September 7

There will be no visit to Wimpole Street September 7, 1846 because Browning is sick in bed. So Miss Barrett writes a letter instead:

"Monday morning.

Ever, ever dearest, how was it that without presentiment of evil I got up this morning in the good spirits of ‘our days’, hoping to see you, believing to see you, & feeling that it would be greater happiness than usual?– The sight of your letter, even, did not provoke the cloud—that was only the lesser joy, I thought, preceding the greater! And smiling to myself I was, both last night & this morning, at your phrase about the 'business' to be talked by the 'grave man & woman',—understanding your precaution against all unlawful jesting!—jesters forbidden in the protocol!– And then, at last, to be made so suddenly grave & sad even——! How am I to be comforted, my own dearest?– No way, except by your being really better, really well—in order to which I shall not let you come as soon as wednesday: it will not be wise for you to leave your bed for a journey into London!– Rather you should be very quiet, & keep in the garden at farthest. Take care of yourself, dearest dearest, & if you think of me & love me, show it in that best way. And I praise you, praise you,—nay, I thank you & am grateful to you for every such proof of love, more than for other kinds of proof,—I will love you for it, my beloved! Now judge—shall I be able to help thinking of you every moment of the day? Could I help it, if I tried? In return, therefore, you will attend to the orders, submit to the discipline——ah but, will not the leaving off all food but milk, weaken you out of measure? I am uneasy about that milk-diet for you, who always seem to me to want support, & something to stimulate– You will promise to tell me everything—will you, dearest?—whether better or worse, stronger or weaker, you will tell me? And if you should be too unwell to write, as may God forbid, your sister will write—she will have that great goodness?– Let it be so, I beseech you–"

 

I seriously doubt that Browning needs anything to stimulate him. He seems pretty stimulated as it is. He should stick with the milk, it will clean out his over-stimulated system.

 

"But you will be better——oh, I mean to hope stedfastly toward your being better, & toward the possibility of our meeting before the week ends. And as for this day lost, it is not of importance except in our present thoughts—soon you will have more than enough of me, you know– For I am in earnest & not a jester au fond [in fact], & am ready to do just as you bid me & think best– Which I tell you now, that you may not be vexed at a shadow, after my own fashion—. May God bless you—'and me in you'. Have I not leave to say that, too, since I feel it more than you could, .. (more intensely .. I do not say more sincerely ..) when you used it first?– My happiness & life are in you,—I am your very own Ba–

Your mother—how is she?– Mind, you get an amusing book .. something to amuse only, & not use you– Do you know the ‘Mathilde’ of Sue? I shall write again tonight."

 

So Browning, lying on his death bed (ahem), writes to his lady, between sips of milk:

 

"I had the greatest mind, when your letter came—(the most welcome of all letters—so much more than I could expect!)—to get up at once and be well in your dearest eyes or thro’ them—but I checked myself and thought that I ought to be contented with one such a letter thro’ whole long weeks of annoyance, instead of one day more.

I am delighted to know Flush is with you, if I am not. Did you remember my petition about him? But, dearest, it was very imprudent to go to those disgusting wretches yourself—they have had a pretty honor without knowing it!

Here I lie with a dizzy head—unable to read more than a page or two .. there is something in the unwonted position that tires me—but whenever the book is left off, I turn to the dark side of the room and see you, my very own Ba,—and so I am soon better and able to try again.

How hot, and thunder-like, this oppressive air! And you who are affected by such weather? Tell me, my dearest dearest, all you can tell me—since the real lips and eyes are away–

Bless you, my beloved– Remember, I count upon seeing you on Wednesday at farthest–

Your own RB"

 

Yeah, he is faking. Well, I don't know for sure, just a feeling I have. Or he is drying out after a toot on the town.

 

As promised, Miss Barrett writes again:

 

 

"How unwell you are, dearest beloved!– Ah no! It is not 'the position that tires you', it is the illness that incapacitates you. And you to think of getting up & coming here .. you!– Now, for my sake, for both our sakes, you must & shall be patient & quiet, & remember how my thoughts are with you conjuring you continually to quiet– As to the reading, .. you see it makes you dizzy,—and to provoke that sensation cannot plainly be right: and you will be right always, will you not, for my sake, dearest of all? And for the coming here on wednesday, .. no, no, I say again,——you ought not to do it, & you shall not: we will see how you are, later in the week,—but for wednesday, certainly no– That violent transition from the bed to the omnibus, would be manifestly wrong. Also I can be quite satisfied without seeing you, if I may but hear of your being well again. I wonder today how yesterday I was impatient about not having seen you so long. Oh, be well, be well, dearest! There is no need of your being ill to prove to me how I love you entirely, how I love you only!–

For Flush, I did your commission, kissing the top of his head: then I took the kiss back again because it seemed too good for him just now– And you shall not say that you 'are glad he is with me if you are not': it is more to Flush’s disadvantage, that phrase is, than all your theories which pretended to leave him with the dogstealers. How can I be glad of any one’s being with me, if you are not? And how should you be glad for anything, if I am not? Flush & I know our logic better than to accept that congratulation of yours, with the spike pricking us out of it.

So hot, indeed, today!– If you thought of me, I thought of you through it all. This close air cannot be good for you while you are shut up—. But I have not been shut up. I went out in the carriage & bought a pair of boots for Italy, besides the shoes—because, you see, we shall have such long walks in the forest after the camels, & it wont do to go in one’s slippers. Does not that sound like “a grave woman”? You need not make laws against the jesters, after all!– You need only be well.!– And, gravely, quite gravely, is it not likely that going to Italy, that travelling, & putting an end to all the annoyances which lately have grown up out of our affairs, will do you good, substantial good, in this chief matter of your health? It seems so to me sometimes– You are always well, you say, in Italy, & when you get there once again—— But in the meanwhile, try to be a little better, my own dearest!– I cannot write to you except about you tonight– The subject is too near me– I am under the shadow of the wall, & cannot see over it. Tomorrow, I shall hear more, & trust to you to tell me the whole, unmutilated truth– May God bless you, as I would, I in my weakness!– For the best blessing on your part, Love your own Ba–

And do not tire yourself with writing. The least line—three words .. I beseech you not to let me do you harm."

 

Well, I doubt she is going to get the 'unmutilated truth' from him: 'My darling, I was so angry about constantly being interrupted by Mr. Kenyon and the way you put everyone else ahead of me that I went out and got drunk for several days and had to take a rest cure to get dried out.' However, her words about going to Italy for his health will probably cause a miraculous healing. We await further developments.

