"I upbraid myself for not writing to you my ever dearest
Miss Mitford—but I have had no heart to write .. no heart .. it is just the
word!—for mine has been tossed up & down by sadder thoughts than the mere
non-recovery of health could bring me. Let us leave the subject—I cannot talk of
it. I should have gone infallibly, if it had not been for the
apprehension of involving others with me in a series of difficulties .. which,
(as to them), would have constituted my condemnation in my own eyes. As
for the good to be derived, I see it as you see it—& perhaps everyone else
sees the same. It is not the sight which is awry—not the power of seeing–
I want only the sun—I faint here for lack of the sun: & it is proved to me
that I should be in as good health as the rest of the world, if I could have the
two things together, warmth & air. But this shutting up you see, which is
necessary to prevent the tendency to organic disease of the lungs, shatters the
nervous system—& the alternative of either evil is inevitable while I live
in this climate. I feel like a bird in a cage .. inclined to dash myself against
the bars of my prison—but God is good, & counter-motives have been given to
me in moments of the greatest bitterness, sufficient for encouragement. So I
live on—'bide my time'—only without the slightest expectation, my loved friend,
of the results you speak of from the quarter you look to—no!– In fact, nothing
should ever induce me to appeal again, on any personal ground whatever, to that
quarter. It is from no want of frankness <.. this reticence to you!>—& you will be the first to understand
the respect of my silence. So let us leave the subject for what is pleasant—for
I shall see you .. shall I not? Any day, this week even, I shall be delighted to
see you—any day after tomorrow, tuesday. Begin from wednesday, & go on. Only
it is too bad to think of bringing you so far through the cold—but I let your
kindness have its way. Only, again, I suddenly think that you may be retained by
prudential motives—because one of my brothers has been ill with fever of a
typhoid character (not absolutely typhus) & though now convalescent, &
able to leave his bed & take soups & strengthening things, I know what a
sound typhus must have in your ears. Yet the medical men have been of
opinion throughout that no harm was to be apprehended for visitors at the
house—& my other brothers who sate up, night after night, with the poor
invalid, have been & are perfectly well—— I tell you in any case.–
Judge for yourself .. & in the case of the least fear, do not come. You will
find me (if you do) still off the sofa, & able to walk about—only not
looking quite as flourishing as I really did in the summer—a little fagged (as
must needs be) with all the heart-bruising!– And I shall struggle not to sink
this winter,—& if it is a mild winter .. ah, well! all this is with God. And
the wound is apart from it, ..
<.. apart from the mere health,> &
to be unaffected by it. May God help me! my reeds have run into me from all
sides almost .. yet still I cling!–"
Her frank description of her personal situation, describing herself as a bird throwing itself against the wires of its cage, is certainly apt. She feels that she needs to get into the sun for her health and that is true, but it is more certainly true that she needed to get out of the polluted air of London. Full of thick coal stained air, London could not have been a healthy place for anyone, especially anyone with weak lungs. And she is able to 'walk about'! That is an improvement.
Every day for a week I have reproached Wilson at set of
sun for forgetting to send you oysters—but what with illness in the house &
change of servants, her memory has really been overburdened. You shall have them
today or tomorrow.
Does Wilson have a secret store of oysters? This is certainly an interesting development.
"Balzac’s ‘Paysans’ in
its one volume, (for I have seen only that one volume) is another proof
of the pressure of the times towards sympathies with the people. And a new work
by George Sand ‘Le meunier d’Angibault’ goes the same way, but with diminished
power certainly. Her hand grows cold
when she extends it from the chair. And he––why he is Balzac still in
‘Les Paysans’—but story there is none, & so no interest—& no unity, as
far as that first volume indicates: & I found it rather hard reading ..
despite the human character, & the scenic effects. As to ‘Le Juif’ I have
done with him, & am not sorry to have done. The
last volumes fall off step by step. Now is it not true that when people
determine professedly to be didactic, immediately they grow dull as
school-masters? it seems so to me.– V Hugo is a true poet."
She is busy reading her questionable French novels. Does her father know what really goes on at Wimpole Street when he is away in the city?
"Mr Horne is busy, it appears,—but I had a few lines from
him the other day.
