[
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey.\n                              [Post-mark, January 10, 1845.]\n\nI love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett,--and this is\nno off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write,--whatever else,\nno prompt matter-of-course recognition of your genius, and there a\ngraceful and natural end of the thing. Since the day last week when I\nfirst read your poems, I quite laugh to remember how I have been\nturning and turning again in my mind what I should be able to tell you\nof their effect upon me, for in the first flush of delight I thought I\nwould this once get out of my habit of purely passive enjoyment, when\nI do really enjoy, and thoroughly justify my admiration--perhaps even,\nas a loyal fellow-craftsman should, try and find fault and do you some\nlittle good to be proud of hereafter!--but nothing comes of it all--so\ninto me has it gone, and part of me has it become, this great living\npoetry of yours, not a flower of which but took root and grew--Oh, how\ndifferent that is from lying to be dried and pressed flat, and prized\nhighly, and put in a book with a proper account at top and bottom,\nand shut up and put away ... and the book called a 'Flora,' besides!\nAfter all, I need not give up the thought of doing that, too, in time;\nbecause even now, talking with whoever is worthy, I can give a reason\nfor my faith in one and another excellence, the fresh strange music,\nthe affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave\nthought; but in this addressing myself to you--your own self, and for\nthe first time, my feeling rises altogether. I do, as I say, love\nthese books with all my heart--and I love you too. Do you know I was\nonce not very far from seeing--really seeing you? Mr. Kenyon said to\nme one morning 'Would you like to see Miss Barrett?' then he went to\nannounce me,--then he returned ... you were too unwell, and now it is\nyears ago, and I feel as at some untoward passage in my travels, as if\nI had been close, so close, to some world's-wonder in chapel or crypt,\nonly a screen to push and I might have entered, but there was some\nslight, so it now seems, slight and just sufficient bar to admission,\nand the half-opened door shut, and I went home my thousands of miles,\nand the sight was never to be?\n\nWell, these Poems were to be, and this true thankful joy and pride\nwith which I feel myself,\n\n                                      Yours ever faithfully,\n\n                                           ROBERT BROWNING.\n\nMiss Barrett,[1]\n  50 Wimpole St.\nR. Browning.\n\n[Footnote 1: With this and the following letter the addresses on the\nenvelopes are given; for all subsequent letters the addresses are the\nsame. The correspondence passed through the post.]",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "50 Wimpole Street: Jan. 11, 1845.\n\nI thank you, dear Mr. Browning, from the bottom of my heart. You meant\nto give me pleasure by your letter--and even if the object had not\nbeen answered, I ought still to thank you. But it is thoroughly\nanswered. Such a letter from such a hand! Sympathy is dear--very dear\nto me: but the sympathy of a poet, and of such a poet, is the\nquintessence of sympathy to me! Will you take back my gratitude for\nit?--agreeing, too, that of all the commerce done in the world, from\nTyre to Carthage, the exchange of sympathy for gratitude is the most\nprincely thing!\n\nFor the rest you draw me on with your kindness. It is difficult to get\nrid of people when you once have given them too much pleasure--_that_\nis a fact, and we will not stop for the moral of it. What I was going\nto say--after a little natural hesitation--is, that if ever you emerge\nwithout inconvenient effort from your 'passive state,' and will _tell_\nme of such faults as rise to the surface and strike you as important\nin my poems, (for of course, I do not think of troubling you with\ncriticism in detail) you will confer a lasting obligation on me, and\none which I shall value so much, that I covet it at a distance. I do\nnot pretend to any extraordinary meekness under criticism and it is\npossible enough that I might not be altogether obedient to yours. But\nwith my high respect for your power in your Art and for your\nexperience as an artist, it would be quite impossible for me to hear a\ngeneral observation of yours on what appear to you my master-faults,\nwithout being the better for it hereafter in some way. I ask for only\na sentence or two of general observation--and I do not ask even for\n_that_, so as to tease you--but in the humble, low voice, which is so\nexcellent a thing in women--particularly when they go a-begging! The\nmost frequent general criticism I receive, is, I think, upon the\nstyle,--'if I _would_ but change my style'! But _that_ is an objection\n(isn't it?) to the writer bodily? Buffon says, and every sincere\nwriter must feel, that '_Le style c'est l'homme_'; a fact, however,\nscarcely calculated to lessen the objection with certain critics.\n\nIs it indeed true that I was so near to the pleasure and honour of\nmaking your acquaintance? and can it be true that you look back upon\nthe lost opportunity with any regret? _But_--you know--if you had\nentered the 'crypt,' you might have caught cold, or been tired to\ndeath, and _wished_ yourself 'a thousand miles off;' which would have\nbeen worse than travelling them. It is not my interest, however, to\nput such thoughts in your head about its being 'all for the best'; and\nI would rather hope (as I do) that what I lost by one chance I may\nrecover by some future one. Winters shut me up as they do dormouse's\neyes; in the spring, _we shall see_: and I am so much better that I\nseem turning round to the outward world again. And in the meantime I\nhave learnt to know your voice, not merely from the poetry but from\nthe kindness in it. Mr. Kenyon often speaks of you--dear Mr.\nKenyon!--who most unspeakably, or only speakably with tears in my\neyes,--has been my friend and helper, and my book's friend and helper!\ncritic and sympathiser, true friend of all hours! You know him well\nenough, I think, to understand that I must be grateful to him.\n\nI am writing too much,--and notwithstanding that I am writing too\nmuch, I will write of one thing more. I will say that I am your\ndebtor, not only for this cordial letter and for all the pleasure\nwhich came with it, but in other ways, and those the highest: and I\nwill say that while I live to follow this divine art of poetry, in\nproportion to my love for it and my devotion to it, I must be a devout\nadmirer and student of your works. This is in my heart to say to\nyou--and I say it.\n\nAnd, for the rest, I am proud to remain\n\n                                  Your obliged and faithful\n\n                                       ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.\n\nRobert Browning, Esq.\n  New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey.\n                                 Jan. 13, 1845.\n\nDear Miss Barrett,--I just shall say, in as few words as I can, that\nyou make me very happy, and that, now the beginning is over, I dare\nsay I shall do better, because my poor praise, number one, was nearly\nas felicitously brought out, as a certain tribute to no less a\npersonage than Tasso, which I was amused with at Rome some weeks ago,\nin a neat pencilling on the plaister-wall by his tomb at\nSant'Onofrio--'Alla cara memoria--di--(please fancy solemn interspaces\nand grave capital letters at the new lines) di--Torquato Tasso--il\nDottore Bernardini--offriva--il seguente Carme--_O tu_'--and no\nmore,--the good man, it should seem, breaking down with the overload\nof love here! But my 'O tu'--was breathed out most sincerely, and now\nyou have taken it in gracious part, the rest will come after.\nOnly,--and which is why I write now--it looks as if I have introduced\nsome phrase or other about 'your faults' so cleverly as to give\nexactly the opposite meaning to what I meant, which was, that in my\nfirst ardour I had thought to tell you of _everything_ which impressed\nme in your verses, down, even, to whatever 'faults' I could find,--a\ngood earnest, when I had got to _them_, that I had left out not much\nbetween--as if some Mr. Fellows were to say, in the overflow of his\nfirst enthusiasm of rewarded adventure: 'I will describe you all the\nouter life and ways of these Lycians, down to their very\nsandal-thongs,' whereto the be-corresponded one rejoins--'Shall I get\nnext week, then, your dissertation on sandal-thongs'? Yes, and a\nlittle about the 'Olympian Horses,' and God-charioteers as well!\n\nWhat 'struck me as faults,' were not matters on the removal of which,\none was to have--poetry, or high poetry,--but the very highest poetry,\nso I thought, and that, to universal recognition. For myself, or any\nartist, in many of the cases there would be a positive loss of time,\npeculiar artist's pleasure--for an instructed eye loves to see where\nthe brush has dipped twice in a lustrous colour, has lain insistingly\nalong a favourite outline, dwelt lovingly in a grand shadow; for these\n'too muches' for the everybody's picture are so many helps to the\nmaking out the real painter's picture as he had it in his brain. And\nall of the Titian's Naples Magdalen must have once been golden in its\ndegree to justify that heap of hair in her hands--the _only_ gold\neffected now!\n\nBut about this soon--for night is drawing on and I go out, yet cannot,\nquiet at conscience, till I report (to _myself_, for I never said it\nto you, I think) that your poetry must be, cannot but be, infinitely\nmore to me than mine to you--for you _do_ what I always wanted, hoped\nto do, and only seem now likely to do for the first time. You speak\nout, _you_,--I only make men and women speak--give you truth broken\ninto prismatic hues, and fear the pure white light, even if it is in\nme, but I am going to try; so it will be no small comfort to have your\ncompany just now, seeing that when you have your men and women\naforesaid, you are busied with them, whereas it seems bleak,\nmelancholy work, this talking to the wind (for I have begun)--yet I\ndon't think I shall let _you_ hear, after all, the savage things about\nPopes and imaginative religions that I must say.\n\nSee how I go on and on to you, I who, whenever now and then pulled, by\nthe head and hair, into letter-writing, get sorrowfully on for a line\nor two, as the cognate creature urged on by stick and string, and then\ncome down 'flop' upon the sweet haven of page one, line last, as\nserene as the sleep of the virtuous! You will never more, I hope, talk\nof 'the honour of my acquaintance,' but I will joyfully wait for the\ndelight of your friendship, and the spring, and my Chapel-sight after\nall!\n\n                                 Ever yours most faithfully,\n\n                                      R. BROWNING.\n\nFor Mr. Kenyon--I have a convenient theory about _him_, and his\notherwise quite unaccountable kindness to me; but 'tis quite night\nnow, and they call me.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "50 Wimpole Street: Jan. 15, 1845.\n\nDear Mr. Browning,--The fault was clearly with me and not with you.\n\nWhen I had an Italian master, years ago, he told me that there was an\nunpronounceable English word which absolutely expressed me, and which\nhe would say in his own tongue, as he could not in mine--'_testa\nlunga_.' Of course, the signor meant _headlong_!--and now I have had\nenough to tame me, and might be expected to stand still in my stall.\nBut you see I do not. Headlong I was at first, and headlong I\ncontinue--precipitously rushing forward through all manner of nettles\nand briars instead of keeping the path; guessing at the meaning of\nunknown words instead of looking into the dictionary--tearing open\nletters, and never untying a string,--and expecting everything to be\ndone in a minute, and the thunder to be as quick as the lightning. And\nso, at your half word I flew at the whole one, with all its possible\nconsequences, and wrote what you read. Our common friend, as I think\nhe is, Mr. Horne, is often forced to entreat me into patience and\ncoolness of purpose, though his only intercourse with me has been by\nletter. And, by the way, you will be sorry to hear that during his\nstay in Germany _he_ has been 'headlong' (out of a metaphor) twice;\nonce, in falling from the Drachenfels, when he only just saved himself\nby catching at a vine; and once quite lately, at Christmas, in a fall\non the ice of the Elbe in skating, when he dislocated his left\nshoulder in a very painful manner. He is doing quite well, I believe,\nbut it was sad to have such a shadow from the German Christmas tree,\nand he a stranger.\n\nIn art, however, I understand that it does not do to be headlong, but\npatient and laborious--and there is a love strong enough, even in me,\nto overcome nature. I apprehend what you mean in the criticism you\njust intimate, and shall turn it over and over in my mind until I get\npractical good from it. What no mere critic sees, but what you, an\nartist, know, is the difference between the thing desired and the\nthing attained, between the idea in the writer's mind and the [Greek:\neidôlon] cast off in his work. All the effort--the quick'ning of the\nbreath and beating of the heart in pursuit, which is ruffling and\ninjurious to the general effect of a composition; all which you call\n'insistency,' and which many would call superfluity, and which _is_\nsuperfluous in a sense--_you_ can pardon, because you understand. The\ngreat chasm between the thing I say, and the thing I would say, would\nbe quite dispiriting to me, in spite even of such kindnesses as yours,\nif the desire did not master the despondency. 'Oh for a horse with\nwings!' It is wrong of me to write so of myself--only you put your\nfinger on the root of a fault, which has, to my fancy, been a little\nmisapprehended. I do not _say everything I think_ (as has been said of\nme by master-critics) but I _take every means to say what I think_,\nwhich is different!--or I fancy so!\n\nIn one thing, however, you are wrong. Why should you deny the full\nmeasure of my delight and benefit from your writings? I could tell you\nwhy you should not. You have in your vision two worlds, or to use the\nlanguage of the schools of the day, you are both subjective and\nobjective in the habits of your mind. You can deal both with abstract\nthought and with human passion in the most passionate sense. Thus, you\nhave an immense grasp in Art; and no one at all accustomed to consider\nthe usual forms of it, could help regarding with reverence and\ngladness the gradual expansion of your powers. Then you are\n'masculine' to the height--and I, as a woman, have studied some of\nyour gestures of language and intonation wistfully, as a thing beyond\nme far! and the more admirable for being beyond.\n\nOf your new work I hear with delight. How good of you to tell me. And\nit is not dramatic in the strict sense, I am to understand--(am I\nright in understanding so?) and you speak, in your own person 'to the\nwinds'? no--but to the thousand living sympathies which will awake to\nhear you. A great dramatic power may develop itself otherwise than in\nthe formal drama; and I have been guilty of wishing, before this hour\n(for reasons which I will not thrust upon you after all my tedious\nwriting), that you would give the public a poem unassociated directly\nor indirectly with the stage, for a trial on the popular heart. I\nreverence the drama, but--\n\n_But_ I break in on myself out of consideration for you. I might have\ndone it, you will think, before. I vex your 'serene sleep of the\nvirtuous' like a nightmare. Do not say 'No.' I am _sure_ I do! As to\nthe vain parlance of the world, I did not talk of the 'honour of your\nacquaintance' without a true sense of honour, indeed; but I shall\nwillingly exchange it all (and _now_, if you please, at this moment,\nfor fear of worldly mutabilities) for the 'delight of your\nfriendship.'\n\n                   Believe me, therefore, dear Mr. Browning,\n\n                        Faithfully yours, and gratefully,\n\n                             ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.\n\nFor Mr. Kenyon's kindness, as _I_ see it, no theory will account. I\nclass it with mesmerism for that reason.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "New Cross, Hatcham, Monday Night.\n                           [Post-mark, January 28, 1845.]\n\nDear Miss Barrett,--Your books lie on my table here, at arm's length\nfrom me, in this old room where I sit all day: and when my head aches\nor wanders or strikes work, as it now or then will, I take my chance\nfor either green-covered volume, as if it were so much fresh trefoil\nto feel in one's hands this winter-time,--and round I turn, and,\nputting a decisive elbow on three or four half-done-with 'Bells' of\nmine, read, read, read, and just as I have shut up the book and walked\nto the window, I recollect that you wanted me to find faults there,\nand that, in an unwise hour, I engaged to do so. Meantime, the days\ngo by (the whitethroat is come and sings now) and as I would not have\nyou 'look down on me from your white heights' as promise breaker,\nevader, or forgetter, if I could help: and as, if I am very candid and\ncontrite, you may find it in your heart to write to me again--who\nknows?--I shall say at once that the said faults cannot be lost, must\nbe _somewhere_, and shall be faithfully brought you back whenever they\nturn up,--as people tell one of missing matters. I am rather exacting,\nmyself, with my own gentle audience, and get to say spiteful things\nabout them when they are backward in their dues of appreciation--but\nreally, _really_--could I be quite sure that anybody as good as--I\nmust go on, I suppose, and say--as myself, even, were honestly to feel\ntowards me as I do, towards the writer of 'Bertha,' and the 'Drama,'\nand the 'Duchess,' and the 'Page' and--the whole two volumes, I should\nbe paid after a fashion, I know.\n\nOne thing I can do--pencil, if you like, and annotate, and dissertate\nupon that I love most and least--I think I can do it, that is.\n\nHere an odd memory comes--of a friend who,--volunteering such a\nservice to a sonnet-writing somebody, gave him a taste of his quality\nin a side-column of short criticisms on sonnet the First, and starting\noff the beginning three lines with, of course, 'bad, worse,\nworst'--made by a generous mintage of words to meet the sudden run of\nhis epithets, 'worser, worserer, worserest' pay off the second terzet\nin full--no 'badder, badderer, badderest' fell to the _Second's_\nallowance, and 'worser' &c. answered the demands of the Third;\n'worster, worsterer, worsterest' supplied the emergency of the Fourth;\nand, bestowing his last 'worserestest and worstestest' on lines 13 and\n14, my friend (slapping his forehead like an emptied strong-box)\nfrankly declared himself bankrupt, and honourably incompetent, to\nsatisfy the reasonable expectations of the rest of the series!\n\nWhat an illustration of the law by which opposite ideas suggest\nopposite, and contrary images come together!\n\nSee now, how, of that 'Friendship' you offer me (and here Juliet's\nword rises to my lips)--I feel sure once and for ever. I have got\nalready, I see, into this little pet-handwriting of mine (not anyone\nelse's) which scratches on as if theatrical copyists (ah me!) and\nBRADBURY AND EVANS' READER were not! But you shall get something\nbetter than this nonsense one day, if you will have patience with\nme--hardly better, though, because this does me real good, gives real\nrelief, to write. After all, you know nothing, next to nothing of me,\nand that stops me. Spring is to come, however!\n\nIf you hate writing to me as I hate writing to nearly everybody, I\npray you never write--if you do, as you say, care for anything I have\ndone. I will simply assure you, that meaning to begin work in deep\nearnest, _begin_ without affectation, God knows,--I do not know what\nwill help me more than hearing from you,--and therefore, if you do not\nso very much hate it, I know I _shall_ hear from you--and very little\nmore about your 'tiring me.'\n\n                                      Ever yours faithfully,\n\n                                           ROBERT BROWNING.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "50 Walpole Street: Feb. 3, 1845.\n[Transcriber's Note: So in original. Should be \"Wimpole Street.\"]\n\nWhy how could I hate to write to you, dear Mr. Browning? Could you\nbelieve in such a thing? If nobody likes writing to everybody (except\nsuch professional letter writers as you and I are _not_), yet\neverybody likes writing to somebody, and it would be strange and\ncontradictory if I were not always delighted both to hear from _you_\nand to write to _you_, this talking upon paper being as good a social\npleasure as another, when our means are somewhat straitened. As for\nme, I have done most of my talking by post of late years--as people\nshut up in dungeons take up with scrawling mottoes on the walls. Not\nthat I write to many in the way of regular correspondence, as our\nfriend Mr. Horne predicates of me in his romances (which is mere\nromancing!), but that there are a few who will write and be written to\nby me without a sense of injury. Dear Miss Mitford, for instance. You\ndo not know her, I think, personally, although she was the first to\ntell me (when I was very ill and insensible to all the glories of the\nworld except poetry), of the grand scene in 'Pippa Passes.' _She_ has\nfilled a large drawer in this room with delightful letters, heart-warm\nand soul-warm, ... driftings of nature (if sunshine could drift like\nsnow), and which, if they should ever fall the way of all writing,\ninto print, would assume the folio shape as a matter of course, and\ntake rank on the lowest shelf of libraries, with Benedictine editions\nof the Fathers, [Greek: k.t.l.]. I write this to you to show how I can\nhave pleasure in letters, and never think them too long, nor too\nfrequent, nor too illegible from being written in little 'pet hands.'\nI can read any MS. except the writing on the pyramids. And if you will\nonly promise to treat me _en bon camarade_, without reference to the\nconventionalities of 'ladies and gentlemen,' taking no thought for\nyour sentences (nor for mine), nor for your blots (nor for mine), nor\nfor your blunt speaking (nor for mine), nor for your badd speling (nor\nfor mine), and if you agree to send me a blotted thought whenever you\nare in the mind for it, and with as little ceremony and less\nlegibility than you would think it necessary to employ towards your\nprinter--why, _then_, I am ready to sign and seal the contract, and to\nrejoice in being 'articled' as your correspondent. Only _don't_ let us\nhave any constraint, any ceremony! _Don't_ be civil to me when you\nfeel rude,--nor loquacious when you incline to silence,--nor yielding\nin the manners when you are perverse in the mind. See how out of the\nworld I am! Suffer me to profit by it in almost the only profitable\ncircumstance, and let us rest from the bowing and the courtesying,\nyou and I, on each side. You will find me an honest man on the whole,\nif rather hasty and prejudging, which is a different thing from\nprejudice at the worst. And we have great sympathies in common, and I\nam inclined to look up to you in many things, and to learn as much of\neverything as you will teach me. On the other hand you must prepare\nyourself to forbear and to forgive--will you? While I throw off the\nceremony, I hold the faster to the kindness.\n\nIs it true, as you say, that I 'know so \"little\"' of you? And is it\ntrue, as others say, that the productions of an artist do not partake\nof his real nature, ... that in the minor sense, man is not made in\nthe image of God? It is _not_ true, to my mind--and therefore it is\nnot true that I know little of you, except in as far as it is true\n(which I believe) that your greatest works are to come. Need I assure\nyou that I shall always hear with the deepest interest every word you\nwill say to me of what you are doing or about to do? I hear of the\n'old room' and the '\"Bells\" lying about,' with an interest which you\nmay guess at, perhaps. And when you tell me besides, of _my poems\nbeing there_, and of your caring for them so much beyond the tide-mark\nof my hopes, the pleasure rounds itself into a charm, and prevents its\nown expression. Overjoyed I am with this cordial sympathy--but it is\nbetter, I feel, to try to justify it by future work than to thank you\nfor it now. I think--if I may dare to name myself with you in the\npoetic relation--that we both have high views of the Art we follow,\nand stedfast purpose in the pursuit of it, and that we should not,\neither of _us_, be likely to be thrown from the course, by the casting\nof any Atalanta-ball of speedy popularity. But I do not know, I cannot\nguess, whether you are liable to be pained deeply by hard criticism\nand cold neglect, such as original writers like yourself are too often\nexposed to--or whether the love of Art is enough for you, and the\nexercise of Art the filling joy of your life. Not that praise must not\nalways, of necessity, be delightful to the artist, but that it may be\nredundant to his content. Do you think so? or not? It appears to me\nthat poets who, like Keats, are highly susceptible to criticism, must\nbe jealous, in their own persons, of the future honour of their works.\nBecause, if a work is worthy, honour must follow it, though the worker\nshould not live to see that following overtaking. Now, is it not\nenough that the work be honoured--enough I mean, for the worker? And\nis it not enough to keep down a poet's ordinary wearing anxieties, to\nthink, that if his work be worthy it will have honour, and, if not,\nthat 'Sparta must have nobler sons than he'? I am writing nothing\napplicable, I see, to anything in question, but when one falls into a\nfavourite train of thought, one indulges oneself in thinking on. I\nbegan in thinking and wondering what sort of artistic constitution you\nhad, being determined, as you may observe (with a sarcastic smile at\nthe impertinence), to set about knowing as much as possible of you\nimmediately. Then you spoke of your 'gentle audience' (_you began_),\nand I, who know that you have not one but many enthusiastic\nadmirers--the 'fit and few' in the intense meaning--yet not the\n_diffused_ fame which will come to you presently, wrote on, down the\nmargin of the subject, till I parted from it altogether. But, after\nall, we are on the proper matter of sympathy. And after all, and after\nall that has been said and mused upon the 'natural ills,' the anxiety,\nand wearing out experienced by the true artist,--is not the _good_\nimmeasurably greater than the _evil_? Is it not great good, and great\njoy? For my part, I wonder sometimes--I surprise myself wondering--how\nwithout such an object and purpose of life, people find it worth while\nto live at all. And, for happiness--why, my only idea of happiness, as\nfar as my personal enjoyment is concerned, (but I have been\nstraightened in some respects and in comparison with the majority of\nlivers!) lies deep in poetry and its associations. And then, the\nescape from pangs of heart and bodily weakness--when you throw off\n_yourself_--what you feel to be _yourself_--into another atmosphere\nand into other relations where your life may spread its wings out new,\nand gather on every separate plume a brightness from the sun of the\nsun! Is it possible that imaginative writers should be so fond of\ndepreciating and lamenting over their own destiny? Possible,\ncertainly--but reasonable, not at all--and grateful, less than\nanything!\n\nMy faults, my faults--Shall I help you? Ah--you see them too well, I\nfear. And do you know that _I_ also have something of your feeling\nabout 'being about to _begin_,' or I should dare to praise you for\nhaving it. But in you, it is different--it is, in you, a virtue. When\nPrometheus had recounted a long list of sorrows to be endured by Io,\nand declared at last that he was [Greek: mêdepô en prooimiois],[1]\npoor Io burst out crying. And when the author of 'Paracelsus' and the\n'Bells and Pomegranates' says that he is only 'going to begin' we may\nwell (to take 'the opposite idea,' as you write) rejoice and clap our\nhands. Yet I believe that, whatever you may have done, you _will_ do\nwhat is greater. It is my faith for you.\n\nAnd how I should like to know what poets have been your sponsors, 'to\npromise and vow' for you,--and whether you have held true to early\ntastes, or leapt violently from them, and what books you read, and\nwhat hours you write in. How curious I could prove myself!--(if it\nisn't proved already).\n\nBut this is too much indeed, past all bearing, I suspect. Well, but if\nI ever write to you again--I mean, if you wish it--it may be in the\nother extreme of shortness. So do not take me for a born heroine of\nRichardson, or think that I sin always to this length, else,--you\nmight indeed repent your quotation from Juliet--which I guessed at\nonce--and of course--\n\n    I have no joy in this contract to-day!\n    It is too unadvised, too rash and sudden.\n\n                                      Ever faithfully yours,\n\n                                           ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.\n\n[Footnote 1: 'Not yet reached the prelude' (Aesch. _Prom._ 741).]",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Hatcham, Tuesday.\n                             [Post-mark, February 11, 1845.]\n\nDear Miss Barrett,--People would hardly ever tell falsehoods about a\nmatter, if they had been let tell truth in the beginning, for it is\nhard to prophane one's very self, and nobody who has, for instance,\nused certain words and ways to a mother or a father _could_, even if\nby the devil's help he _would_, reproduce or mimic them with any\neffect to anybody else that was to be won over--and so, if 'I love\nyou' were always outspoken when it might be, there would, I suppose,\nbe no fear of its desecration at any after time. But lo! only last\nnight, I had to write, on the part of Mr. Carlyle, to a certain\nungainly, foolish gentleman who keeps back from him, with all the\nfussy impotence of stupidity (not bad feeling, alas! for _that_ we\ncould deal with) a certain MS. letter of Cromwell's which completes\nthe collection now going to press; and this long-ears had to be 'dear\nSir'd and obedient servanted' till I _said_ (to use a mild word)\n'commend me to the sincerities of this kind of thing.'! When I spoke\nof you knowing little of me, one of the senses in which I meant so was\nthis--that I would not well vowel-point my common-place letters and\nsyllables with a masoretic _other_ sound and sense, make my 'dear'\nsomething intenser than 'dears' in ordinary, and 'yours ever' a\nthought more significant than the run of its like. And all this came\nof your talking of 'tiring me,' 'being too envious,' &c. &c., which I\nshould never have heard of had the plain truth looked out of my letter\nwith its unmistakable eyes. _Now_, what you say of the 'bowing,' and\nconvention that is to be, and _tant de façons_ that are not to be,\nhelps me once and for ever--for have I not a right to say simply that,\nfor reasons I know, for other reasons I don't exactly know, but might\nif I chose to think a little, and for still other reasons, which, most\nlikely, all the choosing and thinking in the world would not make me\nknow, I had rather hear from you than see anybody else. Never you\ncare, dear noble Carlyle, nor you, my own friend Alfred over the sea,\nnor a troop of true lovers!--Are not their fates written? there! Don't\nyou answer this, please, but, mind it is on record, and now then, with\na lighter conscience I shall begin replying to your questions. But\nthen--what I have printed gives _no_ knowledge of me--it evidences\nabilities of various kinds, if you will--and a dramatic sympathy with\ncertain modifications of passion ... _that_ I think--But I never have\nbegun, even, what I hope I was born to begin and end--'R.B. a\npoem'--and next, if I speak (and, God knows, feel), as if what you\nhave read were sadly imperfect demonstrations of even mere ability, it\nis from no absurd vanity, though it might seem so--these scenes and\nsong-scraps _are_ such mere and very escapes of my inner power, which\nlives in me like the light in those crazy Mediterranean phares I have\nwatched at sea, wherein the light is ever revolving in a dark gallery,\nbright and alive, and only after a weary interval leaps out, for a\nmoment, from the one narrow chink, and then goes on with the blind\nwall between it and you; and, no doubt, _then_, precisely, does the\npoor drudge that carries the cresset set himself most busily to trim\nthe wick--for don't think I want to say I have not worked hard--(this\nhead of mine knows better)--but the work has been _inside_, and not\nwhen at stated times I held up my light to you--and, that there is no\nself-delusion here, I would prove to you (and nobody else), even by\nopening this desk I write on, and showing what stuff, in the way of\nwood, I _could_ make a great bonfire with, if I might only knock the\nwhole clumsy top off my tower! Of course, every writing body says the\nsame, so I gain nothing by the avowal; but when I remember how I have\ndone what was published, and half done what may never be, I say with\nsome right, you can know but little of me. Still, I _hope_ sometimes,\nthough phrenologists will have it that I _cannot_, and am doing\nbetter with this darling 'Luria'--so safe in my head, and a tiny slip\nof paper I cover with my thumb!\n\nThen you inquire about my 'sensitiveness to criticism,' and I shall be\nglad to tell you exactly, because I have, more than once, taken a\ncourse you might else not understand. I shall live always--that is for\nme--I am living here this 1845, that is for London. I write from a\nthorough conviction that it is the duty of me, and with the belief\nthat, after every drawback and shortcoming, I do my best, all things\nconsidered--that is for _me_, and, so being, the not being listened to\nby one human creature would, I hope, in nowise affect me. But of\ncourse I must, if for merely scientific purposes, know all about this\n1845, its ways and doings, and something I do know, as that for a\ndozen cabbages, if I pleased to grow them in the garden here, I might\ndemand, say, a dozen pence at Covent Garden Market,--and that for a\ndozen scenes, of the average goodness, I may challenge as many\nplaudits at the theatre close by; and a dozen pages of verse, brought\nto the Rialto where verse-merchants most do congregate, ought to bring\nme a fair proportion of the Reviewers' gold currency, seeing the other\ntraders pouch their winnings, as I do see. Well, when they won't pay\nme for my cabbages, nor praise me for my poems, I may, if I please,\nsay 'more's the shame,' and bid both parties 'decamp to the crows,' in\nGreek phrase, and _yet_ go very lighthearted back to a garden-full of\nrose-trees, and a soul-full of comforts. If they had bought my greens\nI should have been able to buy the last number of _Punch_, and go\nthrough the toll-gate of Waterloo Bridge, and give the blind\nclarionet-player a trifle, and all without changing my gold. If they\nhad taken to my books, my father and mother would have been proud of\nthis and the other 'favourable critique,' and--at least so folks\nhold--I should have to pay Mr. Moxon less by a few pounds,\nwhereas--but you see! Indeed I force myself to say ever and anon, in\nthe interest of the market-gardeners regular, and Keatses proper,\n'It's nothing to _you_, critics, hucksters, all of you, if I _have_\nthis garden and this conscience--I might go die at Rome, or take to\ngin and the newspaper, for what _you_ would care!' So I don't quite\nlay open my resources to everybody. But it does so happen, that I have\nmet with much more than I could have expected in this matter of kindly\nand prompt recognition. I never wanted a real set of good hearty\npraisers--and no bad reviewers--I am quite content with my share.\nNo--what I laughed at in my 'gentle audience' is a sad trick the real\nadmirers have of admiring at the wrong place--enough to make an\napostle swear. _That_ does make me savage--_never_ the other kind of\npeople; why, think now--take your own 'Drama of Exile' and let _me_\nsend it to the first twenty men and women that shall knock at your\ndoor to-day and after--of whom the first five are the Postman, the\nseller of cheap sealing-wax, Mr. Hawkins Junr, the Butcher for orders,\nand the Tax-gatherer--will you let me, by Cornelius Agrippa's\nassistance, force these five and these fellows to read, and report on,\nthis 'Drama'--and, when I have put these faithful reports into fair\nEnglish, do you believe they would be better than, if as good, as, the\ngeneral run of Periodical criticisms? Not they, I will venture to\naffirm. But then--once again, I get these people together and give\nthem your book, and persuade them, moreover, that by praising it, the\nPostman will be helping its author to divide Long Acre into two beats,\none of which she will take with half the salary and all the red\ncollar,--that a sealing-wax vendor will see red wafers brought into\nvogue, and so on with the rest--and won't you just wish for your\n_Spectators_ and _Observers_ and Newcastle-upon-Tyne--Hebdomadal\n_Mercuries_ back again! You see the inference--I do sincerely esteem\nit a perfectly providential and miraculous thing that they are so\nwell-behaved in ordinary, these critics; and for Keats and Tennyson to\n'go softly all their days' for a gruff word or two is quite\ninexplicable to me, and always has been. Tennyson reads the\n_Quarterly_ and does as they bid him, with the most solemn face in the\nworld--out goes this, in goes that, all is changed and ranged. Oh me!