 

 

September 6

On September 6, 1846 Browning continues unwell and writes to cancel their visit:

"No, dearest, I am not to see you tomorrow for all the happiness of the permission! It seems absurd, but perhaps the greater absurdity would be a refusal to submit, under circumstances– You shall hear. I got up with the old vertiginousness, or a little worse—and so, as I had in that case determined, went to consult my doctor. He thinks he finds the root of the evil and can remove it, 'if I have patience enough'– So I promised .. expecting something worthy that preamble—whereas I am bidden go to bed and keep there for a day or two—from this Sunday till Wednesday morning—taking nothing but a sip of medicine I can’t distinguish from water, thrice a day—and milk at discretion—no other food! The mild queerness of it is amusing, is it not? 'And for this fine piece of self denial,' says he 'you shall be quite well by the week’s end'. 'But may I go to town on Wednesday'?– 'Yes'.

Now, Ba, my own Ba, you know how often I have to sorrowfully disclaim all the praises your dearest kindness would attach to me; this time, if you will praise me a little for obeying you, I will take the praise .. for the truth of truths is, that I said at once to myself—'have I a right to avoid anything which promises to relieve Her from this eternal account of aches and pains'? So here am I writing, leaning on my elbow, in bed,—as I never wrote before I think—and perhaps my head is a little better, or I fancy so– Mind, I may read, or write,—only in bed I must lie, because there is some temperature to be kept up in the skin, or some other cause as good—'for reasons, for reasons'–

—'The milk' answers Ba, 'is exactly to correct the superabundant gall of bitterness which overflowed lately about Flush'– So it is, my own Ba—and for Flush, the victim of a principle, he is just saved from a sickness by cakes I meditated as a joy-offering on his safe return. Will you, among the other kisses, give him one for me? And save yet another for your own RB

How I shall need your letters, dearest!"

 

My dear bloggeteers, I must confess a bit of cynicism seeped into my mind on first reading this last series of letters regarding Browning's illness. On first reading I felt that Browning was not physically ill at all. I felt he was angry about always being second in Miss Barrett's life. He was second to Papa Barrett, second to the aunt, uncle and cousins and most of all second to the ubiquitous Mr. Kenyon. And when he finally gets to see her they are interrupted. He has quite a fit of pique about that, just about calms down and Flush is taken and he blows another gasket which makes him so upset (sick) that she can see it in his handwriting. She talks him off that roof and juggles getting Flush back at the same time. So, whether he is physically ill or an emotional wreck, I am not sure. Isn't it odd that the cure for this ailment is bed rest while previously it was vigorous exercise? But I was tempted to believe that he was not ill at all but angry and frustrated. Was he staying away to punish her or in an attempt to calm himself? I do not speculate. It is probably for the best that he did stay away, for whatever reason. I suspect that part of the reason that I am coming around to the idea that he really was ill is that fact that he didn't come himself to try and rescue Flush. I mean, why wouldn't he? Even if he didn't have the required 10 pounds he surely could have borrowed it from his father. Isn't dog rescue on the job resume for fiances?

 

Now let's hear of the 'Negotiations for the Return of Flush' from Miss Barrett:

 

 

"Not well—not well!– But I shall see you with my own eyes soon after you read what I write today,—so I shall not write much—. Only a few words to tell you that Flush is found, & lying on the sofa, with one paw & both ears hanging over the edge of it. Still my visit to Taylor was not the successful one. My hero was not at home–

I went, you know, .. did I tell you? .. with Wilson in the cab. We got into obscure streets,—& our cabman stopped at a public house to ask his way. Out came two or three men, .. 'Oh, you want to find Mr Taylor, I dare say'! (mark that no name had been mentioned!) & instantly an unsolicited philanthropist ran before us to the house, & out again to tell me that the great man 'was’nt at home! but would’nt I get out?' Wilson, in an aside of terror, entreated me not to think of such a thing—she believed devoutly in the robbing & murdering, & was not reassured by the gang of benevolent men & boys who 'lived but to oblige us' all round the cab– 'Then would’nt I see Mrs Taylor,' suggested the philanthropist:—and, notwithstanding my negatives, he had run back again and brought an immense feminine bandit, .. fat enough to have had an easy conscience all her life, .. who informed me that 'her husband might be in, in a few minutes, or in so many hours—would’nt I like to get out & wait'– (Wilson pulling at my gown) (—The philanthropist echoing the invitation of the feminine Taylor.) —'No, I thanked them all—it was not necessary that I should get out, but it was, that Mr Taylor should keep his promise about the restoration of a dog which he had agreed to restore .. & I begged her to induce him to go to Wimpole Street in the course of the day, & not defer it any longer'– To which, replied the lady, with the most gracious of smiles .. 'Oh yes certainly!—and indeed she did believe that Taylor had left home precisely on that business'——poising her head to the right & left with the most easy grace– 'She was sure that Taylor wd give his very best attention'....…

So, in the midst of the politeness, we drove away, & Wilson seemed to be of opinion that we had escaped with our lives barely. Plain enough it was, that the gang was strong there. The society .. the 'Fancy' .. had their roots in the ground. The faces of those men!–"

 

Was not that a scene straight out of Dickens?

 

"I had not been at home long, when Mr Taylor did actually come—desiring to have six guineas confided to his honour!! .. & promising to bring back the dog. I sent down the money, & told them to trust the gentleman’s honour, as there seemed no other way for it—: & while the business was being concluded, in came Alfred, & straightway called our ‘honorable friend’ (meeting him in the passage) a swindler and a liar & a thief. Which no gentleman could bear, of course. Therefore with reiterated oaths he swore, 'as he hoped to be saved, we should never see our dog again'—& rushed out of the house. Followed a great storm. I was very angry with Alfred, who had no business to risk Flush’s life for the sake of the satisfaction of trying on names which fitted. Angry I was with Alfred, & terrified for Flush,—seeing at a glance the probability of his head being cut off as the proper vengeance!—& down stairs I went with the resolution of going again myself to Mr Taylor’s in Manning Street, or Shoreditch wheron it was, & saving the victim at any price. It was the evening, getting dusk—& everybody was crying out against me for being ‘quite mad’ & obstinate, & wilful—— I was called as many names as Mr Taylor. At last, Set said that he would do it, promised to be as civil as I could wish, & got me to be 'in a good humour & go up to my room again'. And he went instead of me, & took the money & fair words, & induced the ‘man of honour’ to forfeit his vengeance & go & fetch the dog– Flush arrived here at eight oclock, (at the very moment with your letter, dearest!–) & the first thing he did was to dash up to this door, & then to drink his purple cup full of water, filled three times over. He was not so enthusiastic about seeing me, as I expected—he seemed bewildered & frightened—and whenever anyone said to him 'Poor Flush, did the naughty men take you away?', he put up his head & moaned & yelled. He has been very unhappy certainly. Dirty he is, & much thinner, & continually he is drinking. Six guineas, was his ransom—& now I have paid twenty for him to the dogstealers."

