed into my heart and brain,—on that, I
can live my life</strong>—but it is for you, the dear, utterly generous creature I know
you, <strong>to give me more and more beyond mere life—to extend life and deepen it—as
you do, and will do. Oh, <i>how</i> I love you when I think of the entire
truthfulness of your generosity to me</strong>—how, meaning, and willing to <i>give</i>,
<strong>you gave <i>nobly</i></strong>! Do you think I have not seen in this world how women who
<i>do</i> love will manage to confer that gift on occasion? And shall I allow
myself to fancy how much alloy such pure gold as <i>your</i> love would have
rendered endurable?– <strong>Yet it came, virgin ore, to complete my fortune! And what
but this makes me confident and happy?</strong> <i>Can</i> I <strong>take a lesson by your
fancies</strong>, and begin frightening myself with saying .. 'but <strong>if she saw all the
world—the worthier, better men there .. those who would' &c &c? </strong>No, I
think of the great, dear <i>gift</i> that it was,—how <strong>I '<i>won'</i> <span class="SMALLCAPS">nothing</span> (the hateful word, and <i>French</i> thought</strong>)—did
nothing by my own arts or cleverness in the matter .. so what pretence have the
<i>more</i> artful or more clever for—but I cannot write out this folly– <strong>I am
yours for ever, with the utmost sense of gratitude</strong>—to say I would give you my
life joyfully is little .. I would, I hope, do that for two or three other
people—but <strong>I am not conscious of any imaginable point in which I would not
implicitly devote my whole self to you—be disposed of by you as for the best.
There! It is not to be spoken of—let me <i>live</i> it into proof, beloved!"</strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He has the same misgivings about his worthiness as she does about her own, but he accepts the possibility of failure in the face of the known quantity of the love he feels. He makes a good point: she may find later that he is not her ideal as he may find with her. The unspoken point being: why throw it <em>all</em> away without even trying when the great and good may well out weigh the bad. "Let me live it into proof."</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"And for 'disappointment and a burthen' .. now—let us get quite
away from ourselves, and not see one of the filaments, but only the <i>cords</i>
of love with the world’s horny eye– <strong>Have we such jarring tastes, then?</strong> Does your
inordinate attachment to gay life interfere with my deep passion for society?
'Have they common sympathy in each other’s pursuits'—always asks Mrs
Tomkins! Well, here was I when you knew me, fixed in
my way of life, <strong>meaning with God’s help to write what may be written and so die
at peace with myself so far– Can you help me or no? Do you <i>not</i> help me</strong> so
much that, if you saw the more likely peril for poor human nature, you would
say, 'He will be jealous of all the help coming from me—none from him to
me!'—and <i>that would</i> be a consequence of the help, all-too-great for hope
of return, <strong>with any one less possessed than I with the exquisiteness of being
<i>transcended</i> and the <i>blest</i> one."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ah, "the exquisiteness of being transcended..." He was meant for her. Imagine these words having meaning for anyone else on earth.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"But—'here comes the Silah and the voice is hushed'–I will speak of other things: when we are
together one day—the days I believe in– I mean to set about that reconsidering
'Sordello'—it has always been rather on my mind—but
yesterday I was reading the 'Purgatorio' and the first speech of the group of
which Sordello makes one, struck me with a new significance, as well describing
the man and his purpose and fate in my own poem—see,—one of the burthened,
contorted souls tell Virgil & Dante,</div>
<br />
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
Noi fummo già tutti per forza morti,</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
E <i>peccatori infin’ all’ ultim’ ora</i>:</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
Q<span class="SMALLCAPS">uivi</span>—<i>lume del ciel ne fece
accorti</i>;</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
<i>Si chè, pentendo e perdonando</i>, <i>fora</i></div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
<i>Di vita uscimmo a Dio pacificati</i></div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
<i>Che del disio di se veder n’accora</i>.</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
<strong>Which is just my Sordello’s story</strong> .. could I '<i>do'</i> it off
hand, I wonder.</div>
<br />
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
And sinners were we to the extreme hour;</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
<i>Then</i>, light from heaven fell, making us aware,</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