\n\nOut comes the sun, in comes the _Times_ and eleven strikes (it _does_)\nalready, and I have to go to Town, and I have no alternative but that\nthis story of the Critic and Poet, 'the Bear and the Fiddle,' should\n'begin but break off in the middle'; yet I doubt--nor will you\nhenceforth, I know, say, 'I vex you, I am sure, by this lengthy\nwriting.' Mind that spring is coming, for all this snow; and know me\nfor yours ever faithfully,\n\n                                                R. BROWNING.\n\nI don't dare--yet I will--ask _can_ you read this? Because I _could_\nwrite a little better, but not so fast. Do you keep writing just as\nyou do now!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "50 Wimpole Street, February 17, 1845.\n\nDear Mr. Browning,--To begin with the end (which is only\ncharacteristic of the perverse like myself), I assure you I read your\nhandwriting as currently as I could read the clearest type from font.\nIf I had practised the art of reading your letters all my life, I\ncouldn't do it better. And then I approve of small MS. upon principle.\nThink of what an immense quantity of physical energy must go to the\nmaking of those immense sweeping handwritings achieved by some persons\n... Mr. Landor, for instance, who writes as if he had the sky for a\ncopybook and dotted his _i_'s in proportion. People who do such things\nshould wear gauntlets; yes, and have none to wear; or they wouldn't\nwaste their time so. People who write--by profession--shall I\nsay?--never should do it, or what will become of them when most of\ntheir strength retires into their head and heart, (as is the case with\nsome of us and may be the case with all) and when they have to write a\npoem twelve times over, as Mr. Kenyon says I should do if I were\nvirtuous? Not that I do it. Does anybody do it, I wonder? Do _you_,\never? From what you tell me of the trimming of the light, I imagine\nnot. And besides, one may be laborious as a writer, without copying\ntwelve times over. I believe there are people who will tell you in a\nmoment what three times six is, without 'doing it' on their fingers;\nand in the same way one may work one's verses in one's head quite as\nlaboriously as on paper--I maintain it. I consider myself a very\npatient, laborious writer--though dear Mr. Kenyon laughs me to scorn\nwhen I say so. And just see how it could be otherwise. If I were\nnetting a purse I might be thinking of something else and drop my\nstitches; or even if I were writing verses to please a popular taste,\nI might be careless in it. But the pursuit of an Ideal acknowledged by\nthe mind, _will_ draw and concentrate the powers of the mind--and Art,\nyou know, is a jealous god and demands the whole man--or woman. I\ncannot conceive of a sincere artist who is also a careless one--though\none may have a quicker hand than another, in general,--and though all\nare liable to vicissitudes in the degree of facility--and to\nentanglements in the machinery, notwithstanding every degree of\nfacility. You may write twenty lines one day--or even three like\nEuripides in three days--and a hundred lines in one more day--and yet\non the hundred, may have been expended as much good work, as on the\ntwenty and the three. And also, as you say, the lamp is trimmed behind\nthe wall--and the act of utterance is the evidence of foregone study\nstill more than it is the occasion to study. The deep interest with\nwhich I read all that you had the kindness to write to me of yourself,\nyou must trust me for, as I find it hard to express it. It is sympathy\nin one way, and interest every way! And now, see! Although you proved\nto me with admirable logic that, for reasons which you know and\nreasons which you don't know, I couldn't possibly know anything about\nyou; though that is all true--and proven (which is better than\ntrue)--I really did understand of you before I was told, exactly what\nyou told me. Yes, I did indeed. I felt sure that as a poet you fronted\nthe future--and that your chief works, in your own apprehension, were\nto come. Oh--I take no credit of sagacity for it; as I did not long\nago to my sisters and brothers, when I professed to have knowledge of\nall their friends whom I never saw in my life, by the image coming\nwith the name; and threw them into shouts of laughter by giving out\nall the blue eyes and black eyes and hazel eyes and noses Roman and\nGothic ticketed aright for the Mr. Smiths and Miss Hawkinses,--and hit\nthe bull's eye and the true features of the case, ten times out of\ntwelve! But _you_ are different. _You_ are to be made out by the\ncomparative anatomy system. You have thrown out fragments of _os_ ...\n_sublime_ ... indicative of soul-mammothism--and you live to develop\nyour nature,--_if_ you live. That is easy and plain. You have taken a\ngreat range--from those high faint notes of the mystics which are\nbeyond personality ... to dramatic impersonations, gruff with nature,\n'gr-r-r- you swine'; and when these are thrown into harmony, as in a\nmanner they are in 'Pippa Passes' (which I could find in my heart to\ncovet the authorship of, more than any of your works--), the\ncombinations of effect must always be striking and noble--and you must\nfeel yourself drawn on to such combinations more and more. But I do\nnot, you say, know yourself--you. I only know abilities and faculties.\nWell, then, teach me yourself--you. I will not insist on the\nknowledge--and, in fact, you have not written the R.B. poem yet--your\nrays fall obliquely rather than directly straight. I see you only in\nyour moon. Do tell me all of yourself that you can and will ... before\nthe R.B. poem comes out. And what is 'Luria'? A poem and not a drama?\nI mean, a poem not in the dramatic form? Well! I have wondered at you\nsometimes, not for daring, but for bearing to trust your noble works\ninto the great mill of the 'rank, popular' playhouse, to be ground to\npieces between the teeth of vulgar actors and actresses. I, for one,\nwould as soon have 'my soul among lions.' 'There is a fascination in\nit,' says Miss Mitford, and I am sure there must be, to account for\nit. Publics in the mass are bad enough; but to distil the dregs of the\npublic and baptise oneself in that acrid moisture, where can be the\ntemptation? I could swear by Shakespeare, as was once sworn 'by those\ndead at Marathon,' that I do not see where. I love the drama too. I\nlook to our old dramatists as to our Kings and princes in poetry. I\nlove them through all the deeps of their abominations. But the theatre\nin those days was a better medium between the people and the poet; and\nthe press in those days was a less sufficient medium than now. Still,\nthe poet suffered by the theatre even then; and the reasons are very\nobvious.\n\nHow true--how true ... is all you say about critics. My convictions\nfollow you in every word. And I delighted to read your views of the\npoet's right aspect towards criticism--I read them with the most\ncomplete appreciation and sympathy. I have sometimes thought that it\nwould be a curious and instructive process, as illustrative of the\nwisdom and apprehensiveness of critics, if anyone would collect the\ncritical soliloquies of every age touching its own literature, (as far\nas such may be extant) and _confer_ them with the literary product of\nthe said ages. Professor Wilson has begun something of the kind\napparently, in his initiatory paper of the last _Blackwood_ number on\ncritics, beginning with Dryden--but he seems to have no design in his\nnotice--it is a mere critique on the critic. And then, he should have\nbegun earlier than Dryden--earlier even than Sir Philip Sydney, who in\nthe noble 'Discourse on Poetry,' gives such singular evidence of being\nstone-critic-blind to the gods who moved around him. As far as I can\nremember, he saw even Shakespeare but indifferently. Oh, it was in his\neyes quite an unillumed age, that period of Elizabeth which _we_ see\nfull of suns! and few can see what is close to the eyes though they\nrun their heads against it; the denial of contemporary genius is the\nrule rather than the exception. No one counts the eagles in the nest,\ntill there is a rush of wings; and lo! they are flown. And here we\nspeak of understanding men, such as the Sydneys and the Drydens. Of\nthe great body of critics you observe rightly, that they are better\nthan might be expected of their badness, only the fact of their\n_influence_ is no less undeniable than the reason why they should not\nbe influential. The brazen kettles will be taken for oracles all the\nworld over. But the influence is for to-day, for this hour--not for\nto-morrow and the day after--unless indeed, as you say, the poet do\nhimself perpetuate the influence by submitting to it. Do you know\nTennyson?--that is, with a face to face knowledge? I have great\nadmiration for him. In execution, he is exquisite,--and, in music, a\nmost subtle weigher out to the ear of fine airs. That such a poet\nshould submit blindly to the suggestions of his critics, (I do not say\nthat suggestions from without may not be accepted with discrimination\nsometimes, to the benefit of the acceptor), blindly and implicitly to\nthe suggestions of his critics, is much as if Babbage were to take my\nopinion and undo his calculating machine by it. Napoleon called poetry\n_science creuse_--which, although he was not scientific in poetry\nhimself, is true enough. But anybody is qualified, according to\neverybody, for giving opinions upon poetry. It is not so in chymistry\nand mathematics. Nor is it so, I believe, in whist and the polka. But\nthen these are more serious things.\n\nYes--and it does delight me to hear of your garden full of roses and\nsoul full of comforts! You have the right to both--you have the key to\nboth. You have written enough to live by, though only beginning to\nwrite, as you say of yourself. And this reminds me to remind you that\nwhen I talked of coveting most the authorship of your 'Pippa,' I did\nnot mean to call it your finest work (you might reproach me for\n_that_), but just to express a personal feeling. Do you know what it\nis to covet your neighbour's poetry?--not his fame, but his poetry?--I\ndare say not. You are too generous. And, in fact, beauty is beauty,\nand, whether it comes by our own hand or another's, blessed be the\ncoming of it! _I_, besides, feel _that_. And yet--and yet, I have been\naware of a feeling within me which has spoken two or three times to\nthe effect of a wish, that I had been visited with the vision of\n'Pippa,' before you--and _confiteor tibi_--I confess the baseness of\nit. The conception is, to my mind, most exquisite and altogether\noriginal--and the contrast in the working out of the plan, singularly\nexpressive of various faculty.\n\nIs the poem under your thumb, emerging from it? and in what metre? May\nI ask such questions?\n\nAnd does Mr. Carlyle tell you that he has forbidden all 'singing' to\nthis perverse and froward generation, which should work and not sing?\nAnd have you told Mr. Carlyle that song is work, and also the\ncondition of work? I am a devout sitter at his feet--and it is an\neffort to me to think him wrong in anything--and once when he told me\nto write prose and not verse, I fancied that his opinion was I had\nmistaken my calling,--a fancy which in infinite kindness and\ngentleness he stooped immediately to correct. I never shall forget the\ngrace of that kindness--but then! For _him_ to have thought ill of\n_me_, would not have been strange--I often think ill of myself, as God\nknows. But for Carlyle to think of putting away, even for a season,\nthe poetry of the world, was wonderful, and has left me ruffled in my\nthoughts ever since. I do not know him personally at all. But as his\ndisciple I ventured (by an exceptional motive) to send him my poems,\nand I heard from him as a consequence. 'Dear and noble' he is\nindeed--and a poet unaware of himself; all but the sense of music. You\nfeel it so--do you not? And the 'dear sir' has let him have the\n'letter of Cromwell,' I hope; and satisfied 'the obedient servant.'\nThe curious thing in this world is not the stupidity, but the\nupper-handism of the stupidity. The geese are in the Capitol, and the\nRomans in the farmyard--and it seems all quite natural that it should\nbe so, both to geese and Romans!\n\nBut there are things you say, which seem to me supernatural, for\nreasons which I know and for reasons which I don't know. You will let\nme be grateful to you,--will you not? You must, if you will or not.\nAnd also--I would not wait for more leave--if I could but see your\ndesk--as I do your death's heads and the spider-webs appertaining; but\nthe soul of Cornelius Agrippa fades from me.\n\n                                      Ever faithfully yours,\n\n                                           ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning--Spring!\n                             [Post-mark, February 26, 1845.]\n\nReal warm Spring, dear Miss Barrett, and the birds know it; and in\nSpring I shall see you, surely see you--for when did I once fail to\nget whatever I had set my heart upon? As I ask myself sometimes, with\na strange fear.\n\nI took up this paper to write a great deal--now, I don't think I shall\nwrite much--'I shall see you,' I say!\n\nThat 'Luria' you enquire about, shall be my last play--for it is but a\nplay, woe's me! I have one done here, 'A Soul's Tragedy,' as it is\nproperly enough called, but _that_ would not do to end with (end I\nwill), and Luria is a Moor, of Othello's country, and devotes himself\nto something he thinks Florence, and the old fortune follows--all in\nmy brain yet, but the bright weather helps and I will soon loosen my\nBraccio and Puccio (a pale discontented man), and Tiburzio (the Pisan,\ngood true fellow, this one), and Domizia the Lady--loosen all these on\ndear foolish (ravishing must his folly be), golden-hearted Luria, all\nthese with their worldly-wisdom and Tuscan shrewd ways; and, for me,\nthe misfortune is, I sympathise just as much with these as with\nhim,--so there can no good come of keeping this wild company any\nlonger, and 'Luria' and the other sadder ruin of one Chiappino--these\ngot rid of, I will do as you bid me, and--say first I have some\nRomances and Lyrics, all dramatic, to dispatch, and _then_, I shall\nstoop of a sudden under and out of this dancing ring of men and women\nhand in hand, and stand still awhile, should my eyes dazzle, and when\nthat's over, they will be gone and you will be there, _pas vrai_? For,\nas I think I told you, I always shiver involuntarily when I look--no,\nglance--at this First Poem of mine to be. '_Now_,' I call it, what,\nupon my soul,--for a solemn matter it is,--what is to be done _now_,\nbelieved _now_, so far as it has been revealed to me--solemn words,\ntruly--and to find myself writing them to any one else! Enough now.\n\nI know Tennyson 'face to face,'--no more than that. I know Carlyle and\nlove him--know him so well, that I would have told you he had shaken\nthat grand head of his at 'singing,' so thoroughly does he love and\nlive by it. When I last saw him, a fortnight ago, he turned, from I\ndon't know what other talk, quite abruptly on me with, 'Did you never\ntry to write a _Song_? Of all things in the world, _that_ I should be\nproudest to do.' Then came his definition of a song--then, with an\nappealing look to Mrs. C., 'I always say that some day in _spite of\nnature and my stars_, I shall burst into a song' (he is not\nmechanically 'musical,' he meant, and the music is the poetry, he\nholds, and should enwrap the thought as Donne says 'an amber-drop\nenwraps a bee'), and then he began to recite an old Scotch song,\nstopping at the first rude couplet, 'The beginning words are merely to\nset the tune, they tell me'--and then again at the couplet about--or,\nto the effect that--'give me' (but in broad Scotch) 'give me but my\nlass, I care not for my cogie.' '_He says_,' quoth Carlyle\nmagisterially, 'that if you allow him the love of his lass, you may\ntake away all else, even his cogie, his cup or can, and he cares not,'\njust as a professor expounds Lycophron. And just before I left\nEngland, six months ago, did not I hear him croon, if not certainly\nsing, 'Charlie is my darling' ('my _darling_' with an adoring\nemphasis), and then he stood back, as it were, from the song, to look\nat it better, and said 'How must that notion of ideal wondrous\nperfection have impressed itself in this old Jacobite's \"young\nCavalier\"--(\"They go to save their land, and the _young\nCavalier_!!\")--when I who care nothing about such a rag of a man,\ncannot but feel as he felt, in speaking his words after him!' After\nsaying which, he would be sure to counsel everybody to get their heads\nclear of all singing! Don't let me forget to clap hands, we got the\nletter, dearly bought as it was by the 'Dear Sirs,' &c., and\ninsignificant scrap as it proved, but still it is got, to my\nencouragement in diplomacy.\n\nWho told you of my sculls and spider webs--Horne? Last year I petted\nextraordinarily a fine fellow, (a _garden_ spider--there was the\nsingularity,--the thin clever-even-for-a-spider-sort, and they are\n_so_ 'spirited and sly,' all of them--this kind makes a long cone of\nweb, with a square chamber of vantage at the end, and there he sits\nloosely and looks about), a great fellow that housed himself, with\nreal gusto, in the jaws of a great scull, whence he watched me as I\nwrote, and I remember speaking to Horne about his good points.\nPhrenologists look gravely at that great scull, by the way, and hope,\nin their grim manner, that its owner made a good end. He looks\nquietly, now, out at the green little hill behind. I have no little\ninsight to the feelings of furniture, and treat books and prints with\na reasonable consideration. How some people use their pictures, for\ninstance, is a mystery to me; very revolting all the same--portraits\nobliged to face each other for ever,--prints put together in\nportfolios. My Polidoro's perfect Andromeda along with 'Boors\nCarousing,' by Ostade,--where I found her,--my own father's doing, or\nI would say more.\n\nAnd when I have said I like 'Pippa' better than anything else I have\ndone yet, I shall have answered all you bade me. And now may _I_\nbegin questioning? No,--for it is all a pure delight to me, so that\nyou do but write. I never was without good, kind, generous friends and\nlovers, so they say--so they were and are,--perhaps they came at the\nwrong time--I never wanted them--though that makes no difference in my\ngratitude I trust,--but I know myself--surely--and always have done\nso, for is there not somewhere the little book I first printed when a\nboy, with John Mill, the metaphysical head, _his_ marginal note that\n'the writer possesses a deeper self-consciousness than I ever knew in\na sane human being.' So I never deceived myself much, nor called my\nfeelings for people other than they were. And who has a right to say,\nif I have not, that I had, but I said that, supernatural or no. Pray\ntell me, too, of your present doings and projects, and never write\nyourself 'grateful' to me, who _am_ grateful, very grateful to\nyou,--for none of your words but I take in earnest--and tell me if\nSpring _be not_ coming, come, and I will take to writing the gravest\nof letters, because this beginning is for gladness' sake, like\nCarlyle's song couplet. My head aches a little to-day too, and, as\npoor dear Kirke White said to the moon, from his heap of mathematical\npapers,\n\n    'I throw aside the learned sheet;\n    I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so--mildly sweet.'\n\nOut on the foolish phrase, but there's hard rhyming without it.\n\n                                      Ever yours faithfully,\n\n                                           ROBERT BROWNING.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "50 Wimpole Street: Feb. 27, 1845.\n\nYes, but, dear Mr. Browning, I want the spring according to the new\n'style' (mine), and not the old one of you and the rest of the poets.\nTo me unhappily, the snowdrop is much the same as the snow--it feels\nas cold underfoot--and I have grown sceptical about 'the voice of the\nturtle,' the east winds blow so loud. April is a Parthian with a dart,\nand May (at least the early part of it) a spy in the camp. _That_ is\nmy idea of what you call spring; mine, in the _new style_! A little\nlater comes my spring; and indeed after such severe weather, from\nwhich I have just escaped with my life, I may thank it for coming at\nall. How happy you are, to be able to listen to the 'birds' without\nthe commentary of the east wind, which, like other commentaries,\nspoils the music. And how happy I am to listen to you, when you write\nsuch kind open-hearted letters to me! I am delighted to hear all you\nsay to me of yourself, and 'Luria,' and the spider, and to do him no\ndishonour in the association, of the great teacher of the age,\nCarlyle, who is also yours and mine. He fills the office of a\npoet--does he not?--by analysing humanity back into its elements, to\nthe destruction of the conventions of the hour. That is--strictly\nspeaking--the office of the poet, is it not?--and he discharges it\nfully, and with a wider intelligibility perhaps as far as the\ncontemporary period is concerned, than if he did forthwith 'burst into\na song.'\n\nBut how I do wander!--I meant to say, and I will call myself back to\nsay, that spring will really come some day I hope and believe, and the\nwarm settled weather with it, and that then I shall be probably fitter\nfor certain pleasures than I can appear even to myself now.\n\nAnd, in the meantime, I seem to see 'Luria' instead of you; I have\nvisions and dream dreams. And the 'Soul's Tragedy,' which sounds to me\nlike the step of a ghost of an old Drama! and you are not to think\nthat I blaspheme the Drama, dear Mr. Browning; or that I ever thought\nof exhorting you to give up the 'solemn robes' and tread of the\nbuskin. It is the theatre which vulgarises these things; the modern\ntheatre in which we see no altar! where the thymelé is replaced by the\ncaprice of a popular actor. And also, I have a fancy that your great\ndramatic power would work more clearly and audibly in the less\ndefinite mould--but you ride your own faculty as Oceanus did his\nsea-horse, 'directing it by your will'; and woe to the impertinence,\nwhich would dare to say 'turn this way' or 'turn from that way'--it\nshould not be _my_ impertinence. Do not think I blaspheme the Drama. I\nhave gone through 'all such reading as should never be read' (that is,\nby women!), through my love of it on the contrary. And the dramatic\nfaculty is strong in you--and therefore, as 'I speak unto a wise man,\njudge what I say.'\n\nFor myself and my own doings, you shall hear directly what I have been\ndoing, and what I am about to do. Some years ago, as perhaps you may\nhave heard, (but I hope not, for the fewer who hear of it the\nbetter)--some years ago, I translated or rather _undid_ into English,\nthe 'Prometheus' of Æschylus. To speak of this production moderately\n(not modestly), it is the most miserable of all miserable versions of\nthe class. It was completed (in the first place) in thirteen days--the\niambics thrown into blank verse, the lyrics into rhymed octosyllabics\nand the like,--and the whole together as cold as Caucasus, and as flat\nas the nearest plain. To account for this, the haste may be something;\nbut if my mind had been properly awakened at the time, I might have\nmade still more haste and done it better. Well,--the comfort is, that\nthe little book was unadvertised and unknown, and that most of the\ncopies (through my entreaty of my father) are shut up in the wardrobe\nof his bedroom. If ever I get well I shall show my joy by making a\nbonfire of them. In the meantime, the recollection of this sin of mine\nhas been my nightmare and daymare too, and the sin has been the 'Blot\non my escutcheon.' I could look in nobody's face, with a 'Thou canst\nnot say I did it'--I know, I did it. And so I resolved to wash away\nthe transgression, and translate the tragedy over again. It was an\nhonest straightforward proof of repentance--was it not? and I have\ncompleted it, except the transcription and last polishing. If\nÆschylus stands at the foot of my bed now, I shall have a little\nbreath to front him. I have done my duty by him, not indeed according\nto his claims, but in proportion to my faculty. Whether I shall ever\npublish or not (remember) remains to be considered--that is a\ndifferent side of the subject. If I do, it _may_ be in a\nmagazine--or--but this is another ground. And then, I have in my head\nto associate with the version, a monodrama of my own,--not a long\npoem, but a monologue of Æschylus as he sate a blind exile on the\nflats of Sicily and recounted the past to his own soul, just before\nthe eagle cracked his great massy skull with a stone.\n\nBut my chief _intention_ just now is the writing of a sort of\nnovel-poem--a poem as completely modern as 'Geraldine's Courtship,'\nrunning into the midst of our conventions, and rushing into\ndrawing-rooms and the like, 'where angels fear to tread'; and so,\nmeeting face to face and without mask the Humanity of the age, and\nspeaking the truth as I conceive of it out plainly. That is my\nintention. It is not mature enough yet to be called a plan. I am\nwaiting for a story, and I won't take one, because I want to make one,\nand I like to make my own stories, because then I can take liberties\nwith them in the treatment.\n\nWho told me of your skulls and spiders? Why, couldn't I know it\nwithout being told? Did Cornelius Agrippa know nothing without being\ntold? Mr. Horne never spoke it to my ears--(I never saw him face to\nface in my life, although we have corresponded for long and long), and\nhe never wrote it to my eyes. Perhaps he does not know that I know it.\nWell, then! if I were to say that _I heard it from you yourself_, how\nwould you answer? _And it was so._ Why, are you not aware that these\nare the days of mesmerism and clairvoyance? Are you an infidel? I have\nbelieved in your skulls for the last year, for my part.\n\nAnd I have some sympathy in your habit of feeling for chairs and\ntables. I remember, when I was a child and wrote poems in little\nclasped books, I used to kiss the books and put them away tenderly\nbecause I had been happy near them, and take them out by turns when I\nwas going from home, to cheer them by the change of air and the\npleasure of the new place. This, not for the sake of the verses\nwritten in them, and not for the sake of writing more verses in them,\nbut from pure gratitude. Other books I used to treat in a like\nmanner--and to talk to the trees and the flowers, was a natural\ninclination--but between me and that time, the cypresses grow thick\nand dark.\n\nIs it true that your wishes fulfil themselves? And when they _do_, are\nthey not bitter to your taste--do you not wish them _un_fulfilled? Oh,\nthis life, this life! There is comfort in it, they say, and I almost\nbelieve--but the brightest place in the house, is the leaning out of\nthe window--at least, for me.\n\nOf course you are _self-conscious_--How could you be a poet otherwise?\nTell me.\n\n                                      Ever faithfully yours,\n\n                                           E.B.B.\n\nAnd was the little book written with Mr. Mill, pure metaphysics, or\nwhat?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Night, March 1 [1845].\n\nDear Miss Barrett,--I seem to find of a sudden--surely I knew\nbefore--anyhow, I _do_ find now, that with the octaves on octaves of\nquite new golden strings you enlarged the compass of my life's harp\nwith, there is added, too, such a tragic chord, that which you\ntouched, so gently, in the beginning of your letter I got this\nmorning, 'just escaping' &c. But if my truest heart's wishes avail, as\nthey have hitherto done, you shall laugh at East winds yet, as I do!\nSee now, this sad feeling is so strange to me, that I must write it\nout, _must_, and you might give me great, the greatest pleasure for\nyears and yet find me as passive as a stone used to wine libations,\nand as ready in expressing my sense of them, but when I am pained, I\nfind the old theory of the uselessness of communicating the\ncircumstances of it, singularly untenable. I have been 'spoiled' in\nthis world--to such an extent, indeed, that I often _reason_ out--make\nclear to myself--that I might very properly, so far as myself am\nconcerned, take any step that would peril the whole of my future\nhappiness--because the past is gained, secure, and on record; and,\nthough not another of the old days should dawn on me, I shall not have\nlost my life, no! Out of all which you are--please--to make a sort of\nsense, if you can, so as to express that I have been deeply struck to\nfind a new real unmistakable sorrow along with these as real but not\nso new joys you have given me. How strangely this connects itself in\nmy mind with another subject in your note! I looked at that\ntranslation for a minute, not longer, years ago, knowing nothing about\nit or you, and I _only_ looked to see what rendering a passage had\nreceived that was often in my thoughts.[1] I forget your version (it\nwas not _yours_, my _'yours' then_; I mean I had no extraordinary\ninterest about it), but the original makes Prometheus (telling over\nhis bestowments towards human happiness) say, as something [Greek:\nperaiterô tônde], that he stopped mortals [Greek: mê proderkesthai\nmoron--to poion eurôn], asks the Chorus, [Greek: têsde pharmakon\nnosou]? Whereto he replies, [Greek: tuphlas en autois elpidas\nkatôkisa] (what you hear men dissertate upon by the hour, as proving\nthe immortality of the soul apart from revelation, undying yearnings,\nrestless longings, instinctive desires which, unless to be eventually\nindulged, it were cruel to plant in us, &c. &c.). But, [Greek: meg'\nôphelêma tout' edôrêsô brotois]! concludes the chorus, like a sigh\nfrom the admitted Eleusinian Æschylus was! You cannot think how this\nfoolish circumstance struck me this evening, so I thought I would e'en\ntell you at once and be done with it. Are you not my dear friend\nalready, and shall I not use you? And pray you not to 'lean out of the\nwindow' when my own foot is only on the stair; do wait a little for\n\n                                          Yours _ever_,\n\n                                               R.B.\n\n[Footnote 1: The following is the version of the passage in Mrs.\nBrowning's later translation of the 'Prometheus' (II. 247-251 of the\noriginal):\n\n_Prom._              I did restrain besides\n             My mortals from premeditating death.\n\n_Cho._ How didst thou medicine the plague-fear of death?\n\n_Prom._ I set blind hopes to inhabit in their house.\n\n_Cho._ By that gift thou didst help thy mortals well.]",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "March 5, 1845.\n\nBut I did not mean to strike a 'tragic chord'; indeed I did not!\nSometimes one's melancholy will be uppermost and sometimes one's\nmirth,--the world goes round, you know--and I suppose that in that\nletter of mine the melancholy took the turn. As to 'escaping with my\nlife,' it was just a phrase--at least it did not signify more than\nthat the sense of mortality, and discomfort of it, is peculiarly\nstrong with me when east winds are blowing and waters freezing. For\nthe rest, I am _essentially better_, and have been for several\nwinters; and I feel as if it were intended for me to live and not die,\nand I am reconciled to the feeling. Yes! I am satisfied to 'take up'\nwith the blind hopes again, and have them in the house with me, for\nall that I sit by the window. By the way, did the chorus utter scorn\nin the [Greek: meg' ôphelêma]. I think not. It is well to fly towards\nthe light, even where there may be some fluttering and bruising of\nwings against the windowpanes, is it not?\n\nThere is an obscurer passage, on which I covet your thoughts, where\nPrometheus, after the sublime declaration that, with a full knowledge\nof the penalty reserved for him, he had sinned of free will and\nchoice--goes on to say--or to seem to say--that he had _not_, however,\nforeseen the extent and detail of the torment, the skiey rocks, and\nthe friendless desolation. See v. 275. The intention of the poet\nmight have been to magnify to his audience the torment of the\nmartyrdom--but the heroism of the martyr diminishes in proportion--and\nthere appears to be a contradiction, and oversight. Or is my view\nwrong? Tell me. And tell me too, if Æschylus not the divinest of all\nthe divine Greek souls? People say after Quintilian, that he is savage\nand rude; a sort of poetic Orson, with his locks all wild. But I will\nnot hear it of my master! He is strong as Zeus is--and not as a\nboxer--and tender as Power itself, which always is tenderest.\n\nBut to go back to the view of Life with the blind Hopes; you are not\nto think--whatever I may have written or implied--that I lean either\nto the philosophy or affectation which beholds the world through\ndarkness instead of light, and speaks of it wailingly. Now, may God\nforbid that it should be so with me. I am not desponding by nature,\nand after a course of bitter mental discipline and long bodily\nseclusion, I come out with two learnt lessons (as I sometimes say and\noftener feel),--the wisdom of cheerfulness--and the duty of social\nintercourse. Anguish has instructed me in joy, and solitude in\nsociety; it has been a wholesome and not unnatural reaction. And\naltogether, I may say that the earth looks the brighter to me in\nproportion to my own deprivations. The laburnum trees and rose trees\nare plucked up by the roots--but the sunshine is in their places, and\nthe root of the sunshine is above the storms. What we call Life is a\ncondition of the soul, and the soul must improve in happiness and\nwisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these\nfaintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement.\n\nAnd I do like to hear testimonies like yours, to _happiness_, and I\nfeel it to be a testimony of a higher sort than the obvious one.\nStill, it is obvious too that you have been spared, up to this time,\nthe great natural afflictions, against which we are nearly all called,\nsooner or later, to struggle and wrestle--or your step would not be\n'on the stair' quite so lightly. And so, we turn to you, dear Mr.\nBrowning, for comfort and gentle spiriting! Remember that as you owe\nyour unscathed joy to God, you should pay it back to His world. And I\nthank you for some of it already.\n\nAlso, writing as from friend to friend--as you say rightly that we\nare--I ought to confess that of one class of griefs (which has been\ncalled too the bitterest), I know as little as you. The cruelty of the\nworld, and the treason of it--the unworthiness of the dearest; of\nthese griefs I have scanty knowledge. It seems to me from my personal\nexperience that there is kindness everywhere in different proportions,\nand more goodness and tenderheartedness than we read of in the\nmoralists. People have been kind to _me_, even without understanding\nme, and pitiful to me, without approving of me:--nay, have not the\nvery critics tamed their beardom for me, and roared delicately as\nsucking doves, on behalf of me? I have no harm to say of your world,\nthough I am not of it, as you see. And I have the cream of it in your\nfriendship, and a little more, and I do not envy much the milkers of\nthe cows.\n\nHow kind you are!--how kindly and gently you speak to me! Some things\nyou say are very touching, and some, surprising; and although I am\naware that you unconsciously exaggerate what I can be to you, yet it\nis delightful to be broad awake and think of you as my friend.\n\nMay God bless you!\n\n                                           Faithfully yours,\n\n                                               ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n                                [Post-mark, March 12, 1845.]\n\nYour letter made me so happy, dear Miss Barrett, that I have kept\nquiet this while; is it too great a shame if I begin to want more\ngood news of you, and to say so? Because there has been a bitter wind\never since. Will you grant me a great favour? Always when you write,\nthough about your own works, not Greek plays merely, put me in,\n_always_, a little official bulletin-line that shall say 'I am better'\nor 'still better,' will you? That is done, then--and now, what do I\nwish to tell you first? The poem you propose to make, for the times;\nthe fearless fresh living work you describe, is the _only_ Poem to be\nundertaken now by you or anyone that _is_ a Poet at all; the only\nreality, only effective piece of service to be rendered God and man;\nit is what I have been all my life intending to do, and now shall be\nmuch, much nearer doing, since you will along with me. And you _can_\ndo it, I know and am sure--so sure, that I could find in my heart to\nbe jealous of your stopping in the way even to translate the\nPrometheus; though the accompanying monologue will make amends too. Or\nshall I set you a task I meant for myself once upon a time?