January 17, 1846

Browning sends the only letter today:

"Saturday.

Did my own Ba, in the prosecution of her studies, get to a book on the forb .. no, unforbidden 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 marriage did not exist, I should infallibly invent it. I should say, no words, no feelings even, do justice to the whole conviction and religion 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 unrepresented, other minute’s, 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 must 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'—

If I did not know 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.)

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 that does strike me, as so often it will,—I turn round on my pursuing self, and ask—'What if it were a claim, then,—what is in Her, demanded rationally, equitably, in return for what were in you—do you like that way?'—and I do not, Ba—you, 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 more yours, yet more like you, I may and must be– Yes, indeed .. best, only love!"

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 is 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.

"And am I not grateful to your Sisters—entirely grateful for that crowning comfort,—it is 'miraculous', too, if you please—for you 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 must moreover be jealous of you, chary of you, as the daughters of Hesperus, of wonderers and wistful lookers up at the gold apple—yet instead of 'rapidly levelling eager eyes'—they are indulgent? Then .. shall I wish capriciously they were not 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—no, I will not—it is foolish—and it is not foolish in me to love the table and chairs and vases in your room–"

The Hesperides were three nymphs who guarded the Garden of the Hesperides. Here is what Wikipedia say:

"The Garden of the Hesperides 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. The Hesperides were given the task of tending to the grove, but occasionally plucked from it themselves. Not trusting them, Hera also placed in the garden a never-sleeping, hundred-headed dragon named Ladon 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."

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.

Here is a nice depiction of the three nymphs by Frederick, Lord Leighton called The Garden of the Hesperides. Note the Golden Apples in the tree. Imagine the three Barrett sisters lounging so.



But why does he see Miss Barrett's sisters as jealous of her? Perhaps just to fit his own myth.

"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—on Tuesday it shall be, then,—thank you, dearest! 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 thank you .. that I say, which God knows, could not say, if I died ten deaths in one to do you good, 'you are repaid'–

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—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– But I fancy he saves me from a rougher hand—the long extracts answer every purpose."

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.

 

"There is all to say yet—tomorrow!and ever, ever your own,—God bless you! RB

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!"

Good grief! Ink blots and candle grease. Browning is such a man.

January 15, 1846

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?

"Thursday–

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,—be lost—but as I sate by you, you so full of the truest life, for this world as for the next,—and was struck by that possibility, all that might happen were I away, in the case of your continuing to acquiesce .. dearest, it is horrible,—I could not but speak—if in drawing you, all of you, closer to my heart, I hurt you whom I would—outlive .. yes,—I cannot speak here—forgive me, Ba.

My Ba, you are to consider now for me: your health, your strength—it is all wonderful; that is not my dream, you know—but what all see: now, steadily care for us both—take time, take counsel if you choose; but at the end tell me what you will do for your part—thinking of me as utterly devoted, soul and body, to you, living wholly in your life, seeing good and ill, only as you see,—being yours as your hand is,—or as your Flush, rather. Then I will, on my side, prepare. When I say 'take counsel'—I reserve my last right, the man’s right of first speech. I stipulate, too, and require to say my own speech in my own words or by letter .. remember! But this living without you is too tormenting now. So begin thinking: as for Spring, as for a New Year, as for a New Life.–

I went no farther than the door with Mr Kenyon—& he must see the truth; and—you heard the playful words which had a meaning all the same.

No more of this; only, think of it for me, love!"

 

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.

___________________________________________________________

"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—we are to live together one day, love!

Will you let Mr Poe’s book lie on the table on Monday, if you please, that I may read what he does say, with my own eyes? That I meant to ask, too!

How too, too kind you are—how you care for so little that affects me! 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—but I am not ill—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."

 

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:

"Will you, and must you have 'Pauline'? If I could pray you to revoke that decision! For it is altogether foolish and not 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 precocious—but I had rather you saw 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."

 

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 me 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, you can read 'Pauline' here, 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:

 

Pauline, mine own, bend o’er me—thy soft breast
Shall pant to mine—bend o’er me—thy sweet eyes,
And loosened hair, and breathing lips, arms
Drawing me to thee—these build up a screen
To shut me in with thee, and from all fear,
So that I might unlock the sleepless brood
Of fancies from my soul, their lurking place,
Nor doubt that each would pass, ne’er to return
To one so watched, so loved, and so secured.
But what can guard thee but thy naked love?