So that, repenting us and pardoned, out</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
Of life we passed to God, at peace with Him</div>
<div class="ZNSTYLE">
Who fills the heart with yearning Him to see–</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY1">
There were many singular incidents attending my work on that
subject—thus, quite at the end, I found out there <i>was printed</i> and
<i>not</i> published, a little historical tract by a Count V—something, called
'Sordello'—with the motto “Post fata resurgam [I shall rise again]'! 'I hope he prophecied'– The main
of this—biographical notices—is extracted by Muratori—(I
think). Last year when I set foot in Naples I found after a few minutes that at
some theatre, that night, the opera was to be 'one act of Sordello'—and I never looked twice, nor expended a
couple of carlines on the <i>libretto</i>!"</div>
<div class="BODY1">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He is being haunted by 'Sordello' and yet he never does re attend 'Sordello'. Life intervened.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="BODY2">
"I wanted to tell you, in my last letter, that when I spoke of
people’s tempers <i>you</i> have no concern with 'people.' <strong>I do not glance
obliquely at <i>your</i> temper—either to discover it, or praise it, or adapt
myself to it–</strong> I speak of the relation one sees in other cases—how one opposes
passionate foolish people, but hates cold clever people who take quite care
enough of themselves: <strong>I myself am born supremely passionate—so I was born with
light yellow hair—all changes;</strong> that is the passion changes its direction and,
<strong>taking a channel large enough, looks calmer, perhaps, than it should</strong>—and all my
sympathies go with quiet strength of course—but I know what the other kind is.
As for the breakages of chairs, and the appreciation of Parisian
<i>meubles</i>,—manibus, pedibusque
descendo in tuam sententiam, Ba, mî ocelle! [I acquiese completely to your opinion, Ba, my little eye.]
('What was E.B.C?' why, the first
letter after, and <i>not</i> E.B.B, my own B! There was no latent meaning in the
C—but I had no inclination to go on to D,
or E, for instance!) And so, love, Tuesday is to be our day—one day more—and
then!. And meanwhile <strong>'<i>care'</i> </strong>for me! a good word for <i>you</i>—but
<strong><i>my</i> care, what is that! One day I aspire to <i>care</i>, though</strong>! <strong>I shall
not go away at any dear Mr K.’s coming!</strong> They call me down-stairs to supper—and
my fire is out, and you keep me from feeling cold and yet ask if I am well? Yes,
well—yes, happy—and your own ever– I must bid God bless you—dearest! RB"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Browning sees himself as passionate. I would never have guessed that. He only appears calm because his passion in spread in a wide channel. Wonderful. And to prove his passion he boldly asserts that he, "shall not go away at any dear Mr. K's. coming!" No, of course he won't. (How many times does he do that? I have lost count.)</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Miss Barrett now provides a letter the length of a novella (well, I do exaggerate a bit):</span></div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Sunday night.</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
But did I ‘dispute’? Surely not. Surely I believe in you & in
‘mysteries.’ Surely I prefer the no-reason to ever so much rationalism ..
(rationalism & infidelity go together they say!). All which I may do, &
be afraid sometimes notwithstanding—& when you overpraise me (<i>not</i>
over<i>love</i>) I must be frightened as I told you.</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
It is with me as with the theologians. I believe in you & can
be happy & safe <i>so</i>: but when my ‘personal merits’ come into question
in any way, even the least, .. why then the position grows untenable:—it is no
more ‘of grace’."</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hmm..Browning as a Christ like figure..and she is only worthy via grace...perhaps mildly blasphemous, but as a simple analogy quite apt.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"Do I teaze you? as I teaze myself sometimes? But do not wrong me
in turn! <strong>Do not keep repeating that ‘after long years’ I shall know you—know
you!—as if I did not without the years. If you are forced to refer me to those
long years, I must deserve the thistles besides. The thistles are the
corollary."</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She has already had the thistles, let her jump to the chase.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"For it is obvious .. manifest .. that <strong>I cannot doubt of you</strong>—that
<strong>I may doubt of myself</strong>, of happiness, of the whole world, .. but of <span class="SMALLCAPS">you</span> .. <span class="SMALLCAPS">not</span>: <strong>it is obvious that if I could doubt of you
& <i>act so</i> I should be a very idiot, or worse indeed.</strong> And <i>you</i> ..