 

Why are men continually messing about with her plans? I think that Flush probably thought his lady was mad at him for something he had done and that was why he was punished. Dogs think that if something 'bad' happens to them it is because they have done something wrong and act sheepish because they think you are mad at them.

 

"Arabel says that I wanted you yesterday, she thought, to manage me a little. She thought I was suddenly siezed with madness, to prepare to walk out of the house in that state of excitement & that hour of the evening. But now—was I to let them cut off Flush’s head?"

 

That Arabel, what a teazer. Truth be revealed Miss Barrett didn't need Browning to manage her. She could have taken care of the whole thing herself if all the men had kept out of it.

 

"There! I have told you the whole history of yesterday’s adventures—& tomorrow I shall see you, my own dear, dear!– Only remember for my sake, not to come if you are not fit to come– Dearest, remember not to run any hazards!– That dinner!—which I will blame, because it deserves it!,— .. Mind not to make me be as bad as that dinner, in being the means of working you harm!– So I expect you tomorrow conditionally .. if you are well enough!—& I thank you for the kind dear letter, welcome next to you, .. being ever & ever your own Ba–

I have been to the vestry again today .."

 

And through it all she is still taking outings. She'll be going to organ recitals next. She has not yet received Browning's letter cancelling their meeting the next day. More letters to come instead.

 

 

September 5

We begin with Miss Barrett on September 5, 1846:

"Saturday morning

Dearest, I write just a few lines that you may know me for thinking of you tomorrow– Flush has not come & I am going on a voyage of discovery myself,—Henry being far too lukewarm. He says I may be robbed & murdered before the time for coming back, in which case remember that it is not my fault that I do not go with you to Pisa.

Just now came a kind little note from dear Mr Kenyon, who will not come, he says, Flush being away, & has set out on his travels, meaning not to come back for a week– So I might have seen you after all, today!– My comfort is, that it is good for you, beloved, to be quiet, & that coming through the sun might have made your head suffer– How my thoughts are with you—how all day they never fall off from you! I shall have my letter tonight through your dear goodness, which is a lamp hung up for me to look towards. Aladdin’s, did you say? Yes, Aladdin’s.

As to being afraid of you ever——once, do you know, I was quite afraid .. in a peculiar sense—as when it thunders, I am afraid .. or a little different from that even, or, oh yes, very different from that. Now it is changed .. the feeling is—and I am not afraid even so—except sometimes of losing your affection by some fault of my own– I am not afraid that it should be a fault of yours, remember. I trust you for goodness to the uttermost—& I know perfectly that if you did not love me (supposing it) you are one who would be ashamed for a woman to fear you, as some women fear some men– For me, I could not, you know—I know you too well & love you too perfectly, & everybody can tell what perfect love casts out.

So you need not have done with me for that reason! Understand it."

 

If, after they are married, he becomes disillusioned with his wife he can never say that she did not warn him. He has had ongoing and endless warnings from Miss Barrett that she will disappoint him, in some unnamed way.

"And if I shall not be slain by the “society”, you shall be written to again tonight– Ah—say in the letter I am to have, that you are better!—— And you are to come on monday—dear, dearest! Mind that!

Your Ba–

Come back safe, but without Flush——I am to have him tonight though".

 

Our timid Miss Barrett went into the lions den of Whitechapel to regain Flush. This should be a good story. And now we hear from Browning:

 

 

"Dearest Ba, I feel your perfect goodness at my heart– I can say nothing–

—Nor write very much more: my head still teazes, rather than pains me. Don’t lay more of it to the dinner than necessary: I got my sister to write a letter deprecatory of all pressing to eat and drink and such mistaken hospitality—to the end that I might sit unpitied, uncondoled with, and be an eyesore to nobody—which succeeded so well that I eat some mutton and drank wine & water without let or molestation: our party was reduced to three, by a couple of defections—but there was an immense talking and I dare say this continuance of my ailment is partly attributable to it– —I shall be quiet now—I tell you the simple truth, that you may believe—and this also believe, that it would have done me great good to go to you this morning: if I could lean my head on your neck, what could pain it, dear—dear Ba?

I am sorry poor Flush is not back again—very sorry. But no one would hurt him, be quite sure .. his mere value prevents that–

Shall I see you on Monday then? This is the first time since we met at the beginning, that a whole week, from a Sunday to a Saturday, has gone by without a day for us. Well—I trust you are constant .. nay, you are constant to your purpose of leaving at the end of this month– When we meet next, let us talk of our business, like the grave man and woman we are going to become. Mr K. will be away—how fortunate that is! We need implicate nobody. And in the end the reasonableness of what we do will be apparent to everybody—if I can show you, well, and happy,—which God send!

Kiss me as I kiss you, my own Ba—I am all one wide wonder at your loving nature: I can only give it the like love in return, and as much limited as I am limited. But I seem really to grow under you,—my faculties extend toward yours.

May God bless you, and enable me to make you as happy as your dear, generous heart will be contented to be made. I am your own RB"

 

I don't think it will take much to make Miss Barrett happy. She will be contented if she feels that she gives no pain to Browning. And I pity the person who hurts Browning; as she went directly to the banditti to bargain for the return of Flush, she would go into the depths of hell to redeem Browning. You don't think so? There is more to the battle than physical strength (which many a fool has), there is moral power that few possess or even are aware exists. I would bet on Miss Barrett.

September 4

Browning writes Friday morning, September 4, 1846 to report on his health and other clarifications:

"You dearest, best Ba, I will say at the beginning of the letter, and not at the end, this time, that I am very much better—my head clear from pain, if a little uncertain– I was in the garden when your letter came. The worst is, that I am really forced to go & dine out to-day—but I shall take all imaginable care and get away early .. and be ready to go & see you at a minute’s notice, should a note signify your permission to-morrow .. if Mr Kenyon’s visit is over, for instance. I have to attribute this effect to that abstinent system of yours. Depend on it, I shall be well and continue well now–"

 

What 'abstinent system' is he referring to? No wine? No shower-bath? No visits? No Ba?

 

"Dear Ba, I wrote under the notion (as I said) that poor Flush was safe by your side; and only took that occasion to point at what I must still consider the wrongness of the whole system of giving way to, instead of opposing, such proceedings. I think it lamentable weakness .. though I can quite understand and allow for it in you,—but weakness it essentially is, as you know perfectly. For see, you first put the matter in the gentlest possible light .. 'who would give much time and trouble to the castigation of such a fellow as that!' you ask: and immediately after, for another purpose, you very rightly rank this crime with that other enormous one, of the Spanish Banditti—nay, you confess that, in this very case, any such injury to Flush as you dread, would give you inexpressible grief—is the threatening this outrage then so little a matter? Am I to think it a less matter if the same miscreant should strike you in the street, because you would probably suffer less than by this that he has done? There is the inevitable inconsistency of wrong reasoning in all this—say, as I told you on another subject,—'I determine to resist no injury whatever, to be at the disposal of any villain in the world, trusting to God for protection here or recompense hereafter'—or take my course; which is the easier,—and in the long run, however strangely it may seem, the more profitable, no one can doubt—but I take the harder—in all but this responsibility—which, without any cant, would be intolerable to me. Look at this 'society' with its 'four thousand a year'—which unless its members are perfect fools they will go on to double & treble: would this have existed if a proper stand had been made at the beginning? The first silly man, woman or child who consented to pay five shillings, beyond the mere expense of keeping the dog, (on the supposition of its having been found, not stolen,) is responsible for all the harm: what could the thief do but go and steal another, and ask double for its ransom?"