--which,\noh, how you would fulfil! Restore the Prometheus [Greek: purphoros] as\nShelley did the [Greek: Lyomenos]; when I say 'restore,' I know, or\nvery much fear, that the [Greek: purphoros] was the same with the\n[Greek: purkaeus] which, by a fragment, we sorrowfully ascertain to\nhave been a Satyric Drama; but surely the capabilities of the subject\nare much greater than in this, we now wonder at; nay, they include all\nthose of this last--for just see how magnificently the story unrolls\nitself. The beginning of Jupiter's dynasty, the calm in Heaven after\nthe storm, the ascending--(stop, I will get the book and give the\nwords), [Greek: opôs tachista ton patrôon eis thronon kathezet',\neuthus daimosin nemei gera alloisin alla--k.t.l.],[1] all the while\nPrometheus being the first among the first in honour, as [Greek:\nkaitoi theoisi tois neois toutois gera tis allos, ê 'gô, pantelôs\ndiôrise]?[2] then the one black hand-cloudlet storming the joyous\nblue and gold everywhere, [Greek: brotôn de tôn talaipôrôn logon ouk\neschen oudena],[3] and the design of Zeus to blot out the whole race,\nand plant a new one. And Prometheus with his grand solitary [Greek:\negô d' etolmêsa],[4] and his saving them, as the _first_ good, from\nannihilation. Then comes the darkening brow of Zeus, and estrangement\nfrom the benign circle of grateful gods, and the dissuasion of old\nconfederates, and all the Right that one may fancy in Might, the\nstrongest reasons [Greek: pauesthai tropou philanthrôpou][5] coming\nfrom the own mind of the Titan, if you will, and all the while he\nshall be proceeding steadily in the alleviation of the sufferings of\nmortals whom, [Greek: nêpious ontas to prin, ennous kai phrenôn\nepêbolous ethêke],[6] while still, in proportion, shall the doom he is\nabout to draw on himself, manifest itself more and more distinctly,\ntill at the last, he shall achieve the salvation of man, body (by the\ngift of fire) and soul (by even those [Greek: tuphlai elpides],[7]\nhopes of immortality), and so having rendered him utterly, according\nto the mythos here, _independent_ of Jove--for observe, Prometheus in\nthe play never talks of helping mortals more, of fearing for them\nmore, of even benefiting them more by his sufferings. The rest is\nbetween Jove and himself; he will reveal the master-secret to Jove\nwhen he shall have released him, &c. There is no stipulation that the\ngifts to mortals shall be continued; indeed, by the fact that it is\nPrometheus who hangs on Caucasus while 'the ephemerals possess fire,'\none sees that somehow mysteriously _they_ are past Jove's harming now.\nWell, this wholly achieved, the price is as wholly accepted, and off\ninto the darkness passes in calm triumphant grandeur the Titan, with\nStrength and Violence, and Vulcan's silent and downcast eyes, and then\nthe gold clouds and renewed flushings of felicity shut up the scene\nagain, with Might in his old throne again, yet with a new element of\nmistrust, and conscious shame, and fear, that writes significantly\nenough above all the glory and rejoicing that all is not as it was,\nnor will ever be. Such might be the framework of your Drama, just what\ncannot help striking one at first glance, and would not such a Drama\ngo well before your translation? Do think of this and tell me--it\nnearly writes itself. You see, I meant the [Greek: meg' ôphelêma][8]\nto be a deep great truth; if there were no life beyond this, I think\nthe hope in one would be an incalculable blessing _for_ this life,\nwhich is melancholy for one like Æschylus to feel, if he could _only_\nhope, because the argument as to the ulterior good of those hopes is\ncut clean away, and what had he left?\n\nI do not find it take away from my feeling of the magnanimity of\nPrometheus that he should, in truth, complain (as he does from\nbeginning to end) of what he finds himself suffering. He could have\nprevented all, and can stop it now--of that he never thinks for a\nmoment. That was the old Greek way--they never let an antagonistic\npassion neutralise the other which was to influence the man to his\npraise or blame. A Greek hero fears exceedingly and battles it out,\ncries out when he is wounded and fights on, does not say his love or\nhate makes him see no danger or feel no pain. Æschylus from first word\nto last ([Greek: idesthe me, oia paschô][9] to [Greek: esoras me, hôs\nekdika paschô][10]) insists on the unmitigated reality of the\npunishment which only the sun, and divine ether, and the godhead of\nhis mother can comprehend; still, still that is only what I suppose\nÆschylus to have done--in your poem you shall make Prometheus our way.\n\nAnd now enough of Greek, which I am fast forgetting (for I never look\nat books I loved once)--it was your mention of the translation that\nbrought out the old fast fading outlines of the Poem in my brain--the\nGreek poem, that is. You think--for I must get to _you_--that I\n'unconsciously exaggerate what you are to me.' Now, you don't know\nwhat _that_ is, nor can I very well tell you, because the language\nwith which I talk to myself of these matters is spiritual Attic, and\n'loves contractions,' as grammarians say; but I read it myself, and\nwell know what it means, that's why I told you I was self-conscious--I\nmeant that I never yet mistook my own feelings, one for\nanother--there! Of what use is talking? Only do you stay here with me\nin the 'House' these few short years. Do you think I shall see you in\ntwo months, three months? I may travel, perhaps. So you have got to\nlike society, and would enjoy it, you think? For me, I always hated\nit--have put up with it these six or seven years past, lest by\nforegoing it I should let some unknown good escape me, in the true\ntime of it, and only discover my fault when too late; and now that I\nhave done most of what is to be done, _any_ lodge in a garden of\ncucumbers for me! I don't even care about reading now--the world, and\npictures of it, rather than writings about the world! But you must\nread books in order to get words and forms for 'the public' if you\n_write_, and _that_ you needs must do, if you fear God. I have no\npleasure in writing myself--none, in the mere act--though all pleasure\nin the sense of fulfilling a duty, whence, if I have done my real\nbest, judge how heart-breaking a matter must it be to be pronounced a\npoor creature by critic this and acquaintance the other! But I think\nyou like the operation of writing as I should like that of painting or\nmaking music, do you not? After all, there is a great delight in the\nheart of the thing; and use and forethought have made me ready at all\ntimes to set to work--but--I don't know why--my heart sinks whenever I\nopen this desk, and rises when I shut it. Yet but for what I have\nwritten you would never have heard of me--and _through_ what you have\nwritten, not properly _for_ it, I love and wish you well! Now, will\nyou remember what I began my letter by saying--how you have promised\nto let me know if my wishing takes effect, and if you still continue\nbetter? And not even ... (since we are learned in magnanimity) don't\neven tell me that or anything else, if it teases you,--but wait your\nown good time, and know me for ... if these words were but my own, and\nfresh-minted for this moment's use!...\n\n                                      Yours ever faithfully,\n\n                                           R. BROWNING.\n\n[Footnote 1: Aeschylus, _Prometheus_, 228ff.:\n\n                                'When at first\n    He filled his father's throne, he instantly\n    Made various gifts of glory to the gods.']\n\n[Footnote 2: _Ib._ 439, 440:\n\n    'For see--their honours to these new-made gods,\n    What other gave but I?']\n\n[Footnote 3: _Ib._ 231, 232:\n\n                 'Alone of men,\n    Of miserable men, he took no count.']\n\n[Footnote 4: _Ib._ 235: 'But I dared it.']\n\n[Footnote 5: _Ib._ 11: 'Leave off his old trick of loving man.']\n\n[Footnote 6: _Ib._ 443, 444:\n\n                   'Being fools before,\n    I made them wise and true in aim of soul.']\n\n[Footnote 7: _Ib._ 250: 'Blind hopes.']\n\n[Footnote 8: _Ib._ 251: 'A great benefit.']\n\n[Footnote 9: _Ib._ 92: 'Behold what I suffer.']\n\n[Footnote 10: _Ib._ 1093: 'Dost see how I suffer this wrong?']",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "50 Wimpole Street: March 20, 1845.\n\nWhenever I delay to write to you, dear Mr. Browning, it is not, be\nsure, that I take my 'own good time,' but submit to my own bad time.\nIt was kind of you to wish to know how I was, and not unkind of me to\nsuspend my answer to your question--for indeed I have not been very\nwell, nor have had much heart for saying so. This implacable weather!\nthis east wind that seems to blow through the sun and moon! who can be\nwell in such a wind? Yet for me, I should not grumble. There has been\nnothing very bad the matter with me, as there used to be--I only grow\nweaker than usual, and learn my lesson of being mortal, in a\ncorner--and then all this must end! April is coming. There will be\nboth a May and a June if we live to see such things, and perhaps,\nafter all, we may. And as to seeing _you_ besides, I observe that you\ndistrust me, and that perhaps you penetrate my morbidity and guess how\nwhen the moment comes to see a living human face to which I am not\naccustomed, I shrink and grow pale in the spirit. Do you? You are\nlearned in human nature, and you know the consequences of leading such\na secluded life as mine--notwithstanding all my fine philosophy about\nsocial duties and the like--well--if you have such knowledge or if you\nhave it not, I cannot say, but I do say that I will indeed see you\nwhen the warm weather has revived me a little, and put the earth 'to\nrights' again so as to make pleasures of the sort possible. For if you\nthink that I shall not _like_ to see you, you are wrong, for all your\nlearning. But I shall be afraid of you at first--though I am not, in\nwriting thus. You are Paracelsus, and I am a recluse, with nerves that\nhave been all broken on the rack, and now hang loosely--quivering at a\nstep and breath.\n\nAnd what you say of society draws me on to many comparative thoughts\nof your life and mine. You seem to have drunken of the cup of life\nfull, with the sun shining on it. I have lived only inwardly; or with\n_sorrow_, for a strong emotion. Before this seclusion of my illness, I\nwas secluded still, and there are few of the youngest women in the\nworld who have not seen more, heard more, known more, of society, than\nI, who am scarcely to be called young now. I grew up in the\ncountry--had no social opportunities, had my heart in books and\npoetry, and my experience in reveries. My sympathies drooped towards\nthe ground like an untrained honeysuckle--and but for _one_, in my own\nhouse--but of this I cannot speak. It was a lonely life, growing green\nlike the grass around it. Books and dreams were what I lived in--and\ndomestic life only seemed to buzz gently around, like the bees about\nthe grass. And so time passed, and passed--and afterwards, when my\nillness came and I seemed to stand at the edge of the world with all\ndone, and no prospect (as appeared at one time) of ever passing the\nthreshold of one room again; why then, I turned to thinking with some\nbitterness (after the greatest sorrow of my life had given me room and\ntime to breathe) that I had stood blind in this temple I was about to\nleave--that I had seen no Human nature, that my brothers and sisters\nof the earth were _names_ to me, that I had beheld no great mountain\nor river, nothing in fact. I was as a man dying who had not read\nShakespeare, and it was too late! do you understand? And do you also\nknow what a disadvantage this ignorance is to my art? Why, if I live\non and yet do not escape from this seclusion, do you not perceive that\nI labour under signal disadvantages--that I am, in a manner, as a\n_blind poet_? Certainly, there is a compensation to a degree. I have\nhad much of the inner life, and from the habit of self-consciousness\nand self-analysis, I make great guesses at Human nature in the main.\nBut how willingly I would as a poet exchange some of this lumbering,\nponderous, helpless knowledge of books, for some experience of life\nand man, for some....\n\nBut all grumbling is a vile thing. We should all thank God for our\nmeasures of life, and think them enough for each of us. I write so,\nthat you may not mistake what I wrote before in relation to society,\nalthough you do not see from my point of view; and that you may\nunderstand what I mean fully when I say, that I have lived all my\nchief _joys_, and indeed nearly all emotions that go warmly by that\nname and relate to myself personally, in poetry and in poetry alone.\nLike to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I\nwrite--it is life, for me. Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink\nand breathe,--but to feel the life in you down all the fibres of\nbeing, passionately and joyfully. And thus, one lives in composition\nsurely--not always--but when the wheel goes round and the procession\nis uninterrupted. Is it not so with you? oh--it must be so. For the\nrest, there will be necessarily a reaction; and, in my own particular\ncase, whenever I see a poem of mine in print, or even smoothly\ntranscribed, the reaction is most painful. The pleasure, the sense of\npower, without which I could not write a line, is gone in a moment;\nand nothing remains but disappointment and humiliation. I never wrote\na poem which you could not persuade me to tear to pieces if you took\nme at the right moment! I have a _seasonable_ humility, I do assure\nyou.\n\nHow delightful to talk about oneself; but as you 'tempted me and I did\neat,' I entreat your longsuffering of my sin, and ah! if you would\nbut sin back so in turn! You and I seem to meet in a mild contrarious\nharmony ... as in the 'si no, si no' of an Italian duet. I want to see\nmore of men, and you have seen too much, you say. I am in ignorance,\nand you, in satiety. 'You don't even care about reading now.' Is it\npossible? And I am as 'fresh' about reading, as ever I was--as long as\nI keep out of the shadow of the dictionaries and of theological\ncontroversies, and the like. Shall I whisper it to you under the\nmemory of the last rose of last summer? _I am very fond of romances_;\nyes! and I read them not only as some wise people are known to do, for\nthe sake of the eloquence here and the sentiment there, and the\ngraphic intermixtures here and there, but for the story! just as\nlittle children would, sitting on their papa's knee. My childish love\nof a story never wore out with my love of plum cake, and now there is\nnot a hole in it. I make it a rule, for the most part, to read all the\nromances that other people are kind enough to write--and woe to the\nmiserable wight who tells me how the third volume endeth. Have you in\nyou any surviving innocence of this sort? or do you call it idiocy? If\nyou do, I will forgive you, only smiling to myself--I give you\nnotice,--with a smile of superior pleasure! Mr. Chorley made me quite\nlaugh the other day by recommending Mary Hewitt's 'Improvisatore,'\nwith a sort of deprecating reference to the _descriptions_ in the\nbook, just as if I never read a novel--_I!_ I wrote a confession back\nto him which made him shake his head perhaps, and now I confess to\n_you_, unprovoked. I am one who could have forgotten the plague,\nlistening to Boccaccio's stories; and I am not ashamed of it. I do not\neven 'see the better part,' I am so silly.\n\nAh! you tempt me with a grand vision of Prometheus! _I_, who have just\nescaped with my life, after treading Milton's ground, you would send\nme to Æschylus's. No, _I do not dare_. And besides ... I am inclined\nto think that we want new _forms_, as well as thoughts. The old gods\nare dethroned. Why should we go back to the antique moulds, classical\nmoulds, as they are so improperly called? If it is a necessity of Art\nto do so, why then those critics are right who hold that Art is\nexhausted and the world too worn out for poetry. I do not, for my\npart, believe this: and I believe the so-called necessity of Art to be\nthe mere feebleness of the artist. Let us all aspire rather to _Life_,\nand let the dead bury their dead. If we have but courage to face these\nconventions, to touch this low ground, we shall take strength from it\ninstead of losing it; and of that, I am intimately persuaded. For\nthere is poetry _everywhere_; the 'treasure' (see the old fable) lies\nall over the field. And then Christianity is a worthy _myth_, and\npoetically acceptable.\n\nI had much to say to you, or at least something, of the 'blind hopes'\n&c., but am ashamed to take a step into a new sheet. If you mean 'to\ntravel,' why, I shall have to miss you. Do you really mean it? How is\nthe play going on? and the poem?\n\nMay God bless you!\n\n                                       Ever and truly yours,\n\n                                            E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                [Post-mark, March 31, 1845.]\n\nWhen you read Don Quixote, my dear romance-reader, do you ever notice\nthat flower of an incident of good fellowship where the friendly\nSquire of Him of the Moon, or the Looking glasses, (I forget which)\npasses to Sancho's dry lips, (all under a cork-tree one morning)--a\nplump wine-skin,--and do you admire dear brave Miguel's knowledge of\nthirsty nature when he tells you that the Drinker, having seriously\nconsidered for a space the Pleiads, or place where they should be,\nfell, as he slowly returned the shrivelled bottle to its donor, into a\ndeep musing of an hour's length, or thereabouts, and then ... mark ...\nonly _then_, fetching a profound sigh, broke silence with ... such a\npiece of praise as turns pale the labours in that way of Rabelais and\nthe Teian (if he wasn't a Byzantine monk, alas!) and our Mr. Kenyon's\nstately self--(since my own especial poet _à moi_, that can do all\nwith anybody, only 'sips like a fly,' she says, and so cares not to\ncompete with these behemoths that drink up Jordan)--Well, then ...\n(oh, I must get quick to the sentence's end, and be brief as an\noracle-explainer!)--the giver is you and the taker is I, and the\nletter is the wine, and the star-gazing is the reading the same, and\nthe brown study is--how shall I deserve and be grateful enough to this\nnew strange friend of my own, that has taken away my reproach among\nmen, that have each and all their friend, so they say (... not that I\nbelieve all they say--they boast too soon sometimes, no doubt,--I once\nwas shown a letter wherein the truth stumbled out after this fashion\n'Dere Smith,--I calls you \"_dere_\" ... because you are so in your\nshop!')--and the great sigh is,--there is no deserving nor being\ngrateful at all,--and the breaking silence is, and the praise is ...\nah, there, enough of it! This sunny morning is as if I wished it for\nyou--10 strikes by the clock now--tell me if at 10 this morning you\nfeel any good from my heart's wishes for you--I would give you all you\nwant out of my own life and gladness and yet keep twice the stock that\nshould by right have sufficed the thin white face that is laughing at\nme in the glass yonder at the fancy of its making anyone afraid ...\nand now, with another kind of laugh, at the thought that when its\nowner 'travels' next, he will leave off Miss Barrett along with port\nwine--_Dii meliora piis_, and, among them to\n\n                   Yours every where, and at all times yours\n\n                        R. BROWNING.\n\nI have all to say yet--next letter. R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Night.\n                                [Post-mark, April 16, 1845.]\n\nI heard of you, dear Miss Barrett, between a Polka and a Cellarius the\nother evening, of Mr. Kenyon--how this wind must hurt you! And\nyesterday I had occasion to go your way--past, that is, Wimpole\nStreet, the end of it,--and, do you know, I did not seem to have leave\nfrom you to go down it yet, much less count number after number till I\ncame to yours,--much least than less, look up when I did come there.\nSo I went on to a viperine she-friend of mine who, I think, rather\nloves me she does so hate me, and we talked over the chances of\ncertain other friends who were to be balloted for at the 'Athenæum'\nlast night,--one of whom, it seems, was in a fright about it--'to such\nlittle purpose' said my friend--'for he is so inoffensive--now, if one\nwere to style _you_ that--' 'Or you'--I said--and so we hugged\nourselves in our grimness like tiger-cats. Then there is a deal in the\npapers to-day about Maynooth, and a meeting presided over by Lord\nMayor Gibbs, and the Reverend Mr. Somebody's speech. And Mrs. Norton\nhas gone and book-made at a great rate about the Prince of Wales,\npleasantly putting off till his time all that used of old to be put\noff till his mother's time;--altogether, I should dearly like to hear\nfrom you, but not till the wind goes, and sun comes--because I shall\nsee Mr. Kenyon next week and get him to tell me some more. By the way,\ndo you suppose anybody else looks like him? If you do, the first room\nfull of real London people you go among you will fancy to be lighted\nup by a saucer of burning salt and spirits of wine in the back ground.\n\nMonday--last night when I could do nothing else I began to write to\nyou, such writing as you have seen--strange! The proper time and\nseason for good sound sensible and profitable forms of speech--when\nought it to have occurred, and how did I evade it in these letters of\nmine? For people begin with a graceful skittish levity, lest you\nshould be struck all of a heap with what is to come, and _that_ is\nsure to be the stuff and staple of the man, full of wisdom and\nsorrow,--and then again comes the fringe of reeds and pink little\nstones on the other side, that you may put foot on land, and draw\nbreath, and think what a deep pond you have swum across. But _you_ are\nthe real deep wonder of a creature,--and I sail these paper-boats on\nyou rather impudently. But I always mean to be very grave one\nday,--when I am in better spirits and can go _fuori di me_.\n\nAnd one thing I want to persuade you of, which is, that all you gain\nby travel is the discovery that you have gained nothing, and have done\nrightly in trusting to your innate ideas--or not rightly in\ndistrusting them, as the case may be. You get, too, a little ...\nperhaps a considerable, good, in finding the world's accepted _moulds_\neverywhere, into which you may run and fix your own fused metal,--but\nnot a grain Troy-weight do you get of new gold, silver or brass. After\nthis, you go boldly on your own resources, and are justified to\nyourself, that's all. Three scratches with a pen,[1] even with this\npen,--and you have the green little Syrenusa where I have sate and\nheard the quails sing. One of these days I shall describe a country I\nhave seen in my soul only, fruits, flowers, birds and all.\n\n                              Ever yours, dear Miss Barrett,\n\n                                   R. BROWNING.\n\n[Footnote 1: A rough sketch follows in the original.]",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n                                [Post-mark, April 18, 1845.]\n\nIf you did but know dear Mr. Browning how often I have written ... not\nthis letter I am about to write, but another better letter to you, ...\nin the midst of my silence, ... you would not think for a moment that\nthe east wind, with all the harm it does to me, is able to do the\ngreat harm of putting out the light of the thought of you to my mind;\nfor this, indeed, it has no power to do. I had the pen in my hand once\nto write; and why it fell out, I cannot tell you. And you see, ... all\nyour writing will not change the wind! You wished all manner of good\nto me one day as the clock struck ten; yes, and I assure you I was\nbetter that day--and I must not forget to tell you so though it is so\nlong since. And _therefore_, I was logically bound to believe that you\nhad never thought of me since ... unless you thought east winds of me!\n_That_ was quite clear; was it not? or would have been; if it had not\nbeen for the supernatural conviction, I had above all, of your\nkindness, which was too large to be taken in the hinge of a syllogism.\nIn fact I have long left off thinking that logic proves anything--it\n_doesn't_, you know.\n\nBut your Lamia has taught you some subtle 'viperine' reasoning and\n_motiving_, for the turning down one street instead of another. It was\nconclusive.\n\nAh--but you will never persuade me that I am the better, or as well,\nfor the thing that I have not. We look from different points of view,\nand yours is the point of attainment. Not that you do not truly say\nthat, when all is done, we must come home to place our engines, and\nact by our own strength. I do not want material as material; no one\ndoes--but every life requires a full experience, a various\nexperience--and I have a profound conviction that where a poet has\nbeen shut from most of the outward aspects of life, he is at a\nlamentable disadvantage. Can you, speaking for yourself, separate the\nresults in you from the external influences at work around you, that\nyou say so boldly that you get nothing from the world? You do not\n_directly_, I know--but you do indirectly and by a rebound. Whatever\nacts upon you, becomes _you_--and whatever you love or hate, whatever\ncharms you or is scorned by you, acts on you and becomes _you_. Have\nyou read the 'Improvisatore'? or will you? The writer seems to feel,\njust as I do, the good of the outward life; and he is a poet in his\nsoul. It is a book full of beauty and had a great charm to me.\n\nAs to the Polkas and Cellariuses I do not covet them of course ... but\nwhat a strange world you seem to have, to me at a distance--what a\nstrange husk of a world! How it looks to me like mandarin-life or\nsomething as remote; nay, not mandarin-life but mandarin _manners_,\n... life, even the outer life, meaning something deeper, in my account\nof it. As to dear Mr. Kenyon I do not make the mistake of fancying\nthat many can look like him or talk like him or _be_ like him. I know\nenough to know otherwise. When he spoke of me he should have said that\nI was better notwithstanding the east wind. It is really true--I am\ngetting slowly up from the prostration of the severe cold, and feel\nstronger in myself.\n\nBut Mrs. Norton discourses excellent music--and for the rest, there\nare fruits in the world so over-ripe, that they will fall, ... without\nbeing gathered. Let Maynooth witness to it! _if you think it worth\nwhile_!\n\n                                  Ever yours,\n\n                                       ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.\n\nAnd _is it_ nothing to be 'justified to one's self in one's\nresources?' '_That's all_,' indeed! For the 'soul's country' we will\nhave it also--and I know how well the birds sing in it. How glad I was\nby the way to see your letter!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                [Post-mark, April 30, 1845.]\n\nIf you did but know, dear Miss Barrett, how the 'full stop' after\n'Morning' just above, has turned out the fullest of stops,--and how\nfor about a quarter of an hour since the ink dried I have been\nreasoning out the why and wherefore of the stopping, the wisdom of it,\nand the folly of it....\n\nBy this time you see what you have got in me--You ask me questions,\n'if I like novels,' 'if the \"Improvisatore\" is not good,' 'if travel\nand sightseeing do not effect this and that for one,' and 'what I am\ndevising--play or poem,'--and I shall not say I could not answer at\nall manner of lengths--but, let me only begin some good piece of\nwriting of the kind, and ... no, you shall have it, have what I was\ngoing to tell you stops such judicious beginnings,--in a parallel\ncase, out of which your ingenuity shall, please, pick the\nmeaning--There is a story of D'Israeli's, an old one, with an episode\nof strange interest, or so I found it years ago,--well, you go\nbreathlessly on with the people of it, page after page, till at last\nthe end _must_ come, you feel--and the tangled threads draw to one,\nand an out-of-door feast in the woods helps you ... that is, helps\nthem, the people, wonderfully on,--and, lo, dinner is done, and Vivian\nGrey is here, and Violet Fane there,--and a detachment of the party is\ndrafted off to go catch butterflies, and only two or three stop\nbehind. At this moment, Mr. Somebody, a good man and rather the lady's\nuncle, 'in answer to a question from Violet, drew from his pocket a\nsmall neatly written manuscript, and, seating himself on an inverted\nwine-cooler, proceeded to read the following brief remarks upon the\ncharacteristics of the Moeso-gothic literature'--this ends the\npage,--which you don't turn at once! But when you _do_, in bitterness\nof soul, turn it, you read--'On consideration, I' (Ben, himself)\n'shall keep them for Mr. Colburn's _New Magazine_'--and deeply you\ndraw thankful breath! (Note this 'parallel case' of mine is pretty\nsure to meet the usual fortune of my writings--you will ask what it\nmeans--and this it means, or should mean, all of it, instance and\nreasoning and all,--that I am naturally earnest, in earnest about\nwhatever thing I do, and little able to write about one thing while I\nthink of another)--\n\nI think I will really write verse to you some day--_this_ day, it is\nquite clear I had better give up trying.\n\nNo, spite of all the lines in the world, I will make an end of it, as\nOphelia with her swan's-song,--for it grows too absurd. But remember\nthat I write letters to nobody but you, and that I want method and\nmuch more. That book you like so, the Danish novel, must be full of\ntruth and beauty, to judge from the few extracts I have seen in\nReviews. That a Dane should write so, confirms me in an old\nbelief--that Italy is stuff for the use of the North, and no\nmore--pure Poetry there is none, nearly as possible none, in Dante\neven--material for Poetry in the pitifullest romancist of their\nthousands, on the contrary--strange that those great wide black eyes\nshould stare nothing out of the earth that lies before them! Alfieri,\nwith even grey eyes, and a life of travel, writes you some fifteen\ntragedies as colourless as salad grown under a garden glass with\nmatting over it--as free, that is, from local colouring, touches of\nthe soil they are said to spring from,--think of 'Saulle,' and his\nGreek attempts!\n\nI expected to see Mr. Kenyon, at a place where I was last week, but he\nkept away. Here is the bad wind back again, and the black sky. I am\nsure I never knew till now whether the East or West or South were the\nquarter to pray for--But surely the weather was a little better last\nweek, and you, were you not better? And do you know--but it's all\nself-flattery I believe,--still I cannot help fancying the East wind\ndoes my head harm too!\n\n                                      Ever yours faithfully,\n\n                                           R. BROWNING.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                   [Post-mark, May 2, 1845.]\n\nPeople say of you and of me, dear Mr. Browning, that we love the\ndarkness and use a sphinxine idiom in our talk; and really you do talk\na little like a sphinx in your argument drawn from 'Vivian Grey.' Once\nI sate up all night to read 'Vivian Grey'; but I never drew such an\nargument from him. Not that I give it up (nor _you_ up) for a mere\nmystery. Nor that I can '_see what you have got in you_,' from a mere\nguess. But just observe! If I ask questions about novels, is it not\nbecause I want to know how much elbow-room there may be for our\nsympathies ... and whether there is room for my loose sleeves, and the\nlace lappets, as well as for my elbows; and because I want to see\n_you_ by the refracted lights as well as by the direct ones; and\nbecause I am willing for you to know _me_ from the beginning, with all\nmy weaknesses and foolishnesses, ... as they are accounted by people\nwho say to me 'no one would ever think, without knowing you, that you\nwere so and so.' Now if I send all my idle questions to _Colburn's\nMagazine_, with other Gothic literature, and take to standing up in a\nperpendicular personality like the angel on the schoolman's needle, in\nmy letters to come, without further leaning to the left or the\nright--why the end would be that _you_ would take to 'running after\nthe butterflies,' for change of air and exercise. And then ... oh ...\nthen, my 'small neatly written manuscripts' might fall back into my\ndesk...! (_Not_ a 'full stop'!.)\n\nIndeed ... I do assure you ... I never for a moment thought of 'making\nconversation' about the 'Improvisatore' or novels in general, when I\nwrote what I did to you. I might, to other persons ... perhaps.\nCertainly not to _you_. I was not dealing round from one pack of cards\nto you and to others. That's what you meant to reproach me for you\nknow,--and of that, I am not guilty at all. I never could think of\n'making conversation' in a letter to _you_--never. Women are said to\npartake of the nature of children--and my brothers call me 'absurdly\nchildish' sometimes: and I am capable of being childishly 'in earnest'\nabout novels, and straws, and such 'puppydogs' tails' as my Flush's!\nAlso I write more letters than you do, ... I write in fact almost as\nyou pay visits, ... and one has to 'make conversation' in turn, of\ncourse. _But_--give me something to vow by--whatever you meant in the\n'Vivian Grey' argument, you were wrong in it! and you never can be\nmuch more wrong--which is a comfortable reflection.\n\nYet you leap very high at Dante's crown--or you do not leap, ... you\nsimply extend your hand to it, and make a rustling among the laurel\nleaves, which is somewhat prophane. Dante's poetry only materials for\nthe northern rhymers! I must think of that ... if you please ...\nbefore I agree with you. Dante's poetry seems to come down in hail,\nrather than in rain--but count me the drops congealed in one\nhailstone! Oh! the 'Flight of the Duchess'--do let us hear more of\nher! Are you (I wonder) ... not a 'self-flatterer,' ... but ... a\nflatterer.\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Morning.\n                                   [Post-mark, May 3, 1845.]\n\nNow shall you see what you shall see--here shall be 'sound speech not\nto be reproved,'--for this morning you are to know that the soul of me\nhas it all her own way, dear Miss Barrett, this green cool\nnine-in-the-morning time for my chestnut tree over there, and for me\nwho only coaxed my good-natured--(really)--body up, after its\nthree-hours' night-rest on condition it should lounge, or creep about,\nincognito and without consequences--and so it shall, all but my\nright-hand which is half-spirit and 'cuts' its poor relation, and\npasses itself off for somebody (that is, some soul) and is doubly\nactive and ready on such occasions--Now I shall tell you all about it,\nfirst what last letter meant, and then more. You are to know, then\nthat for some reason, that looked like an instinct, I thought I ought\nnot to send shaft on shaft, letter-plague on letter, with such an\nuninterrupted clanging ... that I ought to wait, say a week at least\nhaving killed all your mules for you, before I shot down your\ndogs--but not being exactly Phoibos Apollon, you are to know further\nthat when I _did_ think I might go modestly on, ... [Greek: ômoi], let\nme get out of this slough of a simile, never mind with what\ndislocation of ancles! Plainly, from waiting and turning my eyes away\n(not from _you_, but from you in your special capacity of being\n_written_-to, not spoken-to) when I turned again you had grown\nformidable somehow--though that's not the word,--nor are you the\nperson, either,--it was my fortune, my privilege of being your friend\nthis one way, that it seemed a shame for me to make no better use of\nthan taking it up with talk about books and I don't know what. Write\nwhat I will, you would read for once, I think--well, then,--what I\nshall write shall be--something on this book, and the other book, and\nmy own books, and Mary Hewitt's books, and at the end of it--good bye,\nand I hope here is a quarter of an hour rationally spent. So the\nthought of what I should find in my heart to say, and the contrast\nwith what I suppose I ought to say ... all these things are against\nme. But this is very foolish, all the same, I need not be told--and is\npart and parcel of an older--indeed primitive body of mine, which I\nshall never wholly get rid of, of desiring to do nothing when I cannot\ndo all; seeing nothing, getting, enjoying nothing, where there is no\nseeing and getting and enjoying _wholly_--and in this case, moreover,\nyou are _you_, and know something about me, if not much, and have read\nBos on the art of supplying Ellipses, and (after, particularly, I have\nconfessed all this, why and how it has been) you will _subaudire_ when\nI pull out my Mediæval-Gothic-Architectural-Manuscript (so it was, I\nremember now,) and instruct you about corbeils and ogives ... though,\nafter all, it was none of Vivian's doing, that,--all the uncle kind or\nman's, which I never professed to be. Now you see how I came to say\nsome nonsense (I very vaguely think _what_) about Dante--some\ndesperate splash I know I made for the beginning of my picture, as\nwhen a painter at his wits' end and hunger's beginning says 'Here\nshall the figure's hand be'--and spots _that_ down, meaning to reach\nit naturally from the other end of his canvas,--and leaving off tired,\nthere you see the spectral disjoined thing, and nothing between it and\nrationality. I intended to shade down and soften off and put in and\nleave out, and, before I had done, bring Italian Poets round to their\nold place again in my heart, giving new praise if I took old,--anyhow\nDante is out of it all, as who knows but I, with all of him in my head\nand heart? But they do fret one, those tantalizing creatures, of fine\npassionate class, with such capabilities, and such a facility of being\nmade pure mind of. And the special instance that vexed me, was that a\nman of sands and dog-roses and white rock and green sea-water just\nunder, should come to Italy where my heart lives, and discover the\nsights and sounds ... certainly discover them. And so do all Northern\nwriters; for take up handfuls of sonetti, rime, poemetti, doings of\nthose who never did anything else,--and try and make out, for\nyourself, what ... say, what flowers they tread on, or trees they walk\nunder,--as you might bid _them_, those tree and flower loving\ncreatures, pick out of _our_ North poetry a notion of what _our_\ndaisies and harebells and furze bushes and brambles are--'Odorosi\nfioretti, rose porporine, bianchissimi gigli.' And which of you\neternal triflers was it called yourself 'Shelley' and so told me years\nago that in the mountains it was a feast\n\n    When one should find those globes of deep red gold--\n    Which in the woods the strawberry-tree doth bear,\n    Suspended in their emerald atmosphere.