you think I doubt of you whenever I make an interjection!—now do you not? And is
it reasonable?– Of <i>you</i>, I mean?<br />
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
<i>Monday</i>/ For my part, <strong>you must admit it to be too possible
that you may be, as I say, ‘disappointed’ in me—it <i>is</i> too possible.</strong> And
if it does no good to say so, even now perhaps .. <strong>if it is mere weakness to say
so & simply torments you, why do <i>you</i> be magnanimous & forgive
<i>that</i> .. let it pass as a weakness & forgive it <i>so</i>. </strong>Often I
think painful things <strong>which I do not tell you</strong> & ........<br />
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
While I write, your letter
comes. Kindest of you it was, to write me such a letter, when I expected
scarcely the shadow of one!—this makes up for the other letter which I expected
unreasonably & which you ‘<i>ought not</i>’ to have written, as was proved
afterwards– And now why should I go on with that sentence? What had I to say of
'painful things,' I wonder? All the painful things seem gone .. vanished—I
forget what I had to say– Only do you still think of this, dearest beloved,—that
<strong>I sit here in the dark but for <i>you</i>, & that the light you bring me
(</strong>from <i>my</i> fault!—from the nature of <i>my</i> darkness!) is not a settled
light as when you open the shutters in the morning, but <strong>a light made by candles
which burn some of them longer & some shorter, & some brighter &
briefer, both at once, being ‘double-wicks’, & that there is an intermission
for a moment now & then between the dropping of the old light into the
socket & the lighting of the new– Every letter of yours is a new light which
burns so many hours .. & <i>then</i>!– I am morbid, you see—or call it by
what name you like</strong> .. too wise or too foolish. 'If the light of the body is
darkness, how great is that darkness.' Yet
even when I grow too wise, <strong>I admit always that while you love me it is an answer
to all.</strong> And I am never so much too foolish as to wish to be worthier for my own
sake—only for yours!—not for my own sake, since I am content to owe all things
to you."</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She may be morbid, but she certainly knows herself. Her analogy of the light that comes and goes is perfect.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"And it could be so much to you to lose me!,—& <strong>you say
so</strong>,—& <span class="SMALLCAPS">then</span> think it needful to tell me not to
think the other thought.!! As if <i>that</i> were possible! Do you remember what
you said once of the flowers .. that you ‘felt a respect for them when they had
passed out of your hands’? and must it not be so with my life, which if you
choose to have it, must be respected too? Much more with my life!– Also, see
that I, who had my warmest affections on the other side of the grave, feel that
it is otherwise with me now—quite otherwise. <strong>I did not like it at first to be so
much otherwise</strong>. And I could not have had any such thought through a weariness of
life or any of my old motives, but simply to escape the ‘risk’ I told you of.