 

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.

"And now—here is a vexation: may I be with you (for this once) next Monday, at two instead of three o’clock? Forster’s business with the new Paper obliges him, he says, to restrict his choice of days to Monday next —and give up my part of Monday—I will never for fifty Forsters .. now, sweet, mind that! Monday is no common day, but leads to a Saturday .. 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—one word and I re-appoint our party, his and mine,—for the day the paper breaks down—not so long to wait, it strikes me!

Now, bless you, my precious Ba– I am your own. —your own RB"

And next we hear from Miss Barrett who brings forth two letters today--well, they both get postmarked the same day anyway:

"Thursday morning.

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.

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. 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—‘mens conscia recti [The consciousness of right]’ too!!–"

 

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.

"And Mr Kenyon will not come until next Monday perhaps– How am I? But I am too well to be asked about. Is it not a warm summer? The weather is as ‘miraculous’ as the rest, 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– The other day, I heard of Tennyson being ill again, .. too ill to write a simple note to his friend Mr Venables who told George. 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 me, I mean."

 

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.

"Did I say that ever .. that 'I knew you must be tired'—? And it was not even so true as that the coming event threw its shadow before?___________

Thursday night

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.

And now, even now, 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.'

No, no, three times no. Brummel got into the carriage before the Regent, .. (didnt he?) but 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’. 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. Not all, however, happily for me!– Or my friend would have seen in my eyes what they did not see.

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!– Only, ‘Pauline’, I must have some day– Why not without the emendations? But if you insist on them, I will agree to wait a little .. if you promise at last to let me see the book which I will not show .. Some day, then! you shall not be vexed, nor hurried for the day—some day—— Am I not generous? And 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. 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 .. 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

'Qui suis je? autrefois un general Romain:

Maintenant esclave de Carthage je souffre en vain.'

 

[What am I? In the past a Roman general brave,

 In Carthage’ hands today a vainly suffering slave.]

Poor Regulus!– Cant you conceive how fine it must have been altogether? And these were my ‘maturer works,’ you are to understand, .. and 'the moon was bright at ten oclock at night' years before. As to the gods & goddesses, I believed in them all quite seriously, & reconciled them to Christianity, which I believed in too after a fashion, as some greater philosophers have done .. & 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. As soon as I began to doubt about my goddesses, I fell into a vague sort of general scepticism, .. & though I went on saying 'the Lord’s prayer' at nights & mornings, & the 'Bless all my kind friends' afterwards, by the childish custom .. yet I ended this liturgy with a supplication which I found in ‘King’s memoirs’ & which took my fancy & met my general views exactly .. 'O God, if there be a God, save my soul, if I have a soul'. 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, on the whole, 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. Papa used to say .. 'Dont read Gibbon’s history—it’s not a proper book– Dont read ‘Tom Jones’—& none of the books on this side, mind'– So I was very obedient & never touched the books on that side, & 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 that side' certainly, but which did as well."

 

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.

"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.

But this is the end indeed."

 

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:

 

"Thursday Night.

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', .. it was what you supposed, rather! It was a mistake of yours. And now we will not talk of it any more."

 

Well, hopefully that will be the end of that. But I doubt it. She does like to teaze.

 

"Friday morning–

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 both are aware that nothing can be more hopeless than our position in some relations & aspects, 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 one mind, we should be able to meet 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. Therefore it is advisable to hurry on nothing—on these grounds it is advisable. 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? And then, I might be thrown out of the window or its equivalent– I look back shuddering to the dreadful scenes in which poor Henrietta was involved who never offended as I have offended .. 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. Yet how she was made to suffer– Oh, the dreadful scenes!—and only because she had seemed to feel a little. I told you, I think, that there was an obliquity [perversity of thought].. an eccentricity—or something beyond .. on one class of subjects. 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."

 

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'.

 

"I have tried to forget it all—but now I must remember—& throughout our intercourse I have remembered. It is necessary to remember so much as to avoid such evils as are evitable, & for this reason I would conceal nothing from you. Do you remember besides, 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. But there is time for considering!"

 

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.