Well—you will write in any case–And I am ever your affectionate EBB."She writes to her Greek scholar friend Hugh Stuart Boyd:
"My very dear friend,
It is so long since I wrote, that I must write,—I must
ruffle your thoughts with a little breath from my side! Listen to me, my dear
friend. That I have not written, has scarcely been my fault, .. but my
misfortune rather, .. for I have been quite unstrung & overcome by agitation
& anxiety, .. and thought that I should be able to tell you at last of being
calmer & happier,—but it was all in vain. I do not leave England, my dear
friend. It is decided that I remain on in my prison. It was my full intention to
go– I considered it to be a clear duty, and I made up my mind to perform it, let
the circumstances be ever so painfully like obstacles: but when the moment came,
it appeared impossible for me to set out alone, and also impossible to take my
brother & sister with me without involving them in difficulties &
displeasure. Now what I could risk for myself, I could not risk for others—and
the very kindness with which they desired me not to think of them, only made me
think of them more, as was natural and just. So Italy is given up—& I fall
back into the hands of God who is merciful, trusting Him with the time that
shall be.
Arabel would have gone to tell you all this a fortnight
since, but one of my brothers has been ill with fever which was not exactly
typhus, but of the typhoid character, and we knew that you would rather not see
her under the circumstances. He is very much better—(it is Octavius)—& has
been out of bed today & yesterday.
Do not reproach me either for not writing or for not
going, my very dear friend. I have been too heavy-hearted for words: & as to
the deeds, you would not have wished me to lead others into difficulties, the
extent & result of which, no one could calculate. It would not have been
just of me.
And you—? how are you .. & what are you
doing? May God bless you my dear dear friend!
Ever yours I am affectionately & gratefully EBB–"Did you notice? Not a word or reference to Browning in either letter. The subject is not hinted at in any way--there is no hint of a consolation in not going or any comfort that she has a new 'friend' to keep her company in her 'cage' and 'prison'.
There was no outgoing letter to Browning but she received one instead, responding to her request that he make several 'silent promises':
"How does one make 'silent promises' .. or, rather, how
does the maker of them communicate that fact to whomsoever it may concern? I
know, there have been many, very many unutterable vows & promises made,—that
is, thought down upon, the white slip at the top of
my notes, .. such as of this note,—and not trusted to the pen,—that always comes
in for the shame,—but given up, and replaced by the poor forms to which a pen is
equal—and, a glad minute I should account that, in which you collected
and accepted those 'promises'—because they would not be all so unworthy
of me—much less you! I would receive, in virtue of them, the ascription
of whatever worthiness is supposed to lie in deep, truest love, and
gratitude,—
Read my silent answer there too!
All your letter is one comfort: we will be happy this
winter, and after, do not fear– I am most happy, to begin, that your brother is
so much better: he must be weak and susceptible of cold, remember.
It was on my lip, I do think, last visit, or the
last but one, to beg you to detach those papers from the 'Athenæum's'
gâchis [mess]: certainly this opportunity is most
favorable, for every reason: you cannot hesitate, surely: at present those
papers are lost—lost for practical purposes: do pray reply without fail
to the proposers; <who would be apt to> no, no harm of these
really fine fellows, who could do harm (by printing incorrect copies, and
perhaps eking out the volume by supposititious matter .. ex-gr. They
strengthened & lengthened a book of Dickens’, in Paris, by adding quant.
suff. of Thackeray’s 'Yellowplush-Papers'.. as I discovered by a Parisian
somebody praising the latter to me as Dickens’ best work!)– And who do really a good
straightforward un-American thing: you will encourage 'the day of small
things'—tho’ this is not small, nor likely to have
small results. I shall be impatient to hear that you have decided. I like the
progress of these Americans in taste, their amazing leaps, like grasshoppers up
to the sun—from .. what is the 'from,' what depth, do you remember, say,
ten or twelve years back?—to—Carlyle, & Tennyson, & you!– So
children leave off Jack of Cornwall and go on just to
Homer."
He is encouraging her to allow the Americans to re-print her essay's on the Greek Christian Poets and other contemporary poets which were originally printed in the Athenæum. Probably the best thing about these Americans is their very American custom of actually paying an artist for their work (for the most part).
"I can’t conceive why my proof does not come– I must go
to-morrow and see. In the other, I have corrected all the points you noted,—to their evident improvement. Yesterday I
took out 'Luria' & read it thro’, the skeleton– I shall hope to finish it
soon now– It is for a purely imaginary Stage,—very simple and straightforward.
Would you .. no, Act by Act, as I was about to propose that you should read
it,—that process would affect the oneness I most wish to preserve.
On Tuesday—at last, I am with you– Till when be with me
ever, dearest– God bless you ever. RB
Browning is a cunning fisherman. He again baits his line with a poem--casting his 'Luria' on the water and the pulling it back to see if the trout will rise to the surface. And yes she will soon be leaping out of the water reaching to eat up his Luria before it is withdrawn again.
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