<strong>Should I have said to you instead of it .. '<i>Love me for ever'</i>?—— Well then, .. I <i>do</i>–"</strong></div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Love me forever" is the (ironic) refrain from Browning's just published poem </span><a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/earth-s-immortalities/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Earth's Immortalities"</span></a>. <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But she said it! Kind of. She used the word 'love'. It is a quote and she is laughing at him, but she essentially said she loved him. She is progressing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"As to my ‘helping’ you, <strong>my help is in your fancy</strong>,—& if you go
on with the fancy, I perfectly understand that it will be as good as deeds. <strong>We
<i>have</i> sympathy too—we walk one way</strong>—oh, I do not forget the advantages. <strong>
Only Mrs Tomkins’s ideas of happiness are below my ambition for you——</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
So often as I have said, (it reminds me) that <strong>in this situation I
should be more exacting than any other woman</strong>—so often I have said it!—& so
different everything is from what I thought it would be! Because <strong>if I am
exacting it is for <i>you</i> & not for <i>me</i></strong>—it is altogether for
<i>you</i>—you understand <i>that</i>, dearest of all .. it is for <span class="SMALLCAPS">you</span> <i>wholly</i>. <strong>It never crosses my thought, in a
lightning even, the question whether I may be happy</strong> so & so—<i>I</i>. It is
the other question which comes always—too often for peace.<br />
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
People used to say to me, 'You expect too much—you are too
romantic'– And my answer always was that 'I could not expect too much when I
expected nothing at all' .. which was the truth—for I never thought (& how
often I have <i>said that</i>!) <strong>I never thought that anyone whom <i>I</i> could love, would stoop to love <span class="SMALLCAPS">me</span> .. the two things seemed clearly incompatible to my
understanding.</strong><br />
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>And now when it comes in a miracle, you wonder at me for looking
twice, thrice, four times</strong>, to see if it comes through ivory or <i>horn</i>– You wonder that it should seem to me at
first all illusion—illusion for you, .. illusion for me as a consequence. But
how natural–.<br />
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
It is true of me .. very true .. that <strong>I have not a high
appreciation of what passes in the world</strong> (& not merely the Tomkins-world!)
<strong>under the name of love, & that a distrust of the thing had grown to be a
habit of mind with me when I knew you first.</strong> It has appeared to me, through all
the seclusion of my life & the narrow experience it admitted of, that in <strong>
nothing, men .. & women too!, .. were so apt to mistake their own feelings,
as in this one thing.</strong> Putting <i>falseness</i> quite on one side, .. quite out
of sight & consideration, .. <strong>an honest mistaking of feeling appears
wonderfully common</strong>—& <strong>no mistake has such frightful results</strong>—none can.
<strong>Selflove & generosity, a mistake may come from either—from pity, from
admiration, from any blind impulse</strong>——oh, when I look at the histories of my own
female friends .. to go no step further!– And if it is true of the <i>women</i>,
what must the other side be? <strong>To see the marriages which are made everyday! worse
than solitudes & more desolate!</strong> In the case of the <strong>two happiest I ever knew,
one of the husbands said</strong> in confidence to a brother of mine—not much in
confidence or I should not have heard it, but in a sort of smoking frankness, ..
<strong>that he had 'ruined his prospects by marrying,'</strong>—& the other said to myself
at the very moment of professing an extraordinary happiness, … <strong>'But I should
have done as well if I had not married <i>her</i>.'</strong><br />
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
Then for the falseness——the first time I ever, in my own
experience, heard that word which rhymes to glove & comes as easily off
& on, (on some hands!) .. it was from a man
of whose attentions to another woman I was at that <i>time her confidante</i>. I
was bound so to silence for her sake, that I could not even speak the scorn that
was in me—and in fact my uppermost feeling was a sort of horror .. a terror—<strong>for
I was very young then, & the world did, at the moment, look ghastly!"</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not many happy endings does she have to report. Perhaps she needs to get out more.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
The falseness & the calculations!—why how can you who are
<span class="SMALLCAPS">just</span>, <i>blame women</i> .. when you must know what
the 'system' of men is towards them,—& of men not ungenerous otherwise? <strong>Why
are women to be blamed if they act as if they had to do with swindlers?—is it
not the mere instinct of preservation which makes them do it? Men make women
what they are.</strong> And your ‘honorable men’, the most loyal of them, .. (for
instance) .. is it not a rule with them (unless when taken unaware through a
want of selfgovernment) to force a woman (trying all means) to force a woman to
stand committed in her affections .. (they with their feet lifted all the time
to trample on her for want of delicacy—) <strong>before <i>they</i> risk the pin-prick
to their own personal pitiful vanities?</strong> Oh—to see how these things are set about
by <i>men</i>! to see how a man carefully holding up on each side the skirts of
an embroidered vanity to keep it quite safe from the wet, <strong>will contrive to tell
you in so many words that he … might love you if the sun shone! And women are to
be blamed!–</strong> Why there are, to be sure, cold & heartless, light &
changeable, ungenerous & calculating women in the world!—that is sure. But
for the most part, they are only what they are made—& far better than the
nature of the making .. of that I am confident. The loyal make the loyal, the
disloyal the disloyal. And I give no more discredit to those women you speak of,
<strong>than I myself can take any credit in this thing—I– Because who could be disloyal
with <span class="SMALLCAPS">you</span> .. with whatever corrupt inclination?