 

Did he just call Miss Barrett 'silly'?

 

"And see—dogstealers so encouraged are the lowest of the vile—can neither write nor read, perhaps,—one of the fraternity possesses this knowledge however and aims higher accordingly: instead of stealing your dog, he determines to steal your character: if a guinea (at the beginning) ransoms the one, ten pounds shall ransom the other: accordingly Mr Barnard Gregory takes pen in hand and writes to some timid man, in the first instance, that unless he receives that sum, his character will be blasted. The timid man takes your advice .. says that the 'love of an abstract principle' must not run him into 'cruel hazards' 'for the sake of a few guineas'—so he pays them—who would bother himself with such vermin as Gregory?– So Gregory receives his pay for his five minutes’ penmanship—takes down a directory, and writes five hundred such letters. Serjt. Talfourd told me, counting them on his fingers, 'such and such' (naming them) 'cut their throats after robbing their families, employers &c—such fled the country—such went mad .. that was the commonest event'–– At last, even so poor a creature as the Duke of Brunswick, with his detestable character and painted face,—even he plucks up courage and turns on Gregory, grown by this time into a really formidable monster by these amiable victims to the other principle of easy virtue,—and the event is that this execrable 'Abhorson’s' trade is utterly destroyed—that form of atrocious persecution exists no longer. I am in no danger of being told, at next post delivery, that having been 'tracked up Vere St down Bond St &c' into Wimpole St .. my character and yours will be the 'subject of an article in the next Satirist unless ..' "

 

This rant against giving in to blackmail refers to the actor Barnard Gregory who blackmailed may people over a period of years, most famously the Duke of Brunswick who lead a public mob against the blackmailer as he performed in Hamlet. I bet that was a great night out at the theater.

 

"To all of which you have a great answer—'what should I do if you were to be the victim?'– That my note yesterday, the second one, told you. I sacrifice myself .. all that belongs to me—but there are some interests which I belong to– I have no right, no more than inclination, in such a case, to think of myself if your safety is concerned, and as I could cut off a limb to save my head, so my head should fall most willingly to redeem yours. I would pay every farthing I had in the world, and shoot with my own hand the receiver of it after a chase of fifty years—esteeming that to be a very worthy recompense for the trouble. But why write all this string of truisms about the plainest thing in the world? All reformers are met at the outset by such dissuasion from their efforts 'Better suffer the grievance and get off as cheaply as you can. You, Mahomet,—what if the Caaba be only a black stone? You need only bow your head as the others, and make any inward remark you like on the blindness of the people: You, Hampden, have you really so little wit as to contest payment of a paltry 20s at such risk?' "

 

Here Browning is referring to a Muslim who doubts the Caaba was given by Gabriel to Abraham and Hampden who was imprisoned after refusing to pay a 20 shilling fee. In other words, we must take a stand on the small things or the small things become big things. Yes, he is on a rant. And he continues, reaching into literature:

 

"Ah, but here all the fuss is just about stealing a dog—two or three words, and the matter becomes simply ludicrous—very easily got rid of! One cannot take vengeance on the 'great man' with his cigar & room of pictures, and burlesque dignities of mediation! Just so, when Robert was inclined to be sorry for the fate of Bertha’s sister, one can fancy what a relief and change would be operated in his feelings, if a goodnatured friend send him a version of his mighty crime in Lord Rochester’s funny account of 'forsaken damsels' .. with the motto 'Women have died ere now & worms have eaten them—but not for love'—or 'At lover’s perjuries, Jove laughs.' Why, Robert is a 'lady-killer' like D’Orsay! Well, enough of sermonizing for the present: it is impossible for me to differ with you and treat that as a light matter— .. or, what on earth would have been so little to wonder at, as that, loving Flush, you should determine to save him at any price?"

 

The 'Robert' he is referring to is the character from Miss Barrett's poem "Bertha in the Lane". The narrator of the poem dies of a broken heart after Robert rejects her for her sister Bertha. (Horrible thought! Will Browning forsake Miss Barrett for Arabel or Henrietta? Forsooth!)

 

If 'Chiappino' were to assure you, in terms that you could not disbelieve, that in the event of your marrying me he would destroy himself,—would you answer, as I should, 'Do so, and take the consequences,'—and think no more about the matter? I should absolutely leave it, as not my concern but God’s—nor should blame myself any more than if the poor man, being uncertain what to do, had said 'if a man first passes the window—yes—if a woman—no'—and I, a total stranger, had passed– One word more—in all this, I labour against the execrable policy of the world’s husbands, fathers, brothers, and domineerers in general: I am about to marry you .. 'how wise, then, to encourage such a temper in you! such was that divine Griselda’s—a word rules the gentle nature– 'Do this, or' ....

My own Ba, if I thought you could fear me, I think I should have the courage to give you up to-morrow!

 

He even drags the Reverend George Barrett Hunter into the fray. Yes, Browning is in full analogy mode today. 'Griselda' was the long suffering wife, constantly tested by her husband, in 'The Decameron'. And then he worries that he is being too domineering. Too late now. But not to worry, Miss Barrett will argue with him if she sees fit.

"Because to-day, I am altogether yours, and you are my very own—and to-morrow never comes, they say. Bless you, my best, dearest Ba—and if you think I deserve it, you shall test the excellence of those slippers on my cheek, (and not the flannelled side, neither,) the next happy time I see you .. which will be soon, soon, I trust! who am more than ever your own RB"

 

Of course Miss Barrett responds the same day:

 

 

"You best! Was ever any in the world, in any possible world, so perfectly good & dear to another as you are to me!– Ah!—if you could know how I feel to you, when you write such words as came to me this morning—Dearest! It ends in that, all I can say. And yet I must say besides that the idea of ‘crossness’, of hardness, never came to me, for one moment, from the previous letter– I just shook my head & thought how you would not act it out, if you had a Flush—. Upon which I could not follow out my argument to myself, through thinking that you were ill.