 

"Only .. as you speak of ‘counsel’, I will take courage to tell you that my sisters know—. 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. We are as safe with both of them as possible—& they thoroughly understand that if there should be any change it would not be your fault .. I made them understand that thoroughly. 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. 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. But the absolute knowledge would be dangerous for my brothers: with my sisters it is different, & I could not continue to conceal from them 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?–

Yet of what consequence is all this to the other side of the question? What, if you should give pain & disappointment where you owe such pure gratitude——. But we need not talk of these things now. Only you have more to consider than I, I imagine, while the future comes on."

 

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.

 

"Dearest, let me have my way in one thing: let me see you on tuesday 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 shall be hurried at first, lest Papa should be still in the house, (no harm, but an excuse for nervousness! & I cant quote a noble Roman as you can, to the praise of my conscience!) & you 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, & let us have the usual hours in a peaceable way, .. & 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 you can come again on the saturday afterwards .. 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!–

Think of me on monday instead, & write before. Are not these two lawful letters? And do they not deserve an answer?

My life was ended when I knew you, & if I survive myself it is for your sake:—that resumes all my feelings & intentions in respect to you. No 'counsel' could make the difference of a grain of dust in the balance. It is so, & not otherwise. If you changed towards me, it would be better for you I believe—& I should be only where I was before. While you do not change, I look to you for my first affections & my first duty—& nothing but your bidding me, could make me look away.

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. He asked if you had been here long.

It may be wrong & ungrateful, but I do wish sometimes that the world were away .. even the good Kenyon-aspect of the world.

And so, once more .. may God bless you!

I am wholly yours–

Tuesday, remember! And say that you agree."

 

So all is right with the world again. (No, I could not resist.)

 

 

 

January 14, 1846

Does Browning answer the charges of being a cad and making his lady cry in his letter today?

"Wednesday.

Was I in the wrong, dearest, to go away with Mr Kenyon? I well knew and felt the price I was about to pay .. but the thought did 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 obliged to go—so .. to save you any least embarrassment in the world, I got—just that shake of the hand, just that look—and no more! And was it all for nothing, all needless after all? So I said to myself all the way home.

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 that too. So, feeling so much, I say so little!

I have just returned from Town and write for the Post—but you mean to write, I trust–

That was not obtained, that promise, to be happy with as last time!

How are you?—tell me, dearest—a long week is to be waited now!

Bless you, my own, sweetest Ba.

I am wholly your RB"

 

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?

January 13, 1846

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:

"Tuesday Night

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! 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?) 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 should have liked to have ‘fastened off’ that black thread, & taken one stitch with a blue or a green one!"

 

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!

 

"You do not remember what we were talking of? what you, rather, were talking of? And what I remember, at least, because it is exactly the most unkind & hard thing you ever said to me .. ever dearest—so I remember it by that sign!– That you should say such a thing to me—!—think what it was, for indeed I will not write it down here—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 beforehand, he would have thought it a foolish question."

 

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?"

"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 'glass bottles' 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 always stopped there—& never climbed to the top of it over the broken-bottle fortification, to see which way you meant to walk afterwards. And you, to ask me so coolly—think what you asked me. That you should have the heart to ask such a question!"

 

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 may 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 begins to fear he is growing a glass bottle, and, so, liable to be smashed,—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.

"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—for you bewildered me for the moment—& I have had tears in my eyes two or three times since, just through thinking back of it all .. of your asking me such questions. Now did I not tell you when I first knew you, that I was leaning out of the window? True, that 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. Then, last year, .. for duty’s sake I would have consented perhaps to go to Italy!—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 that—except for the motive of your caring for it & me .. why you know nothing of me after all—nothing!– 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 would’nt go to Italy .. 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."

 

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 consented 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 but for him. 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 I would’nt go to Italy..." 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!!!
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.
 

"You know, if you were to leave me by your choice & for your happiness, it would be another thing. It would be very lawful to talk of that– & observe! I perfectly understand that you did not think of doubting me .. so to speak!– But you thought, all the same, that if such a thing happened, I should be capable of doing so & so."

 

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.

"Well– I am not quarrelling– I am uneasy about your head rather– That pain in it .. what can it mean? 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 not taking exercise, nor the thing required. Ah, if you knew how dreadfully natural every sort of evil seems to my mind, you would not laugh at me for being afraid. I do beseech you .. dearest!– And then, Sir John Hanmer invited you, besides Mr Warburton .. & suppose you went to him for a very little time .. just for the change of air? or if you went to the coast somewhere. Will you consider, & do what is right, for me? I do not propose that you should go to Italy, observe, nor any great thing at which you might reasonably hesitate. And .. did you ever try smoking as a remedy? 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,—that 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 pinch of tobacco being burnt in a shovel near me. Should you mind it very much? the trying, I mean?"