\n\nso that when my Uncle walked into a sorb-tree, not to tumble sheer\nover Monte Calvano, and I felt the fruit against my face, the little\nragged bare-legged guide fairly laughed at my knowing them so\nwell--'Niursi--sorbi!' No, no,--does not all Naples-bay and half\nSicily, shore and inland, come flocking once a year to the Piedigrotta\nfête only to see the blessed King's Volanti, or livery servants all in\ntheir best; as though heaven opened; and would not I engage to bring\nthe whole of the Piano (of Sorrento) in likeness to a red velvet\ndressing gown properly spangled over, before the priest that held it\nout on a pole had even begun his story of how Noah's son Shem, the\nfounder of Sorrento, threw it off to swim thither, as the world knows\nhe did? Oh, it makes one's soul angry, so enough of it. But never\nenough of telling you--bring all your sympathies, come with loosest\nsleeves and longest lace-lappets, and you and yours shall find 'elbow\nroom,' oh, shall you not! For never did man, woman or child, Greek,\nHebrew, or as Danish as our friend, like a thing, not to say love it,\nbut I liked and loved it, one liking neutralizing the rebellious stir\nof its fellow, so that I don't go about now wanting the fixed stars\nbefore my time; this world has not escaped me, thank God; and--what\nother people say is the best of it, may not escape me after all,\nthough until so very lately I made up my mind to do without\nit;--perhaps, on that account, and to make fair amends to other\npeople, who, I have no right to say, complain without cause. I have\nbeen surprised, rather, with something not unlike illness of late--I\nhave had a constant pain in the head for these two months, which only\nvery rough exercise gets rid of, and which stops my 'Luria' and much\nbesides. I thought I never could be unwell. Just now all of it is\ngone, thanks to polking all night and walking home by broad daylight\nto the surprise of the thrushes in the bush here. And do you know I\nsaid 'this must _go_, cannot mean to stay, so I will not tell Miss\nBarrett why this and this is not done,'--but I mean to tell you all,\nor more of the truth, because you call me 'flatterer,' so that my eyes\nwidened again! I, and in what? And of whom, pray? not of _you_, at all\nevents,--of whom then? _Do_ tell me, because I want to stand with\nyou--and am quite in earnest there. And 'The Flight of the Duchess,'\nto leave nothing out, is only the beginning of a story written some\ntime ago, and given to poor Hood in his emergency at a day's\nnotice,--the true stuff and story is all to come, the 'Flight,' and\nwhat you allude to is the mere introduction--but the Magazine has\npassed into other hands and I must put the rest in some 'Bell' or\nother--it is one of my Dramatic Romances. So is a certain 'Saul' I\nshould like to show you one day--an ominous liking--for nobody ever\nsees what I do till it is printed. But as you _do_ know the printed\nlittle part of me, I should not be sorry if, in justice, you knew all\nI have _really_ done,--written in the portfolio there,--though that\nwould be far enough from _this_ me, that wishes to you now. I should\nlike to write something in concert with you, how I would try!\n\nI have read your letter through again. Does this clear up all the\ndifficulty, and do you see that I never dreamed of 'reproaching you\nfor dealing out one sort of cards to me and everybody else'--but that\n... why, '_that_' which I have, I hope, said, so need not resay. I\nwill tell you--Sydney Smith laughs somewhere at some Methodist or\nother whose wont was, on meeting an acquaintance in the street, to\nopen at once on him with some enquiry after the state of his\nsoul--Sydney knows better now, and sees that one might quite as wisely\nask such questions as the price of Illinois stock or condition of\nglebe-land,--and I _could_ say such--'could,'--the plague of it! So no\nmore at present from your loving.... Or, let me tell you I am going to\nsee Mr. Kenyon on the 12th inst.--that you do not tell me how you are,\nand that yet if you do not continue to improve in health ... I shall\nnot see you--not--not--not--what 'knots' to untie! Surely the wind\nthat sets my chestnut-tree dancing, all its baby-cone-blossoms, green\nnow, rocking like fairy castles on a hill in an earthquake,--that is\nSouth West, surely! God bless you, and me in that--and do write to me\nsoon, and tell me who was the 'flatterer,' and how he never was\n\n                                                   Yours\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday--and Tuesday.\n                                   [Post-mark, May 6, 1845.]\n\nSo when wise people happen to be ill, they sit up till six o'clock in\nthe morning and get up again at nine? Do tell me how Lurias can ever\nbe made out of such ungodly imprudences. If the wind blows east or\nwest, where can any remedy be, while such evil deeds are being\ncommitted? And what is to be the end of it? And what is the\nreasonableness of it in the meantime, when we all know that thinking,\ndreaming, creating people like yourself, have two lives to bear\ninstead of one, and therefore ought to sleep more than others, ...\nthrowing over and buckling in that fold of death, to stroke the\nlife-purple smoother. You have to live your own personal life, and\nalso Luria's life--and therefore you should sleep for both. It is\nlogical indeed--and rational, ... which logic is not always ... and if\nI had 'the tongue of men and of angels,' I would use it to persuade\nyou. Polka, for the rest, may be good; but sleep is better. I think\nbetter of sleep than I ever did, now that she will not easily come\nnear me except in a red hood of poppies. And besides, ... praise your\n'goodnatured body' as you like, ... it is only a seeming goodnature!\nBodies bear malice in a terrible way, be very sure!--appear mild and\nsmiling for a few short years, and then ... out with a cold steel; and\nthe _soul has it_, 'with a vengeance,' ... according to the phrase!\nYou will not persist, (will you?) in this experimental homicide. Or\ntell me if you will, that I may do some more tearing. It really,\nreally is wrong. Exercise is one sort of rest and you feel relieved by\nit--and sleep is another: one being as necessary as the other.\n\nThis is the first thing I have to say. The next is a question. _What\ndo you mean about your manuscripts ... about 'Saul' and the\nportfolio?_ for I am afraid of hazardously supplying ellipses--and\nyour 'Bos' comes to [Greek: bous epi glôssê].[1] I get half bribed to\nsilence by the very pleasure of fancying. But if it could be possible\nthat you should mean to say you would show me.... Can it be? or am I\nreading this 'Attic contraction' quite the wrong way? You see I am\nafraid of the difference between flattering myself and being\nflattered; the fatal difference. And now will you understand that I\nshould be too overjoyed to have revelations from the 'Portfolio,' ...\nhowever incarnated with blots and pen-scratches, ... to be able to ask\nimpudently of them now? Is that plain?\n\nIt must be, ... at any rate, ... that if _you_ would like to 'write\nsomething together' with me, _I_ should like it still better. I should\nlike it for some ineffable reasons. And I should not like it a bit the\nless for the grand supply of jests it would administer to the critical\nBoard of Trade, about visible darkness, multiplied by two, mounting\ninto palpable obscure. We should not mind ... should we? _you_ would\nnot mind, if you had got over certain other considerations\ndeconsiderating to your coadjutor. Yes--but I dare not do it, ... I\nmean, think of it, ... just now, if ever: and I will tell you why in a\nMediæval-Gothic-architectural manuscript.\n\nThe only poet by profession (if I may say so,) except yourself, with\nwhom I ever had much intercourse even on paper, (if this is near to\n'much') has been Mr. Horne. We approached each other on the point of\none of Miss Mitford's annual editorships; and ever since, he has had\nthe habit of writing to me occasionally; and when I was too ill to\nwrite at all, in my dreary Devonshire days, I was his debtor for\nvarious little kindnesses, ... for which I continue his debtor. In my\nopinion he is a truehearted and generous man. Do you not think so?\nWell--long and long ago, he asked me to write a drama with him on the\nGreek model; that is, for me to write the choruses, and for him to do\nthe dialogue. Just then it was quite doubtful in my own mind, and\nworse than doubtful, whether I ever should write again; and the very\ndoubtfulness made me speak my 'yes' more readily. Then I was desired\nto make a subject, ... to conceive a plan; and my plan was of a man,\nhaunted by his own soul, ... (making her a separate personal Psyche, a\ndreadful, beautiful Psyche)--the man being haunted and terrified\nthrough all the turns of life by her. Did you ever feel afraid of your\nown soul, as I have done? I think it is a true wonder of our\nhumanity--and fit subject enough for a wild lyrical drama. I should\nlike to write it by myself at least, well enough. But with him I will\nnot now. It was delayed ... delayed. He cut the plan up into scenes\n... I mean into a list of scenes ... a sort of ground-map to work\non--and there it lies. Nothing more was done. It all lies in one\nsheet--and I have offered to give up my copyright of idea in it--if he\nlikes to use it alone--or I should not object to work it out alone on\nmy own side, since it comes from me: only I will not consent now to a\n_double work_ in it. There are objections--none, be it well\nunderstood, in Mr. Horne's disfavour,--for I think of him as well at\nthis moment, and the same in all essential points, as I ever did. He\nis a man of fine imagination, and is besides good and generous. In the\ncourse of our acquaintance (on paper--for I never saw him) I never was\nangry with him except once; and then, _I_ was quite wrong and had to\nconfess it. But this is being too 'mediæval.' Only you will see from\nit that I am a little entangled on the subject of compound works, and\nmust look where I tread ... and you will understand (if you ever hear\nfrom Mr. Kenyon or elsewhere that I am going to write a compound-poem\nwith Mr. Horne) how it _was_ true, and isn't true any more.\n\nYes--you are going to Mr. Kenyon's on the 12th--and yes--my brother\nand sister are going to meet you and your sister there one day to\ndinner. Shall I have courage to see you soon, I wonder! If you ask me,\nI must ask myself. But oh, this make-believe May--it can't be May\nafter all! If a south-west wind sate in your chestnut tree, it was but\nfor a few hours--the east wind 'came up this way' by the earliest\nopportunity of succession. As the old 'mysteries' showed 'Beelzebub\nwith a bearde,' even so has the east wind had a 'bearde' of late, in a\nfull growth of bristling exaggerations--the English spring-winds have\nexcelled themselves in evil this year; and I have not been down-stairs\nyet.--_But_ I am certainly stronger and better than I was--that is\nundeniable--and I _shall_ be better still. You are not going away\nsoon--are you? In the meantime you do not know what it is to be ... a\nlittle afraid of Paracelsus. So right about the Italians! and the\n'rose porporine' which made me smile. How is the head?\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nIs the 'Flight of the Duchess' in the portfolio? Of course you must\nring the Bell. That poem has a strong heart in it, to begin _so_\nstrongly. Poor Hood! And all those thoughts fall mixed together. May\nGod bless you.\n\n[Footnote 1: Aeschylus, _Agamemnon_ 36: 'An ox hath trodden on my\ntongue'--a Greek proverb implying silence.]",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday--in the last hour of it.\n                             [Post-mark, May 12, 1845.]\n\nMay I ask how the head is? just under the bag? Mr. Kenyon was here\nto-day and told me such bad news that I cannot sleep to-night\n(although I did think once of doing it) without asking such a question\nas this, dear Mr. Browning.\n\nLet me hear how you are--Will you? and let me hear (if I can) that it\nwas prudence or some unchristian virtue of the sort, and not a dreary\nnecessity, which made you put aside the engagement for Tuesday--for\nMonday. I had been thinking so of seeing you on Tuesday ... with my\nsister's eyes--for the first sight.\n\nAnd now if you have done killing the mules and the dogs, let me have\na straight quick arrow for myself, if you please. Just a word, to say\nhow you are. I ask for no more than a word, lest the writing should be\nhurtful to you.\n\n                                   May God bless you always.\n\n                                        Your friend,\n\n                                             E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                  [Post-mark, May 12, 1845.]\n\nMy dear, own friend, I am quite well now, or next to it--but this is\nhow it was,--I have gone out a great deal of late, and my head took to\nringing such a literal alarum that I wondered what was to come of it;\nand at last, a few evenings ago, as I was dressing for a dinner\nsomewhere, I got really bad of a sudden, and kept at home to my\nfriend's heartrending disappointment. Next morning I was no\nbetter--and it struck me that I should be really disappointing dear\nkind Mr. Kenyon, and wasting his time, if that engagement, too, were\nbroken with as little warning,--so I thought it best to forego all\nhopes of seeing him, at such a risk. And that done, I got rid of every\nother promise to pay visits for next week and next, and told\neverybody, with considerable dignity, that my London season was over\nfor this year, as it assuredly is--and I shall be worried no more, and\nlet walk in the garden, and go to bed at ten o'clock, and get done\nwith what is most expedient to do, and my 'flesh shall come again like\na little child's,' and one day, oh the day, I shall see you with my\nown, own eyes ... for, how little you understand me; or rather,\nyourself,--if you think I would dare see you, without your leave, that\nway! Do you suppose that your power of giving and refusing ends when\nyou have shut your room-door? Did I not tell you I turned down another\nstreet, even, the other day, and why not down yours? And often as I\nsee Mr. Kenyon, have I ever dreamed of asking any but the merest\nconventional questions about you; your health, and no more?\n\nI will answer your letter, the last one, to-morrow--I have said\nnothing of what I want to say.\n\n                                                  Ever yours\n\n                                                       R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n                                  [Post-mark, May 13, 1845.]\n\nDid I thank you with any effect in the lines I sent yesterday, dear\nMiss Barrett? I know I felt most thankful, and, of course, began\nreasoning myself into the impropriety of allowing a 'more' or a 'most'\nin feelings of that sort towards you. I am thankful for you, all about\nyou--as, do you not know?\n\nThank you, from my soul.\n\nNow, let me never pass occasion of speaking well of Horne, who\ndeserves your opinion of him,--it is my own, too.--He has unmistakable\ngenius, and is a fine, honest, enthusiastic chivalrous fellow--it is\nthe fashion to affect to sneer at him, of late, I think--the people he\nhas praised fancying that they 'pose' themselves sculpturesquely in\nplaying the Greatly Indifferent, and the other kind shaking each\nother's hands in hysterical congratulations at having escaped such a\ndishonour: _I_ feel grateful to him, I know, for his generous\ncriticism, and glad and proud of in any way approaching such a man's\nstandard of poetical height. And he might be a disappointed man\ntoo,--for the players trifled with and teased out his very nature,\nwhich has a strange aspiration for the horrible tin-and-lacquer\n'crown' they give one from their clouds (of smooth shaven deal done\nover blue)--and he don't give up the bad business yet, but thinks a\n'small' theatre would somehow not be a theatre, and an actor not quite\nan actor ... I forget in what way, but the upshot is, he bates not a\njot in that rouged, wigged, padded, empty-headed, heartless tribe of\ngrimacers that came and canted me; not I, them;--a thing he cannot\nunderstand--_so_, I am not the one he would have picked out to\npraise, had he not been _loyal_. I know he admires your poetry\nproperly. God help him, and send some great artist from the country,\n(who can read and write beside comprehending Shakspeare, and who\n'exasperates his H's' when the feat is to be done)--to undertake the\npart of Cosmo, or Gregory, or what shall most soothe his spirit! The\nsubject of your play is tempting indeed--and reminds one of that wild\nDrama of Calderon's which frightened Shelley just before his\ndeath--also, of Fuseli's theory with reference to his own Picture of\nMacbeth in the witches' cave ... wherein the apparition of the armed\nhead from the cauldron is Macbeth's own.\n\n'If you ask me, I must ask myself'--that is, when I am to see you--I\nwill _never_ ask you! You do _not_ know what I shall estimate that\npermission at,--nor do I, quite--but you do--do not you? know so much\nof me as to make my 'asking' worse than a form--I do not 'ask' you to\nwrite to me--not _directly_ ask, at least.\n\nI will tell you--I ask you _not_ to see me so long as you are unwell,\nor mistrustful of--\n\nNo, no, that is being too grand! Do see me when you can, and let me\nnot be only writing myself\n\n                                                   Yours\n\n                                                        R.B.\n\nA kind, so kind, note from Mr. Kenyon came. We, I and my sister, are\nto go in June instead.... I shall go nowhere till then; I am nearly\nwell--all save one little wheel in my head that keeps on its\n\n[Illustration: Music: bass clef, B-flat, _Sostenuto_]\n\nThat you are better I am most thankful.\n\n'Next letter' to say how you must help me with all my new Romances and\nLyrics, and Lays and Plays, and read them and heed them and end them\nand mend them!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                  [Post-mark, May 16, 1845.]\n\nBut how 'mistrustfulness'? And how 'that way?' What have I said or\ndone, _I_, who am not apt to _be_ mistrustful of anybody and should be\na miraculous monster if I began with _you_! What can I have said, I\nsay to myself again and again.\n\nOne thing, at any rate, I have done, 'that way' or this way! I have\nmade what is vulgarly called a 'piece of work' about little; or seemed\nto make it. Forgive me. I am shy by nature:--and by position and\nexperience, ... by having had my nerves shaken to excess, and by\nleading a life of such seclusion, ... by these things together and by\nothers besides, I have appeared shy and ungrateful to you. Only not\nmistrustful. You could not mean to judge me so. Mistrustful people do\nnot write as I write, surely! for wasn't it a Richelieu or Mazarin (or\nwho?) who said that with five lines from anyone's hand, he could take\noff his head for a corollary? I think so.\n\nWell!--but this is to prove that I am not mistrustful, and to say,\nthat if you care to come to see me you can come; and that it is my\ngain (as I feel it to be) and not yours, whenever you do come. You\nwill not talk of having come afterwards I know, because although I am\n'fast bound' to see one or two persons this summer (besides yourself,\nwhom I receive of choice and willingly) I _cannot_ admit visitors in a\ngeneral way--and putting the question of health quite aside, it would\nbe unbecoming to lie here on the sofa and make a company-show of an\ninfirmity, and hold a beggar's hat for sympathy. I should blame it in\nanother woman--and the sense of it has had its weight with me\nsometimes.\n\nFor the rest, ... when you write, that _I_ do not know how you would\nvalue, &c. _nor yourself quite_, you touch very accurately on the\ntruth ... and _so_ accurately in the last clause, that to read it,\nmade me smile 'tant bien que mal.' Certainly you cannot 'quite know,'\nor know at all, whether the least straw of pleasure can go to you from\nknowing me otherwise than on this paper--and I, for my part, 'quite\nknow' my own honest impression, dear Mr. Browning, that none is likely\nto go to you. There is nothing to see in me; nor to hear in me--I\nnever learnt to talk as you do in London; although I can admire that\nbrightness of carved speech in Mr. Kenyon and others. If my poetry is\nworth anything to any eye, it is the flower of me. I have lived most\nand been most happy in it, and so it has all my colours; the rest of\nme is nothing but a root, fit for the ground and the dark. And if I\nwrite all this egotism, ... it is for shame; and because I feel\nashamed of having made a fuss about what is not worth it; and because\nyou are extravagant in caring so for a permission, which will be\nnothing to you afterwards. Not that I am not touched by your caring so\nat all! I am deeply touched now; and presently, ... I shall\nunderstand. Come then. There will be truth and simplicity for you in\nany case; and a friend. And do not answer this--I do not write it as a\nfly trap for compliments. Your spider would scorn me for it too much.\nAlso, ... as to the how and when. You are not well now, and it cannot\nbe good for you to do anything but be quiet and keep away that\ndreadful musical note in the head. I entreat you not to think of\ncoming until _that_ is all put to silence satisfactorily. When it is\ndone, ... you must choose whether you would like best to come with Mr.\nKenyon or to come alone--and if you would come alone, you must just\ntell me on what day, and I will see you on any day unless there should\nbe an unforeseen obstacle, ... any day after two, or before six. And\nmy sister will bring you up-stairs to me; and we will talk; or _you_\nwill talk; and you will try to be indulgent, and like me as well as\nyou can. If, on the other hand, you would rather come with Mr. Kenyon,\nyou must wait, I imagine, till June,--because he goes away on Monday\nand is not likely immediately to return--no, on Saturday, to-morrow.\n\nIn the meantime, why I should be '_thanked_,' is an absolute mystery\nto me--but I leave it!\n\nYou are generous and impetuous; _that_, I can see and feel; and so far\nfrom being of an inclination to mistrust you or distrust you, I do\nprofess to have as much faith in your full, pure loyalty, as if I had\nknown you personally as many years as I have appreciated your genius.\nBelieve this of me--for it is spoken truly.\n\nIn the matter of Shakespeare's 'poor players' you are severe--and yet\nI was glad to hear you severe--it is a happy excess, I think. When men\nof intense reality, as all great poets must be, give their hearts to\nbe trodden on and tied up with ribbons in turn, by men of masks, there\nwill be torture if there is not desecration. Not that I know much of\nsuch things--but I have _heard_. Heard from Mr. Kenyon; heard from\nMiss Mitford; who however is passionately fond of the theatre as a\nwriter's medium--_not at all_, from Mr. Horne himself, ... except what\nhe has printed on the subject.\n\nYes--he has been infamously used on the point of the 'New\nSpirit'--only he should have been prepared for the infamy--it was\nleaping into a gulph, ... not to 'save the republic,' but '_pour\nrire_': it was not merely putting one's foot into a hornet's nest, but\ntaking off a shoe and stocking to do it. And to think of Dickens being\ndissatisfied! To think of Tennyson's friends grumbling!--he himself\ndid not, I hope and trust. For you, you certainly were not adequately\ntreated--and above all, you were not placed with your _peers_ in that\nchapter--but that there was an intention to do you justice, and that\nthere _is_ a righteous appreciation of you in the writer, I know and\nam sure,--and that _you_ should be sensible to this, is only what I\nshould know and be sure of _you_. Mr. Horne is quite above the narrow,\nvicious, hateful jealousy of contemporaries, which we hear reproached,\ntoo justly sometimes, on men of letters.\n\nI go on writing as if I were not going to see you--soon perhaps.\nRemember that the how and the when rest with you--except that it\ncannot be before next week at the soonest. You are to decide.\n\n                                         Always your friend,\n\n                                              E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Night.\n                                  [Post-mark, May 17, 1845.]\n\nMy friend is not 'mistrustful' of me, no, because she don't fear I\nshall make mainprize of the stray cloaks and umbrellas down-stairs, or\nturn an article for _Colburn's_ on her sayings and doings\nup-stairs,--but spite of that, she does mistrust ... _so_ mistrust my\ncommon sense,--nay, uncommon and dramatic-poet's sense, if I am put on\nasserting it!--all which pieces of mistrust I could detect, and catch\nstruggling, and pin to death in a moment, and put a label in, with\nname, genus and species, just like a horrible entomologist; only I\nwon't, because the first visit of the Northwind will carry the whole\ntribe into the Red Sea--and those horns and tails and scalewings are\nbest forgotten altogether. And now will I say a cutting thing and have\ndone. Have I trusted _my_ friend so,--or said even to myself, much\nless to her, she is even as--'Mr. Simpson' who desireth the honour of\nthe acquaintance of Mr. B. whose admirable works have long been his,\nSimpson's, especial solace in private--and who accordingly is led to\nthat personage by a mutual friend--Simpson blushing as only adorable\ningenuousness can, and twisting the brim of his hat like a sailor\ngiving evidence. Whereupon Mr. B. beginneth by remarking that the\nrooms are growing hot--or that he supposes Mr. S. has not heard if\nthere will be another adjournment of the House to-night--whereupon Mr.\nS. looketh up all at once, brusheth the brim smooth again with his\nsleeve, and takes to his assurance once more, in something of a huff,\nand after staying his five minutes out for decency's sake, noddeth\nfamiliarly an adieu, and spinning round on his heel ejaculateth\nmentally--'Well, I _did_ expect to see something different from that\nlittle yellow commonplace man ... and, now I come to think, there\n_was_ some precious trash in that book of his'--Have _I_ said 'so will\nMiss Barrett ejaculate?'\n\nDear Miss Barrett, I thank you for the leave you give me, and for the\ninfinite kindness of the way of giving it. I will call at 2 on\nTuesday--not sooner, that you may have time to write should any\nadverse circumstances happen ... not that they need inconvenience you,\nbecause ... what I want particularly to tell you for now and\nhereafter--do not mind my coming in the least, but--should you be\nunwell, for instance,--just send or leave word, and I will come again,\nand again, and again--my time is of _no_ importance, and I have\nacquaintances thick in the vicinity.\n\nNow if I do not seem grateful enough to you, _am_ I so much to blame?\nYou see it is high time you _saw_ me, for I have clearly written\nmyself _out_!\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                  [Post-mark, May 17, 1845.]\n\nI shall be ready on Tuesday I hope, but I hate and protest against\nyour horrible 'entomology.' Beginning to explain, would thrust me\nlower and lower down the circles of some sort of an 'Inferno'; only\nwith my dying breath I would maintain that I never could, consciously\nor unconsciously, mean to distrust you; or, the least in the world, to\nSimpsonize you. What I said, ... it was _you_ that put it into my head\nto say it--for certainly, in my usual disinclination to receive\nvisitors, such a feeling does not enter. There, now! There, I am a\nwhole 'giro' lower! Now, you will say perhaps that I distrust _you_,\nand nobody else! So it is best to be silent, and bear all the 'cutting\nthings' with resignation! _that_ is certain.\n\nStill I must really say, under this dreadful incubus-charge of\nSimpsonism, ... that you, who know everything, or at least make awful\nguesses at everything in one's feelings and motives, and profess to be\nable to pin them down in a book of classified inscriptions, ... should\nhave been able to understand better, or misunderstand less, in a\nmatter like this--Yes! I think so. I think you should have made out\nthe case in some such way as it was in nature--viz. that you had\nlashed yourself up to an exorbitant wishing to see me, ... (you who\ncould see, any day, people who are a hundredfold and to all social\npurposes, my superiors!) because I was unfortunate enough to be shut\nup in a room and silly enough to make a fuss about opening the door;\nand that I grew suddenly abashed by the consciousness of this. How\ndifferent from a distrust of _you_! how different!\n\nAh--if, after this day, you ever see any interpretable sign of\ndistrustfulness in me, you may be 'cutting' again, and I will not cry\nout. In the meantime here is a fact for your 'entomology.' I have not\nso much _distrust_, as will make a _doubt_, as will make a _curiosity_\nfor next Tuesday. Not the simplest modification of _curiosity_ enters\ninto the state of feeling with which I wait for Tuesday:--and if you\nare angry to hear me say so, ... why, you are more unjust than ever.\n\n(Let it be three instead of two--if the hour be as convenient to\nyourself.)\n\nBefore you come, try to forgive me for my 'infinite kindness' in the\nmanner of consenting to see you. Is it 'the cruellest cut of all' when\nyou talk of infinite kindness, yet attribute such villainy to me?\nWell! but we are friends till Tuesday--and after perhaps.\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nIf on Tuesday you should be not well, _pray do not come_--Now, that is\nmy request to your kindness.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: Envelope endorsed by Robert Browning:--Tuesday, May 20,\n1845, 3-4-1/2 p.m.]",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                  [Post-mark, May 21, 1845.]\n\nI trust to you for a true account of how you are--if tired, if not\ntired, if I did wrong in any thing,--or, if you please, _right_ in any\nthing--(only, not one more word about my 'kindness,' which, to get\ndone with, I will grant is exceptive)--but, let us so arrange matters\nif possible,--and why should it not be--that my great happiness, such\nas it will be if I see you, as this morning, from time to time, may be\nobtained at the cost of as little inconvenience to you as we can\ncontrive. For an instance--just what strikes me--they all say here I\nspeak very loud--(a trick caught from having often to talk with a deaf\nrelative of mine). And did I stay too long?\n\nI will tell _you_ unhesitatingly of such 'corrigenda'--nay, I will\nagain say, do not humiliate me--_do not_ again,--by calling me 'kind'\nin that way.\n\nI am proud and happy in your friendship--now and ever. May God bless\nyou!\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                  [Post-mark, May 22, 1845.]\n\nIndeed there was nothing wrong--how could there be? And there was\neverything right--as how should there not be? And as for the 'loud\nspeaking,' I did not hear any--and, instead of being worse, I ought to\nbe better for what was certainly (to speak it, or be silent of it,)\nhappiness and honour to me yesterday.\n\nWhich reminds me to observe that you are so restricting our\nvocabulary, as to be ominous of silence in a full sense, presently.\nFirst, one word is not to be spoken--and then, another is not. And\nwhy? Why deny me the use of such words as have natural feelings\nbelonging to them--and how can the use of such be 'humiliating' to\n_you_? If my heart were open to you, you could see nothing offensive\nto you in any thought there or trace of thought that has been\nthere--but it is hard for you to understand, with all your psychology\n(and to be reminded of it I have just been looking at the preface of\nsome poems by some Mr. Gurney where he speaks of 'the reflective\nwisdom of a Wordsworth and the profound psychological utterances of a\nBrowning') it is hard for you to understand what my mental position is\nafter the peculiar experience I have suffered, and what [Greek: ti\nemoi kai soi][1] a sort of feeling is irrepressible from me to you,\nwhen, from the height of your brilliant happy sphere, you ask, as you\ndid ask, for personal intercourse with me. What words but 'kindness'\n... but 'gratitude'--but I will not in any case be _un_kind and\n_un_grateful, and do what is displeasing to you. And let us both leave\nthe subject with the words--because we perceive in it from different\npoints of view; we stand on the black and white sides of the shield;\nand there is no coming to a conclusion.\n\nBut you will come really on Tuesday--and again, when you like and can\ntogether--and it will not be more 'inconvenient' to me to be pleased,\nI suppose, than it is to people in general--will it, do you think?\nAh--how you misjudge! Why it must obviously and naturally be\ndelightful to me to receive you here when you like to come, and it\ncannot be necessary for me to say so in set words--believe it of\n\n                                                Your friend,\n\n                                                     E.B.B.\n\n[Mr. Browning's letter, to which the following is in answer was\ndestroyed, see page 268 of the present volume.]\n\n[Footnote 1: 'What have I to do with thee?']",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Evening.\n                                  [Post-mark, May 24, 1845.]\n\nI intended to write to you last night and this morning, and could\nnot,--you do not know what pain you give me in speaking so wildly. And\nif I disobey you, my dear friend, in speaking, (I for my part) of your\nwild speaking, I do it, not to displease you, but to be in my own\neyes, and before God, a little more worthy, or less unworthy, of a\ngenerosity from which I recoil by instinct and at the first glance,\nyet conclusively; and because my silence would be the most disloyal of\nall means of expression, in reference to it. Listen to me then in\nthis. You have said some intemperate things ... fancies,--which you\nwill not say over again, nor unsay, but _forget at once_, and _for\never, having said at all_; and which (so) will die out between _you\nand me alone_, like a misprint between you and the printer. And this\nyou will do _for my sake_ who am your friend (and you have none\ntruer)--and this I ask, because it is a condition necessary to our\nfuture liberty of intercourse. You remember--surely you do--that I am\nin the most exceptional of positions; and that, just _because of it_,\nI am able to receive you as I did on Tuesday; and that, for me to\nlisten to 'unconscious exaggerations,' is as unbecoming to the\nhumilities of my position, as unpropitious (which is of more\nconsequence) to the prosperities of yours. Now, if there should be one\nword of answer attempted to this; or of reference; _I must not_ ... I\n_will not see you again_--and you will justify me later in your heart.\nSo for my sake you will not say it--I think you will not--and spare me\nthe sadness of having to break through an intercourse just as it is\npromising pleasure to me; to me who have so many sadnesses and so few\npleasures. You will!--and I need not be uneasy--and I shall owe you\nthat tranquillity, as one gift of many. For, that I have much to\nreceive from you in all the free gifts of thinking, teaching,\nmaster-spirits, ... _that_, I know!--it is my own praise that I\nappreciate you, as none can more. Your influence and help in poetry\nwill be full of good and gladness to me--for with many to love me in\nthis house, there is no one to judge me ... _now_. Your friendship and\nsympathy will be dear and precious to me all my life, if you indeed\nleave them with me so long or so little. Your mistakes in me ... which\n_I_ cannot mistake (--and which have humbled me by too much\nhonouring--) I put away gently, and with grateful tears in my eyes;\nbecause _all that hail_ will beat down and spoil crowns, as well as\n'blossoms.'