You are better now, Robert, & you promise to take care of the dinner, where you should not go if I were near you– I should be 'afraid of you' far too much to let you, indeed! Such a wrong thing that dinner is .. as wrong as any dogstealer in his way .. drawing you out just when you ought to be at home & quiet, if not 'abstinent'. When did I ever tell you to be abstinent, pray? You are too much so, it seems to me, in general—: and to pass the whole of that day without eating!– How unwell you must have been, dearest! How I long to see you & ascertain that you look tolerably well! How very, very happy I should be, to be able to look at you tomorrow. But no, no! Mr Kenyon does not come, & we must be wise, I suppose, & wait till the ground is clear of him, which will not be till monday. Probably he will visit me on sunday—but the chance of saturday is like the hat on a pole in gardens, set there to frighten away the birds– Still they may sing on the other side of the wall, not to be too far from the cherries & the hope of them. Monday surely will be a clear day– Unless Mr Kenyon shall put off his journey just to despite us—who shall say?

I have not Flush yet. I am to have him tomorrow morning–

And for the Flush-argument, dear dearest, I hold that your theory is entirely good & undeniable. I agree with you throughout it, praising Mahomet, praising Hampden, & classing the Taylors, Gregorys & Spanish banditti all together. Also I hope I should try, at least, to resist with you their various iniquities—&, for instance, I do not think that any Gregory in the world, would draw a shilling from me, by a threat against my character– I should dare that, oh, I am confident I should—the indignation would be far the stronger, where I myself only was involved. And even in the imaginary Chiappino-case, the selfish & dastardly threat would fall from me like a child’s arrow from steel. I believe so–"

 

Notice how she marks that the Rev. George Barrett Hunter analogy is 'imaginary'.

 

"But Flush, poor Flush, Flush who has loved me so faithfully,—have I a right to sacrifice him in his innocence, for the sake of any Mr Taylor’s guilt in the world? Does not Flush’s condition assimilate to my own among the banditti?—for you agree that you would not, after all, leave me to the banditti—& I, exactly on the same ground, will not leave Flush. It seems to me that you & I are at one upon the whole question,—only that I am your Flush, & he is mine. You, if you were ‘consistent’ .. dearest! .. would not redeem me on any account– You do ever so much harm by it, observe—you produce catastrophe on catastrophe, just for the sake of my two ears without earrings!– Oh, I entirely agree with your principle– Evil should be resisted that it may fly from you–

But Flush is not to be sacrificed—nor even is Ba, it appears– So our two weaknesses may pardon one another—yours & mine! "

 

She wins the argument again by pointing out the inconsistency in his argument.

 

"Some dog, shut up in a mews somewhere behind this house, has been yelling & moaning today & yesterday– How he has made me think of my poor poor Flush, I cannot tell you—'Think of Flush' he seemed to say.

Yes!– A blow in the street! I wish somebody would propose such a thing to me, in exchange! I would have thanked Mr Taylor himself for striking me down in the street, if the stroke had been offered as an alternative for the loss of Flush– You may think it absurd—but when my dinner is brought to me, I feel as if I could not (scarcely) touch it—the thought of poor Flush’s golden eyes is too strong in me–

 

Not a word of your mother– She is better, I trust! And you .. may God keep you better, beloved!– To be parted from you so long, teaches me the necessity of your presence– I am your very, very own–

I was out today—driving along the Hampstead Road. What weather!"

 

Given how much she loves Flush, imagine her capacity for love of her father, her brothers, her sisters and Browning.

 

 

 

September 3

September 3, 1846 finds Browning continue his bit of a melt down. He had been in a temper about their meetings getting interrupted and now he goes off on the dog-nappers:

"I am rejoiced that poor Flush is found again, dearest—altogether rejoiced—

And now that you probably have him by your side, I will tell you what I should have done in such a case, because it explains our two ways of seeing & meeting oppression lesser or greater. I would not have given five shillings on that fellow’s application. I would have said,—and in entire earnestness,—'You are responsible for the proceedings of your gang, and you I mark—don’t talk nonsense to me about cutting off heads or paws—be as sure, as that I stand here and tell you, I will spend my whole life in putting you down, the nuisance you declare yourself—and by every imaginable means I will be the death of you and as many of your accomplices as I can discover—but you I have discovered and will never lose sight of—now try my sincerity, by delaying to produce the dog tomorrow. And for the ten pounds—see!' Whereupon, I would give them to the first beggar in the street. You think I should receive Flushe’s head? perhaps .. so God allows matters to happen! on purpose, it may be, that I should vindicate him by the punishment I would exact."

 

Browning is so manly. But he fails to acknowledge that a dog-napper would never take his dog, for just that reason. The dog-nappers take Miss Barrett's dog because she is soft hearted and would pay any price to get Flush back. So Browning's argumentation is a tad bit stilted.

 

"Observe, Ba, this course ought not to be yours, because it could not be .. it would not suit your other qualities. But all religion, right and justice, with me, seem implied in such a resistance to wickedness, and refusal to multiply it a hundredfold, for from this prompt payment of ten pounds for a few minutes’ act of the easiest villainy, there will be encouragement to .. how many similar acts in the course of next month? And how will the poor owners fare who have not money enough for their dogs’ redemption? I suppose, the gentleman, properly disgusted with such obstinacy, will threaten roasting at a slow fire to test the sincerity of attachment! No—the world would grow too detestable a den of thieves & oppressors that way!"

 

He does have a argument but he again misses the point that someone who does not have the means to ransom the dog would surely not be targeted.

 

And this is too great a piece of indignation to be expressed when one has the sick vile headache that oppresses me this morning, dearest—I am not inclined to be even as tolerant as usual– Will you be tolerant, my Ba, and forgive me—till tomorrow at least—when, what with physic, what with impatience, I shall be better one way or another?

Ever your own RB

Ah, the poor boy continues sick. Will Miss Barrett give him the dressing down he deserves?

"Ever dearest, you are not well—that is the first thing!– And that is the thing I saw first, when, opening your letter, my eyes fell on the ending sentence of it,—which disenchanted me in a moment from the hope of the day. Dearest—you have not been well for two or three days, it is plain,—& now you are very, very unwell—tell me if it is not so? I beseech you to let me hear the exact truth about you, for I am very uneasy, & it is dreadful to doubt about knowing the exact truth in all such cases. How everything goes against me this week! I cannot see you. I cannot comfort myself by knowing that you are well– And then poor Flush! You must let him pass as one of the evils, & you will, I know,—for I have not got him back yet—no, indeed–