 

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.

"Wednesday/ For ‘Pauline’ .. 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 whether you very, very much would dislike my reading it. See now! Many readers have done virtuously, but I, (in this virtue I tell you of) surpassed them all!– And now, because I may, I 'must read it'—: & as there are misprints to be corrected, will you do what is necessary, or what you think is necessary, & bring me the book on monday? Do not send—bring it—! 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—.

Shall I hear from you, I wonder? Oh my vain thoughts, that will not keep you well!– And, ever since you have known me, you have been worse—that, you confess!,—& what if it should be the crossing of my bad star? You, 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, … not to be a poet.

How vexatious, yesterday! The stars (talking of them) were out of spherical tune, .. through the damp weather, perhaps—and that scarlet sun was a sign! First Mr Chorley!—& last, dear Mr Kenyon,—who will say tiresome things without any provocation. Did you walk with him his way, or did he walk with you yours? or did you only walk down stairs together?

Write to me! Remember that it is a month to monday– Think of your very own who bids God bless you when she prays best for herself!–

EBB.

Say particularly how you are—now do not omit it. And will you have Miss Martineau’s books when I can lend them to you? Just at this moment I dare not, because they are reading them here.

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!–

But for the man!—— 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."

 

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!

 

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.

January 11, 1846

We shall hear from Browning today who makes up for his recent meager letters with an epic (for him):

"Sunday.

I have no words for you, my dearest,—I shall never have–

You are mine, I am yours. Now, here is one sign of what I said: that I must love you more than at first .. a little sign, and to be looked narrowly for or it escapes me, but then the increase it shows can only be little, so very little now—and as the fine French Chemical Analysts bring themselves to appreciate matter in its refined stages by millionths, so—! At first I only thought of being happy in you,—in your happiness: now I most think of you in the dark hours that must come– I shall grow old with you, and die with you—as far as I can look into the night I see the light with me: 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,—I am in the full sunshine now,—and after, all seems cared for—is it too homely an illustration if I say the day’s visit is not crossed by uncertainties as to the return thro’ the wild country at nightfall?– Now Keats speaks of 'Beauty—that must die—and Joy whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding farewell.' [Keats' 'Ode on Meloncholy'] And who spoke of—looking up into the eyes and asking 'And how long will you love us'? [EBB's 'Cry of the Human'] —There is a Beauty that will not die, a Joy that bids no farewell, dear dearest eyes that will love forever!"

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.

"And I—am to love no longer than I can– Well, dear—and when I can no longer—you will not blame me?—you will do only as ever, kindly and justly,—hardly more: I do not pretend to say I have chosen to put my fancy to such an experiment, and consider how that is to happen, and what measures ought to be taken in the emergency—because in the 'universality of my sympathies' I certainly number a very lively one with my own heart and soul, and cannot amuse myself by such a spectacle as their supposed extinction or paralysis,—there is no doubt I should be an object for the deepest commiseration of you or any more fortunate human being:—and I hope that because such a calamity does not obtrude itself on me as a thing to be prayed against, it is no less duly implied with all the other visitations from which no humanity can be altogether exempt—just as God bids us ask for the continuance of the 'daily bread',—'battle, murder and sudden death' lie behind doubtless—I repeat, and perhaps in so doing, only give one more example of the instantaneous conversion of that indignation we bestow in another’s case, into wonderful lenity when it becomes our own, .. that I only contemplate the possibility you make me recognize, with pity, and fear .. no anger at all,—and imprecations of vengeance, for what? —Observe, I only speak of cases possible; of sudden impotency of mind,—that is possible—there are other ways of 'changing', 'ceasing to love' &c which it is safest not to think of nor believe in– A man may 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 begins to fear he is growing a glass bottle, and, so, liable to be smashed,—do you see? And now, love, dear heart of my heart, my own, only Ba—see no more—see what I am, 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 will be as sure of me one day as I can be now of myself—and why not now be sure? 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 am sure I do'– A year has gone by– Did you tire me then? Now, 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, 'Were you not 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 let the rest get what they can,—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 that 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 now before the few years, and believe in it now, for then, dearest!"

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.
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.

___________________________________________________________

"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; what is necessary you should know before you see it."