<i>You</i>, who are the noblest of all? If you judge me so, .. it is my
privilege rather than my merit</strong> .. as I feel of myself."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She went on a little rant there didn't she? She makes good points however, the books <em>were</em> cooked in favor of the men. Their peccadillo's could be forgiven, overlook and even found amusing, but for a woman to step out of the social norms of the time was dangerous indeed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
<i>"Wednesday</i>/ All but the last few lines of all this was
written <strong>before I saw you yesterday</strong>, ever dearest—& since, <strong>I have been
reading your third act which is perfectly noble & worthy of you both in the
conception & expression</strong>, & carries the reader on triumphantly .. to
speak for one reader. It seems to me too that the language is freer—<strong>there is
less inversion & more breadth of rhythm</strong>. It just strikes me so for the first
impression: At any rate the interest grows & grows. You have a secret about
Domizia, I guess—which will not be told till the last perhaps. And that poor,
noble Luria, who will be equal to the leap .. as it is easy to see. It is full,
altogether, of magnanimities:—noble,—& nobly put. I will go on with my
notes, or those, you shall have at once .. I mean together .. presently. And dont hurry & chafe yourself for
the fourth act—now that you are better! To be ill again—think what that would
be!– Luria will be great now whatever you do—or whatever you do <i>not</i>.
Will he not?<br />
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<strong>And never, never for a moment (I quite forgot to tell you) did I
fancy that you were talking at <i>me</i> in the temper-observations—never.</strong> It
was the most unprovoked egotism, all that I told you of my temper,—for certainly
I never suspected you of asking questions so. <strong>I was simply amused a little by
what you said, & thought to myself (if you <i>will</i> know my thoughts on
that serious subject) that you had probably lived among very goodtempered
persons, to hold such an opinion about the innocuousness of illtemper.</strong> It was
all I thought, indeed. Now to fancy that I was capable of suspecting you of such
a maneuvre!—— <strong>Why you would have <i>asked</i> me directly,—if you had wished
‘curiously to enquire.’ "</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't think he would have asked her directly. They are both rather shy in the asking and telling department.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
"An excellent solemn chiming, the passage from Dante makes with
your Sordello—and the Sordello <strong><i>deserves</i> the labour which it needs, to
make it appear the great work it is</strong>. I think that the principle of association
is too subtly in movement throughout it—so that <i>while</i> you are going
straightforward you go at the same time round & round, until the progress
involved in the motion is lost sight of by the lookers on. Or did I tell you
that before?<br />
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
You have heard, I suppose, how Dickens’s ‘Cricket’ sells by
nineteen thousand copies at a time, though he takes Michael Angelo to be ‘a
humbug’ .. or for 'though' read 'because'. Tell
me of Mr Kenyon’s dinner. And Moxon?<br />
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
Is not this an infinite letter? I shall hear from you I hope .. <strong>I
<i>ask</i> you to let me hear soon</strong>. I write all sorts of things to you, rightly
& wrongly perhaps—<strong>when wrongly, forgive it</strong>. I think of you always– May God
bless you. <strong>'Love me for ever,'</strong> as</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="CLOSE">
Your Ba"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think she got her wish.</span></div>
The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5563296616443251885.post-88536282225644053562012-12-20T00:00:00.000-08:002012-12-20T00:00:19.458-08:00December 20, 1845<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let's begin with Miss Barrett's response to Browning's letter of the 19th--she had teazed him about not writing to her but now takes it back with a truism understood by all purveyors of teaze: if she had meant it she would not have written it.</span><br />
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<div class="RIGHT2">
"Saturday.</div>
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<div class="BODY1">
I have your letter now, & now I am sorry I sent mine. If I
wrote that you had 'forgotten to write,' I did not mean it,—not a word! <strong>If I had
meant it I should not have written it.</strong> But it would have been better for every