\n\nIf I put off next Tuesday to the week after--I mean your visit,--shall\nyou care much? For the relations I named to you, are to be in London\nnext week; and I am to see one of my aunts whom I love, and have not\nmet since my great affliction--and it will all seem to come over\nagain, and I shall be out of spirits and nerves. On Tuesday week you\ncan bring a tomahawk and do the criticism, and I shall try to have my\ncourage ready for it--Oh, you will do me so much good--and Mr. Kenyon\ncalls me 'docile' sometimes I assure you; when he wants to flatter me\nout of being obstinate--and in good earnest, I believe I shall do\neverything you tell me. The 'Prometheus' is done--but the monodrama is\nwhere it was--and the novel, not at all. But I think of some half\npromises half given, about something I read for 'Saul'--and the\n'Flight of the Duchess'--where is she?\n\nYou are not displeased with me? _no, that_ would be hail and lightning\ntogether--I do not write as I might, of some words of yours--but you\nknow that I am not a stone, even if silent like one. And if in the\n_un_silence, I have said one word to vex you, pity me for having had\nto say it--and for the rest, may God bless you far beyond the reach of\nvexation from my words or my deeds!\n\n                             Your friend in grateful regard,\n\n                                  E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Morning.\n                                  [Post-mark, May 24, 1845.]\n\nDon't you remember I told you, once on a time that you 'knew nothing\nof me'? whereat you demurred--but I meant what I said, and knew it was\nso. To be grand in a simile, for every poor speck of a Vesuvius or a\nStromboli in my microcosm there are huge layers of ice and pits of\nblack cold water--and I make the most of my two or three fire-eyes,\nbecause I know by experience, alas, how these tend to extinction--and\nthe ice grows and grows--still this last is true part of me, most\ncharacteristic part, _best_ part perhaps, and I disown\nnothing--only,--when you talked of '_knowing_ me'! Still, I am utterly\nunused, of these late years particularly, to dream of communicating\nanything about _that_ to another person (all my writings are purely\ndramatic as I am always anxious to say) that when I make never so\nlittle an attempt, no wonder if I _bungle_ notably--'language,' too is\nan organ that never studded this heavy heavy head of mine. Will you\nnot think me very brutal if I tell you I could almost smile at your\nmisapprehension of what I meant to write?--Yet I _will_ tell you,\nbecause it will undo the bad effect of my thoughtlessness, and at the\nsame time exemplify the point I have all along been honestly earnest\nto set you right upon ... my real inferiority to you; just that and no\nmore. I wrote to you, in an unwise moment, on the spur of being again\n'thanked,' and, unwisely writing just as if thinking to myself, said\nwhat must have looked absurd enough as seen apart from the horrible\ncounterbalancing never-to-be-written _rest of me_--by the side of\nwhich, could it be written and put before you, my note would sink to\nits proper and relative place, and become a mere 'thank you' for your\ngood opinion--which I assure you is far too generous--for I really\nbelieve you to be my superior in many respects, and feel uncomfortable\ntill _you_ see that, too--since I hope for your sympathy and\nassistance, and 'frankness is everything in such a case.' I do assure\nyou, that had you read my note, _only_ having '_known_' so much of me\nas is implied in having inspected, for instance, the contents, merely,\nof that fatal and often-referred-to 'portfolio' there (_Dii meliora\npiis!_), you would see in it, (the note not the portfolio) the\nblandest utterance ever mild gentleman gave birth to. But I forgot\nthat one may make too much noise in a silent place by playing the few\nnotes on the 'ear-piercing fife' which in Othello's regimental band\nmight have been thumped into decent subordination by his\n'spirit-stirring drum'--to say nothing of gong and ophicleide. Will\nyou forgive me, on promise to remember for the future, and be more\nconsiderate? Not that you must too much despise me, neither; nor, of\nall things, apprehend I am attitudinizing à la Byron, and giving you\nto understand unutterable somethings, longings for Lethe and all\nthat--far from it! I never committed murders, and sleep the soundest\nof sleeps--but 'the heart is desperately wicked,' that is true, and\nthough I dare not say 'I know' mine, yet I have had signal\nopportunities, I who began life from the beginning, and can forget\nnothing (but names, and the date of the battle of Waterloo), and have\nknown good and wicked men and women, gentle and simple, shaking hands\nwith Edmund Kean and Father Mathew, you and--Ottima! Then, I had a\ncertain faculty of self-consciousness, years and years ago, at which\nJohn Mill wondered, and which ought to be improved by this time, if\nconstant use helps at all--and, meaning, on the whole, to be a Poet,\nif not _the_ Poet ... for I am vain and ambitious some nights,--I do\nmyself justice, and dare call things by their names to myself, and say\nboldly, this I love, this I hate, this I would do, this I would not\ndo, under all kinds of circumstances,--and talking (thinking) in this\nstyle _to myself_, and beginning, however tremblingly, in spite of\nconviction, to write in this style _for myself_--on the top of the\ndesk which contains my 'Songs of the Poets--NO. I M.P.', I\nwrote,--what you now forgive, I know! Because I am, from my heart,\nsorry that by a foolish fit of inconsideration I should have given\npain for a minute to you, towards whom, on every account, I would\nrather soften and 'sleeken every word as to a bird' ... (and, not such\na bird as my black self that go screeching about the world for 'dead\nhorse'--corvus (picus)--mirandola!) I, too, who have been at such\npains to acquire the reputation I enjoy in the world,--(ask Mr.\nKenyon,) and who dine, and wine, and dance and enhance the company's\npleasure till they make me ill and I keep house, as of late: Mr.\nKenyon, (for I only quote where you may verify if you please) _he_\nsays my common sense strikes him, and its contrast with my muddy\nmetaphysical poetry! And so it shall strike you--for though I am glad\nthat, since you _did_ misunderstand me, you said so, and have given me\nan opportunity of doing by another way what I wished to do in\n_that_,--yet, if you had _not_ alluded to my writing, as I meant you\nshould not, you would have certainly understood _something_ of its\ndrift when you found me next Tuesday precisely the same quiet (no, for\nI feel I speak too loudly, in spite of your kind disclaimer, but--)\nthe same mild man-about-town you were gracious to, the other\nmorning--for, indeed, my own way of worldly life is marked out long\nago, as precisely as yours can be, and I am set going with a hand,\nwinker-wise, on each side of my head, and a directing finger before my\neyes, to say nothing of an instinctive dread I have that a certain\nwhip-lash is vibrating somewhere in the neighbourhood in playful\nreadiness! So 'I hope here be proofs,' Dogberry's satisfaction that,\nfirst, I am but a very poor creature compared to you and entitled by\nmy wants to look up to you,--all I meant to say from the first of the\nfirst--and that, next, I shall be too much punished if, for this piece\nof mere inconsideration, you deprive me, more or less, or sooner or\nlater, of the pleasure of seeing you,--a little over boisterous\ngratitude for which, perhaps, caused all the mischief! The reasons you\ngive for deferring my visits next week are too cogent for me to\ndispute--that is too true--and, being now and henceforward 'on my good\nbehaviour,' I will at once cheerfully submit to them, if needs\nmust--but should your mere kindness and forethought, as I half\nsuspect, have induced you to take such a step, you will now smile with\nme, at this new and very unnecessary addition to the 'fears of me' I\nhave got so triumphantly over in your case! Wise man, was I not, to\nclench my first favourable impression so adroitly ... like a recent\nCambridge worthy, my sister heard of; who, being on his theological\n(or rather, scripture-historical) examination, was asked by the Tutor,\nwho wished to let him off easily, 'who was the first King of\nIsrael?'--'Saul' answered the trembling youth. 'Good!' nodded\napprovingly the Tutor. 'Otherwise called _Paul_,' subjoined the youth\nin his elation! Now I have begged pardon, and blushingly assured you\n_that_ was only a slip of the tongue, and that I did really _mean_ all\nthe while, (Paul or no Paul), the veritable son of Kish, he that owned\nthe asses, and found listening to the harp the best of all things for\nan evil spirit! Pray write me a line to say, 'Oh ... if _that's_ all!'\nand remember me for good (which is very compatible with a moment's\nstupidity) and let me not for one fault, (and that the only one that\nshall be), lose _any pleasure_ ... for your friendship I am sure I\nhave not lost--God bless you, my dear friend!\n\n                                                R. BROWNING.\n\nAnd by the way, will it not be better, as co-operating with you more\neffectually in your kind promise to forget the 'printer's error' in my\nblotted proof, to send me back that same 'proof,' if you have not\ninflicted proper and summary justice on it? When Mephistopheles last\ncame to see us in this world outside here, he counselled sundry of us\n'never to write a letter,--and never to burn one'--do you know that?\nBut I never mind what I am told! Seriously, I am ashamed.... I shall\nnext ask a servant for my paste in the 'high fantastical' style of my\nown 'Luria.'",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday\n                                             [May 25, 1845].\n\nI owe you the most humble of apologies dear Mr. Browning, for having\nspent so much solemnity on so simple a matter, and I hasten to pay it;\nconfessing at the same time (as why should I not?) that I am quite as\nmuch ashamed of myself as I ought to be, which is not a little. You\nwill find it difficult to believe me perhaps when I assure you that I\nnever made such a mistake (I mean of over-seriousness to indefinite\ncompliments), no, never in my life before--indeed my sisters have\noften jested with me (in matters of which they were cognizant) on my\nsupernatural indifference to the superlative degree in general, as if\nit meant nothing in grammar. I usually know well that 'boots' may be\ncalled for in this world of ours, just as you called for yours; and\nthat to bring '_Bootes_,' were the vilest of mal-à-pro-pos-ities.\nAlso, I should have understood 'boots' where you wrote it, in the\nletter in question; if it had not been for _the relation of two\nthings_ in it--and now I perfectly seem to see _how_ I mistook that\nrelation; ('_seem to see_'; because I have not looked into the letter\nagain since your last night's commentary, and will not--) inasmuch as\nI have observed before in my own mind, that a good deal of what is\ncalled obscurity in you, arises from a habit of very subtle\nassociation; so subtle, that you are probably unconscious of it, ...\nand the effect of which is to throw together on the same level and in\nthe same light, things of likeness and unlikeness--till the reader\ngrows confused as I did, and takes one for another. I may say however,\nin a poor justice to myself, that I wrote what I wrote so\nunfortunately, _through reverence for you_, and not at all from vanity\nin my own account ... although I do feel palpably while I write these\nwords here and now, that I might as well leave them unwritten; for\nthat no man of the world who ever lived in the world (not even _you_)\ncould be expected to believe them, though said, sung, and sworn.\n\nFor the rest, it is scarcely an apposite moment for you to talk, even\n'dramatically,' of my 'superiority' to you, ... unless you mean, which\nperhaps you do mean, my superiority in _simplicity_--and, verily, to\nsome of the 'adorable ingenuousness,' sacred to the shade of Simpson,\nI may put in a modest claim, ... 'and have my claim allowed.' 'Pray do\nnot mock me' I quote again from your Shakespeare to you who are a\ndramatic poet; ... and I will admit anything that you like, (being\nhumble just now)--even that I _did not know you_. I was certainly\ninnocent of the knowledge of the 'ice and cold water' you introduce me\nto, and am only just shaking my head, as Flush would, after a first\nwholesome plunge. Well--if I do not know you, I shall learn, I\nsuppose, in time. I am ready to try humbly to learn--and I may\nperhaps--if you are not done in Sanscrit, which is too hard for me,\n... notwithstanding that I had the pleasure yesterday to hear, from\nAmerica, of my profound skill in 'various languages less known than\nHebrew'!--a liberal paraphrase on Mr. Horne's large fancies on the\nlike subject, and a satisfactory reputation in itself--as long as it\nis not necessary to deserve it. So I here enclose to you your letter\nback again, as you wisely desire; although you never could doubt, I\nhope, for a moment, of its safety with me in the completest of senses:\nand then, from the heights of my superior ... stultity, and other\nqualities of the like order, ... I venture to advise you ... however\n(to speak of the letter critically, and as the dramatic composition it\nis) it is to be admitted to be very beautiful, and well worthy of the\nrest of its kin in the portfolio, ... 'Lays of the Poets,' or\notherwise, ... I venture to advise you to burn it at once. And then,\nmy dear friend, I ask you (having some claim) to burn at the same time\nthe letter I was fortunate enough to write to you on Friday, and this\npresent one--don't send them back to me; I hate to have letters sent\nback--but burn them for me and never mind Mephistopheles. After which\nfriendly turn, you will do me the one last kindness of forgetting all\nthis exquisite nonsense, and of refraining from mentioning it, by\nbreath or pen, _to me or another_. Now I trust you so far:--you will\nput it with the date of the battle of Waterloo--and I, with every date\nin chronology; seeing that I can remember none of them. And we will\nshuffle the cards and take patience, and begin the game again, if you\nplease--and I shall bear in mind that you are a dramatic poet, which\nis not the same thing, by any means, with _us_ of the primitive\nsimplicities, who don't tread on cothurns nor shift the mask in the\nscene. And I will reverence you both as 'a poet' and as '_the_ poet';\nbecause it is no false 'ambition,' but a right you have--and one which\nthose who live longest, will see justified to the uttermost.... In the\nmeantime I need not ask Mr. Kenyon if you have any sense, because I\nhave no doubt that you have quite sense enough--and even if I had a\ndoubt, I shall prefer judging for myself without interposition; which\nI can do, you know, as long as you like to come and see me. And you\ncan come this week if you do like it--because our relations don't come\ntill the end of it, it appears--not that I made a pretence 'out of\nkindness'--pray don't judge me so outrageously--but if you like to\ncome ... not on Tuesday ... but on Wednesday at three o'clock, I shall\nbe very glad to see you; and I, for one, shall have forgotten\neverything by that time; being quick at forgetting my own faults\nusually. If Wednesday does not suit you, I am not sure that I _can_\nsee you this week--but it depends on circumstances. Only don't think\nyourself _obliged_ to come on Wednesday. You know I _began_ by\nentreating you to be open and sincere with me--and no more--I\n_require_ no 'sleekening of every word.' I love the truth and can bear\nit--whether in word or deed--and those who have known me longest would\ntell you so fullest. Well!--May God bless you. We shall know each\nother some day perhaps--and I am\n\n                          Always and faithfully your friend,\n\n                               E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, May 26, 1845.]\n\nNay--I _must_ have last word--as all people in the wrong desire to\nhave--and then, no more of the subject. You said I had given you\n_great pain_--so long as I stop _that_, think anything of me you\nchoose or can! But _before_ your former letter came, I saw the\npre-ordained uselessness of mine. Speaking is to some _end_, (apart\nfrom foolish self-relief, which, after all, I can do without)--and\nwhere there is _no_ end--you see! or, to finish\ncharacteristically--since the offering to cut off one's right-hand to\nsave anybody a headache, is in vile taste, even for our melodramas,\nseeing that it was never yet believed in on the stage or off it,--how\nmuch worse to really make the ugly chop, and afterwards come\nsheepishly in, one's arm in a black sling, and find that the\ndelectable gift had changed aching to nausea! There! And now, 'exit,\nprompt-side, nearest door, Luria'--and enter R.B.--next Wednesday,--as\nboldly as he suspects most people do just after they have been soundly\nfrightened!\n\nI shall be most happy to see you on the day and at the hour you\nmention.\n\n                              God bless you, my dear friend,\n\n                                   R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                  [Post-mark, May 27, 1845.]\n\nYou will think me the most changeable of all the changeable; but\nindeed it is _not_ my fault that I cannot, as I wished, receive you on\nWednesday. There was a letter this morning; and our friends not only\ncome to London but come to this house on Tuesday (to-morrow) to pass\ntwo or three days, until they settle in an hotel for the rest of the\nseason. Therefore you see, it is doubtful whether the two days may not\nbe three, and the three days four; but if they go away in time, and\nif Saturday should suit you, I will let you know by a word; and you\ncan answer by a yea or nay. While they are in the house, I must give\nthem what time I can--and indeed, it is something to dread altogether.\n\n                                                    Tuesday.\n\nI send you the note I had begun before receiving yours of last night,\nand also a fragment[1] from Mrs. Hedley's herein enclosed, a full and\ncomplete certificate, ... that you may know ... quite _know_, ... what\nthe real and only reason of the obstacle to Wednesday is. On Saturday\nperhaps, or on Monday more certainly, there is likely to be no\nopposition, ... at least not on the 'côté gauche' (_my_ side!) to our\nmeeting--but I will let you know more.\n\nFor the rest, we have both been a little unlucky, there's no denying,\nin overcoming the embarrassments of a first acquaintance--but suffer\nme to say as one other last word, (and _quite, quite the last this\ntime_!) in case there should have been anything approaching, however\nremotely, to a distrustful or unkind tone in what I wrote on Sunday,\n(and I have a sort of consciousness that in the process of my\nself-scorning I was not in the most sabbatical of moods perhaps--)\nthat I do recall and abjure it, and from my heart entreat your pardon\nfor it, and profess, notwithstanding it, neither to 'choose' nor 'to\nbe able' to think otherwise of you than I have done, ... as of one\n_most_ generous and _most_ loyal; for that if I chose, I could not;\nand that if I could, I should not choose.\n\n                            Ever and gratefully your friend,\n\n                                 E.B.B.\n\n--And now we shall hear of 'Luria,' shall we not? and much besides.\nAnd Miss Mitford has sent me the most high comical of letters to\nread, addressed to her by 'R.B. Haydon historical painter' which has\nmade me quite laugh; and would make _you_; expressing his righteous\nindignation at the 'great fact' and gross impropriety of any man who\nhas 'thoughts too deep for tears' agreeing to wear a 'bag-wig' ... the\ncase of poor Wordsworth's going to court, you know.--Mr. Haydon being\ninfinitely serious all the time, and yet holding the doctrine of the\ndivine right of princes in his left hand.\n\nHow is your head? may I be hoping the best for it? May God bless you.\n\n[Footnote 1: ... me on Tuesday, or Wednesday? if on Tuesday, I shall\ncome by the three o'clock train; if on Wednesday, _early_ in the\nmorning, as I shall be anxious to secure rooms ... so that your Uncle\nand Arabel may come up on Thursday.]",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, May 28, 1845.]\n\nSaturday, Monday, as you shall appoint--no need to say that, or my\nthanks--but this note troubles you, out of my bounden duty to help\nyou, or Miss Mitford, to make the Painter run violently down a steep\nplace into the sea, if that will amuse you, by further informing him,\nwhat I know on the best authority, that Wordsworth's 'bag-wig,' or at\nleast, the more important of his court-habiliments, were considerately\nfurnished for the nonce by _Mr. Rogers_ from his own wardrobe, to the\nmanifest advantage of the Laureate's pocket, but more problematic\nimprovement of his person, when one thinks on the astounding\ndifference of 'build' in the two Poets:--the fact should be put on\nrecord, if only as serving to render less chimerical a promise\nsometimes figuring in the columns of provincial newspapers--that the\ntwo apprentices, some grocer or other advertises for, will be 'boarded\nand _clothed_ like _one_ of the family.' May not your unfinished\n(really good) head of the great man have been happily kept waiting for\nthe body which can now be added on, with all this picturesqueness of\ncircumstances. Precept on precept ... but then, _line upon line_, is\nallowed by as good authority, and may I not draw _my_ confirming black\nline after yours, yet not break pledge? I am most grateful to you for\ndoing me justice--doing yourself, your own judgment, justice, since\neven the play-wright of Theseus and the Amazon found it one of his\nhardest devices to 'write me a speech, lest the lady be frightened,\nwherein it shall be said that I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but &c. &c.'\nGod bless you--one thing more, but one--you _could never have_\nmisunderstood the _asking for the letter again_, I feared you might\nrefer to it 'pour constater le fait'--\n\n                                        And now I am yours--\n\n                                             R.B.\n\nMy head is all but well now; thank you.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                                  [Post-mark, May 30, 1845.]\n\nJust one word to say that if Saturday, to-morrow, should be\nfine--because in the case of its raining I _shall not expect you_; you\nwill find me at three o'clock.\n\nYes--the circumstances of the costume were mentioned in the letter;\nMr. Rogers' bag-wig and the rest, and David Wilkie's sword--and also\nthat the Laureate, so equipped, fell down upon both knees in the\nsuperfluity of etiquette, and had to be picked up by two\nlords-in-waiting. It is a large exaggeration I do not doubt--and then\nI never sympathised with the sighing kept up by people about that\nacceptance of the Laureateship which drew the bag-wig as a corollary\nafter it. Not that the Laureateship honoured _him_, but that he\nhonoured it; and that, so honouring it, he preserves a symbol\ninstructive to the masses, who are children and to be taught by\nsymbols now as formerly. Isn't it true? or at least may it not be\ntrue? And won't the court laurel (such as it is) be all the worthier\nof _you_ for Wordsworth's having worn it first?\n\nAnd in the meantime I shall see you to-morrow perhaps? or if it should\nrain, on Monday at the same hour.\n\n                                 Ever yours, my dear friend,\n\n                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                                  [Post-mark, June 7, 1845.]\n\nWhen I see all you have done for me in this 'Prometheus,' I feel more\nthan half ashamed both of it and of me for using your time so, and\nforced to say in my own defence (not to you but myself) that I never\nthought of meaning to inflict such work on you who might be doing so\nmuch better things in the meantime both for me and for\nothers--because, you see, it is not the mere reading of the MS., but\nthe 'comparing' of the text, and the melancholy comparisons between\nthe English and the Greek, ... quite enough to turn you from your\n[Greek: philanthrôpou tropou][1] that I brought upon you; and indeed I\ndid not mean so much, nor so soon! Yet as you have done it for me--for\nme who expected a few jottings down with a pencil and a general\nopinion; it is of course of the greatest value, besides the pleasure\nand pride which come of it; and I must say of the translation, (before\nputting it aside for the nonce), that the circumstance of your paying\nit so much attention and seeing any good in it, is quite enough reward\nfor the writer and quite enough motive for self-gratulation, if it\nwere all torn to fragments at this moment--which is a foolish thing to\nsay because it is so obvious, and because you would know it if I said\nit or not.\n\nAnd while you were doing this for me, you thought it unkind of me not\nto write to you; yes, and you think me at this moment the very\nprincess of apologies and excuses and depreciations and all the rest\nof the small family of distrust--or of hypocrisy ... who knows? Well!\nbut you are wrong ... wrong ... to think so; and you will let me say\none word to show where you are wrong--not for you to controvert, ...\nbecause it must relate to myself especially, and lies beyond your\ncognizance, and is something which I _must know best_ after all. And\nit is, ... that you persist in putting me into a false position, with\nrespect to _fixing days_ and the like, and in making me feel somewhat\nas I did when I was a child, and Papa used to put me up on the\nchimney-piece and exhort me to stand up straight like a hero, which I\ndid, straighter and straighter, and then suddenly 'was 'ware' (as we\nsay in the ballads) of the walls' growing alive behind me and\nextending two stony hands to push me down that frightful precipice to\nthe rug, where the dog lay ... dear old Havannah, ... and where he and\nI were likely to be dashed to pieces together and mix our uncanonised\nbones. Now my present false position ... which is not the\nchimney-piece's, ... is the necessity you provide for me in the shape\nof my having to name this day, or that day, ... and of your coming\nbecause I name it, and of my having to think and remember that you\ncome because I name it. Through a weakness, perhaps, or morbidness, or\none knows not how to define it, I _cannot help_ being uncomfortable in\nhaving to do this,--it is impossible. Not that I distrust _you_--you\nare the last in the world I could distrust: and then (although you may\nbe sceptical) I am naturally given to trust ... to a fault ... as some\nsay, or to a sin, as some reproach me:--and then again, if I were ever\nsuch a distruster, it could not be of _you_. But if you knew me--! I\nwill tell you! if one of my brothers omits coming to this room for two\ndays, ... I never ask why it happened! if my own father omits coming\nup-stairs to say 'good night,' I never say a word; and not from\nindifference. Do try to make out these readings of me as a _dixit\nCasaubonus_; and don't throw me down as a corrupt text, nor convict me\nfor an infidel which I am not. On the contrary I am grateful and happy\nto believe that you like to come here; and even if you came here as a\npure act of charity and pity to me, as long as you _chose to come_ I\nshould not be too proud to be grateful and happy still. I could not be\nproud to _you_, and I hope you will not fancy such a possibility,\nwhich is the remotest of all. Yes, and _I_ am anxious to ask you to be\nwholly generous and leave off such an interpreting philosophy as you\nmade use of yesterday, and forgive me when I beg you to fix your own\ndays for coming for the future. Will you? It is the same thing in one\nway. If you like to come really every week, there is no hindrance to\nit--you can do it--and the privilege and obligation remain equally\nmine:--and if you name a day for coming on any week, where there is an\nobstacle on my side, you will learn it from me in a moment. Why I\nmight as well charge _you_ with distrusting _me_, because you persist\nin making me choose the days. And it is not for me to do it, but for\nyou--I must feel that--and I cannot help chafing myself against the\nthought that for me to begin to fix days in this way, just because you\nhave quick impulses (like all imaginative persons), and wish me to do\nit now, may bring me to the catastrophe of asking you to come when you\nwould rather not, ... which, as you say truly, would not be an\nimportant vexation to you; but to me would be worse than vexation; to\n_me_--and therefore I shrink from the very imagination of the\npossibility of such a thing, and ask you to bear with me and let it be\nas I prefer ... left to your own choice of the moment. And bear with\nme above all--because this shows no want of faith in you ... none ...\nbut comes from a simple fact (with its ramifications) ... that you\nknow little of me personally yet, and that _you guess_, even, but very\nlittle of the influence of a peculiar experience over me and out of\nme; and if I wanted a proof of this, we need not seek further than the\nvery point of discussion, and the hard worldly thoughts you thought I\nwas thinking of you yesterday,--I, who thought not one of them! But I\nam so used to discern the correcting and ministering angels by the\nsame footsteps on the ground, that it is not wonderful I should look\ndown there at any approach of a [Greek: philia taxis] whatever to this\npersonal _me_. Have I not been ground down to browns and blacks? and\nis it my fault if I am not green? Not that it is my _complaint_--I\nshould not be justified in complaining; I believe, as I told you, that\nthere is more gladness than sadness in the world--that is, generally:\nand if some natures have to be refined by the sun, and some by the\nfurnace (the less genial ones) both means are to be recognised as\n_good_, ... however different in pleasurableness and painfulness, and\nthough furnace-fire leaves scorched streaks upon the fruit. I assured\nyou there was nothing I had any power of teaching you: and there _is_\nnothing, except grief!--which I would not teach you, you know, if I\nhad the occasion granted.\n\nIt is a multitude of words about nothing at all, ... this--but I am\nlike Mariana in the moated grange and sit listening too often to the\nmouse in the wainscot. Be as forbearing as you can--and believe how\nprofoundly it touches me that you should care to come here at all,\nmuch more, so often! and try to understand that if I did not write as\nyou half asked, it was just because I failed at the moment to get up\nenough pomp and circumstance to write on purpose to certify the\nimportant fact of my being a little stronger or a little weaker on one\nparticular morning. That I am always ready and rejoiced to write to\nyou, you know perfectly well, and I have proved, by 'superfluity of\nnaughtiness' and prolixity through some twenty posts:--and this, and\ntherefore, you will agree altogether to attribute no more to me on\nthese counts, and determine to read me no more backwards with your\nHebrew, putting in your own vowel points without my leave! Shall it be\nso?\n\nHere is a letter grown from a note which it meant to be--and I have\nbeen interrupted in the midst of it, or it should have gone to you\nearlier. Let what I have said in it of myself pass unquestioned and\nunnoticed, because it is of _me_ and not of _you_, ... and, if in any\nwise lunatical, all the talking and writing in the world will not put\nthe implied moon into another quarter. Only be patient with me a\nlittle, ... and let us have a smooth ground for the poems which I am\nforeseeing the sight of with such pride and delight--Such pride and\ndelight!\n\nAnd one thing ... which is chief, though it seems to come last!... you\n_will_ have advice (will you not?) if that pain does not grow much\nbetter directly? It cannot be prudent or even _safe_ to let a pain in\nthe head go on so long, and no remedy be attempted for it, ... and you\ncannot be sure that it is a merely nervous pain and that it may not\nhave consequences; and this, quite apart from the consideration of\nsuffering. So you will see some one with an opinion to give, and take\nit? _Do_, I beseech you. You will not say 'no'? Also ... if on\nWednesday you should be less well than usual, you will come on\nThursday instead, I hope, ... seeing that it must be right for you to\nbe quiet and silent when you suffer so, and a journey into London can\nlet you be neither. Otherwise, I hold to my day, ... Wednesday. And\nmay God bless you my dear friend.\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nYou are right I see, nearly everywhere, if not quite everywhere in the\ncriticisms--but of course I have not looked very closely--that is, I\nhave read your papers but not in connection with a _my_ side of the\nargument--but I shall lose the post after all.\n\n[Footnote 1: Aeschylus, _Prometheus_ II.: 'trick of loving men,' see\nnote 3, on p. 39 above.]",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Morning,\n                                  [Post-mark, June 7, 1845.]\n\nI ventured to hope this morning might bring me news of you--First\nEast-winds on you, then myself, then those criticisms!--I do assure\nyou I am properly apprehensive. How are you? May I go on Wednesday\nwithout too much [Greek: anthadia].\n\nPray remember what I said and wrote, to the effect that my exceptions\nwere, in almost every case, to the 'reading'--not to your version of\nit: but I have not specified the particular ones--not written down the\nGreek, of my suggested translations--have I? And if you do not find\nthem in the margin of your copy, how you must wonder! Thus, in the\nlast speech but one, of Hermes, I prefer Porson and Blomfield's\n[Greek: ei mêd' atychôn ti chala maniôn];--to the old combinations\nthat include [Greek: eutychê]--though there is no MS. authority for\nemendation, it seems. But in what respect does Prometheus 'fare\n_well_,' or 'better' even, since the beginning? And is it not the old\nargument over again, that when a man _fails_ he should repent of his\nways?--And while thinking of Hermes, let me say that '[Greek: mêde moi\ndiplas odous prosbalês]' is surely--'Don't subject me to the trouble\nof a second journey ... by paying no attention to the first.' So says\nScholiast A, and so backs him Scholiast B, especially created, it\nshould appear, to show there could be _in rerum naturâ_ such another\nas his predecessor. A few other remarks occur to me, which I will tell\nyou if you please; _now_, I really want to know how you are, and write\nfor that.\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, June 9, 1845.]\n\nJust after my note left, yours came--I will try so to answer it as to\nplease you; and I begin by promising cheerfully to do all you bid me\nabout naming days &c. I do believe we are friends now and for ever.\nThere can be no reason, therefore, that I should cling tenaciously to\nany one or other time of meeting, as if, losing that, I lost\neverything--and, for the future, I will provide against sudden\nengagements, outrageous weather &c., to your heart's content. Nor am I\ngoing to except against here and there a little wrong I could get up,\nas when you _imply_ from my quick impulses and the like. No, my dear\nfriend--for I seem sure I shall have quite, quite time enough to do\nmyself justice in your eyes--Let time show!\n\nPerhaps I feel none the less sorely, when you 'thank' me for such\ncompany as mine, that I cannot avoid confessing to myself that it\nwould not be so absolutely out of my power, perhaps, to contrive\nreally and deserve thanks in a certain acceptation--I _might_ really\n_try_, at all events, and amuse you a little better, when I do have\nthe opportunity,--and I _do not_--but there is the thing! It is all of\na piece--I _do not_ seek your friendship in order to do you good--any\ngood--only to do myself good. Though I _would_, God knows, do that\ntoo.\n\nEnough of this.\n\nI am much better, indeed,--but will certainly follow your advice\nshould the pain return. And you--you have tried a new journey from\nyour room, have you not?\n\nDo recollect, at any turn, any chance so far in my favour,--that I am\nhere and yours should you want any fetching and carrying in this\noutside London world. Your brothers may have their own business to\nmind, Mr. Kenyon is at New York, we will suppose; here am I--what\nelse, _what else_ makes me count my cleverness to you, as I know I\nhave done more than once, by word and letter, but the real wish to be\nset at work? I should have, I hope, better taste than to tell any\neveryday acquaintance, who could not go out, one single morning even,\non account of a headache, that the weather was delightful, much less\nthat I had been walking five miles and meant to run ten--yet to you I\nboasted once of polking and waltzing and more--but then would it not\nbe a very superfluous piece of respect in the four-footed bird to keep\nhis wings to himself because his Master Oceanos could fly forsooth?\nWhereas he begins to wave a flap and show how ready they are to be\noff--for what else were the good of him? Think of this--and\n\n                                           Know me for yours\n\n                                                R.B.\n\nFor good you are, to those notes--you shall have more,--that is, the\nrest--on Wednesday then, at 3, except as you except. God bless you.