Here is the text of an explanation Browning gave for 'Pauline'--probably not the explanation he gave Miss Barrett:

"The following Poem was written in pursuance of a foolish plan which occupied me mightily for a time, and which had for its object the enabling me to assume & realize I know not how many different characters;—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. The present abortion was the first work of the Poet of the batch, who would have been more legitimately myself than most of the others; but I surrounded him with all manner of (to my then notion) poetical accessories, and had planned quite a delightful life for him.

Only this crab remains of the shapely Tree of Life in this Fool’s paradise of mine.

RB"

 

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.

 

Now for a rant:

"That article I suppose to be by Heraud .. about two thirds .. and the rest,—or a little less—by that Mr Powell—whose unimaginable, impudent vulgar stupidity you get some inkling of in the 'Story from Boccaccio'—of which the words quoted were his, 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.– When I took pity on him once on a time and helped his verses into a sort of grammar and sense, I did not think he was a buyer of other men’s verses, to be printed as his own,—thus he bought 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: he paid me extravagant court and, seeing no harm in the mere folly of the man, 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—(which is as good as his, he being a large proprietor of the delectable property, and influencing the voices of his co-mates in council)—well, 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 as one by his friend Serjt Talfourd contributed for pure love of him, Powell-the-aforesaid,—cutting, in consequence, no inglorious figure in the eyes of Printer & Publisher!– Now I was away all this time in Italy or he would never have ventured on such a piece of childish impertinence: and 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 the Article'—that author’s name not being Talfourd’s .. there was certain disgrace! Since then (ten months ago—) I have never seen him—and he accuses himself, observe, of 'sucking my plots while I drink his tea'—one as much as the other! And now why do I tell you this, all of it? Ah,—now you shall hear! Because, it has often been in my mind to ask you what you know of this Mr Powell, or ever knew: for he, (being profoundly versed in every sort of untruth, as every fresh experience shows me—and the rest of his acquaintance—) he told me long ago, 'he used to correspond with you, and that he quarrelled with you'—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? Do not write one word in answer to me .. the name of such a miserable nullity, and husk of a man, ought not to have place in your letters .. and that way he would get near to me again,—near indeed this time!– So tell me, in a word—or do not tell me."

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.

"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, 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!

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 Act you must forgive me—yet I shall .. I think; the roughness matters little in this stage– Chorley says very truly that a tragedy implies as much power kept back as brought out—very true that is—I do not, on the whole, feel dissatisfied .. as was to be but expected .. with the effect of this last—the shelve of the hill, whence the end is seen, you continuing to go down to it .. 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. It is all in long speeches—the action, proper, is in them—they are no descriptions, or amplifications—but here .. in a drama of this kind, all the events, (and interest,) take place in the minds of the actors .. somewhat like Paracelsus in that respect; you know, or don’t know, that the general charge against me, of late, from the few quarters I thought it worth while to listen to, has been that of abrupt, spasmodic writing—they will find some fault with this, of course.

How you know Chorley! That is precisely the man, that willow blowing now here now there—precisely! 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 he has no part nor lot in the matter: I have two kind little notes asking me to go on Thursday & Saturday .. 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! For myself—if I have vanity which such Journals can raise,—would the praise of them raise it, 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,—considering that Mr M. had never seen it!'– I am told he writes for the Athenæum, but don’t know—)..."

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.

"...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– 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 will notice, and praise, and tell anybody who cares to enquire, 'So we noticed the work'– So do not you go expecting justice or injustice till I tell you: 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– Prize or no prize, Mr Dilke does shift the pea, and so did from the beginning—as Charles Lamb’s pleasant sobriquet (—Mr Bilk, he would have it—) testifies– Still he behaved kindly to that poor Frances Brown—let us forget him."

Dilke had published some poems of a blind Irish poetess in the Athenæum and brought her some income and notice.

"And now, my Audience, my crown-bearer, my path-preparer—I am with you again and out of them all—there, here, in my arms, is my proved, palpable success!—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 have you, am by you–

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

RB"

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.

January 10, 1846

Let's begin with Miss Barrett today:

"saturday.

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 you stand first by the brain,—which is as true as truth can be. Then, I shall have ‘Pauline’ in a day or two—yes, I shall & must .. & will."

 

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.

