Month: May 2017

Friday Morning.

May 30, 1845.

Just one word to say that if Saturday, to-morrow, should be fine — because in the case of its raining I shall not expect you; you will find me at three o’clock.

Yes — the circumstances of the costume were mentioned in the letter; Mr. Rogers’ bag-wig and the rest, and David Wilkie’s sword — and also that the Laureate, so equipped, fell down upon both knees in the superfluity of etiquette, and had to be picked up by two lords-in-waiting. It is a large exaggeration I do not doubt — and then I never sympathised with the sighing kept up by people about that acceptance of the Laureateship which drew the bag-wig as a corollary after it. Not that the Laureateship honoured him, but that he honoured it; and that, so honouring it, he preserves a symbol instructive to the masses, who are children and to be taught by symbols now as formerly. Isn’t it true? or at least may it not be true? And won’t the court laurel (such as it is) be all the worthier of you for Wordsworth’s having worn it first?

And in the meantime I shall see you to-morrow perhaps? or if it should rain, on Monday at the same hour.

Ever yours, my dear friend,

E.B.B.

 

May 28, 1845.

Saturday, Monday, as you shall appoint  – – no need to say that, or my thanks  – – Continue reading “#35”

Monday Morning.

May 27, 1845.

You will think me the most changeable of all the changeable; but indeed it is not my fault that I cannot, as I wished, receive you on Wednesday. There was a letter this morning; and our friends not only come to London but come to this house on Tuesday (to-morrow) to pass two or three days, until they settle in an hotel for the rest of the season. Therefore you see, it is doubtful whether the two days may not be three, and the three days four; but if they go away in time, and if Saturday should suit you, I will let you know by a word; and you can answer by a yea or nay. While they are in the house, I must give them what time I can — and indeed, it is something to dread altogether. Continue reading “#34”

May 26, 1845.

Nay  – – I must have last word  – – as all people in the wrong desire to have  – – and then, no more of the subject. You said I had given you great pain  – – so long as I stop that, think anything of me you choose or can! But before your former letter came, I saw the pre-ordained uselessness of mine. Speaking is to some end, (apart from foolish self-relief, which, after all, I can do without)  – – and where there is no end  – – you see! or, to finish characteristically  – – since the offering to cut off one’s right-hand to save anybody a headache, is in vile taste, even for our melodramas, seeing that it was never yet believed in on the stage or off it,  – – how much worse to really make the ugly chop, and afterwards come sheepishly in, one’s arm in a black sling, and find that the delectable gift had changed aching to nausea! There! And now, ‘exit, prompt-side, nearest door, Luria’  – – and enter R.B.  – – next Wednesday,  – – as boldly as he suspects most people do just after they have been soundly frightened!

I shall be most happy to see you on the day and at the hour you mention.

God bless you, my dear friend,

R.B.

 

Sunday

[May 25, 1845].

I owe you the most humble of apologies dear Mr. Browning, for having spent so much solemnity on so simple a matter, and I hasten to pay it; confessing at the same time (as why should I not?) that I am quite as much ashamed of myself as I ought to be, which is not a little. You will find it difficult to believe me perhaps when I assure you that I never made such a mistake (I mean of over-seriousness to indefinite compliments), no, never in my life before — indeed my sisters have often jested with me (in matters of which they were cognizant) on my supernatural indifference to the superlative degree in general, as if it meant nothing in grammar. Continue reading “#32”

Saturday Morning.

May 24, 1845.

Don’t you remember I told you, once on a time that you ‘knew nothing of me’? whereat you demurred  – – but I meant what I said, and knew it was so. To be grand in a simile, for every poor speck of a Vesuvius or a Stromboli in my microcosm there are huge layers of ice and pits of black cold water  – – and I make the most of my two or three fire-eyes, because I know by experience, alas, how these tend to extinction  – – and the ice grows and grows  – – still this last is true part of me, most characteristic part, best part perhaps, and I disown nothing  – – only,  – – when you talked of ‘knowing me’! Continue reading “#31”

Friday Evening.

May 24, 1845.

I intended to write to you last night and this morning, and could not, — you do not know what pain you give me in speaking so wildly. And if I disobey you, my dear friend, in speaking, (I for my part) of your wild speaking, I do it, not to displease you, but to be in my own eyes, and before God, a little more worthy, or less unworthy, of a generosity from which I recoil by instinct and at the first glance, yet conclusively; and because my silence would be the most disloyal of all means of expression, in reference to it. Listen to me then in this. You have said some intemperate things  . . . fancies, — which you will not say over again, nor unsay, but forget at once, and for ever, having said at all; and which (so) will die out between you and me alone, like a misprint between you and the printer. And this you will do for my sake who am your friend (and you have none truer) — and this I ask, because it is a condition necessary to our future liberty of intercourse. Continue reading “#30”

Wednesday Morning.

May 22, 1845.

Indeed there was nothing wrong — how could there be? And there was everything right — as how should there not be? And as for the ‘loud speaking,’ I did not hear any — and, instead of being worse, I ought to be better for what was certainly (to speak it, or be silent of it,) happiness and honour to me yesterday.

Which reminds me to observe that you are so restricting our vocabulary, as to be ominous of silence in a full sense, presently. Continue reading “#29”

Tuesday Evening.

May 21, 1845.

I trust to you for a true account of how you are  – – if tired, if not tired, if I did wrong in any thing,  – – or, if you please, right in any thing  – – (only, not one more word about my ‘kindness,’ which, to get done with, I will grant is exceptive)  – – but, let us so arrange matters if possible,  – – and why should it not be  – – that my great happiness, such as it will be if I see you, as this morning, from time to time, may be obtained at the cost of as little inconvenience to you as we can contrive. For an instance  – – just what strikes me  – – they all say here I speak very loud  – – (a trick caught from having often to talk with a deaf relative of mine). And did I stay too long?

I will tell you unhesitatingly of such ‘corrigenda’  – – nay, I will again say, do not humiliate me  – – do not again,  – – by calling me ‘kind’ in that way.

I am proud and happy in your friendship  – – now and ever. May God bless you!

R.B.

 

Saturday.

May 17, 1845.

I shall be ready on Tuesday I hope, but I hate and protest against your horrible ‘entomology.’ Beginning to explain, would thrust me lower and lower down the circles of some sort of an ‘Inferno’; only with my dying breath I would maintain that I never could, consciously or unconsciously, mean to distrust you; or, the least in the world, to Simpsonize you. What I said,  . . . it was you that put it into my head to say it — for certainly, in my usual disinclination to receive visitors, such a feeling does not enter. There, now! There, I am a whole ‘giro’ lower! Now, you will say perhaps that I distrust you, and nobody else! So it is best to be silent, and bear all the ‘cutting things’ with resignation! that is certain. Continue reading “#27”