Month: September 2017

Friday Afternoon.

September 5, 1845.

What you tell me of Dr. Chambers, ‘all the good of you’ he said, and all I venture to infer; this makes me most happy and thankful. Do you use to attach our old τυφλας

ελπιδας (and the practice of instilling them) to that medical science in which Prometheus boasted himself proficient? I had thought the ‘faculty’ dealt in fears, on the contrary, and scared you into obedience: but I know most about the doctors in Molière. However the joyous truth is  – – must be, that you are better, and if one could transport you quietly to Pisa, save you all worry,  – – what might one not expect!

When I know your own intentions  – – measures, I should say, respecting your journey  – – mine will of course be submitted to you  – – it will just be ‘which day next  – – month’?  – – Not week, alas.

I can thank you now for this edition of your poems  – – I have not yet taken to read it, though  – – for it does not, each volume of it, open obediently to a thought, here, and here, and here, like my green books  . . . no, my Sister’s they are; so these you give me are really mine. And America, with its ten per cent., shall have my better word henceforth and for ever  . . . for when you calculate, there must have been a really extraordinary circulation; and in a few months: it is what newspapers call ‘a great fact.’ Have they reprinted the ‘Seraphim’? Quietly, perhaps!

I shall see you on Monday, then  – –

And my all-important headaches are tolerably kept under  – – headaches proper they are not  – – but the noise and slight turning are less troublesome  – – will soon go altogether.

Bless you ever  – – ever dearest friend.

R.B.

Oh, oh, oh! As many thanks for that precious card-box and jewel of a flower-holder as are consistent with my dismay at finding you only return them  . . . and not the costly brown paper wrappages also  . . . to say nothing of the inestimable pins with which my sister uses to fasten the same!

 

September 4, 1845.

Indeed my headaches are not worth enquiring about — I mean, they are not of the slightest consequence, and seldom survive the remedy of a cup of coffee. I only wish it were the same with everybody — I mean, with every head! Also there is nothing the matter otherwise — and I am going to prove my right to a ‘clean bill of health’ by going into the park in ten minutes. Twice round the inner enclosure is what I can compass now — which is equal to once round the world — is it not?

I had just time to be afraid that the parcel had not reached you. The reason why I sent you the poems was that I had a few copies to give to my personal friends, and so, wished you to have one; and it was quite to please myself and not to please you that I made you have it; and if you put it into the ‘plum-tree’ to hide the errata, I shall be pleased still, if not rather more. Only let me remember to tell you this time in relation to those books and the question asked of yourself by your noble Romans, that just as I was enclosing my sixty-pounds debt to Mr. Moxon, I did actually and miraculously receive a remittance of fourteen pounds from the selfsame bookseller of New York who agreed last year to print my poems at his own risk and give me ‘ten per cent on the profit.’ Not that I ever asked for such a thing! They were the terms offered. And I always considered the ‘per centage’ as quite visionary  . . . put in for the sake of effect, to make the agreement look better! But no — you see! One’s poetry has a real ‘commercial value,’ if you do but take it far away enough from the ‘civilization of Europe.’ When you get near the backwoods and the red Indians, it turns out to be nearly as good for something as ‘cabbages,’ after all! Do you remember what you said to me of cabbages versus poems, in one of the first letters you ever wrote to me? — of selling cabbages and buying Punches?

People complain of Dr. Chambers and call him rough and unfeeling — neither of which I ever found him for a moment — and I like him for his truthfulness, which is the nature of the man, though it is essential to medical morality never to let a patient think himself mortal while it is possible to prevent it, and even Dr. Chambers may incline to this on occasion. Still he need not have said all the good he said to me on Saturday — he used not to say any of it; and he must have thought some of it: and, any way, the Pisa-case is strengthened all round by his opinion and injunction, so that all my horror and terror at the thoughts of his visit, (and it’s really true that I would rather suffer to a certain extent than be cured by means of those doctors!) had some compensation. How are you? do not forget to say! I found among some papers to-day, a note of yours which I asked Mr. Kenyon to give me for an autograph, two years ago.

May God bless you, dearest friend. And I have a dispensation from ‘beef and porter’ εις τους αιωνας. ‘On no account’ was the answer!

 

Tuesday Night.
September 3, 1845.

Before you leave London, I will answer your letter  – – all my attempts end in nothing now  – –

Dearest friend  – – I am yours ever

R.B.

But meantime, you will tell me about yourself, will you not? The parcel came a few minutes after my note left  – – Well, I can thank you for that; for the Poems,  – – though I cannot wear them round my neck  – – and for the too great trouble. My heart’s friend! Bless you  – –

Tuesday Evening.
September 3, 1845.

I rather hoped  . . . with no right at all  . . . to hear from you this morning or afternoon  – – to know how you are  – – that, ‘how are you,’ there is no use disguising, is,  – – vary it how one may  – – my own life’s question.  – –

I had better write no more, now. Will you not tell me something about you  – – the head; and that too, too warm hand  . . . or was it my fancy? Surely the report of Dr. Chambers is most satisfactory,  – – all seems to rest with yourself: you know, in justice to me, you do know that I know the all but mockery, the absurdity of anyone’s counsel ‘to be composed,’ &c. &c. But try, dearest friend!

God bless you  – –

I am yours

R.B.