\n\nOh, let me tell you--I suppose Mr. Horne must be in town--as I\nreceived a letter two days ago, from the contriver of some literary\nsociety or other who had before written to get me to belong to it,\nprotesting _against_ my reasons for refusing, and begging that 'at all\nevents I would suspend my determination till I had been visited by Mr.\nH. on the subject'--and, as they can hardly mean to bring him express\nfrom the Drachenfels for just that, he is returned no doubt--and as he\nis your friend, I take the opportunity of mentioning the course I\nshall pursue with him or any other friend of yours I may meet,--(and\neverybody else, I may add--) the course I understand you to desire,\nwith respect to our own intimacy. While I may acknowledge, I believe,\nthat I correspond with you, I shall not, in any case, suffer it to be\nknown that I see, or have seen you. This I just remind you of, lest\nany occasion of embarrassment should arise, for a moment, from your\nnot being quite sure how _I_ had acted in any case.--Con che, le bacio\nle mani--a rivederla!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n                                 [Post-mark, June 10, 1845.]\n\nI must thank you by one word for all your kindness and\nconsideration--which could not be greater; nor more felt by me. In the\nfirst place, afterwards (if that should not be Irish dialect) do\nunderstand that my letter passed from my hands to go to yours on\n_Friday_, but was thrown aside carelessly down stairs and 'covered up'\nthey say, so as not to be seen until late on Saturday; and I can only\nhumbly hope to have been cross enough about it (having conscientiously\ntried) to secure a little more accuracy another time.--And then, ...\nif ever I should want anything done or found, ... (a roc's egg or the\nlike) you may believe me that I shall not scruple to ask you to be the\nfinder; but at this moment I want nothing, indeed, except your poems;\nand that is quite the truth. Now do consider and think what I could\npossibly want in your 'outside London world'; you, who are the 'Genius\nof the lamp'!--Why if you light it and let me read your romances, &c.,\nby it, is not that the best use for it, and am I likely to look for\nanother? Only I shall remember what you say, gratefully and seriously;\nand if ever I should have a good fair opportunity of giving you\ntrouble (as if I had not done it already!), you may rely upon my evil\nintentions; even though dear Mr. Kenyon should not actually be at New\nYork, ... which he is not, I am glad to say, as I saw him on Saturday.\n\nWhich reminds me that _he_ knows of your having been here, of course!\nand will not mention it; as he understood from me that _you_ would\nnot.--Thank you! Also there was an especial reason which constrained\nme, on pain of appearing a great hypocrite, to tell Miss Mitford the\nbare fact of my having seen you--and reluctantly I did it, though\nplacing some hope in her promise of discretion. And how necessary the\ndiscretion is, will appear in the awful statistical fact of our having\nat this moment, as my sisters were calculating yesterday, some forty\nrelations in London--to say nothing of the right wing of the enemy.\nFor Mr. Horne, I could have told you, and really I thought I _had_\ntold you of his being in England.\n\nLast paragraph of all is, that I _don't want to be amused_, ... or\nrather that I _am_ amused by everything and anything. Why surely,\nsurely, you have some singular ideas about me! So, till to-morrow,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nInstead of writing this note to you yesterday, as should have been, I\nwent down-stairs--or rather was carried--and am not the worse.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                 [Post-mark, June 14, 1845.]\n\nYes, the poem _is_ too good in certain respects for the prizes given\nin colleges, (when all the pure parsley goes naturally to the\nrabbits), and has a great deal of beauty here and there in image and\nexpression. Still I do not quite agree with you that it reaches the\nTennyson standard any wise; and for the blank verse, I cannot for a\nmoment think it comparable to one of the grand passages in 'Oenone,'\nand 'Arthur' and the like. In fact I seem to hear more in that latter\nblank verse than you do, ... to hear not only a 'mighty line' as in\nMarlowe, but a noble full orbicular wholeness in complete\npassages--which always struck me as the mystery of music and great\npeculiarity in Tennyson's versification, inasmuch as he attains to\nthese complete effects without that shifting of the pause practised by\nthe masters, ... Shelley and others. A 'linked music' in which there\nare no links!--_that_, you would take to be a contradiction--and yet\nsomething like that, my ear has always seemed to perceive; and I have\nwondered curiously again and again how there could be so much union\nand no fastening. Only of course it is not model versification--and\nfor dramatic purposes, it must be admitted to be bad.\n\nWhich reminds me to be astonished for the second time how you could\nthink such a thing of me as that I wanted to read only your lyrics,\n... or that I 'preferred the lyrics' ... or something barbarous in\nthat way? You don't think me 'ambidexter,' or 'either-handed' ... and\nboth hands open for what poems you will vouchsafe to me; and yet if\nyou would let me see anything you may have in a readable state by you,\n... 'The Flight of the Duchess' ... or act or scene of 'The Soul's\nTragedy,' ... I shall be so glad and grateful to you! Oh--if you\nchange your mind and choose to be _bien prié_, I will grant it is your\nright, and begin my liturgy directly. But this is not teazing (in the\nintention of it!) and I understand all about the transcription, and\nthe inscrutableness of rough copies,--that is, if you write as I do,\nso that my guardian angel or M. Champollion cannot read what is\nwritten. Only whatever they can, (remember!) _I_ can: and you are not\nto mind trusting me with the cacistography possible to mortal readers.\n\nThe sun shines so that nobody dares complain of the east wind--and\nindeed I am better altogether. May God bless you, my dear friend.\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, June 14, 1845.]\n\nWhen I ask my wise self what I really do remember of the Prize poem,\nthe answer is--both of Chapman's lines a-top, quite worth any prize\nfor their quoter--then, the good epithet of 'Green Europe' contrasting\nwith Africa--then, deep in the piece, a picture of a Vestal in a\nvault, where I see a dipping and winking lamp plainest, and last of\nall the ominous 'all was dark' that dismisses you. I read the poem\nmany years ago, and never since, though I have an impression that the\nversification is good, yet from your commentary I see I must have said\na good deal more in its praise than that. But have you not discovered\nby this time that I go on talking with my thoughts away?\n\nI know, I have always been jealous of my own musical faculty (I can\nwrite music).--Now that I see the uselessness of such jealousy, and am\nfor loosing and letting it go, it may be cramped possibly. Your music\nis more various and exquisite than any modern writer's to my ear. One\nshould study the mechanical part of the art, as nearly all that there\nis to be studied--for the more one sits and thinks over the creative\nprocess, the more it confirms itself as 'inspiration,' nothing more\nnor less. Or, at worst, you write down old inspirations, what you\nremember of them ... but with _that_ it begins. 'Reflection' is\nexactly what it names itself--a _re_-presentation, in scattered rays\nfrom every angle of incidence, of what first of all became present in\na great light, a whole one. So tell me how these lights are born, if\nyou can! But I can tell anybody how to make melodious verses--let him\ndo it therefore--it should be exacted of all writers.\n\nYou do not understand what a new feeling it is for me to have someone\nwho is to like my verses or I shall not ever like them after! So far\ndifferently was I circumstanced of old, that I used rather to go about\nfor a subject of offence to people; writing ugly things in order to\nwarn the ungenial and timorous off my grounds at once. I shall never\ndo so again at least! As it is, I will bring all I dare, in as great\nquantities as I can--if not next time, after then--certainly. I must\nmake an end, print this Autumn my last four 'Bells,' Lyrics, Romances,\n'The Tragedy,' and 'Luna,' and then go on with a whole heart to my own\nPoem--indeed, I have just resolved not to begin any new song, even,\ntill this grand clearance is made--I will get the Tragedy transcribed\nto bring--\n\n'To bring!' Next Wednesday--if you know how happy you make me! may I\nnot say _that_, my dear friend, when I feel it from my soul?\n\nI thank God that you are better: do pray make fresh endeavours to\nprofit by this partial respite of the weather! All about you must urge\nthat: but even from my distance some effect might come of such wishes.\nBut you _are_ better--look so and speak so! God bless you.\n\n                                                        R.B.\n\nYou let 'flowers be sent you in a letter,' every one knows, and this\nhot day draws out our very first yellow rose.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                 [Post-mark, June 17, 1845.]\n\nYes, I quite believe as you do that what is called the 'creative\nprocess' in works of Art, is just inspiration and no less--which made\nsomebody say to me not long since; And so you think that Shakespeare's\n'Othello' was of the effluence of the Holy Ghost?'--rather a startling\ndeduction, ... only not quite as final as might appear to somebodies\nperhaps. At least it does not prevent my going on to agree with the\nsaying of _Spiridion_, ... do you remember?... 'Tout ce que l'homme\nappelle inspiration, je l'appelle aussi revelation,' ... if there is\nnot something too self-evident in it after all--my sole objection! And\nis it not true that your inability to analyse the mental process in\nquestion, is one of the proofs of the fact of inspiration?--as the\ngods were known of old by not being seen to move their feet,--coming\nand going in an equal sweep of radiance.--And still more wonderful\nthan the first transient great light you speak of, ... and far beyond\nany work of _re_flection, except in the pure analytical sense in which\nyou use the word, ... appears that gathering of light on light upon\nparticular points, as you go (in composition) step by step, till you\nget intimately near to things, and see them in a fullness and\nclearness, and an intense trust in the truth of them which you have\nnot in any sunshine of noon (called _real_!) but which you have _then_\n... and struggle to communicate:--an ineffectual struggle with most\nwriters (oh, how ineffectual!) and when effectual, issuing in the\n'Pippa Passes,' and other master-pieces of the world.\n\nYou will tell me what you mean exactly by being jealous of your own\nmusic? You said once that you had had a false notion of music, or had\npractised it according to the false notions of other people: but did\nyou mean besides that you ever had meant to despise music\naltogether--because _that_, it is hard to set about trying to believe\nof you indeed. And then, you _can_ praise my verses for music?--Why,\nare you aware that people blame me constantly for wanting\nharmony--from Mr. Boyd who moans aloud over the indisposition of my\n'trochees' ... and no less a person than Mr. Tennyson, who said to\nsomebody who repeated it, that in the want of harmony lay the chief\ndefect of the poems, 'although it might verily be retrieved, as he\ncould fancy that I had an ear by nature.' Well--but I am pleased that\nyou should praise me--right or wrong--I mean, whether I am right or\nwrong in being pleased! and I say so to you openly, although my belief\nis that you are under a vow to our Lady of Loretto to make giddy with\nall manner of high vanities, some head, ... not too strong for such\nthings, but too low for them, ... before you see again the embroidery\non her divine petticoat. Only there's a flattery so far beyond praise\n... even _your_ praise--as where you talk of your verses being liked\n&c., and of your being happy to bring them here, ... that is scarcely\na lawful weapon; and see if the Madonna may not signify so much to\nyou!--Seriously, you will not hurry too uncomfortably, or\nuncomfortably at all, about the transcribing? Another day, you know,\nwill do as well--and patience is possible to me, if not 'native to the\nsoil.'\n\nAlso I am behaving very well in going out into the noise; not quite\nout of doors yet, on account of the heat--and I am better as you say,\nwithout any doubt at all, and stronger--only my looks are a little\ndeceitful; and people are apt to be heated and flushed in this\nweather, one hour, to look a little more ghastly an hour or two after.\nNot that it _is_ not true of me that I am better, mind! Because I am.\n\nThe 'flower in the letter' was from one of my sisters--from Arabel\n(though many of these poems are _ideal_ ... will you understand?) and\nyour rose came quite alive and fresh, though in act of dropping its\nbeautiful leaves, because of having to come to me instead of living on\nin your garden, as it intended. But I thank you--for this, and all, my\ndear friend.\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n                                 [Post-mark, June 19, 1845.]\n\nWhen I next see you, do not let me go on and on to my confusion about\nmatters I am more or less ignorant of, but always ignorant. I tell\nyou plainly I only trench on them, and intrench in them, from\ngaucherie, pure and respectable ... I should certainly grow\ninstructive on the prospects of hay-crops and pasture-land, if\ndeprived of this resource. And now here is a week to wait before I\nshall have any occasion to relapse into Greek literature when I am\nthinking all the while, 'now I will just ask simply, what flattery\nthere was,' &c. &c., which, as I had not courage to say then, I keep\nto myself for shame now. This I will say, then--wait and know me\nbetter, as you will one long day at the end.\n\nWhy I write now, is because you did not promise, as before, to let me\nknow how you are--this morning is miserably cold again--Will you tell\nme, at your own time?\n\nGod bless you, my dear friend.\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                                 [Post-mark, June 20, 1845.]\n\nIf on Greek literature or anything else it is your pleasure to\ncultivate a reputation for ignorance, I will respect your desire--and\nindeed the point of the deficiency in question being far above my\nsight I am not qualified either to deny or assert the existence of it;\nso you are free to have it all your own way.\n\nAbout the 'flattery' however, there is a difference; and I must deny a\nlittle having ever used such a word ... as far as I can recollect, and\nI have been trying to recollect, ... as that word of flattery. Perhaps\nI said something about your having vowed to make me vain by writing\nthis or that of my liking your verses and so on--and perhaps I said it\ntoo lightly ... which happened because when one doesn't know whether\nto laugh or to cry, it is far best, as a general rule, to laugh. But\nthe serious truth is that it was all nonsense together what I wrote,\nand that, instead of talking of your making me vain, I should have\ntalked (if it had been done sincerely) of your humbling me--inasmuch\nas nothing does humble anybody so much as being lifted up too high.\nYou know what vaulting Ambition did once for himself? and when it is\ndone for him by another, his fall is still heavier. And one moral of\nall this general philosophy is, that if when your poems come, you\npersist in giving too much importance to what I may have courage to\nsay of this or of that in them, you will make me a dumb critic and I\nshall have no help for my dumbness. So I tell you beforehand--nothing\nextenuating nor exaggerating nor putting down in malice. I know so\nmuch of myself as to be sure of it. Even as it is, the 'insolence'\nwhich people blame me for and praise me for, ... the 'recklessness'\nwhich my friends talk of with mitigating countenances ... seems\ngradually going and going--and really it would not be very strange\n(without that) if _I_ who was born a hero worshipper and have so\ncontinued, and who always recognised your genius, should find it\nimpossible to bring out critical doxies on the workings of it. Well--I\nshall do what I can--as far as _impressions_ go, you understand--and\n_you_ must promise not to attach too much importance to anything said.\nSo that is a covenant, my dear friend!--\n\nAnd I am really gaining strength--and I will not complain of the\nweather. As long as the thermometer keeps above sixty I am content for\none; and the roses are not quite dead yet, which they would have been\nin the heat. And last and not least--may I ask if you were told that\nthe pain in the head was not important (or was) in the causes, ... and\nwas likely to be well soon? or was not? I am at the end.\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nUpon second or third thoughts, isn't it true that you are a little\nsuspicious of me? suspicious at least of suspiciousness?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Afternoon.\n                                 [Post-mark, June 23, 1845.]\n\nAnd if I am 'suspicious of your suspiciousness,' who gives cause,\npray? The matter was long ago settled, I thought, when you first took\nexception to what I said about higher and lower, and I consented to\nthis much--that you should help seeing, if you could, our true\nintellectual and moral relation each to the other, so long as you\nwould allow _me_ to see what _is_ there, fronting me. 'Is my eye evil\nbecause yours is not good?' My own friend, if I wished to 'make you\nvain,' if having 'found the Bower' I did really address myself to the\nwise business of spoiling its rose-roof,--I think that at least where\nthere was such a will, there would be also something not unlike a\nway,--that I should find a proper hooked stick to tear down flowers\nwith, and write you other letters than these--quite, quite others, I\nfeel--though I am far from going to imagine, even for a moment, what\nmight be the precise prodigy--like the notable Son of Zeus, that _was_\nto have been, and done the wonders, only he did not, because &c. &c.\n\nBut I have a restless head to-day, and so let you off easily. Well,\nyou ask me about it, that head, and I am not justified in being\npositive when my Doctor is dubious; as for the causes, they are\nneither superfluity of study, nor fancy, nor care, nor any special\nnaughtiness that I know how to amend. So if I bring you 'nothing to\nsignify' on Wednesday ... though I hope to do more than that ... you\nwill know exactly why it happens. I will finish and transcribe the\n'Flight of the Duchess' since you spoke of that first.\n\nI am truly happy to hear that your health improves still.\n\nFor me, going out does me good--reading, writing, and, what is\nodd,--infinitely most of all, _sleeping_ do me the harm,--never any\nvery great harm. And all the while I am yours\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                 [Post-mark, June 24, 1845.]\n\nI had begun to be afraid that I did not deserve to have my questions\nanswered; and I was afraid of asking them over again. But it is worse\nto be afraid that you are not better at all in any essential manner\n(after all your assurances) and that the medical means have failed so\nfar. Did you go to somebody who knows anything?--because there is no\nexcuse, you see, in common sense, for not having the best and most\nexperienced opinion when there is a choice of advice--and I am\nconfident that that pain should not be suffered to go on without\nsomething being done. What I said about _nerves_, related to what you\nhad told me of your mother's suffering and what you had fancied of the\nrelation of it to your own, and not that I could be thinking about\nimaginary complaints--I wish I could. Not (either) that I believe in\nthe relation ... because such things are not hereditary, are they? and\nthe bare coincidence is improbable. Well, but, I wanted particularly\nto say this--_Don't bring the 'Duchess' with you on Wednesday._ I\nshall not expect anything, I write distinctly to tell you--and I would\nfar far rather that you did not bring it. You see it is just as I\nthought--for that whether too much thought or study did or did not\nbring on the illness, ... yet you admit that reading and writing\nincrease it ... as they would naturally do any sort of pain in the\nhead--therefore if you will but be in earnest and try to get well\n_first_, we will do the 'Bells' afterwards, and there will be time for\na whole peal of them, I hope and trust, before the winter. Now do\nadmit that this is reasonable, and agree reasonably to it. And if it\ndoes you good to go out and take exercise, why not go out and take it?\nnay, why not go _away_ and take it? Why not try the effect of a little\nchange of air--or even of a great change of air--if it should be\nnecessary, or even expedient? Anything is better, you know ... or if\nyou don't know, _I_ know--than to be ill, really, seriously--I mean\nfor _you_ to be ill, who have so much to do and to enjoy in the world\nyet ... and all those bells waiting to be hung! So that if you will\nagree to be well first, I will promise to be ready afterwards to help\nyou in any thing I can do ... transcribing or anything ... to get the\nbooks through the press in the shortest of times--and I am capable of\na great deal of that sort of work without being tired, having the\nhabit of writing in any sort of position, and the long habit, ...\nsince, before I was ill even, I never used to write at a table (or\nscarcely ever) but on the arm of a chair, or on the seat of one,\nsitting myself on the floor, and calling myself a Lollard for dignity.\nSo you will put by your 'Duchess' ... will you not? or let me see just\nthat one sheet--if one should be written--which is finished? ... up to\nthis moment, you understand? finished _now_.\n\nAnd if I have tired and teazed you with all these words it is a bad\nopportunity to take--and yet I will persist in saying through good and\nbad opportunities that I never did 'give cause' as you say, to your\nbeing 'suspicious of my suspiciousness' as I believe I said before. I\ndeny my 'suspiciousness' altogether--it is not one of my faults. Nor\nis it quite my fault that you and I should always be quarrelling about\nover-appreciations and under-appreciations--and after all I have no\ninterest nor wish, I do assure you, to depreciate myself--and you are\nnot to think that I have the remotest claim to the Monthyon prize for\ngood deeds in the way of modesty of self-estimation. Only when I know\nyou better, as you talk of ... and when _you_ know _me_ too well, ...\nthe right and the wrong of these conclusions will appear in a fuller\nlight than ever so much arguing can produce now. Is it unkindly\nwritten of me? _no_--I _feel_ it is not!--and that 'now and ever we\nare friends,' (just as you think) _I_ think besides and am happy in\nthinking so, and could not be distrustful of you if I tried. So may\nGod bless you, my ever dear friend--and mind to forget the 'Duchess'\nand to remember every good counsel!--Not that I do particularly\nconfide in the medical oracles. They never did much more for _me_\nthan, when my pulse was above a hundred and forty with fever, to give\nme digitalis to make me weak--and, when I could not move without\nfainting (with weakness), to give me quinine to make me feverish\nagain. Yes--and they could tell from the stethoscope, how very little\nwas really wrong in me ... if it were not on a vital organ--and how I\nshould certainly live ... if I didn't die sooner. But then, nothing\n_has_ power over affections of the chest, except God and his\nwinds--and I do hope that an obvious quick remedy may be found for\nyour head. But _do_ give up the writing and all that does harm!--\n\n                                 Ever yours, my dear friend,\n\n                                      E.B.B.\n\nMiss Mitford talked of spending Wednesday with me--and I have put it\noff to Thursday:--and if you should hear from Mr. Chorley that he is\ncoming to see _her and me together on any day_, do understand that it\nwas entirely her proposition and not mine, and that certainly it won't\nbe acceded to, as far as _I_ am concerned; as I have explained to her\nfinally. I have been vexed about it--but she can see him down-stairs\nas she has done before--and if she calls me perverse and capricious\n(which she will do) I shall stop the reflection by thanking her again\nand again (as I can do sincerely) for her kindness and goodness in\ncoming to see me herself, so far!--",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning,\n                                 [Post-mark, June 24, 1845.]\n\n(So my friend did not in the spirit see me write that _first_ letter,\non Friday, which was too good and true to send, and met, five minutes\nafter, its natural fate accordingly. Then on Saturday I thought to\ntake health by storm, and walked myself half dead all the\nmorning--about town too: last post-hour from this Thule of a\nsuburb--4 P.M. on Saturdays, next expedition of letters, 8 A.M. on\nMondays;--and then my real letter set out with the others--and, it\nshould seem, set at rest a 'wonder whether thy friend's questions\ndeserved answering'--de-served--answer-ing--!)\n\nParenthetically so much--I want most, though, to tell you--(leaving\nout any slightest attempt at thanking you) that I am much better,\nquite well to-day--that my doctor has piloted me safely through two or\nthree illnesses, and knows all about me, I do think--and that he talks\nconfidently of getting rid of all the symptoms complained of--and\n_has_ made a good beginning if I may judge by to-day. As for going\nabroad, that is just the thing I most want to avoid (for a reason not\nso hard to guess, perhaps, as why my letter was slow in arriving).\n\nSo, till to-morrow,--my light through the dark week.\n\n                            God ever bless you, dear friend,\n\n                                 R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                 [Post-mark, June 25, 1845.]\n\nWhat will you think when I write to ask you _not_ to come to-morrow,\nWednesday; but ... on Friday perhaps, instead? But do see how it is;\nand judge if it is to be helped.\n\nI have waited hour after hour, hoping to hear from Miss Mitford that\nshe would agree to take Thursday in change for Wednesday,--and just as\nI begin to wonder whether she can have received my letter at all, or\nwhether she may not have been vexed by it into taking a vengeance and\nadhering to her own devices; (for it appealed to her esprit de sexe on\nthe undeniable axiom of women having their way ... and she might\nchoose to act it out!) just as I wonder over all this, and consider\nwhat a confusion of the elements it would be if you came and found her\nhere, and Mr. Chorley at the door perhaps, waiting for some of the\nlight of her countenance;--comes a note from Mr. Kenyon, to the\neffect that _he_ will be here at four o'clock P.M.--and comes a final\nnote from my aunt Mrs. Hedley (supposed to be at Brighton for several\nmonths) to the effect that _she_ will be here at twelve o'clock, M.!!\nSo do observe the constellation of adverse stars ... or the covey of\n'bad birds,' as the Romans called them, and that there is no choice,\nbut to write as I am writing. It can't be helped--can it? For take\naway the doubt about Miss Mitford, and Mr. Kenyon remains--and take\naway Mr. Kenyon, and there is Mrs. Hedley--and thus it _must be for\nFriday_ ... which will learn to be a fortunate day for the\nnonce--unless Saturday should suit you better. I do not speak of\nThursday, because of the doubt about Miss Mitford--and if any harm\nshould happen to Friday, I will write again; but if you do not hear\nagain, and are able to come then, you _will_ come perhaps then.\n\nIn the meantime I thank you for the better news in your note--if it is\nreally, really to be trusted in--but you know, you have said so often\nthat you were better and better, without being really better, that it\nmakes people ... 'suspicious.' Yet it is full amends for the\ndisappointment to hope ... here I must break off or be too late. May\nGod bless you my dear friend.\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "12. Wednesday.\n                                 [Post-mark, June 25, 1845.]\n\nPomegranates you may cut deep down the middle and see into, but not\nhearts,--so why should I try and speak?\n\nFriday is best day because nearest, but Saturday is next best--it is\nnext near, you know: if I get no note, therefore, Friday is my day.\n\nNow is Post-time,--which happens properly.\n\nGod bless you, and so your own\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                                 [Post-mark, June 27, 1845.]\n\nAfter all it must be for Saturday, as Mrs. Hedley comes again on\nFriday, to-morrow, from _New Cross_,--or just beyond it, Eltham\nPark--to London for a few days, on account of the illness of one of\nher children. I write in the greatest haste after Miss Mitford has\nleft me ... and _so_ tired! to say this, that if you can and will come\non Saturday, ... or if not on Monday or Tuesday, there is no reason\nagainst it.\n\n                                         Your friend always,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                                 [Post-mark, June 27, 1845.]\n\nLet me make haste and write down _To-morrow_, Saturday, and not later,\nlest my selfishness be thoroughly got under in its struggle with a\nbetter feeling that tells me you must be far too tired for another\nvisitor this week.\n\nWhat shall I decide on?\n\nWell--Saturday is said--but I will stay not quite so long, nor talk\nnearly so loud as of old-times; nor will you, if you understand\nanything of me, fail to send down word should you be at all\nindisposed. I should not have the heart to knock at the door unless I\nreally believed you would do that. Still saying this and providing\nagainst the other does not amount, I well know, to the generosity, or\njustice rather, of staying away for a day or two altogether. But--what\n'a day or two' may not bring forth! Change to you, change to me--\n\nNot all of me, however, can change, thank God--\n\n                                                  Yours ever\n\n                                                       R.B.\n\nOr, write, as last night, if needs be: Monday, Tuesday is not so long\nto wait. Will you write?",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Evening.\n                                 [Post-mark, June 28, 1845.]\n\nYou are very kind and always--but really _that_ does not seem a good\nreason against your coming to-morrow--so come, if it should not rain.\nIf it rains, it _concludes_ for Monday ... or Tuesday; whichever may\nbe clear of rain. I was tired on Wednesday by the confounding\nconfusion of more voices than usual in this room; but the effect\npassed off, and though Miss Mitford was with me for hours yesterday I\nam not unwell to-day. And pray speak _bona verba_ about the awful\nthings which are possible between this now and Wednesday. You continue\nto be better, I do hope? I am forced to the brevity you see, by the\npost on one side, and my friends on the other, who have so long\noverstayed the coming of your note--but it is enough to assure you\nthat you will do no harm by coming--only give pleasure.\n\n                                 Ever yours, my dear friend,\n\n                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                            [June 30, 1845.]\n\nI send back the prize poems which have been kept far too long even if\nI do not make excuses for the keeping--but our sins are not always to\nbe measured by our repentance for them. Then I am well enough this\nmorning to have thought of going out till they told me it was not at\nall a right day for it ... too windy ... soft and delightful as the\nair seems to be--particularly after yesterday, when we had some winter\nback again in an episode. And the roses do not die; which is quite\nmagnanimous of them considering their reverses; and their buds are\ncoming out in most exemplary resignation--like birds singing in a\ncage. Now that the windows may be open, the flowers take heart to live\na little in this room.\n\nAnd think of my forgetting to tell you on Saturday that I had known of\na letter being received by somebody from Miss Martineau, who is at\nAmbleside at this time and so entranced with the lakes and mountains\nas to be dreaming of taking or making a house among them, to live in\nfor the rest of her life. Mrs. Trollope, you may have heard, had\nsomething of the same nympholepsy--no, her daughter was 'settled' in\nthe neighbourhood--_that_ is the more likely reason for Mrs. Trollope!\nand the spirits of the hills conspired against her the first winter\nand almost slew her with a fog and drove her away to your Italy where\nthe Oreadocracy has gentler manners. And Miss Martineau is practising\nmesmerism and miracles on all sides she says, and counts on Archbishop\nWhately as a new adherent. I even fancy that he has been to see her in\nthe character of a convert. All this from Mr. Kenyon.\n\nThere's a strange wild book called the Autobiography of Heinrich\nStilling ... one of those true devout deep-hearted Germans who believe\neverything, and so are nearer the truth, I am sure, than the wise who\nbelieve nothing; but rather over-German sometimes, and redolent of\nsauerkraut--and _he_ gives a tradition ... somewhere between mesmerism\nand mysticism, ... of a little spirit with gold shoebuckles, who was\nhis familiar spirit and appeared only in the sunshine I think ...\nmottling it over with its feet, perhaps, as a child might snow. Take\naway the shoebuckles and I believe in the little spirit--don't _you_?\nBut these English mesmerists make the shoebuckles quite conspicuous\nand insist on them broadly; and the Archbishops Whately may be drawn\nby _them_ (who can tell?) more than by the little spirit itself. How\nis your head to-day? now really, and nothing extenuating? I will not\nask of poems, till the 'quite well' is _authentic_. May God bless you\nalways! my dear friend!\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nAfter all the book must go another day. I live in chaos do you know?\nand I am too hurried at this moment ... yes it is here.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n\nHow are you--may I hope to hear soon?\n\nI don't know exactly what possessed me to set my next day so far off\nas Saturday--as it was said, however, so let it be. And I will bring\nthe rest of the 'Duchess'--four or five hundred lines,--'heu, herba\nmala crescit'--(as I once saw mournfully pencilled on a white wall at\nAsolo)--but will you tell me if you quite remember the main of the\n_first_ part--(_parts_ there are none except in the necessary process\nof chopping up to suit the limits of a magazine--and I gave them as\nmuch as I could transcribe at a sudden warning)--because, if you\nplease, I can bring the whole, of course.\n\nAfter seeing _you_, that Saturday, I was caught up by a friend and\ncarried to see Vidocq--who did the honours of his museum of knives and\nnails and hooks that have helped great murderers to their purposes--he\nscarcely admits, I observe, an implement with only one attestation to\nits efficacy; but the one or two exceptions rather justify his\nlatitude in their favour--thus one little sort of dessert knife _did_\nonly take _one_ life.... 'But then,' says Vidocq, 'it was the man's\nown mother's life, with fifty-two blows, and all for' (I think)\n'fifteen francs she had got?' So prattles good-naturedly Vidocq--one\nof his best stories of that Lacénaire--'jeune homme d'un caractère\nfort avenant--mais c'était un poète,' quoth he, turning sharp on _me_\nout of two or three other people round him.\n\nHere your letter breaks in, and sunshine too.\n\nWhy do you send me that book--not let me take it? What trouble for\nnothing!\n\nAn old French friend of mine, a dear foolish, very French heart and\nsoul, is coming presently--his poor brains are whirling with mesmerism\nin which he believes, as in all other unbelief. He and I are to dine\nalone (I have not seen him these two years)--and I shall never be able\nto keep from driving the great wedge right through his breast and\ndescending lower, from riveting his two foolish legs to the wintry\nchasm; for I that stammer and answer hap-hazard with you, get\nproportionately valiant and voluble with a mere cupful of Diderot's\nrinsings, and a man into the bargain.\n\nIf you were prevented from leaving the house yesterday, assuredly\nto-day you will never attempt such a thing--the wind, rain--all is\nagainst it: I trust you will not make the first experiment except\nunder really favourable auspices ... for by its success you will\nnaturally be induced to go on or leave off--Still you are _better_! I\nfully believe, dare to believe, _that_ will continue. As for me, since\nyou ask--find me but something _to do_, and see if I shall not be\nwell!--Though I _am_ well now almost.\n\nHow good you are to my roses--they are not of my making, to be sure.\nNever, by the way, did Miss Martineau work such a miracle as I now\nwitness in the garden--I gathered at Rome, close to the fountain of\nEgeria, a handful of _fennel_-seeds from the most indisputable plant\nof fennel I ever chanced upon--and, lo, they are come up ... hemlock,\nor something akin! In two places, moreover. Wherein does hemlock\nresemble fennel? How could I mistake? No wonder that a stone's cast\noff from that Egeria's fountain is the Temple of the God Ridiculus.