reason to have waited just a little longer before writing at all. <strong>A besetting
sin of mine is an impatience which makes people laugh when it does not entangle
their silks, pull their knots tighter, & tear their books in cutting them
open.</strong></div>
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<div class="BODY2">
How right you are about Mr Lowell!– He has a refined fancy &
is graceful <strong>for an American critic</strong>, but the truth is, otherwise, that <strong>he knows
nothing of English poetry or the next thing to nothing</strong>, & has merely had a
dream of the early dramatists. <strong>The amount of his reading in that direction is an
article in the Retrospective Review which contains extracts,—& he re-extracts the extracts,
re-quotes the quotations,</strong> &, ‘a pede Herculem [from the foot of Hercules],’ from
the foot infers the man, or rather from the sandal-string of the foot, <strong>infers
& judges the soul of the man</strong>—<strong>it is comparative anatomy under the most
speculative conditions.</strong> How a writer of his talents & pretentions could make
up his mind <strong>to make up a book on such slight substratum, is a curious proof of
the state of literature in America. Do you not think so?</strong> Why <strong>a lecturer on the
English Dramatists for a 'Young Ladies’ Academy' here in England, might take it
to be necessary to have better information than he could gather from an odd
volume of an old review</strong>! And then, Mr Lowell’s <strong>naïveté in showing his authority</strong>,
.. as if the Elizabethan poets lay mouldering in inaccessible manuscript
somewhere below the lowest deep of Shakespeare’s grave, .. is curious beyond the
rest!– Altogether, the fact is <strong>an epigram on the surface-literature of America.
As you say, their books do not suit us:—</strong>Mrs Markham might as well send her
compendium of the History of France to M. Thiers– <strong>If
they <i>knew</i> more, they could not give parseley crowns to their own native
poets, when there is greater merit among the rabbits</strong>. Mrs Sigourney has just
sent me, .. just this morning .. her <strong>'Scenes in my native land'</strong>—&, peeping between the uncut leaves, <strong>I
read of the poet Hillhouse, of 'sublime spirit
& Miltonic energy,' standing in 'the temple of Fame' as if it were built on
purpose for him!– I suppose he is like most of the American poets .. who are
shadows of the true .. as flat as a shadow, as colourless as a shadow, as
lifeless & as transitory</strong>. Mr Lowell himself is, in his verse-books,
poetical, if not a poet—& certainly this little book we are talking of, is
graceful enough in some ways—you would call it a <i>pretty book</i>—would you
not? Two or three letters I have had from him .. all very kind!—&
<i>that</i> reminds me, alas! of some ineffable ingratitude on my own part! When
one’s conscience grows too heavy, there is nothing for it but to throw it
away!——"</div>
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</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Miss Barrett is hard on the Americans today. I do not take exception to her comments, what do I know? But methinks her comments are true today of any and all: people do not study things to know, they read extracts of extracts and assume 'knowledge'. You can tell this from reading almost any biography of the Browning's. My advise: go to the primary material and read, don't rely on the biographies-or just rely on them as a starting place.</span></div>
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<div class="BODY2">
"Do you remember how I tried to tell you what he said of you,
<strong>& how you would not let me?</strong></div>
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<div class="BODY2">
Mr Mathews said of <i>him</i> .. having met him once in society,
.. that he was the concentration of conceit in appearance & manner. But
since then, they seem to be on better terms.</div>
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<div class="BODY2">
Where is the meaning, pray, of EB<i>C</i>?—<i>your</i> meaning, I
mean.?</div>
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<div class="BODY2">
My true initials are <i>EBMB</i>—my long name, as opposed to my
short one, being … Elizabeth Barrett Moulton Barrett!—there’s a full length to take away one’s
breath!– Christian name .. Elizabeth Barrett:—surname, Moulton Barrett. So long
it is, that to make it portable, I fell into the habit of doubling it up &
packing it closely, .. & of forgetting that I was a <i>Moulton</i>,
altogether. One might as well write the alphabet as all four initials. Yet our
family-name is <i>Moulton Barrett</i>, & my brothers reproach me sometimes
