Month: October 2017

October 7, 1845.

Ah but the good things do not come together — for just as your letter comes I am driven to asking you to leave Tuesday for Wednesday.

On Tuesday Mr. Kenyon is to be here or not to be here, he says — there’s a doubt; and you would rather go to a clear day. So if you do not hear from me again I shall expect you on Wednesday unless I hear to the contrary from you: — and if anything happens to Wednesday you shall hear. Mr. Kenyon is in town for only two days, or three. I never could grumble against him, so good and kind as he is — but he may not come after all to-morrow — so it is not grudging the obolus to Belisarius, but the squandering of the last golden days at the bottom of the purse.

Do I ‘stand’ — Do I walk? Yes — most uprightly. I ‘walk upright every day.’ Do I go out? no, never. And I am not to be scolded for that, because when you were looking at the sun to-day, I was marking the east wind; and perhaps if I had breathed a breath of it  . . . farewell Pisa. People who can walk don’t always walk into the lion’s den as a consequence — do they? should they? Are you ‘sure that they should?’ I write in great haste. So Wednesday then  . . . perhaps!

And yours every day.

You understand. Wednesday — if nothing to the contrary.

 

Monday Morning.

October 6, 1845.

I should certainly think that the Duke of Palmella may be induced, and with no great difficulty, to give up a cabin under the circumstances  – – and then the plan becomes really objection-proof, so far as mortal plans go. But now you must think all the boldlier about whatever difficulties remain, just because they are so much the fewer. It is cold already in the mornings and evenings  – – cold and (this morning) foggy  – – I did not ask if you continue to go out from time to time . . .. I am sure you should,  – – you would so prepare yourself properly for the fatigue and change  – – yesterday it was very warm and fine in the afternoon, nor is this noontime so bad, if the requisite precautions are taken. And do make ‘journeys across the room,’ and out of it, meanwhile, and stand when possible  – – get all the strength ready, now that so much is to be spent. Oh, if I were by you!

Thank you, thank you  – – I will devise titles  – – I quite see what you say, now you do say it. I am (this Monday morning, the prescribed day for efforts and beginnings) looking over and correcting what you read  – – to press they shall go, and then the plays can follow gently, and then  . . . ‘Oh to be in Pisa. Now that E.B.B. is there!’  – – And I shall be there! . . . I am much better to-day; and my mother better  – – and to-morrow I shall see you  – – So come good things together!

Dearest  – – till to-morrow and ever I am yours, wholly yours  – – May God bless you!

R.B.

You do not ask me that ‘boon’  – – why is that?  – – Besides, I have my own real boons to ask too, as you will inevitably find, and I shall perhaps get heart by your example.

 

Saturday.

October 6, 1845.

Tuesday is given up in full council. The thing is beyond doubting of, as George says and as you thought yesterday. And then George has it in his head to beguile the Duke of Palmella out of a smaller cabin, so that I might sail from the Thames on the twentieth — and whether he succeeds or not, I humbly confess that one of the chief advantages of the new plan if not the very chief (as I see it) is just in the delay.

Your spring-song is full of beauty as you know very well — and ‘that’s the wise thrush,’ so characteristic of you (and of the thrush too) that I was sorely tempted to ask you to write it ‘twice over,’  . . . and not send the first copy to Mary Hunter notwithstanding my promise to her. And now when you come to print these fragments, would it not be well if you were to stoop to the vulgarism of prefixing some word of introduction, as other people do, you know,  . . . a title  . . . a name? You perplex your readers often by casting yourself on their intelligence in these things — and although it is true that readers in general are stupid and can’t understand, it is still more true that they are lazy and won’t understand  . . . and they don’t catch your point of sight at first unless you think it worth while to push them by the shoulders and force them into the right place. Now these fragments  . . . you mean to print them with a line between  . . . and not one word at the top of it  . . . now don’t you! And then people will read

Oh, to be in England

and say to themselves  . . . ‘Why who is this?  . . . who’s out of England?’ Which is an extreme case of course; but you will see what I mean  . . . and often I have observed how some of the very most beautiful of your lyrics have suffered just from your disdain of the usual tactics of writers in this one respect.

And you are not better, still — you are worse instead of better  . . . are you not? Tell me — And what can you mean about ‘unimportance,’ when you were worse last week  . . . this expiring week  . . . than ever before, by your own confession? And now? — And your mother?

Yes — I promise! And so,  . . . Elijah will be missed instead of his mantle  . . . which will be a losing contract after all. But it shall be as you say. May you be able to say that you are better! God bless you.

Ever yours.

Never think of the ‘White Slave.’ I had just taken it up. The trash of it is prodigious — far beyond Mr. Smythe. Not that I can settle upon a book just now, in all this wind, to judge of it fairly.

 

Thursday.

October 2, 1845.

