Day: May 13, 2018

[Postmark: May 13, 1846]

Dearest, dearest, I shall be with you to-morrow and be
comforted — and will tell you all about everything. I am a
little tired (but very well, altogether well, singularly so) — and
I do feel a little about to-night’s affair, though you may not.
You, indeed, to judge me by yourself ! But, after all I do not
greatly care . . I can but get up and stammer and say
‘ thank you ‘ and sit down again, like my betters, — and — as I
say and say,— you are at the end of everything . . so long
as I find you ! I hoped that Tennyson was to have been
Poet-respondent — but Moxon says ‘ no ‘ . . and, moreover,
that the Committee had meant (and he supposed had acted
upon their meaning) to offer me the choice of taking either
qualification, of Poetry or the Drama, as mine . . but they
have altered their mind. As it is . . observe — (you will find
a list of Stewards in last Athenæum) — observe that they
are all Bishops or Deans or Doctors . . and that all will be
grave and heavy enough, I dare say. So I shall try and
speak for about five minutes on the advantages of the Press
over the Stage as a medium of communication of the Drama
. . and so get done, if Heaven please !

I saw Tennyson last night — and . . oh, let me tell you
to-morrow. Also, Severn, I saw . . Keats’ Severn, who
bought his own posthumous picture of Keats, and talked
pleasantly about him and Shelley (Tennyson asked me
‘ what I thought of Shelley ‘ — in so many words). Moxon’s
care of him, — Tennyson, not Severn, — is the charmingest
thing imaginable, and he seems to need it all — being in truth
but a long, hazy kind of a man, at least just after dinner . .
yet there is something ‘naif’ about him, too, — the genius
you see, too.

May God bless you, my dearest dearest, — to-morrow re-
pays for all —

{152|Your} {Letters|own} {of|R} {Robert|} {Browning|} {May|} {u|}.

[Postmark: May 13, 1846]

When you began to speak of the islands, the three
islands, I thought you were going to propose that you should
live in one, and Flush in one, and I in the third : and almost
it was so, . . only that you took, besides, the ‘ farthest ‘ for
yourself ! Observe ! — always I write nonsense, when you
send me a letter which moves me like this, . . dearest, . .
my own !

To-day Mrs. Jameson has been here, and having left with
me a proof about Titian, she comes again to-morrow to take
it. I think her quite a lovable person now — I like her
more and more. How she talked of you to-day, and called
you the most charming companion in the world, setting you
too on your right throne as ‘ poet of the age.’ Wouldn’t it have
been an ‘ effect ‘ in the midst of all, if I had burst out crying ?
And what with being flurried, frightened, and a little nervous
from not sleeping well last night, I assure you it was quite
possible — but happily, on every account, I escaped that
‘ dramatic situation.’ I wish . . no, I can’t wish that she
wouldn’t talk of you as she does whenever she comes here.
And then, to make it better, she told me how you had
recited ‘ in a voice and manner as good as singing,’ my
‘ Catarina.’ How are such things to be borne, do you think,
when people are not made of marble ? But I took a long
breath, and held my mask on with both hands.

You will tell me of the Marc Antonio prints, — will you
not ? Remember them on Thursday. Raffael’s — are they
not ? I shall expect ever so much teaching, and showing,
and explaining . . I, who have seen and heard nothing of
pictures and music, from you who know everything . . so
the cicale must not be too loud for that. Did ever anyone
say to you that you were like Raffael’s portrait — not in the
eyes, which are quite different, but in the lower part of the
face, the mouth, and also the brow ? It has struck me some-
times — and I had it on my lips to-day as a question to Mrs.
Jameson. I think I was mad to-day altogether. But she
did not see it — (I mean my madness . . not your likeness !)
went away unconsciously.

Here, at last, is the letter ! Careless that I was
yesterday ! —

And you take me to be too generous if you fancy that I
proposed giving up the daily letter which is my daily bread.
I meant only that you should not, for the sake of a particular
post, tire yourself, hurry yourself, . . do what you did
yesterday. As for the daily letter, I am Ba — not Miss
Barrett. Now, am I Miss Barrett ? am I not Ba rather,
and your Ba ? I should like to hear what will be heard to-morrow.
Oh — I should like to be under the table, or in a
pasty, after the fashion of the queen’s dwarf when Elizabeth
was queen and Shakespeare poet. Shall you be nervous,
as I was with Mrs. Jameson ? Oh no, — why should you be
nervous ? You will do it all well and gracefully — I am not
afraid for you. It is simply out of vain-glory that I wish to
be there ! Only . . the dramatists of England . . where
in the world are they just now ? Or will somebody prove
ten of them, — because nought after one, makes exactly ten ?
Mr. Horne indeed. But I wish the toast had been ‘the
poets of England,’ rather. May God bless you, any way !
‘ I love you whatever comes of it.’ Yes, unless sorrow of
yours should come of it, that is what I like to hear. Better it
is, than a thousand praises of this thing and that thing, which
never were mine . . alas ! — Also, loving me so, you can be
made happy with laburnum-leaves ! — Dearest — most dear !
Dare I speak, do you think ?

Exactly at eight to-morrow, and exactly at three the next
day, I shall be with you — being at any hour

Your very own.

The walk did me no harm. But you say nothing of
yourself !

1846 AND Elizabeth Barrett Barrett 151