\n\nWell, on Saturday then--at three: and I will certainly bring the\nverses you mention--and trust to find you still better.\n\nVivi felice--my dear friend, God bless you!\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday-Thursday Evening\n                                  [Post-mark, July 4, 1845.]\n\nYes--I know the first part of the 'Duchess' and have it here--and for\nthe rest of the poem, don't mind about being very legible, or even\nlegible in the usual sense; and remember how it is my boast to be able\nto read all such manuscript writing as never is read by people who\ndon't like caviare. Now you won't mind? really I rather like blots\nthan otherwise--being a sort of patron-saint of all manner of\nuntidyness ... if Mr. Kenyon's reproaches (of which there's a\nstereotyped edition) are justified by the fact--and he has a great\norgan of order, and knows 'disorderly persons' at a glance, I suppose.\nBut you won't be particular with _me_ in the matter of transcription?\n_that_ is what I want to make sure of. And even if you are not\nparticular, I am afraid you are not well enough to be troubled by\nwriting, and writing and the thinking that comes with it--it would be\nwiser to wait till you are quite well--now wouldn't it?--and my fear\nis that the 'almost well' means 'very little better.' And why, when\nthere is no motive for hurrying, run any risk? Don't think that I will\nhelp you to make yourself ill. That I refuse to do even so much work\nas the 'little dessert-knife' in the way of murder, ... _do_ think! So\nupon the whole, I expect nothing on Saturday from this distance--and\nif it comes unexpectedly (I mean the Duchess and not Saturday) _let_\nit be at no cost, or at the least cost possible, will you? I am\ndelighted in the meanwhile to hear of the quantity of 'mala herba';\nand hemlock does not come up from every seed you sow, though you call\nit by ever such bad names.\n\nTalking of poetry, I had a newspaper 'in help of social and political\nprogress' sent to me yesterday from America--addressed to--just my\nname ... _poetess, London_! Think of the simplicity of those wild\nAmericans in 'calculating' that 'people in general' here in England\nknow what a poetess is!--Well--the post office authorities, after\ndeep meditation, I do not doubt, on all probable varieties of the\nchimpanzee, and a glance to the Surrey Gardens on one side, and the\nZoological department of Regent's Park on the other, thought of\n'Poet's Corner,' perhaps, and wrote at the top of the parcel, 'Enquire\nat Paternoster Row'! whereupon the Paternoster Row people wrote again,\n'Go to Mr. Moxon'--and I received my newspaper.\n\nAnd talking of poetesses, I had a note yesterday (again) which quite\ntouched me ... from Mr. Hemans--Charles, the son of Felicia--written\nwith so much feeling, that it was with difficulty I could say my\nperpetual 'no' to his wish about coming to see me. His mother's memory\nis surrounded to him, he says, 'with almost a divine lustre'--and 'as\nit cannot be to those who knew the writer alone and not the woman.' Do\nyou not like to hear such things said? and is it not better than your\ntradition about Shelley's son? and is it not pleasant to know that\nthat poor noble pure-hearted woman, the Vittoria Colonna of our\ncountry, should be so loved and comprehended by some ... by one at\nleast ... of her own house? Not that, in naming Shelley, I meant for a\nmoment to make a comparison--there is not equal ground for it.\nVittoria Colonna does not walk near Dante--no. And if you promised\nnever to tell Mrs. Jameson ... nor Miss Martineau ... I would confide\nto you perhaps my secret profession of faith--which is ... which is\n... that let us say and do what we please and can ... there _is_ a\nnatural inferiority of mind in women--of the intellect ... not by any\nmeans, of the moral nature--and that the history of Art and of genius\ntestifies to this fact openly. Oh--I would not say so to Mrs. Jameson\nfor the world. I believe I was a coward to her altogether--for when\nshe denounced carpet work as 'injurious to the mind,' because it led\nthe workers into 'fatal habits of reverie,' I defended the carpet work\nas if I were striving _pro aris et focis_, (_I_, who am so innocent of\nall that knowledge!) and said not a word for the poor reveries which\nhave frayed away so much of silken time for me ... and let her go\naway repeating again and again ... 'Oh, but _you_ may do carpet work\nwith impunity--yes! _because_ you can be writing poems all the\nwhile.'!\n\nThink of people making poems and rugs at once. There's complex\nmachinery for you!\n\nI told you that I had a sensation of cold blue steel from her\neyes!--And yet I really liked and like and shall like her. She is very\nkind I believe--and it was my mistake--and I correct my impressions of\nher more and more to perfection, as _you_ tell me who know more of her\nthan I.\n\nOnly I should not dare, ... _ever_, I think ... to tell her that I\nbelieve women ... all of us in a mass ... to have minds of quicker\nmovement, but less power and depth ... and that we are under your\nfeet, because we can't stand upon our own. Not that we should either\nbe quite under your feet! so you are not to be too proud, if you\nplease--and there is certainly some amount of wrong--: but it never\nwill be righted in the manner and to the extent contemplated by\ncertain of our own prophetesses ... nor ought to be, I hold in\nintimate persuasion. One woman indeed now alive ... and only _that_\none down all the ages of the world--seems to me to justify for a\nmoment an opposite opinion--that wonderful woman George Sand; who has\nsomething monstrous in combination with her genius, there is no\ndenying at moments (for she has written one book, Leila, which I could\nnot read, though I am not easily turned back,) but whom, in her good\nand evil together, I regard with infinitely more admiration than all\nother women of genius who are or have been. Such a colossal nature in\nevery way,--with all that breadth and scope of faculty which women\nwant--magnanimous, and loving the truth and loving the people--and\nwith that 'hate of hate' too, which you extol--so eloquent, and yet\nearnest as if she were dumb--so full of a living sense of beauty, and\nof noble blind instincts towards an ideal purity--and so proving a\nright even in her wrong. By the way, what you say of the Vidocq museum\nreminds me of one of the chamber of masonic trial scenes in\n'Consuelo.' Could you like to see those knives?\n\nI began with the best intentions of writing six lines--and see what is\nwritten! And all because I kept my letter back ... from a _doubt about\nSaturday_--but it has worn away, and the appointment stands good ...\nfor me: I have nothing to say against it.\n\nBut belief in mesmerism is not the same thing as general unbelief--to\ndo it justice--now is it? It may be super-belief as well. Not that\nthere is not something ghastly and repelling to me in the thought of\nDr. Elliotson's great bony fingers seeming to 'touch the stops' of a\nwhole soul's harmonies--as in phreno-magnetism. And I should have\nliked far better than hearing and seeing _that_, to have heard _you_\npour the 'cupful of Diderot's rinsings,' out,--and indeed I can fancy\na little that you and how you could do it--and break the cup too\nafterwards!\n\nAnother sheet--and for what?\n\nWhat is written already, if you read, you do so meritoriously--and\nit's an example of bad writing, if you want one in the poems. I am\nashamed, you may see, of having written too much, (besides)--which is\n_much_ worse--but one writes and writes: _I_ do at least--for _you_\nare irreproachable. Ever yours my dear friend, as if I had not written\n... or _had_!\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Afternoon.\n                                   [Post-mark July 7, 1845.]\n\nWhile I write this,--3 o'clock you may be going out, I will hope, for\nthe day is very fine, perhaps all the better for the wind: yet I got\nup this morning sure of bad weather. I shall not try to tell you how\nanxious I am for the result and to know it. You will of course feel\nfatigued at first--but persevering, as you mean to do, do you\nnot?--persevering, the event must be happy.\n\nI thought, and still think, to write to you about George Sand, and\nthe vexed question, a very Bermoothes of the 'Mental Claims of the\nSexes Relatively Considered' (so was called the, ... I do believe, ...\nworst poem I ever read in my life), and Mrs. Hemans, and all and some\nof the points referred to in your letter--but 'by my fay, I cannot\nreason,' to-day: and, by a consequence, I feel the more--so I say how\nI want news of you ... which, when they arrive, I shall read\n'meritoriously'--do you think? My friend, what ought I to tell you on\nthat head (or the reverse rather)--of your discourse? I should like to\nmatch you at a fancy-flight; if I could, give you nearly as pleasant\nan assurance that 'there's no merit in the case,' but the hot weather\nand lack of wit get the better of my good will--besides, I remember\nonce to have admired a certain enticing simplicity in the avowal of\nthe Treasurer of a Charitable Institution at a Dinner got up in its\nbehalf--the Funds being at lowest, Debt at highest ... in fact, this\nDinner was the last chance of the Charity, and this Treasurer's speech\nthe main feature in the chance--and our friend, inspired by the\nemergency, went so far as to say, with a bland smile--'Do not let it\nbe supposed that we--_despise_ annual contributors,--we\n_rather_--solicit their assistance.' All which means, do not think\nthat I take any 'merit' for making myself supremely happy, I rather\n&c. &c.\n\nAlways rather mean to deserve it a little better--but never shall: so\nit should be, for you and me--and as it was in the beginning so it is\nstill. You are the--But you know and why should I tease myself with\nwords?\n\nLet me send this off now--and to-morrow some more, because I trust to\nhear you have made the first effort and with success.\n\n                                 Ever yours, my dear friend,\n\n                                      R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                  [Post-mark, July 8, 1845.]\n\nWell--I have really been out; and am really alive after it--which is\nmore surprising still--alive enough I mean, to write even _so_,\nto-night. But perhaps I say so with more emphasis, to console myself\nfor failing in my great ambition of getting into the Park and of\nreaching Mr. Kenyon's door just to leave a card there vaingloriously,\n... all which I did fail in, and was forced to turn back from the\ngates of Devonshire Place. The next time it will be better\nperhaps--and this time there was no fainting nor anything very wrong\n... not even cowardice on the part of the victim (be it recorded!) for\none of my sisters was as usual in authority and ordered the turning\nback just according to her own prudence and not my selfwill. Only you\nwill not, any of you, ask me to admit that it was all\ndelightful--pleasanter work than what you wanted to spare me in taking\ncare of your roses on Saturday! don't ask _that_, and I will try it\nagain presently.\n\nI ought to be ashamed of writing this I and me-ism--but since your\nkindness made it worth while asking about I must not be over-wise and\nsilent on my side.\n\n_Tuesday._--Was it fair to tell me to write though, and be silent of\nthe 'Duchess,' and when I was sure to be so delighted--and _you knew\nit_? _I_ think not indeed. And, to make the obedience possible, I go\non fast to say that I heard from Mr. Horne a few days since and that\n_he_ said--'your envelope reminds me of'--_you_, he said ... and so,\nasked if you were in England still, and meant to write to you. To\nwhich I have answered that I believe you to be in England--thinking it\nstrange about the envelope; which, as far as I remember, was one of\nthose long ones, used, the more conveniently to enclose to him back\nagain a MS. of his own I had offered with another of his, by his\ndesire, to _Colburn's Magazine_, as the productions of a friend of\nmine, when he was in Germany and afraid of his proper fatal\nonymousness, yet in difficulty how to approach the magazines as a\nnameless writer (you will not mention this of course). And when he was\nin Germany, I remember, ... writing just as your first letter came ...\nthat I mentioned it to him, and was a little frankly proud of it! but\nsince, your name has not occurred once--not once, certainly!--and it\nis strange.... Only he _can't_ have heard of your having been here,\nand it _must_ have been a chance-remark--altogether! taking an\nimaginary emphasis from my evil conscience perhaps. Talking of evils,\nhow wrong of you to make that book for me! and how ill I thanked you\nafter all! Also, I couldn't help feeling more grateful still for the\nDuchess ... who is under ban: and for how long I wonder?\n\n                            My dear friend, I am ever yours,\n\n                                 E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                  [Post-mark, July 9, 1845.]\n\nYou are all that is good and kind: I am happy and thankful the\nbeginning (and worst of it) is over and so well. The Park and Mr.\nKenyon's all in good time--and your sister was most prudent--and you\nmean to try again: God bless you, all to be said or done--but, as I\nsay it, no vain word. No doubt it was a mere chance-thought, and _à\npropos de bottes_ of Horne--neither he or any other _can_ know or even\nfancy how it is. Indeed, though on other grounds I should be all so\nproud of being known for your friend by everybody, yet there's no\ndenying the deep delight of playing the Eastern Jew's part here in\nthis London--they go about, you know by travel-books, with the tokens\nof extreme destitution and misery, and steal by blind ways and\nby-paths to some blank dreary house, one obscure door in it--which\nbeing well shut behind them, they grope on through a dark corridor or\nso, and then, a blaze follows the lifting a curtain or the like, for\nthey are in a palace-hall with fountains and light, and marble and\ngold, of which the envious are never to dream! And I, too, love to\nhave few friends, and to live alone, and to see you from week to week.\nDo you not suppose I am grateful?\n\nAnd you do like the 'Duchess,' as much as you have got of it? that\ndelights me, too--for every reason. But I fear I shall not be able to\nbring you the rest to-morrow--Thursday, my day--because I have been\nbroken in upon more than one morning; nor, though much better in my\nhead, can I do anything at night just now. All will come right\neventually, I hope, and I shall transcribe the other things you are to\njudge.\n\nTo-morrow then--only (and that is why I would write) do, do _know_ me\nfor what I am and treat me as I deserve in that _one_ respect, and _go\nout_, without a moment's thought or care, if to-morrow should suit\nyou--leave word to that effect and I shall be as glad as if I saw you\nor more--_reasoned_ gladness, you know. Or you can write--though that\nis not necessary at all,--do think of all this!\n\n                               I am yours ever, dear friend,\n\n                                    R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, July 12, 1845.]\n\nYou understand that it was not a resolution passed in favour of\nformality, when I said what I did yesterday about not going out at the\ntime you were coming--surely you do; whatever you might signify to a\ndifferent effect. If it were necessary for me to go out every day, or\nmost days even, it would be otherwise; but as it is, I may certainly\nkeep the day you come, free from the fear of carriages, let the sun\nshine its best or worst, without doing despite to you or injury to\nme--and that's all I meant to insist upon indeed and indeed. You see,\nJupiter Tonans was good enough to come to-day on purpose to deliver\nme--one evil for another! for I confess with shame and contrition,\nthat I never wait to enquire whether it thunders to the left or the\nright, to be frightened most ingloriously. Isn't it a disgrace to\nanyone with a pretension to poetry? Dr. Chambers, a part of whose\noffice it is, Papa says, 'to reconcile foolish women to their\nfollies,' used to take the side of my vanity, and discourse at length\non the passive obedience of some nervous systems to electrical\ninfluences; but perhaps my faint-heartedness is besides traceable to a\nhalf-reasonable terror of a great storm in Herefordshire, where great\nstorms most do congregate, (such storms!) round the Malvern Hills,\nthose mountains of England. We lived four miles from their roots,\nthrough all my childhood and early youth, in a Turkish house my father\nbuilt himself, crowded with minarets and domes, and crowned with metal\nspires and crescents, to the provocation (as people used to observe)\nof every lightning of heaven. Once a storm of storms happened, and we\nall thought the house was struck--and a tree was so really, within two\nhundred yards of the windows while I looked out--the bark, rent from\nthe top to the bottom ... torn into long ribbons by the dreadful fiery\nhands, and dashed out into the air, over the heads of other trees, or\nleft twisted in their branches--torn into shreds in a moment, as a\nflower might be, by a child! Did you ever see a tree after it has been\nstruck by lightning? The whole trunk of that tree was bare and\npeeled--and up that new whiteness of it, ran the finger-mark of the\nlightning in a bright beautiful rose-colour (none of your roses\nbrighter or more beautiful!) the fever-sign of the certain\ndeath--though the branches themselves were for the most part\nuntouched, and spread from the peeled trunk in their full summer\nfoliage; and birds singing in them three hours afterwards! And, in\nthat same storm, two young women belonging to a festive party were\nkilled on the Malvern Hills--each sealed to death in a moment with a\nsign on the chest which a common seal would cover--only the sign on\nthem was not rose-coloured as on our tree, but black as charred wood.\nSo I get 'possessed' sometimes with the effects of these impressions,\nand so does one, at least, of my sisters, in a lower degree--and\noh!--how amusing and instructive all this is to you! When my father\ncame into the room to-day and found me hiding my eyes from the\nlightning, he was quite angry and called 'it disgraceful to anybody\nwho had ever learnt the alphabet'--to which I answered humbly that 'I\nknew it was'--but if I had been impertinent, I _might_ have added that\nwisdom does not come by the alphabet but in spite of it? Don't you\nthink so in a measure? _non obstantibus_ Bradbury and Evans? There's a\nprofane question--and ungrateful too ... after the Duchess--I except\nthe Duchess and her peers--and be sure she will be the world's Duchess\nand received as one of your most striking poems. Full of various power\nthe poem is.... I cannot say how deeply it has impressed me--but\nthough I want the conclusion, I don't _wish_ for it; and in this, am\nreasonable for once! You will not write and make yourself ill--will\nyou? or read 'Sybil' at unlawful hours even? Are you better at all?\nWhat a letter! and how very foolishly to-day\n\n                                                 I am yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Morning.\n                                 [Post-mark, July 14, 1845.]\n\nVery well--I shall say no more on the subject--though it was not any\npiece of formality on your part that I deprecated; nor even your\nover-kindness exactly--I rather wanted you to be really, wisely kind,\nand do me a greater favour then the next great one in degree; but you\nmust understand this much in me, how you can lay me under deepest\nobligation. I daresay you think you have some, perhaps many, to whom\nyour well-being is of deeper interest than to me. Well, if that be\nso, do for their sakes make every effort with the remotest chance of\nproving serviceable to you; nor _set yourself against_ any little\nirksomeness these carriage-drives may bring with them just at the\nbeginning; and you may say, if you like, 'how I shall delight those\nfriends, if I can make this newest one grateful'--and, as from the\nknown quantity one reasons out the unknown, this newest friend will be\none glow of gratitude, he knows that, if you can warm your finger-tips\nand so do yourself that much real good, by setting light to a dozen\n'Duchesses': why ought I not to say this when it is so true? Besides,\npeople profess as much to their merest friends--for I have been\nlooking through a poem-book just now, and was told, under the head of\nAlbum-verses alone, that for A. the writer would die, and for B. die\ntoo but a crueller death, and for C. too, and D. and so on. I wonder\nwhether they have since wanted to borrow money of him on the strength\nof his professions. But you must remember we are in July; the 13th it\nis, and summer will go and cold weather stay ('_come_' forsooth!)--and\nnow is the time of times. Still I feared the rain would hinder you on\nFriday--but the thunder did not frighten me--for you: your father must\npardon me for holding most firmly with Dr. Chambers--his theory is\nquite borne out by my own experience, for I have seen a man it were\nfoolish to call a coward, a great fellow too, all but die away in a\nthunderstorm, though he had quite science enough to explain why there\nwas no immediate danger at all--whereupon his younger brother\nsuggested that he should just go out and treat us to a repetition of\nFranklin's experiment with the cloud and the kite--a well-timed\nproposition which sent the Explainer down with a white face into the\ncellar. What a grand sight your tree was--_is_, for I see it. My\nfather has a print of a tree so struck--torn to ribbons, as you\ndescribe--but the rose-mark is striking and new to me. We had a good\nstorm on our last voyage, but I went to bed at the end, as I\nthought--and only found there had been lightning next day by the bare\npoles under which we were riding: but the finest mountain fit of the\nkind I ever saw has an unfortunately ludicrous association. It was at\nPossagno, among the Euganean Hills, and I was at a poor house in the\ntown--an old woman was before a little picture of the Virgin, and at\nevery fresh clap she lighted, with the oddest sputtering muttering\nmouthful of prayer imaginable, an inch of guttery candle, which, the\ninstant the last echo had rolled away, she as constantly blew out\nagain for saving's sake--having, of course, to _light the smoke_ of\nit, about an instant after that: the expenditure in wax at which the\nelements might be propitiated, you see, was a matter for curious\ncalculation. I suppose I ought to have bought the whole taper for some\nfour or five centesimi (100 of which make 8d. English) and so kept the\ncountryside safe for about a century of bad weather. Leigh Hunt tells\nyou a story he had from Byron, of kindred philosophy in a Jew who was\nsurprised by a thunderstorm while he was dining on bacon--he tried to\neat between-whiles, but the flashes were as pertinacious as he, so at\nlast he pushed his plate away, just remarking with a compassionate\nshrug, 'all this fuss about a piece of pork!' By the way, what a\ncharacteristic of an Italian _late_ evening is Summer-lightning--it\nhangs in broad slow sheets, dropping from cloud to cloud, so long in\ndropping and dying off. The 'bora,' which you only get at Trieste,\nbrings wonderful lightning--you are in glorious June-weather, fancy,\nof an evening, under green shock-headed acacias, so thick and green,\nwith the cicalas stunning you above, and all about you men, women,\nrich and poor, sitting standing and coming and going--and through all\nthe laughter and screaming and singing, the loud clink of the spoons\nagainst the glasses, the way of calling for fresh 'sorbetti'--for all\nthe world is at open-coffee-house at such an hour--when suddenly there\nis a stop in the sunshine, a blackness drops down, then a great white\ncolumn of dust drives straight on like a wedge, and you see the acacia\nheads snap off, now one, then another--and all the people scream 'la\nbora, la bora!' and you are caught up in their whirl and landed in\nsome interior, the man with the guitar on one side of you, and the boy\nwith a cageful of little brown owls for sale, on the other--meanwhile,\nthe thunder claps, claps, with such a persistence, and the rain, for a\nfinale, falls in a mass, as if you had knocked out the whole bottom of\na huge tank at once--then there is a second stop--out comes the\nsun--somebody clinks at his glass, all the world bursts out laughing,\nand prepares to pour out again,--but _you_, the stranger, _do_ make\nthe best of your way out, with no preparation at all; whereupon you\ninfallibly put your foot (and half your leg) into a river, really\nthat, of rainwater--that's a _Bora_ (and that comment of yours, a\njustifiable pun!) Such things you get in Italy, but better, better,\nthe best of all things you do not (_I_ do not) get those. And I shall\nsee you on Wednesday, please remember, and bring you the rest of the\npoem--that you should like it, gratifies me more than I will try to\nsay, but then, do not you be tempted by that pleasure of pleasing\nwhich I think is your besetting sin--may it not be?--and so cut me off\nfrom the other pleasure of being profited. As I told you, I like so\nmuch to fancy that you see, and will see, what I do as _I_ see it,\nwhile it is doing, as nobody else in the world should, certainly, even\nif they thought it worth while to want--but when I try and build a\ngreat building I shall want you to come with me and judge it and\ncounsel me before the scaffolding is taken down, and while you have to\nmake your way over hods and mortar and heaps of lime, and trembling\ntubs of size, and those thin broad whitewashing brushes I always had a\ndesire to take up and bespatter with. And now goodbye--I am to see you\non Wednesday I trust--and to hear you say you are better, still\nbetter, much better? God grant that, and all else good for you, dear\nfriend, and so for R.B.\n\n                                                 ever yours.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, July 18, 1845.]\n\nI suppose nobody is ever expected to acknowledge his or her 'besetting\nsin'--it would be unnatural--and therefore you will not be surprised\nto hear me deny the one imputed to me for mine. I deny it quite and\ndirectly. And if my denial goes for nothing, which is but reasonable,\nI might call in a great cloud of witnesses, ... a thundercloud, ...\n(talking of storms!) and even seek no further than this table for a\nfirst witness; this letter, I had yesterday, which calls me ... let me\nsee how many hard names ... 'unbending,' ... 'disdainful,' ... 'cold\nhearted,' ... 'arrogant,' ... yes, 'arrogant, as women always are when\nmen grow humble' ... there's a charge against all possible and\nprobable petticoats beyond mine and through it! Not that either they\nor mine deserve the charge--we do not; to the lowest hem of us! for I\ndon't pass to the other extreme, mind, and adopt besetting sins 'over\nthe way' and in antithesis. It's an undeserved charge, and unprovoked!\nand in fact, the very flower of self-love self-tormented into ill\ntemper; and shall remain unanswered, for _me_, ... and _should_, ...\neven if I could write mortal epigrams, as your Lamia speaks them. Only\nit serves to help my assertion that people in general who know\nsomething of me, my dear friend, are not inclined to agree with you in\nparticular, about my having an 'over-pleasure in pleasing,' for a\nbesetting sin. If you had spoken of my sister Henrietta indeed, you\nwould have been right--_so_ right! but for _me_, alas, my sins are not\nhalf as amiable, nor given to lean to virtue's side with half such a\ngrace. And then I have a pretension to speak the truth like a Roman,\neven in matters of literature, where Mr. Kenyon says falseness is a\nfashion--and really and honestly I should not be afraid ... I should\nhave no reason to be afraid, ... if all the notes and letters written\nby my hand for years and years about presentation copies of poems and\nother sorts of books were brought together and 'conferred,' as they\nsay of manuscripts, before my face--I should not shrink and be\nashamed. Not that I always tell the truth as I see it--_but_ I _never\ndo_ speak falsely with intention and consciousness--never--and I do\nnot find that people of letters are sooner offended than others are,\nby the truth told in gentleness;--I do not remember to have offended\nanyone in this relation, and by these means. Well!--but _from me to\nyou_; it is all different, you know--you must know how different it\nis. I can tell you truly what I think of this thing and of that thing\nin your 'Duchess'--but I must of a necessity hesitate and fall into\nmisgiving of the adequacy of my truth, so called. To judge at all of a\nwork of yours, I must _look up to it_, and _far up_--because whatever\nfaculty _I_ have is included in your faculty, and with a great rim all\nround it besides! And thus, it is not at all from an over-pleasure in\npleasing _you_, not at all from an inclination to depreciate myself,\nthat I speak and feel as I do and must on some occasions; it is simply\nthe consequence of a true comprehension of you and of me--and apart\nfrom it, I should not be abler, I think, but less able, to assist you\nin anything. I do wish you would consider all this reasonably, and\nunderstand it as a third person would in a moment, and consent not to\nspoil the real pleasure I have and am about to have in your poetry, by\nnailing me up into a false position with your gold-headed nails of\nchivalry, which won't hold to the wall through this summer. Now you\nwill not answer this?--you will only understand it and me--and that I\nam not servile but sincere, but earnest, but meaning what I say--and\nwhen I say I am afraid, you will believe that I am afraid; and when I\nsay I have misgivings, you will believe that I have misgivings--you\nwill _trust_ me so far, and give me liberty to breathe and feel\nnaturally ... according to my own nature. Probably, or certainly\nrather, I have one advantage over you, ... one, of which women are not\nfond of boasting--that of _being older by years_--for the 'Essay on\nMind,' which was the first poem published by me (and rather more\nprinted than published after all), the work of my earliest youth, half\nchildhood, half womanhood, was published in 1826 I see. And if I told\nMr. Kenyon not to let you see that book, it was not for the date, but\nbecause Coleridge's daughter was right in calling it a mere 'girl's\nexercise'; because it is just _that_ and no more, ... no expression\nwhatever of my nature as it ever was, ... pedantic, and in some things\npert, ... and such as altogether, and to do myself justice (which I\nwould fain do of course), I was not in my whole life. Bad books are\nnever like their writers, you know--and those under-age books are\ngenerally bad. Also I have found it hard work to _get into\nexpression_, though I began rhyming from my very infancy, much as you\ndid (and this, with no sympathy near to me--I have had to do without\nsympathy in the full sense--), and even in my 'Seraphim' days, my\ntongue clove to the roof of my mouth,--from leading so conventual\nrecluse a life, perhaps--and all my better poems were written last\nyear, the very best thing to come, if there should be any life or\ncourage to come; I scarcely know. Sometimes--it is the real truth--I\nhave haste to be done with it all. It is the real truth; however to\nsay so may be an ungrateful return for your kind and generous words,\n... which I _do_ feel gratefully, let me otherwise feel as I will, ...\nor must. But then you know you are liable to such prodigious mistakes\nabout besetting sins and even besetting virtues--to such a set of\nsmall delusions, that are sure to break one by one, like other\nbubbles, as you draw in your breath, ... as I see by the law of my own\nstar, my own particular star, the star I was born under, the star\n_Wormwood_, ... on the opposite side of the heavens from the\nconstellations of 'the Lyre and the Crown.' In the meantime, it is\ndifficult to thank you, or _not_ to thank you, for all your\nkindnesses--[Greek: algos de sigan]. Only Mrs. Jameson told me of Lady\nByron's saying 'that she knows she is burnt every day in effigy by\nhalf the world, but that the effigy is so unlike herself as to be\ninoffensive to her,' and just so, or rather just in the converse of\n_so_, is it with me and your kindnesses. They are meant for quite\nanother than I, and are too far to be so near. The comfort is ... in\nseeing you throw all those ducats out of the window, (and how many\nducats go in a figure to a 'dozen Duchesses,' it is profane to\ncalculate) the comfort is that you will not be the poorer for it in\nthe end; since the people beneath, are honest enough to push them back\nunder the door. Rather a bleak comfort and occupation though!--and you\nmay find better work for your friends, who are (some of them) weary\neven unto death of the uses of this life. And now, you who are\ngenerous, _be_ generous, and take no notice of all this. I speak of\nmyself, not of you so there is nothing for you to contradict or\ndiscuss--and if there were, you would be really kind and give me my\nway in it. Also you may take courage; for I promise not to vex you by\nthanking you against _your_ will,--more than may be helped.\n\nSome of this letter was written before yesterday and in reply of\ncourse to yours--so it is to pass for two letters, being long enough\nfor just six. Yesterday you must have wondered at me for being in such\na maze altogether about the poems--and so now I rise to explain that\nit was assuredly the wine song and no other which I read of yours in\n_Hood's_. And then, what did I say of the Dante and Beatrice? Because\nwhat I referred to was the exquisite page or two or three on that\nsubject in the 'Pentameron.' I do not remember anything else of\nLandor's with the same bearing--do you? As to Montaigne, with the\nthreads of my thoughts smoothly disentangled, I can see nothing\ncoloured by him ... nothing. Do bring all the _Hood_ poems of your\nown--inclusive of the 'Tokay,' because I read it in such haste as to\nwhirl up all the dust you saw, from the wheels of my chariot. The\n'Duchess' is past speaking of here--but you will see how I am\ndelighted. And we must make speed--only taking care of your head--for\nI heard to-day that Papa and my aunt are discussing the question of\nsending me off either to Alexandria or Malta for the winter. Oh--it\nis quite a passing talk and thought, I dare say! and it would not _be_\nin any case, until September or October; though in every case, I\nsuppose, _I_ should not be much consulted ... and all cases and places\nwould seem better to me (if I were) than Madeira which the physicians\nused to threaten me with long ago. So take care of your headache and\nlet us have the 'Bells' rung out clear before the summer ends ... and\npray don't say again anything about clear consciences or unclear ones,\nin granting me the privilege of reading your manuscripts--which is all\nclear privilege to me, with pride and gladness waiting on it. May God\nbless you always my dear friend!\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nYou left behind your sister's little basket--but I hope you did not\nforget to thank her for my carnations.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[no date]\n\nI shall just say, at the beginning of a note as at the end, I am yours\n_ever_, and not till summer ends and my nails fall out, and my breath\nbreaks bubbles,--ought you to write thus having restricted me as you\nonce did, and do still? You tie me like a Shrove-Tuesday fowl to a\nstake and then pick the thickest cudgel out of your lot, and at my\nhead it goes--I wonder whether you remembered having predicted exactly\nthe same horror once before. 'I was to see you--and you were to\nunderstand'--_Do_ you? do you understand--my own friend--with that\nsuperiority in years, too! For I confess to that--you need not throw\nthat in my teeth ... as soon as I read your 'Essay on Mind'--(which of\ncourse I managed to do about 12 hours after Mr. K's positive refusal\nto keep his promise, and give me the book) from preface to the 'Vision\nof Fame' at the end, and reflected on my own doings about that time,\n1826--I did indeed see, and wonder at, your advance over me in\nyears--what then? I have got nearer you considerably--(if only\nnearer)--since then--and prove it by the remarks I make at favourable\ntimes--such as this, for instance, which occurs in a poem you are to\nsee--written some time ago--which advises nobody who thinks nobly of\nthe Soul, to give, if he or she can help, such a good argument to the\nmaterialist as the owning that any great choice of that Soul, which it\nis born to make and which--(in its determining, as it must, the whole\nfuture course and impulses of that soul)--which must endure for ever,\neven though the object that induced the choice should\ndisappear--owning, I say, that such a choice may be scientifically\ndetermined and produced, at any operator's pleasure, by a definite\nnumber of ingredients, so much youth, so much beauty, so much talent\n&c. &c., with the same certainty and precision that another kind of\noperator will construct you an artificial volcano with so much steel\nfilings and flower of sulphur and what not. There is more in the soul\nthan rises to the surface and meets the eye; whatever does _that_, is\nfor this world's immediate uses; and were this world _all, all_ in us\nwould be producible and available for use, as it _is_ with the body\nnow--but with the soul, what is to be developed _afterward_ is the\nmain thing, and instinctively asserts its rights--so that when you\nhate (or love) you shall not be so able to explain 'why' ('You' is the\nordinary creature enough of my poem--_he_ might not be so able.)