Month: January 2017

New Cross, Hatcham, Monday Night.
January 28, 1845.

Dear Miss Barrett,  – – Your books lie on my table here, at arm’s length from me, in this old room where I sit all day: and when my head aches or wanders or strikes work, as it now or then will, I take my chance for either green-covered volume, as if it were so much fresh trefoil to feel in one’s hands this winter-time,  – – and round I turn, and, putting a decisive elbow on three or four half-done-with ‘Bells’ of mine, read, read, read, and just as I have shut up the book and walked to the window, I recollect that you wanted me to find faults there, and that, in an unwise hour, I engaged to do so. Meantime, Continue reading “#5”

50 Wimpole Street: Jan. 15, 1845.

Dear Mr. Browning, — The fault was clearly with me and not with you.

When I had an Italian master, years ago, he told me that there was an unpronounceable English word which absolutely expressed me, and which he would say in his own tongue, as he could not in mine — ‘testa lunga.’ Of course, the signor meant headlong! — and now I have had enough to tame me, and might be expected to stand still in my stall. But you see I do not. Headlong I was at first, and headlong I continue — precipitously rushing forward through all manner of nettles and briars instead of keeping the path; guessing at the meaning of unknown words instead of looking into the dictionary — tearing open letters, and never untying a string, — and expecting everything to be done in a minute, and the thunder to be as quick as the lightning. Continue reading “#4”

New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey.

Jan. 13, 1845.

Dear Miss Barrett,  – – I just shall say, in as few words as I can, that you make me very happy, and that, now the beginning is over, I dare say I shall do better, because my poor praise, number one, was nearly as felicitously brought out, as a certain tribute to no less a personage than Tasso, which I was amused with at Rome some weeks ago, in a neat pencilling on the plaister-wall by his tomb at Sant’Onofrio  – – ‘Alla cara memoria  – – di  – – (please fancy solemn interspaces and grave capital letters at the new lines) di  – – Torquato Tasso  – – il Dottore Bernardini  – – offriva  – – il seguente Carme  – – O tu‘  – – and no more,  – – the good man, it should seem, breaking down with the overload of love here! But my ‘O tu’  – – was breathed out most sincerely, and now you have taken it in gracious part, the rest will come after. Only,  – – and which is why I write now  – – Continue reading “#3”

50 Wimpole Street: Jan. 11, 1845.

I thank you, dear Mr. Browning, from the bottom of my heart. You meant to give me pleasure by your letter — and even if the object had not been answered, I ought still to thank you. Continue reading “#2”

New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey.
January 10, 1845.

I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett,  – – and this is no off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write,  – – whatever else, no prompt matter-of-course recognition of your genius, and there a graceful and natural end of the thing. Since the day last week when I first read your poems, I quite laugh to remember how I have been turning and turning again in my mind what I should be able to tell you of their effect upon me, for in the first flush of delight I thought I would this once get out of my habit of purely passive enjoyment, when I do really enjoy, and thoroughly justify my admiration  – – perhaps even, as a loyal fellow-craftsman should, try and find fault and do you some little good to be proud of hereafter!  – – but nothing comes of it all  – – so into me has it gone, and part of me has it become, this great living poetry of yours, not a flower of which but took root and grew  – – Oh, how different that is from lying to be dried and pressed flat, and prized highly, and put in a book with a proper account at top and bottom, and shut up and put away  . . . and the book called a ‘Flora,’ besides! After all, I need not give up the thought of doing that, too, in time; because even now, talking with whoever is worthy, I can give a reason for my faith in one and another excellence, the fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought; but in this addressing myself to you  – – your own self, and for the first time, my feeling rises altogether. I do, as I say, love these books with all my heart  – – and I love you too. Do you know I was once not very far from seeing  – – really seeing you? Mr. Kenyon said to me one morning ‘Would you like to see Miss Barrett?’ then he went to announce me,  – – then he returned  . . . you were too unwell, and now it is years ago, and I feel as at some untoward passage in my travels, as if I had been close, so close, to some world’s-wonder in chapel or crypt, only a screen to push and I might have entered, but there was some slight, so it now seems, slight and just sufficient bar to admission, and the half-opened door shut, and I went home my thousands of miles, and the sight was never to be?

Well, these Poems were to be, and this true thankful joy and pride with which I feel myself,

 Yours ever faithfully,

Robert Browning.

Miss Barrett,

50 Wimpole St.
R. Browning.