Robert and Elizabeth

12  – – Wednesday.

October 8, 1845.

Well, dearest, at all events I get up with the assurance I shall see you, and go on till the fatal 11-1/4 p.m. believing in the same, and then, if after all there does come such a note as this with its instructions, why, first, it is such a note and such a gain, and next it makes a great day out of to-morrow that was to have been so little of a day, that is all. Only, only, I am suspicious, now, of a real loss to me in the end; for, putting off yesterday, I dared put off (on your part) Friday to Saturday  . . . while now  . . . what shall be said to that?

Dear Mr. Kenyon to be the smiling inconscious obstacle to any pleasure of mine, if it were merely pleasure!

But I want to catch our next post  – – to-morrow, then, excepting what is to be excepted!

Bless you, my dearest  – –

Your own

R.B.

 

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.

 

September 29, 1845.

Then first,  . . . first, I ask you not to misunderstand. Because we do not  . . . no, we do not  . . . agree (but disagree) as to ‘what is your true good’  . . . but disagree, and as widely as ever indeed.

The other asking shall come in its season  . . . some day before I go, if I go. It only relates to a restitution — and you cannot guess it if you try  . . . so don’t try! — and perhaps you can’t grant it if you try — and I cannot guess.

Cabins and berths all taken in the Malta steamer for both third and twentieth of October! see what dark lanterns the stars hold out, and how I shall stay in England after all as I think! And thus we are thrown back on the old Gibraltar scheme with its shifting of steamers  . . . unless we take the dreary alternative of Madeira! — or Cadiz! Even suppose Madeira,  . . . why it were for a few months alone — and there would be no temptation to loiter as in Italy.

Don’t think too hardly of poor Papa. You have his wrong side  . . . his side of peculiar wrongness  . . . to you just now. When you have walked round him you will have other thoughts of him.

Are you better, I wonder? and taking exercise and trying to be better? May God bless you! Tuesday need not be the last day if you like to take one more besides — for there is no going until the fourth or seventh,  . . . and the seventh is the more probable of those two. But now you have done with me until Tuesday.

Ever yours,

E.B.B.

 

September 27, 1845.

Think for me, speak for me, my dearest, my own! You that are all great-heartedness and generosity, do that one more generous thing?

God bless you for

R.B.

What can it be you ask of me!  – – ‘a boon’  – – once my answer to that had been the plain one  – – but now  . . . when I have better experience of  – – No, now I have best experience of how you understand my interests; that at last we both know what is my true good  – – so ask, ask! My own, now! For there it is!  – – oh, do not fear I am ‘entangled‘  – – my crown is loose on my head, not nailed there  – – my pearl lies in my hand  – – I may return it to the sea, if I will!

What is it you ask of me, this first asking?

 

Friday Evening.

September 27, 1845.

I had your letter late last night, everyone almost, being out of the house by an accident, so that it was left in the letter-box, and if I had wished to answer it before I saw you, it had scarcely been possible.

But it will be the same thing — for you know as well as if you saw my answer, what it must be, what it cannot choose but be, on pain of sinking me so infinitely below not merely your level but my own, that the depth cannot bear a glance down. Yet, though I am not made of such clay as to admit of my taking a base advantage of certain noble extravagances, (and that I am not I thank God for your sake) I will say, I must say, that your words in this letter have done me good and made me happy,  . . . that I thank and bless you for them,  . . . and that to receive such a proof of attachment from you, not only overpowers every present evil, but seems to me a full and abundant amends for the merely personal sufferings of my whole life. When I had read that letter last night I did think so. I looked round and round for the small bitternesses which for several days had been bitter to me, and I could not find one of them. The tear-marks went away in the moisture of new, happy tears. Why, how else could I have felt? how else do you think I could? How would any woman have felt  . . . who could feel at all  . . . hearing such words said (though ‘in a dream’ indeed) by such a speaker?

And now listen to me in turn. You have touched me more profoundly than I thought even you could have touched me — my heart was full when you came here to-day. Henceforward I am yours for everything but to do you harm — and I am yours too much, in my heart, ever to consent to do you harm in that way. If I could consent to do it, not only should I be less loyal  . . . but in one sense, less yours. I say this to you without drawback and reserve, because it is all I am able to say, and perhaps all I shall be able to say. However this may be, a promise goes to you in it that none, except God and your will, shall interpose between you and me,  . . . I mean, that if He should free me within a moderate time from the trailing chain of this weakness, I will then be to you whatever at that hour you shall choose  . . . whether friend or more than friend  . . . a friend to the last in any case. So it rests with God and with you — only in the meanwhile you are most absolutely free  . . . ‘unentangled’ (as they call it) by the breadth of a thread — and if I did not know that you considered yourself so, I would not see you any more, let the effort cost me what it might. You may force me feel:  . . . but you cannot force me to think contrary to my first thought  . . . that it were better for you to forget me at once in one relation. And if better for you, can it be bad for me? which flings me down on the stone-pavement of the logicians.

And now if I ask a boon of you, will you forget afterwards that it ever was asked? I have hesitated a great deal; but my face is down on the stone-pavement — no — I will not ask to-day — It shall be for another day — and may God bless you on this and on those that come after, my dearest friend.