I should have done it. The archfiend, Taylor, the man whom you are going to spend your life in persecuting, (the life that belongs to me, too!) came last night to say that they would accept six pounds, six guineas, with half a guinea for himself, considering the trouble of the mediation,—& Papa desired Henry to refuse to pay, & not to tell me a word about it——all which I did not find out till this morning. Now it is less, as the money goes, than I had expected, & I was very vexed & angry, & wanted Henry to go at once & conclude the business—only he would’nt, talked of Papa, & persuaded me that Taylor would come today with a lower charge– He has not come—I knew he would not come,—& if people wont do as I choose, I shall go down tomorrow morning myself & bring Flush back with me– All this time he is suffering & I am suffering. It may be very foolish– I do not say it is not—or it may even be 'awful sin', as Mr Boyd sends to assure me—but I cannot endure to run cruel hazards about my poor Flush for the sake of a few guineas, or even for the sake of abstract principles of justice—I cannot– You say that I cannot, .. but that you would. You would!– Ah dearest—most pattern of citizens, but you would not– I know you better. Your theory is far too good not to fall to pieces in practice– A man may love justice intensely; but the love of an abstract principle is not the strongest love—now is it? Let us consider a little, putting poor Flush out of the question. (You would bear, you say, to receive his head in a parcel—it would satisfy you to cut off Taylor’s in return)– Do you mean to say that if the banditti came down on us in Italy & carried me off to the mountains, &, sending to you one of my ears, to show you my probable fate if you did not let them have … how much may I venture to say I am worth? .. five or six scudi,—(is that reasonable at all?) .. would your answer be 'Not so many crazie,'—& would you wait, poised upon abstract principles, for the other ear, & the catastrophe,—as was done in Spain not long ago? Would you, dearest? Because it is as well to know beforehand, perhaps——

—Ah—how I am teazing you, my beloved, when you are not well– But indeed that life of yours is worthy of better uses than to scourge Taylor with, even if I should not be worth the crazie–"

 

How beautifully she turns his arguments on their head. But she misses a point as well. She would never be kidnapped for ransom because there is no deep well of money for the banditti to dip into. Browning would have to hunt down the villains because the penniless poet would have no money for the ransom. Nevertheless she wonderfully answers his manly words. She is absolutely correct that it would be a waste of anyone's life to spend it tracking down a dog-napper. She is also correct that Browning would not actually do as he suggested; he would get the six quid someway and pay it to recover Ba's doggy. Perhaps Browning and Papa Barrett have more in common that Browning may like to acknowledge, given that Papa Barrett wanted the whole situation ignored. He would not pay the banditti nor track them down and kill them.

 

And see again, as I point out yesterday, how she has no compunctions about arguing the point with Browning.

 

I have seen nobody & heard nothing– I bought a pair of shoes today lined with flannel, to walk with on the bare floors of Italy in the winter– Is not that being practical & coming to the point? I did it indeed!–

May God bless you– I love you always & am your own–
Write of yourself, I do pray you—& also, how is your mother?

She does not sit in her room crying about Flush, she goes out on the business of the day, impatient with the incompetent males around her. Browning writes again, perhaps a bit un-nerved by his own words:

"When I had finished that letter this morning, dearest dearest,—before I could seal it, even, (my sister did it for me, and despatched it to the post at once) I became quite ill & so sick as to be forced to go upstairs and throw myself on the bed—it is now six o clock, and I feel better, and have some thoughts of breaking my fast to-day—but first of all .. did whatever it may have been I wrote, seem cross—unnecessarily angry, to you, dearest Ba? Because, I confess to having felt indignant at this sample of the evils done under the sun every day … and as if it would be to no purpose though the whole world were peopled with Ba’s, instead of just Wimpole St,—as they would be just so many more soft cushions for the villainously-disposed to run pins into at their pleasure– Donne says that 'weakness invites, but silence feasts oppression'. And it is horrible to fancy how all the oppressors in their several ranks, may if they choose, twitch back to them by the heartstrings after various modes the weak & silent whose secret they have found out. No one should profit by those qualities in me, at least—having formed a resolution, I would keep it, I hope, thro’ fire & water, and the threatener of any piece of rascality, who (as commonly happens) should be without the full heart to carry it into effect, should pay me exactly the same for the threat .. which had determined my conduct once & forever. But in this particular case, I ought to have told you (unless you divined it, as you might,) that I would give all I am ever to be worth in the world, to get back your Flush for you .. for your interest is not mine, any more than the lake is the river that goes to feed it,—mine is only made to feed yours– I am yours, as we say—as I feel more and more every minute.

Are you not mine, too? And do you not forgive your own RB?

A sweet apology. He was right in the general but wrong in the particular, as they both knew. Browning had a very strong antipathy toward oppression. It obviously made him quite angry. I suspect he was quite angry about the oppression of Miss Barrett by her father, but what a position to be in to have to convince the oppressed to free herself.

September 2

Browning writes on September 2, 1846 to commiserate with Miss Barrett on the dog-napping of Flush:

"Poor Flush—how sorry I am for you, my Ba! But you will recover him, I dare say .. not, perhaps, directly,—the delay seems to justify their charge at the end: poor fellow—was he no better than the rest of us, and did all that barking and fanciful valour spend itself on such enemies as Mr Kenyon and myself, leaving only blandness and waggings of the tail for the man with the bag? I am sure you are grieved and frightened for our friend and follower, that was to be, at Pisa—will you not write a special note to tell me when you get him again?"

 

"..that was to be?" He will certainly answer for that.

 

"For the rest—I will urge you no more by a single word—you shall arrange every thing henceforward without a desire on my part,—an expressed one at least. Do not let our happiness be caught up from us, after poor Flush’s fashion—there may be no redemption from that peril.

There can hardly be another way of carrying our purpose into effect than by that arrangement you consent to—except you chose to sacrifice a day and incur all sorts of risk. Of course, the whole in the way and with the conditions that you shall determine.

Do you think, Ba, I apprehend nothing from the excitement and exhaustion attendant in it? I altogether apprehend it,—and am therefore the more anxious that no greater difficulty should be superinduced than is absolutely necessary. Because the first part of our adventure will be dangerous in that way, I want the second part to be as safe as possible in another. I should care comparatively little about winter-travelling, even,—(knowing that one can take precautions)—if it were to be undertaken under really propitious circumstances, and you set forth with so much kindness to carry away as would keep you warm for a week or two—but the 'winter wind that is not so unkind as &c', may prove,—by adding its share of unkindness to the greater,—intolerable. Now, my last word is said, however—and a kiss follows!"

 

The way I am reading this is that Browning is insistent that they get married (she had referred to this as his " 'idee fixe' about the marriage") first and then wait to leave, but otherwise he is leaving all other arrangements to her preference.

 

"I thank you, dearest, for your enquiries about my mother,—and for the sympathy, and proposal of delay. She is better this morning, I hope. From the time that my sister went to Town, she discontinued the exercise which does her such evident good—and on Monday the walks began again—with no great effect yesterday because of the dull weather and sharp wind .. she kept at home—but this morning she is abroad, and will profit by this sunshine, I hope– My head will not get quite well, neither– I take both effects to be caused by the turn of the year.