Well, let us hope against hope in the sad matter of the novel  – – yet, yet,  – – it is by Shelley, if you will have the truth  – – as I happen to know  – – proof last being that Leigh Hunt told me he unearthed it in Shelley’s own library at Marlow once, to the writer’s horror and shame  – – ‘He snatched it out of my hands’  – – said H. Yet I thrust it into yours  . . . so much for the subtle fence of friends who reach your heart by a side-thrust, as I told you on Tuesday, after the enemy has fallen back breathless and baffled. As for the date, that Stockdale was a notorious pirate and raker-up of rash publications  . . . and, do you know, I suspect the title-page is all that boasts such novelty,  – – see if the book, the inside leaves, be not older evidently!  – – a common trick of the ‘trade’ to this day. The history of this and ‘Justrozzi,’ as it is spelt,  – – the other novel,  – – may be read in Medwin’s ‘Conversations’  – – and, as I have been told, in Lady Ch. Bury’s ‘Reminiscences’ or whatever she calls them  . . . the ‘Guistrozzi’ was certainly ‘written in concert with’  – – somebody or other  . . . for I confess the whole story grows monstrous and even the froth of wine strings itself in bright bubbles,  – – ah, but this was the scum of the fermenting vat, do you see? I am happy to say I forget the novel entirely, or almost  – – and only keep the exact impression which you have gained  . . . through me! ‘The fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor‘  – – (that is my pet-line  . . . because the ‘chill dew’ of a place not commonly supposed to favour humidity is a plagiarism from Lewis’s ‘Monk,’ it now flashes on me! Yes, Lewis, too, puts the phrase into intense italics.) And now, please read a chorus in the ‘Prometheus Unbound’ or a scene from the ‘Cenci’  – – and join company with Shelley again!

– – From ‘chill dew’ I come to the cloak  – – you are quite right  – – and I give up that fancy. Will you, then, take one more precaution when all proper safe-guards have been adopted; and, when everything is sure, contrive some one sureness besides, against cold or wind or sea-air; and say ‘this  – – for the cloak which is not here, and to help the heart’s wish which is,’  – – so I shall be there palpably. Will you do this? Tell me you will, to-morrow  – – and tell me all good news.

My Mother suffers still . . .. I hope she is no worse  – – but a little better  – – certainly better. I am better too, in my unimportant way.

Now I will write you the verses  . . . some easy ones out of a paper-full meant to go between poem and poem in my next number, and break the shock of collision.

Let me kiss your hand  – – dearest! My heart and life  – – all is yours, and forever  – – God make you happy as I am through you  – – Bless you

R.B.

 

Wednesday.

October 1, 1845.

I have read to the last line of your ‘Rosicrucian’; and my scepticism grew and grew through Hume’s process of doubtful doubts, and at last rose to the full stature of incredulity  . . . for I never could believe Shelley capable of such a book (call it a book!), not even with a flood of boarding-school idiocy dashed in by way of dilution. Altogether it roused me to deny myself so far as to look at the date of the book, and to get up and travel to the other end of the room to confront it with other dates in the ‘Letters from Abroad’  . . . (I, who never think of a date except the ‘A.D.,’ and am inclined every now and then to write that down as 1548  . . .) well! and on comparing these dates in these two volumes before my eyes, I find that your Rosicrucian was ‘printed for Stockdale’ in 1822, and that Shelley died in the July of the same year!! — There, is a vindicating fact for you! And unless the ‘Rosicrucian’ went into more editions than one, and dates here from a later one,  . . . which is not ascertainable from this fragment of a titlepage,  . . . the innocence of the great poet stands proved — now doesn’t it? For nobody will say that he published such a book in the last year of his life, in the maturity of his genius, and that Godwin’s daughter helped him in it! That ‘dripping dew’ from the skeleton is the only living word in the book! — which really amused me notwithstanding, from the intense absurdity of the whole composition  . . . descriptions  . . . sentiments  . . . and morals.

Judge yourself if I had not better say ‘No’ about the cloak! I would take it if you wished such a kindness to me — and although you might find it very useful to yourself  . . . or to your mother or sister  . . . still if you wished me to take it I should like to have it, and the mantle of the prophet might bring me down something of his spirit! but do you remember  . . . do you consider  . . . how many talkers there are in this house, and what would be talked — or that it is not worth while to provoke it all? And Papa, knowing it, would not like it — and altogether it is far better, believe me, that you should keep your own cloak, and I, the thought of the kindness you meditated in respect to it. I have heard nothing more — nothing.

I was asked the other day by a very young friend of mine  . . . the daughter of an older friend who once followed you up-stairs in this house  . . . Mr. Hunter, an Independent minister  . . . for ‘Mr. Browning’s autograph.’ She wants it for a collection  . . . for her album — and so, will you write out a verse or two on one side of note paper  . . . not as you write for the printers  . . . and let me keep my promise and send it to her? I forgot to ask you before. Or one verse will do  . . . anything will do  . . . and don’t let me be bringing you into vexation. It need not be of MS. rarity.

You are not better  . . . really  . . . I fear. And your mother’s being ill affects you more than you like to admit, I fear besides. Will you, when you write, say how both are  . . . nothing extenuating, you know. May God bless you, my dearest friend.

Ever yours,

E.B.B.