 

September 25, 1845.

You have said to me more than once that you wished I might never know certain feelings you had been forced to endure. I suppose all of us have the proper place where a blow should fall to be felt most  – – and I truly wish you may never feel what I have to bear in looking on, quite powerless, and silent, while you are subjected to this treatment, which I refuse to characterize  – – so blind is it for blindness. I think I ought to understand what a father may exact, and a child should comply with; and I respect the most ambiguous of love’s caprices if they give never so slight a clue to their all-justifying source. Did I, when you signified to me the probable objections  – – you remember what  – – to myself, my own happiness,  – – did I once allude to, much less argue against, or refuse to acknowledge those objections? For I wholly sympathize, however it go against me, with the highest, wariest, pride and love for you, and the proper jealousy and vigilance they entail  – – but now, and here, the jewel is not being over guarded, but ruined, cast away. And whoever is privileged to interfere should do so in the possessor’s own interest  – – all common sense interferes  – – all rationality against absolute no-reason at all. And you ask whether you ought to obey this no-reason? I will tell you: all passive obedience and implicit submission of will and intellect is by far too easy, if well considered, to be the course prescribed by God to Man in this life of probation  – – for they evade probation altogether, though foolish people think otherwise. Chop off your legs, you will never go astray; stifle your reason altogether and you will find it is difficult to reason ill. ‘It is hard to make these sacrifices!’  – – not so hard as to lose the reward or incur the penalty of an Eternity to come; ‘hard to effect them, then, and go through with them’  – – not hard, when the leg is to be cut off  – – that it is rather harder to keep it quiet on a stool, I know very well. The partial indulgence, the proper exercise of one’s faculties, there is the difficulty and problem for solution, set by that Providence which might have made the laws of Religion as indubitable as those of vitality, and revealed the articles of belief as certainly as that condition, for instance, by which we breathe so many times in a minute to support life. But there is no reward proposed for the feat of breathing, and a great one for that of believing  – – consequently there must go a great deal more of voluntary effort to this latter than is implied in the getting absolutely rid of it at once, by adopting the direction of an infallible church, or private judgment of another  – – for all our life is some form of religion, and all our action some belief, and there is but one law, however modified, for the greater and the less. In your case I do think you are called upon to do your duty to yourself; that is, to God in the end. Your own reason should examine the whole matter in dispute by every light which can be put in requisition; and every interest that appears to be affected by your conduct should have its utmost claims considered  – – your father’s in the first place; and that interest, not in the miserable limits of a few days’ pique or whim in which it would seem to express itself; but in its whole extent  . . . the hereafter which all momentary passion prevents him seeing  . . . indeed, the present on either side which everyone else must see. And this examination made, with whatever earnestness you will, I do think and am sure that on its conclusion you should act, in confidence that a duty has been performed  . . . difficult, or how were it a duty? Will it not be infinitely harder to act so than to blindly adopt his pleasure, and die under it? Who can not do that?

I fling these hasty rough words over the paper, fast as they will fall  – – knowing to whom I cast them, and that any sense they may contain or point to, will be caught and understood, and presented in a better light. The hard thing  . . . this is all I want to say  . . . is to act on one’s own best conviction  – – not to abjure it and accept another will, and say ‘there is my plain duty’  – – easy it is, whether plain or no!

How ‘all changes!’ When I first knew you  – – you know what followed. I supposed you to labour under an incurable complaint  – – and, of course, to be completely dependent on your father for its commonest alleviations; the moment after that inconsiderate letter, I reproached myself bitterly with the selfishness apparently involved in any proposition I might then have made  – – for though I have never been at all frightened of the world, nor mistrustful of my power to deal with it, and get my purpose out of it if once I thought it worth while, yet I could not but feel the consideration, of what failure would now be, paralyse all effort even in fancy. When you told me lately that ‘you could never be poor’  – – all my solicitude was at an end  – – I had but myself to care about, and I told you, what I believed and believe, that I can at any time amply provide for that, and that I could cheerfully and confidently undertake the removing that obstacle. Now again the circumstances shift  – – and you are in what I should wonder at as the veriest slavery  – – and I who could free you from it, I am here scarcely daring to write  . . . though I know you must feel for me and forgive what forces itself from me  . . . what retires so mutely into my heart at your least word  . . . what shall not be again written or spoken, if you so will  . . . that I should be made happy beyond all hope of expression by. Now while I dream, let me once dream! I would marry you now and thus  – – I would come when you let me, and go when you bade me  – – I would be no more than one of your brothers  – – ‘no more‘  – – that is, instead of getting to-morrow for Saturday, I should get Saturday as well  – – two hours for one  – – when your head ached I should be here. I deliberately choose the realization of that dream (  – – of sitting simply by you for an hour every day) rather than any other, excluding you, I am able to form for this world, or any world I know  – – And it will continue but a dream.

God bless my dearest E.B.B.

R.B.

You understand that I see you to-morrow, Friday, as you propose.

I am better  – – thank you  – – and will go out to-day.

You know what I am, what I would speak, and all I would do.