Bless you, dearest. I cannot but acquiesce in your postponing our day for such reasons. Only, do not misconceive those few foolish words of impatience .. a great matter to bear truly! I shall be punished indeed if they prevent you from according to me one hour I should have otherwise possessed.

Bless you once again, my Ba. RB

My mother is returned—very much better indeed. Remember Flush—to write."

 

Miss Barrett is quick to respond:

 

 

" 'Our friend & follower, that was to be'——is that, then, your opinion of my poor darling Flush’s destiny—? Ah—I should not have been so quiet if I had not known differently & better—. I 'shall not recover him directly', you think!– But, dearest, I am sure that I shall. I am learned in the ways of the Philistines. I knew from the beginning where to apply & how to persuade– The worst is poor Flush’s fright & suffering– And then, it is inconvenient just now to pay the ransom for him– But we shall have him tomorrow if not tonight. Two hours ago the chief of the Confederacy came to call on Henry & to tell him that the 'society had the dog', having done us the honour of tracking us into Bond Street & out of Bond Street into Vere Street where he was kidnapped– Now he is in White Chapel—(poor Flush)– And the great man was going down there at half past seven to meet other great men in council & hear the decision as to the ransom exacted, & would return with their ultimatum. Oh, the villainy of it, is excellent, & then the humiliation of having to pay for your own vexations & anxieties!– Will they have the insolence, now, to make me pay ten pounds, as they said they would? But I must have Flush, you know– I cant run any risk, & bargain & haggle– There is a dreadful tradition in this neighbourhood, of a lady, who did so, having her dog’s head sent to her in a parcel– So I say to Henry,—'Get Flush back, whatever you do'—for Henry is angry as he may well be, & as I should be if I were not too afraid, .. & talks police-officers against the thieves, & finds it very hard to attend to my instructions & be civil & respectful to their Captain. There, he found him, smoking a cigar in a room with pictures! They make some three or four thousand a year by their honorable employment– As to Flush’s following anyone 'blandly,' never think it! He was caught up & gagged .. depend upon that. If he could have bitten, he would have bitten—if he could have yelled, he would have yelled. Indeed on a former occasion the ingenuous thief observed, that he 'was a difficult dog to get, he was so distrustful. They had to drag him with a string, & put him into a cab, they said, before. Poor Flush!–"

 

I enjoy the fact that she defends Flush's honour against Browning's horrid insult that Flush did not bark at or bite his captors. Flush is very obviously a manly dog and for Browning to imply otherwise is a very grave miscalculation! Also, ten pounds is a lot of money for three people (and a dog) who are planning to live on 100 pounds a year in Italy. Money does not mean a great deal to Miss Barrett when it comes to the love of her dog.

 

"Dearest, I am glad that your mother is a little better—but why should the ‘turn of the year’ make you suffer, ever dearest? I am not easy about you indeed– Remember not to use the showerbath injudiciously—& remember to walk—do you walk enough? it being as necessary for you as for your mother.

And as for me, you will not say a word more to me, you will leave me to my own devices, now—

—Which is just exactly what you must not do– Ah, why do you say so, even, when you must not do it? Have I refused one proposition of yours where there were not strong obstacles, that you should have finished with me so, my beloved? For instance, I agreed to your plan about the marrying—and I agreed to go with you to Italy in the latter part of September—did I not? And what am I disagreeing in now? Dont let me pass for disagreeable! And dont, above all, refuse to think for me & decide for me, or what will become of me, I cannot guess:—I shall be worse off than Flush is now .. in his despair, at Whitechapel– Think of my being let loose upon a common, just when the thunderclouds are gathering! You would not be so cruel, you. All I meant to say was that it would be wise to make the occasions of excitement as few as possible, for the reasons I gave you– But I shall not fail, I believe– I should despise myself too much for failing– I should lose too much by the failure– Then there is an amulet which strengthens the heart of one,—let it incline to fail ever so. Believe of me that I shall not fail, dearest beloved– I shall not, if your love for me is enough to stand by—believe that always–

The heart will sink indeed sometimes .. as mine does tonight I scarcely know why .. but even while it sinks, I do not feel that I shall fail so– I do not–

Dearest, I do not, either, 'misconceive', as you desire me not: I only infer that you will think it best to avoid the chance of meeting Mr Kenyon, who speaks to me, in a note received this morning, of intending to leave town next monday. Of coming here he does not speak,—& he may come & he may not come, on any intermediate day. He wrote for a book he lent me—. If I do not see you until monday, it will be hard—but judge!—there was more of bitterness than of sweetness in the last visit–"

 

This comment alone should stop Browning from having any more outbursts.

 

"Mr Kenyon said in his note that he had seen Moxon, & that Tennyson was ‘disappointed’ with the mountains–Is not that strange? Is it a good or a bad sign when people are disappointed with the miracles of nature? I am accustomed to fancy it a bad sign. Because a man’s imagination ought to aggrandize, glorify, consecrate– A man sees with his mind, & the mind is at fault when he does not see greatly, I think–"

 

Is this worldly wisdom?

 

"Moxon sent a civil message to me about my books ‘going off regularly’—

And now I must go off .. it is my turn. Do you love me tonight, dearest? I ask you, .. through the air– I am your very own Ba–

Say how you are, I beseech you—and tell me always & particularly of your mother.

They are all, here, gone to a picnic at Richmond—."

 

I am intrigued by the fact that Miss Barrett always seems to argue with Browning. She never simply gives in. She reads his letters and she disputes. She may or may not be right but she is seldom inclined to not comment on what he has said and not give her point of view. She defends Flush's honour, she tells Browning to take it easy with the showerbath and she takes him to task for leaving all the decisions to her when she doesn't want to make all the decisions. Browning makes plans and she gives her objections and he draws back and says, 'whatever you say dearest' and she responds with, 'no, I am just making a few valid points, I don't want to be left alone to make the decisions.' She wants to be treated as an equal partner, not a a woman to be humored. She is going to have to work at training Browning to understand her point of view. I begin to see a glimpse of what could come to be a problem in their life together. Browning has said that he is used to being driven and will go where she leads, but as much as she fancies being out from under the thumb of her father I think she would prefer a relationship where her opinion is honored but debated. I don't believe she wants a man who will simply mollify her. She has too strong a mind for that.

September 1

Browning is rebounding a bit from his fit of temper and writes but a short note September 1, 1846:

"Dearest, when your letter kept away, all this morning, I never once fancied you might be angry .. I knew you must feel the love which produced the fear. And I will lay to my heart the little, gentlest blame that there is, in the spirit which dictated it,—I know, my own Ba, your words have given me the right to doubt nothing from your generosity—but it is not the mere bidding .. no, at the thousandth repetition, .. which can make me help myself to all that treasure which you please to call mine: I shall perhaps get used to the generosity and readier to profit by it.