for sacrificing the governorship of an old town in Norfolk with a little
honorable verdigris from the Heralds’ Office– As if I cared for the
<i>Retrospective Review</i>! <strong>Nevertheless it is
true that I would give ten towns in Norfolk (if I had them) to own some purer
lineage than that of the blood of the slave!– Cursed we are from generation to
generation!</strong>– I seem to hear the ‘Commination service’.</div>
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<div class="BODY2">
May God bless you always, always!—<strong>beyond the always of this
world</strong>!——</div>
<br />
<div class="CLOSE">
Your EBB—</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
Mr Dickens’s ‘Cricket’ sings repetitions, &, with
considerable beauty, is extravagant– <strong>It does not appear to me by any means one
of his most successful productions, though quite free from what was reproached
as bitterness & one-sidedness, last year.</strong></div>
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<div class="BODY1">
___________________________________________________________</div>
<br />
<div class="BODY3">
You do not say how you are—not a word!– And you are wrong in
saying that you '<i>ought</i> to have written'—as if 'ought' could be in place
<i>so</i>! <strong>You <i>never</i> ‘<i>ought</i>’ <i>to write to me, you know</i>! or
rather .. if you ever think you ought, you ought not! Which is a speaking of
mysteries on my part!"</strong></div>
<div class="BODY3">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I took it upon myself to look at the original letter as filmed on the Baylor website and it seems to me that Miss Barrett had rather shaky penmanship today. The letter itself seems fine as far as content goes, certainly it does not contain her usual morbidity. Hmmm...perhaps she was simply not feeling well or was in need of her laudanum.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Browning writes responding to her letter of December 18 wherein she had written that she would rather die now than disappoint him later:</span></div>
<div class="BODY3">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"></span> </div>
<div class="RIGHT2">
"Saturday. </div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY1">
I do not, nor will not think, dearest, of ever 'making you
happy'– I can imagine no way of working to that end, which does not go straight
to my own truest, only true happiness: yet in every such effort there is implied
some distinction, some supererogatory grace, or why speak of it at all?
<strong><i>You</i> it is, are my happiness, and all that ever can be: <span class="SMALLCAPS">you</span>—dearest!</strong></div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
But never, if you would not .. what you will not do, I know ..
<strong>never revert to <i>that</i> frightful wish—'Disappoint me?'</strong> 'I speak what I know
and testify what I have seen'—you shall say
'mystery' again & again—I do not dispute that—but do not <i>you</i> dispute,
neither, that mysteries <i>are</i>: but it is simply because I do most justice
to the mystical part of what I feel for you, because I consent to lay most
stress on <strong>that fact of facts that I love you, beyond admiration, and respect,
and esteem and affection, even</strong>—<strong>and do not adduce any reason</strong> which stops short of
accounting for <i>that</i>, whatever else it would account for .. because I do
this, in pure logical justice—<strong><i>you</i> are able to turn and wonder</strong> (.. if you
<i>do</i> .. <i>now</i>) <strong>what causes it all!</strong> My love, <strong>only wait</strong>, only believe in
me—and it cannot be but <strong>I shall, little by little, become known to you</strong>—<strong>after
long years perhaps</strong>, but still one day. I <i>would</i> say <i>this</i> now—but I
will write more to-morrow– God bless my sweetest—ever, love, I am your RB</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY3">
But my letter came last night, did it not?</div>
<div class="BODY3">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<Another thing [this is scratched out]> no,
<i>tomorrow</i>—for time presses, and, in all cases,
<i>Tuesday</i>—remember!"</div>
<div class="BODY2">
</div>
<div class="BODY2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wonderful strategy that he did not berate her for saying that she would rather die than disappoint, he just refers to it as 'frightful'; he simply reiterates that he loves her and allows for miracles. And she was worried about teazing him about not writing. </span></div>
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The Barrett Browning Bloggerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01351063107274179812noreply@blogger.com0