 

"The ‘Ballad poems & fancies’, the article calling itself by that name, seems indeed to be 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– Observe what he says of ‘many sidedness’ seeming to trench on opinion & principle. That, he means for himself I know, for he has said to me that through having such largeness of sympathy he has been charged with want of principle—yet ‘many sidedness’ is certainly no word for him. The effect of general sympathies may be evolved both from an elastic fancy & from breadth of mind—& it seems to me that he rather bends to a phase of humanity & literature than contains it .. than comprehends it. Every part of a truth implies the whole,—& to accept truth all round, does not mean the recognition of contradictory things: universal sympathies cannot make a man inconsistent, but, on the contrary, sublimely consistent– A church tower may stand between the mountains & 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 .. as different as a willow tree from a church tower–"

 

I suspect Miss Barrett sees herself as a church tower, looking both to the mountain and the sea and standing fast.

"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, I have been feeling ashamed of thinking of you so much, of thinking of only you—which is too much, perhaps. Shall I tell you?—it seems to me, to myself, that no man was ever before to any woman what you are to me—the fulness must be in proportion, you know, to the vacancy .. & only I know what was behind .. the long wilderness without the ‘footstep’, .. without the blossoming rose .. & the capacity for happiness, like a black gaping hole, before this silver flooding. Is it wonderful that I should stand as in a dream, & disbelieve .. not you .. but my own fate? 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 more, 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–

Have so much faith in me, my only beloved, as to use me simply for your own advantage & happiness, & to your own ends without a thought of any others—that is all I could ask you with any disquiet as to the granting of it– May God bless you!–

Your Ba

But you have the review now—surely?

The Morning Chronicle attributes the authorship of ‘Modern Poets’ (our article) to Lord John Manners—so I hear this morning– I have not yet looked at the paper myself. The Athenæum, still abominably dumb!–"

 

Browning writes but a short note today:

 

"Saturday.

This is no 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

RB

My 'Act Fourth' is done—but too roughly this time! I will tell you–

One kiss more, dearest!

Thanks for the Review–"

 

Nope, nothing to say. Discuss amongst yourselves.

January 9, 1846

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.

"Friday morning

You never think, ever dearest, that I ‘repent’—why what a word to use! You never could think such a word for a moment! If you were to leave me even, .. to decide that it is best for you to do it, & 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 no extreme case, could I repent for my own sake– For yours, it might be different.

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

Oh, these vain & most heathenish repetitions!—do I not vex you by them, you 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.

 

Cloth of frieze, be not too bold,

Though thou’rt matched with cloth of gold!–

.. that, beloved, was written for me. And you, if you would make me happy, .. always will look at yourself from my ground & by my light, as I see you, & consent to be selfish in all things."

 

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:

 

Cloth of Gold do not despise,
Tho' thou art matcht with Cloth of Frieze;
Cloth of Frieze, be not too bold,
Tho' thou art matcht with Cloth of Gold

 

"Observe, that if I were vacillating, 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! & now, do not speak any more. It is only my preachment for general use, & not for particular application,—only to be ready for application. I love you from the deepest of my nature—the whole world is nothing to me beside you—& what is so precious, is not far from being terrible. 'How dreadful is this place'."

 

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."
Another instance where Browning takes on a heavenly aspect.

"To hear you talk yesterday, is a gladness in the thought for today, .. it was with such a full assent that I listened to every word. It is true, I think, that we see things (things apart from ourselves) under the same aspect & 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 you so well, (yes, I boast to myself of that intimate knowledge) that I seem to know also the idola [images] of all things as they are in your eyes—so that never, scarcely, I am curious, .. never anxious, to learn what your opinions may be– Now, have I been curious or anxious? It was enough for me to know you.

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

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

Ever your own–

Ba

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

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!–"

 

This is the book dedicated to Miss Barrett but supposedly with a preface that criticized her poetry. Apparently the critical preface never appeared.

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

 

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.

 

Browning sends a short note:

 

"Friday Mg

As if I could deny you anything! Here is the Review—indeed it was foolish to mind your seeing it at all. But now, may I stipulate?– You shall not send it back—but on your table I shall find and take it next Tuesday—c’est convenu [it is agreed]!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!

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 .. it does seem that the feat is achieved and that I do love you, plainly, surely, more than ever, more than any day in my life before. —It is your secret, the why the how,—the experience is mine: what are you doing to me?—in the heart’s heart–

Rest—dearest—bless you–"

 

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.