I have not time to write much: all is divinely kind of you, and I love you for forgiving me.

You could not leave at an early hour under those circumstances .. the moment I become aware of them, I fully see that.

Ah, but, Ba, am I so to blame for not taking your diamonds, while you disclaim a right over my pebbles even? May I 'withdraw from the business'? &c &c"

 

I suspect that this is the phrase she said in 'jest' and that all the fuss was about. Browning's turn of phrase here is very wise. He recognizes her low self-esteem while adoring her all the same for her blindness. Very sweet.

 

"Kiss me, and do not say that again—and I will say you are “my own”, as I always say,—my very own! As for 'sarcasms' and the rest—I shall hardly do other than despise what will never be said to me, for the best of reasons—except where is to be exception. I never objected to such miserable work as that—and the other day, my annoyance was not at anything which might be fancied, by Mr Kenyon or anybody else, but at what could not but be plainly seen—it was a fact, and not a fancy, that our visit was shortened &c &c

All which is foolish to think of. I will think of you and a better time.

You do not tell me how you are, Ba—and I left you with a headache. Will you tell me? And the post may come in earlier tomorrow,—at all events I will write at length .. not in this haste– And our day? When before have I been without a day, a fixed day, to look forward to?

Bless you, my dearest beloved–Your own RB

I am pretty well to-day—not too well– My mother is no better than usual; we blame the wind, with or without reason– See this scrawl! Could any thing make me write legibly, I wonder?"

 

He ends the letter with a series of BA's written in different types of scripts. Very cute. So while one crisis burns out another begins for Miss Barrett reports a crisis:

 

"Here is a distress for me, dearest! I have lost my poor Flush—lost him! You were a prophet when you said ‘Take care’.

This morning Arabel & I, & he with us, went in a cab to Vere Street where we had a little business, & he followed us as usual into a shop & out of it again, & was at my heels when I stepped up into the carriage– Having turned, I said ‘Flush’, & Arabel looked round for Flush—there was no Flush! He had been caught up in that moment, from under the wheels, do you understand? & the thief must have run with him & thrown him into a bag perhaps– It was such a shock to me—think of it! losing him in a moment, so! No wonder if I looked white, as Arabel said! So she began to comfort me by showing how certain it was that I should recover him for ten pounds at most, & we came home ever so drearily—. Because Flush does’nt know that we can recover him, & he is in the extremest despair all this while, poor darling Flush, with his fretful fears, & pretty whims, & his fancy of being near me– All this night he will howl & lament, I know perfectly,—for I fear we shall not ransom him tonight. Henry went down for me directly to the Captain of the banditti, who evidently knew all about it, said Henry,—& after a little form of consideration & enquiry, promised to let us hear something this evening, but has not come yet. In the morning perhaps he will come– Henry told him that I was resolved not to give much—but of course they will make me give what they choose– I am not going to leave Flush at their mercy, & they know that as well as I do– My poor Flush!–"

 

Flush, the pampered spaniel, has been kidnapped. Apparently this was not the first time. I would guess that the delicate Miss Barrett and her dog were an easy target for the dog-napping gang. See what compassion she has for her dog, you can imagine her compassion for someone she loved and how her heart must have been breaking to do something that she knew would hurt her father. Notice she is not saying that she is upset, her concern is for the dog and his well-being. A soft hearted woman has not many protections in life except intelligence and humor. Happily she has both.

 

"When we shall be at Pisa, dearest, we shall be away from the London dog-stealers—it will be one of the advantages– Another may be that I may have an opportunity of “forgiving” you, which I have not had yet. I might reproach you a little in my letter, & I did, I believe; but the offending was not enough for any forgiving to follow—it is too grand a word– Also your worst is better than my best, taking it on the whole– How then should I be able to forgive you, my beloved, even at Pisa?"

 

Is this sentiment an illustration of Browning's apt comments that she is upset because he won't take her diamonds while she refuses to take his pebbles: "..your worst is better than my best?"

 

"If we go to Southampton, we go straight from the railroad to the packet, without entering any hotel—and if we do so, no greater expense is incurred than by the long water-passage from London. Also, we reach Havre alike in the morning, & have the day before us for Rouen, Paris, & Orleans. Therefore nothing is lost by losing the early hour for the departure—— Then, if I accede to your ‘idée fixe’ about the marriage!– Only do not let us put a long time between that & the setting out, & do not you come here afterwards—let us go away as soon as possible afterwards, at least– You are afraid for me of my suffering from the autumnal cold when it is yet far off—while I (observe this!) while I am afraid for myself, of breaking down under quite a different set of causes, in nervous excitement & exhaustion. I belong to that pitiful order of weak women who cannot command their bodies with their souls at every moment, & who sink down in hysterical disorder when they ought to act & resist– Now I think & believe that I shall take strength from my attachment to you, & so go through to the end what is before us,—but at the same time, knowing myself & fearing myself, I do desire to provoke the ‘demon’ as little as possible, & to be as quiet as the situation will permit– Still, where things ought to be done, they of course must be done– Only we should consider whether they really ought to be done– Not for the sake of the inconvenience to me, but of the consequence to both of us–

 

Do I frighten you, ever dearest? Oh no– I shall go through it, if I keep a breath of soul in me to live with– I shall go through it, as certainly as that I love you. I speak only of the accessory circumstances, that they may be kept as smooth as is practicable–

 

Despite the upset of having Flush taken from her she writes a very good evaluation of her own condition, recognizing that the real obstacle is her nervous disposition and not her physical condition. She seems to recognize that her nervousness becomes more of a physical condition as it escalates. And notice how she is as concerned about it as much for the consequence to him as for her own discomfort.

 

You are not well, my beloved—& I cannot even dream of making you better this time,—because you will think it wise for us not to meet for the next few days perhaps– Mr Kenyon will come to see me, he said, before he leaves town, & he leaves it on the fourth, fifth or sixth of September. This is the first– So I will not let you come to be vexed as last time—no, indeed– But write to me instead——& pity me for Flush. Oh, I trust to have him back tomorrow– I had no headache, & was quite, perfectly well this morning .. before I lost him–"

 

I am intrigued by this: "I cannot even dream of making you better this time," How did she make him better? She always disparages herself, but here she seems to be attributing some healing quality to herself. Or is she simply teazing him that he will not come to see her if there is the risk of running into Kenyon? She doesn't want another outburst!

 

"Is your mother able to walk? is she worse on the whole than last week for instance? We may talk of September, but you cannot leave her, you know, dearest, if she should be so ill!—it would be unkind & wrong.

More, tomorrow!– But I cannot be more tomorrow, your very own–"

 

Reading this last but one sentence may lead Browning to send a letter in which he states that his mother is miraculously healed! Let's see what tomorrow brings. Will Flush be ransomed? Will Browning lead a rescue party?