The Letters of Two Romantics
Wednesday Morning – – Spring!
February 26, 1845.
Real warm Spring, dear Miss Barrett, and the birds know it; and in Spring I shall see you, surely see you – – for when did I once fail to get whatever I had set my heart upon? As I ask myself sometimes, with a strange fear.
I took up this paper to write a great deal – – now, I don’t think I shall write much – – ‘I shall see you,’ I say!
That ‘Luria’ you enquire about, Continue reading “#9”
Hatcham, Tuesday.
February 11, 1845.
Dear Miss Barrett, – – People would hardly ever tell falsehoods about a matter, if they had been let tell truth in the beginning, for it is hard to prophane one’s very self, and nobody who has, for instance, used certain words and ways to a mother or a father could, even if by the devil’s help he would, reproduce or mimic them with any effect to anybody else that was to be won over – – and so, if ‘I love you’ were always outspoken when it might be, there would, I suppose, be no fear of its desecration at any after time. But lo! only last night, Continue reading “#7”
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”
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”
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.