\n\nThere, I will write no more. You will never drop _me_ off the golden\nhooks, I dare believe--and the rest is with God--whose finger I see\nevery minute of my life. Alexandria! Well, and may I not as easily ask\nleave to come 'to-morrow at the Muezzin' as next Wednesday at three?\n\nGod bless you--do not be otherwise than kind to this letter which it\ncosts me pains, great pains to avoid writing better, as\ntruthfuller--this you get is not the first begun. Come, you shall not\nhave the heart to blame me; for, see, I will send all my sins of\ncommission with _Hood_,--blame _them_, tell me about them, and\nmeantime let me be, dear friend, yours,\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                 [Post-mark, July 21, 1845.]\n\nBut I never _did_ strike you or touch you--and you are not in earnest\nin the complaint you make--and this is really all I am going to say\nto-day. What I said before was wrung from me by words on your part,\nwhile you know far too well how to speak so as to make them go\ndeepest, and which sometimes it becomes impossible, or over-hard to\nbear without deprecation:--as when, for instance, you talk of being\n'grateful' to _me_!!--Well! I will try that there shall be no more of\nit--no more provocation of generosities--and so, (this once) as you\nexpress it, I 'will not have the heart to blame' you--except for\nreading my books against my will, which was very wrong indeed. Mr.\nKenyon asked me, I remember, (he had a mania of sending my copybook\nliterature round the world to this person and that person, and I was\nroused at last into binding him by a vow to do so no more) I remember\nhe asked me ... 'Is Mr. Browning to be excepted?'; to which I answered\nthat nobody was to be excepted--and thus he was quite right in\nresisting to the death ... or to dinner-time ... just as you were\nquite wrong after dinner. Now, could a woman have been more curious?\nCould the very author of the book have done worse? But I leave my sins\nand yours gladly, to get into the _Hood_ poems which have delighted me\nso--and first to the St. Praxed's which is of course the finest and\nmost powerful ... and indeed full of the power of life ... and of\ndeath. It has impressed me very much. Then the 'Angel and Child,' with\nall its beauty and significance!--and the 'Garden Fancies' ... some of\nthe stanzas about the name of the flower, with such exquisite music in\nthem, and grace of every kind--and with that beautiful and musical use\nof the word 'meandering,' which I never remember having seen used in\nrelation to _sound_ before. It does to mate with your '_simmering_\nquiet' in Sordello, which brings the summer air into the room as sure\nas you read it. Then I like your burial of the pedant so much!--you\nhave quite the damp smell of funguses and the sense of creeping things\nthrough and through it. And the 'Laboratory' is hideous as you meant\nto make it:--only I object a little to your tendency ... which is\nalmost a habit, and is very observable in this poem I think, ... of\nmaking lines difficult for the reader to read ... see the opening\nlines of this poem. Not that music is required everywhere, nor in\n_them_ certainly, but that the uncertainty of rhythm throws the\nreader's mind off the _rail_ ... and interrupts his progress with you\nand your influence with him. Where we have not direct pleasure from\nrhythm, and where no peculiar impression is to be produced by the\nchanges in it, we should be encouraged by the poet to _forget it\naltogether_; should we not? I am quite wrong perhaps--but you see how\nI do not conceal my wrongnesses where they mix themselves up with my\nsincere impressions. And how could it be that no one within my hearing\never spoke of these poems? Because it is true that I never saw one of\nthem--never!--except the 'Tokay,' which is inferior to all; and that I\nwas quite unaware of your having printed so much with Hood--or at all,\nexcept this 'Tokay,' and this 'Duchess'! The world is very deaf and\ndumb, I think--but in the end, we need not be afraid of its not\nlearning its lesson.\n\nCould you come--for I am going out in the carriage, and will not stay\nto write of your poems even, any more to-day--could you come on\nThursday or Friday (the day left to your choice) instead of on\nWednesday? If I could help it I would not say so--it is not a caprice.\nAnd I leave it to you, whether Thursday or Friday. And Alexandria\nseems discredited just now for Malta--and 'anything but Madeira,' I go\non saying to myself. These _Hood_ poems are all to be in the next\n'Bells' of course--of necessity?\n\nMay God bless you my dear friend, my ever dear friend!--\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n                                 [Post-mark, July 22, 1845.]\n\nI will say, with your leave, Thursday (nor attempt to say anything\nelse without your leave).\n\nThe temptation of reading the 'Essay' was more than I could bear: and\na wonderful work it is every way; the other poems and their\nmusic--wonderful!\n\nAnd you go out still--so continue better!\n\nI cannot write this morning--I should say too much and have to be\nsorry and afraid--let me be safely yours ever, my own dear friend--\n\n                                                        R.B.\n\nI am but too proud of your praise--when will the blame come--at Malta?",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, July 25, 1845.]\n\nAre you any better to-day? and will you say just the truth of it? and\nnot attempt to do any of the writing which does harm--nor of the\nreading even, which may do harm--and something does harm to you, you\nsee--and you told me not long ago that you knew how to avoid the harm\n... now, did you not? and what could it have been last week which you\ndid not avoid, and which made you so unwell? Beseech you not to think\nthat I am going to aid and abet in this wronging of yourself, for I\nwill not indeed--and I am only sorry to have given you my querulous\nqueries yesterday ... and to have omitted to say in relation to them,\ntoo, how they were to be accepted in any case as just passing thoughts\nof mine for _your_ passing thoughts, ... some right, it may be ...\nsome wrong, it must be ... and none, insisted on even by the thinker!\njust impressions, and by no means pretending to be judgments--now\n_will_ you understand? Also, I intended (as a proof of my fallacy) to\nstrike out one or two of my doubts before I gave the paper to you--so\n_whichever strikes you as the most foolish of them, of course must be\nwhat I meant to strike out_--(there's ingenuity for you!). The poem\ndid, for the rest, as will be suggested to you, give me the very\ngreatest pleasure, and astonish me in two ways ... by the\nversification, mechanically considered; and by the successful\nevolution of pure beauty from all that roughness and rudeness of the\nsin of the boar-pinner--successfully evolved, without softening one\nhoarse accent of his voice. But there is to be a pause now--you will\nnot write any more--no, nor come here on Wednesday, if coming into the\nroar of this London should make the pain worse, as I cannot help\nthinking it must--and you were not well yesterday morning, you\nadmitted. You _will_ take care? And if there should be a wisdom in\ngoing away...!\n\nWas it very wrong of me, doing what I told you of yesterday? Very\nimprudent, I am afraid--but I never knew how to be prudent--and then,\nthere is not a sharing of responsibility in any sort of imaginable\nmeasure; but a mere going away of so many thoughts, apart from the\nthinker, or of words, apart from the speaker, ... just as I might give\naway a pocket-handkerchief to be newly marked and mine no longer. I\ndid not do--and would not have done, ... one of those papers singly.\nIt would have been unbecoming of me in every way. It was simply a\nwriting of notes ... of slips of paper ... now on one subject, and now\non another ... which were thrown into the great cauldron and boiled up\nwith other matter, and re-translated from my idiom where there seemed\na need for it. And I am not much afraid of being ever guessed\nat--except by those Oedipuses who astounded me once for a moment and\nwere after all, I hope, baffled by the Sphinx--or ever betrayed;\nbecause besides the black Stygian oaths and indubitable honour of the\neditor, he has some interest, even as I have the greatest, in being\nsilent and secret. And nothing _is mine_ ... if something is _of me_\n... or _from_ me, rather. Yet it was wrong and foolish, I see\nplainly--wrong in all but the motives. How dreadful to write against\ntime, and with a side-ways running conscience! And then the literature\nof the day was wider than his knowledge, all round! And the\nbooksellers were barking distraction on every side!--I had some of the\nmottos to find too! But the paper relating to you I never was\nconsulted about--or in _one particular way_ it would have been\nbetter,--as easily it might have been. May God bless you, my dear\nfriend,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                                 [Post-mark, July 25, 1845.]\n\nYou would let me _now_, I dare say, call myself grateful to you--yet\nsuch is my jealousy in these matters--so do I hate the material when\nit puts down, (or tries) the immaterial in the offices of friendship;\nthat I could almost tell you I was _not_ grateful, and try if that way\nI could make you see the substantiality of those other favours you\nrefuse to recognise, and reality of the other gratitude you will not\nadmit. But truth is truth, and you are all generosity, and will draw\nnone but the fair inference, so I thank you as well as I can for this\n_also_--this last kindness. And you know its value, too--how if there\nwere another _you_ in the world, who had done all you have done and\nwhom I merely admired for that; if such an one had sent me such a\ncriticism, so exactly what I want and can use and turn to good; you\nknow how I would have told you, my _you_ I saw yesterday, all about\nit, and been sure of your sympathy and gladness:--but the two in one!\n\nFor the criticism itself, it is all true, except the over-eating--all\nthe suggestions are to be adopted, the improvements accepted. I so\nthoroughly understand your spirit in this, that, just in this\nbeginning, I should really like to have found some point in which I\ncould coöperate with your intention, and help my work by disputing the\neffect of any alteration proposed, if it ought to be disputed--_that_\nwould answer your purpose exactly as well as agreeing with you,--so\nthat the benefit to me were apparent; but this time I cannot dispute\none point. All is for best.\n\nSo much for this 'Duchess'--which I shall ever rejoice in--wherever\nwas a bud, even, in that strip of May-bloom, a live musical bee hangs\nnow. I shall let it lie (my poem), till just before I print it; and\nthen go over it, alter at the places, and do something for the places\nwhere I (really) wrote anyhow, almost, to get done. It is an odd fact,\nyet characteristic of my accomplishings one and all in this kind, that\nof _the poem_, the real conception of an evening (two years ago,\nfully)--of _that_, not a line is written,--though perhaps after all,\nwhat I am going to call the accessories in the story are real though\nindirect reflexes of the original idea, and so supersede properly\nenough the necessity of its personal appearance, so to speak. But, as\nI conceived the poem, it consisted entirely of the Gipsy's description\nof the life the Lady was to lead with her future Gipsy lover--a _real_\nlife, not an unreal one like that with the Duke. And as I meant to\nwrite it, all their wild adventures would have come out and the\ninsignificance of the former vegetation have been deducible only--as\nthe main subject has become now; of course it comes to the same thing,\nfor one would never show half by half like a cut orange.--\n\nWill you write to me? caring, though, so much for my best interests as\nnot to write if you can work for yourself, or save yourself fatigue. I\n_think_ before writing--or just after writing--such a sentence--but\nreflection only justifies my first feeling; I _would_ rather go\nwithout your letters, without seeing you at all, if that advantaged\nyou--my dear, first and last friend; my friend! And now--surely I\nmight dare say you may if you please get well through God's\ngoodness--with persevering patience, surely--and this next winter\nabroad--which you must get ready for now, every sunny day, will you\nnot? If I venture to weary you again with all this, is there not the\ncause of causes, and did not the prophet write that 'there was a tide\nin the affairs of men, which taken at the E.B.B.' led on to the\nfortune of\n\n                                                   Your R.B.\n\nOh, let me tell you in the bitterness of my heart, that it was only 4\no'clock--that clock I enquired about--and that, ... no, I shall never\nsay with any grace what I want to say ... and now dare not ... that\nyou all but owe me an extra quarter of an hour next time: as in the\nEast you give a beggar something for a few days running--then you miss\nhim; and next day he looks indignant when the regular dole falls and\nmurmurs--'And, for yesterday?'--Do I stay too long, I _want_ to\nknow,--too long for the voice and head and all but the spirit that may\nnot so soon tire,--knowing the good it does. If you would but tell me.\n\nGod bless you--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                  [Post-mark, July 28, 1845]\n\nYou say too much indeed in this letter which has crossed mine--and\nparticularly as there is not a word in it of what I most wanted to\nknow and want to know ... _how you are_--for you must observe, if you\nplease, that the very paper you pour such kindness on, was written\nafter your own example and pattern, when, in the matter of my\n'Prometheus' (such different wearying matter!), you took trouble for\nme and did me good. Judge from this, if even in inferior things, there\ncan be gratitude from you to me!--or rather, do not judge--but listen\nwhen I say that I am delighted to have met your wishes in writing as I\nwrote; only that you are surely wrong in refusing to see a single\nwrongness in all that heap of weedy thoughts, and that when you look\nagain, you must come to the admission of it. One of the thistles is\nthe suggestion about the line\n\n    Was it singing, was it saying,\n\nwhich you wrote so, and which I proposed to amend by an intermediate\n'or.' Thinking of it at a distance, it grows clear to me that you were\nright, and that there should be and must be no 'or' to disturb the\nlistening pause. Now _should_ there? And there was something else,\nwhich I forget at this moment--and something more than the something\nelse. Your account of the production of the poem interests me very\nmuch--and proves just what I wanted to make out from your statements\nthe other day, and they refused, I thought, to let me, ... that you\nare more faithful to your first _Idea_ than to your first _plan_. Is\nit so? or not? 'Orange' is orange--but _which half_ of the orange is\nnot predestinated from all eternity--: is it _so_?\n\n_Sunday._--I wrote so much yesterday and then went out, not knowing\nvery well how to speak or how to be silent (is it better to-day?) of\nsome expressions of yours ... and of your interest in me--which are\ndeeply affecting to my feelings--whatever else remains to be said of\nthem. And you know that you make great mistakes, ... of fennel for\nhemlock, of four o'clocks for five o'clocks, and of other things of\nmore consequence, one for another; and may not be quite right besides\nas to my getting well '_if I please_!' ... which reminds me a little\nof what Papa says sometimes when he comes into this room unexpectedly\nand convicts me of having dry toast for dinner, and declares angrily\nthat obstinacy and dry toast have brought me to my present condition,\nand that if I _pleased_ to have porter and beefsteaks instead, I\nshould be as well as ever I was, in a month!... But where is the need\nof talking of it? What I wished to say was this--that if I get better\nor worse ... as long as I live and to the last moment of life, I shall\nremember with an emotion which cannot change its character, all the\ngenerous interest and feeling you have spent on me--_wasted_ on me I\nwas going to write--but I would not provoke any answering--and in one\nobvious sense, it need not be so. I never shall forget these things,\nmy dearest friend; nor remember them more coldly. God's goodness!--I\nbelieve in it, as in His sunshine here--which makes my head ache a\nlittle, while it comes in at the window, and makes most other people\ngayer--it does _me_ good too in a different way. And so, may God bless\nyou! and me in this ... just this, ... that I may never have the\nsense, ... intolerable in the remotest apprehension of it ... of\nbeing, in any way, directly or indirectly, the means of ruffling your\nsmooth path by so much as one of my flint-stones!--In the meantime you\ndo not tire me indeed even when you go later for sooner ... and I do\nnot tire myself even when I write longer and duller letters to you (if\nthe last is possible) than the one I am ending now ... as the most\ngrateful (leave me that word) of your friends.\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nHow could you think that I should speak to Mr. Kenyon of the book? All\nI ever said to him has been that you had looked through my\n'Prometheus' for me--and that I was _not disappointed in you_, these\ntwo things on two occasions. I do trust that your head is better.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, July 28, 1845.]\n\nHow must I feel, and what can, or could I say even if you let me say\nall? I am most grateful, most happy--most happy, come what will!\n\nWill you let me try and answer your note to-morrow--before Wednesday\nwhen I am to see you? I will not hide from you that my head aches now;\nand I have let the hours go by one after one--I am better all the\nsame, and will write as I say--'Am I better' you ask!\n\n                  Yours I am, ever yours my dear friend R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                 [Post-mark, July 31, 1845.]\n\nIn all I say to you, write to you, I know very well that I trust to\nyour understanding me almost beyond the warrant of any human\ncapacity--but as I began, so I shall end. I shall believe you remember\nwhat I am forced to remember--you who do me the superabundant justice\non every possible occasion,--you will never do me injustice when I sit\nby you and talk about Italy and the rest.\n\n--To-day I cannot write--though I am very well otherwise--but I shall\nsoon get into my old self-command and write with as much 'ineffectual\nfire' as before: but meantime, _you_ will write to me, I hope--telling\nme how you are? I have but one greater delight in the world than in\nhearing from you.\n\nGod bless you, my best, dearest friend--think what I would speak--\n\n                                                  Ever yours\n\n                                                       R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                [Post-mark, August 2, 1845.]\n\nLet me write one word ... not to have it off my mind ... because it is\nby no means heavily _on_ it; but lest I should forget to write it at\nall by not writing it at once. What could you mean, ... I have been\nthinking since you went away ... by applying such a grave expression\nas having a thing 'off your mind' to that foolish subject of the\nstupid book (mine), and by making it worth your while to account\nlogically for your wish about my not mentioning it to Mr. Kenyon? You\ncould not fancy for one moment that I was vexed in the matter of the\nbook? or in the other matter of your wish? Now just hear me. I\nexplained to you that I had been silent to Mr. Kenyon, first because\nthe fact was so; and next and a little, because I wanted to show how I\nanticipated your wish by a wish of my own ... though from a different\nmotive. _Your_ motive I really did take to be (never suspecting my\ndear kind cousin of treason) to be a natural reluctancy of being\nconvicted (forgive me!) of such an arch-womanly curiosity. For my own\nmotive ... motives ... they are more than one ... you must trust me;\nand refrain as far as you can from accusing me of an over-love of\nEleusinian mysteries when I ask you to say just as little about your\nvisits here and of me as you find possible ... _even to Mr. Kenyon_\n... as _to every other person whatever_. As you know ... and yet more\nthan you know ... I am in a peculiar position--and it does not follow\nthat you should be ashamed of my friendship or that I should not be\nproud of yours, if we avoid making it a subject of conversation in\nhigh places, or low places. There! _that_ is my request to you--or\ncommentary on what you put 'off your mind' yesterday--probably quite\nunnecessary as either request or commentary; yet said on the chance of\nits not being so, because you seemed to mistake my remark about Mr.\nKenyon.\n\nAnd your head, how is it? And do consider if it would not be wise and\nright on that account of your health, to go with Mr. Chorley? You can\nneither work nor enjoy while you are subject to attacks of the\nkind--and besides, and without reference to your present suffering and\ninconvenience, you _ought not_ to let them master you and gather\nstrength from time and habit; I am sure you ought not. Worse last week\nthan ever, you see!--and no prospect, perhaps, of bringing out your\n\"Bells\" this autumn, without paying a cost too heavy!--Therefore ...\nthe _therefore_ is quite plain and obvious!--\n\n_Friday._--Just as it is how anxious Flush and I are, to be delivered\nfrom you; by these sixteen heads of the discourse of one of us,\nwritten before your letter came. Ah, but I am serious--and you will\nconsider--will you not? what is best to be done? and do it. You could\nwrite to me, you know, from the end of the world; if you could take\nthe thought of me so far.\n\nAnd _for_ me, no, and yet yes,--I _will_ say this much; that I am not\ninclined to do you injustice, but justice, when you come here--the\njustice of wondering to myself how you can possibly, possibly, care to\ncome. Which is true enough to be _unanswerable_, if you please--or I\nshould not say it. '_As I began, so I shall end_--' Did you, as I hope\nyou did, thank your sister for Flush and for me? When you were gone,\nhe graciously signified his intention of eating the cakes--brought the\nbag to me and emptied it without a drawback, from my hand, cake after\ncake. And I forgot the basket once again.\n\nAnd talking of Italy and the cardinals, and thinking of some cardinal\npoints you are ignorant of, did you ever hear that I was one of\n\n          'those schismatiques\n    of Amsterdam'\n\nwhom your Dr. Donne would have put into the dykes? unless he meant the\nBaptists, instead of the Independents, the holders of the Independent\nchurch principle. No--not '_schismatical_,' I hope, hating as I do\nfrom the roots of my heart all that rending of the garment of Christ,\nwhich Christians are so apt to make the daily week-day of this\nChristianity so called--and caring very little for most dogmas and\ndoxies in themselves--too little, as people say to me sometimes, (when\nthey send me 'New Testaments' to learn from, with very kind\nintentions)--and believing that there is only one church in heaven and\nearth, with one divine High Priest to it; let exclusive religionists\nbuild what walls they please and bring out what chrisms. But I used to\ngo with my father always, when I was able, to the nearest dissenting\nchapel of the Congregationalists--from liking the simplicity of that\npraying and speaking without books--and a little too from disliking\nthe theory of state churches. There is a narrowness among the\ndissenters which is wonderful; an arid, grey Puritanism in the clefts\nof their souls: but it seems to me clear that they know what the\n'liberty of Christ' _means_, far better than those do who call\nthemselves 'churchmen'; and stand altogether, as a body, on higher\nground. And so, you see, when I talked of the sixteen points of my\ndiscourse, it was the foreshadowing of a coming event, and you have\nhad it at last in the whole length and breadth of it. But it is not my\nfault if the wind began to blow so that I could not go out--as I\nintended--as I shall do to-morrow; and that you have received my\ndulness in a full libation of it, in consequence. My sisters said of\nthe roses you blasphemed, yesterday, that they 'never saw such flowers\nanywhere--anywhere here in London--' and therefore if I had thought so\nmyself before, it was not so wrong of me. I put your roses, you see,\nagainst my letter, to make it seem less dull--and yet I do not forget\nwhat you say about caring to hear from me--I mean, I do not _affect_\nto forget it.\n\nMay God bless you, far longer than I can say so.\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Evening.\n                                [Post-mark, August 4, 1845.]\n\nI said what you comment on, about Mr. Kenyon, because I feel I _must_\nalways tell you the simple truth--and not being quite at liberty to\ncommunicate the whole story (though it would at once clear me from the\ncharge of over-curiosity ... if I much cared for _that_!)--I made my\nfirst request in order to prevent your getting at any part of it from\n_him_ which should make my withholding seem disingenuous for the\nmoment--that is, till my explanation came, if it had an opportunity of\ncoming. And then, when I fancied you were misunderstanding the reason\nof that request--and supposing I was ambitious of making a higher\nfigure in _his_ eyes than your own,--I then felt it 'on my mind' and\nso spoke ... a natural mode of relief surely! For, dear friend, I have\n_once_ been _untrue_ to you--when, and how, and why, you know--but I\nthought it pedantry and worse to hold by my words and increase their\nfault. You have forgiven me that one mistake, and I only refer to it\nnow because if you should ever make _that_ a precedent, and put any\nleast, most trivial word of mine under the same category, you would\nwrong me as you never wronged human being:--and that is done with. For\nthe other matter,--the talk of my visits, it is impossible that any\nhint of them can ooze out of the only three persons in the world to\nwhom I ever speak of them--my father, mother and sister--to whom my\nappreciation of your works is no novelty since some years, and whom I\nmade comprehend exactly your position and the necessity for the\nabsolute silence I enjoined respecting the permission to see you. You\nmay depend on them,--and Miss Mitford is in your keeping, mind,--and\ndear Mr. Kenyon, if there should be never so gentle a touch of\n'garrulous God-innocence' about those kind lips of his. Come, let me\nsnatch at _that_ clue out of the maze, and say how perfect, absolutely\nperfect, are those three or four pages in the 'Vision' which present\nthe Poets--a line, a few words, and the man there,--one twang of the\nbow and the arrowhead in the white--Shelley's 'white ideal all\nstatue-blind' is--perfect,--how can I coin words? And dear deaf old\nHesiod--and--all, all are perfect, perfect! But 'the Moon's regality\nwill hear no praise'--well then, will she hear blame? Can it be you,\nmy own you past putting away, _you_ are a schismatic and frequenter of\nIndependent Dissenting Chapels? And you confess this to _me_--whose\nfather and mother went this morning to the very Independent Chapel\nwhere they took me, all those years back, to be baptised--and where\nthey heard, this morning, a sermon preached by the very minister who\nofficiated on that other occasion! Now will you be particularly\nencouraged by this successful instance to bring forward any other\npoint of disunion between us that may occur to you? Please do not--for\nso sure as you begin proving that there is a gulf fixed between us, so\nsure shall I end proving that ... Anne Radcliffe avert it!... that you\nare just my sister: not that I am much frightened, but there are such\nsurprises in novels!--Blame the next,--yes, now this _is_ to be real\nblame!--And I meant to call your attention to it before. Why, why, do\nyou blot out, in that unutterably provoking manner, whole lines, not\nto say words, in your letters--(and in the criticism on the\n'Duchess')--if it is a fact that you have a second thought, does it\ncease to be as genuine a fact, that first thought you please to\nefface? Why give a thing and take a thing? Is there no significance in\nputting on record that your first impression was to a certain effect\nand your next to a certain other, perhaps completely opposite one? If\nany proceeding of yours could go near to deserve that harsh word\n'impertinent' which you have twice, in speech and writing, been\npleased to apply to your observations on me; certainly _this_ does go\nas near as can be--as there is but one step to take from Southampton\npier to New York quay, for travellers Westward. Now will you lay this\nto heart and perpend--lest in my righteous indignation I [some words\neffaced here]! For my own health--it improves, thank you! And I shall\ngo abroad all in good time, never fear. For my 'Bells,' Mr. Chorley\ntells me there is no use in the world of printing them before November\nat earliest--and by that time I shall get done with these Romances and\ncertainly one Tragedy (_that_ could go to press next week)--in proof\nof which I will bring you, if you let me, a few more hundreds of lines\nnext Wednesday. But, 'my poet,' if I would, as is true, sacrifice all\nmy works to do your fingers, even, good--what would I not offer up to\nprevent you staying ... perhaps to correct my very verses ... perhaps\nread and answer my very letters ... staying the production of more\n'Berthas' and 'Caterinas' and 'Geraldines,' more great and beautiful\npoems of which I shall be--how proud! Do not be punctual in paying\ntithes of thyme, mint, anise and cummin, and leaving unpaid the real\nweighty dues of the Law; nor affect a scrupulous acknowledgment of\n'what you owe me' in petty manners, while you leave me to settle such\na charge, as accessory to the hiding the Talent, as best I can! I have\nthought of this again and again, and would have spoken of it to you,\nhad I ever felt myself fit to speak of any subject nearer home and me\nand you than Rome and Cardinal Acton. For, observe, you have not done\n... yes, the 'Prometheus,' no doubt ... but with that exception _have_\nyou written much lately, as much as last year when 'you wrote all your\nbest things' you said, I think? Yet you are better now than then.\nDearest friend, _I_ intend to write more, and very likely be praised\nmore, now I care less than ever for it, but still more do I look to\nhave you ever before me, in your place, and with more poetry and more\npraise still, and my own heartfelt praise ever on the top, like a\nflower on the water. I have said nothing of yesterday's storm ...\n_thunder_ ... may you not have been out in it! The evening draws in,\nand I will walk out. May God bless you, and let you hold me by the\nhand till the end--Yes, dearest friend!\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, August 8, 1845.]\n\nJust to show what may be lost by my crossings out, I will tell you the\nstory of the one in the 'Duchess'--and in fact it is almost worth\ntelling to a metaphysician like you, on other grounds, that you may\ndraw perhaps some psychological good from the absurdity of it. Hear,\nthen. When I had done writing the sheet of annotations and reflections\non your poem I took up my pencil to correct the passages reflected on\nwith the reflections, by the crosses you may observe, just glancing\nover the writing as I did so. Well! and, where that erasure is, I\nfound a line purporting to be extracted from your 'Duchess,' with\nsundry acute criticisms and objections quite undeniably strong,\nfollowing after it; only, to my amazement, as I looked and looked, the\nline so acutely objected to and purporting, as I say, to, be taken\nfrom the 'Duchess,' was by no means to be found in the 'Duchess,' ...\nnor anything like it, ... and I am certain indeed that, in the\n'Duchess' or out of it, you never wrote such a bad line in your life.\nAnd so it became a proved thing to me that I had been enacting, in a\nmystery, both poet and critic together--and one so neutralizing the\nother, that I took all that pains you remark upon to cross myself out\nin my double capacity, ... and am now telling the story of it\nnotwithstanding. And there's an obvious moral to the myth, isn't\nthere? for critics who bark the loudest, commonly bark at their own\nshadow in the glass, as my Flush used to do long and loud, before he\ngained experience and learnt the [Greek: gnôthi seauton] in the\napparition of the brown dog with the glittering dilating eyes, ... and\nas _I_ did, under the erasure. And another moral springs up of itself\nin this productive ground; for, you see, ... '_quand je m'efface il\nn'ya pas grand mal_.'\n\nAnd I am to be made to work very hard, am I? But you should remember\nthat if I did as much writing as last summer, I should not be able to\ndo much else, ... I mean, to go out and walk about ... for really I\nthink I _could_ manage to read your poems and write as I am writing\nnow, with ever so much head-work of my own going on at the same time.\nBut the bodily exercise is different, and I do confess that the\nnovelty of living more in the outer life for the last few months than\nI have done for years before, make me idle and inclined to be\nidle--and everybody is idle sometimes--even _you_ perhaps--are you\nnot? For me, you know, I do carpet-work--ask Mrs. Jameson--and I never\npretend to be in a perpetual motion of mental industry. Still it may\nnot be quite as bad as you think: I have done some work since\n'Prometheus'--only it is nothing worth speaking of and not a part of\nthe romance-poem which is to be some day if I live for it--lyrics for\nthe most part, which lie written illegibly in pure Egyptian--oh, there\nis time enough, and too much perhaps! and so let me be idle a little\nnow, and enjoy your poems while I can. It is pure enjoyment and must\nbe--but you do not know how much, or you would not talk as you do\nsometimes ... so wide of any possible application.\n\nAnd do _not_ talk again of what you would 'sacrifice' for _me_. If you\naffect me by it, which is true, you cast me from you farther than ever\nin the next thought. _That_ is true.\n\nThe poems ... yours ... which you left with me,--are full of various\npower and beauty and character, and you must let me have my own\ngladness from them in my own way.\n\nNow I must end this letter. Did you go to Chelsea and hear the divine\nphilosophy?\n\n_Tell me the truth always_ ... will you? I mean such truths as may be\npainful to me _though_ truths....\n\n                        May God bless you, ever dear friend.\n\n                             E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Afternoon.\n                                [Post-mark, August 8, 1845.]\n\nThen there is one more thing 'off my mind': I thought it might be with\nyou as with _me_--not remembering how different are the causes that\noperate against us; different in kind as in degree:--_so_ much reading\nhurts me, for instance,--whether the reading be light or heavy,\nfiction or fact, and _so_ much writing, whether my own, such as you\nhave seen, or the merest compliment-returning to the weary tribe that\nexact it of one. But your health--that before all!... as assuring all\neventually ... and on the other accounts you must know! Never, pray,\n_pray_, never lose one sunny day or propitious hour to 'go out or walk\nabout.' But do not surprise _me_, one of these mornings, by 'walking'\nup to me when I am introduced' ... or I shall infallibly, in spite of\nall the after repentance and begging pardon--I shall [words effaced].\nSo here you learn the first 'painful truth' I have it in my power to\ntell you!\n\nI sent you the last of our poor roses this morning--considering that I\nfairly owed that kindness to them.\n\nYes, I went to Chelsea and found dear Carlyle alone--his wife is in\nthe country where he will join her as soon as his book's last sheet\nreturns corrected and fit for press--which will be at the month's end\nabout. He was all kindness and talked like his own self while he made\nme tea--and, afterward, brought chairs into the little yard, rather\nthan garden, and smoked his pipe with apparent relish; at night he\nwould walk as far as Vauxhall Bridge on my way home.\n\nIf I used the word 'sacrifice,' you do well to object--I can imagine\nnothing ever to be done by me worthy such a name.\n\nGod bless you, dearest friend--shall I hear from you before Tuesday?\n\n                                               Ever your own\n\n                                                    R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                [Post-mark, August 8, 1845.]\n\nIt is very kind to send these flowers--too kind--why are they sent?\nand without one single word ... which is not too kind certainly. I\nlooked down into the heart of the roses and turned the carnations over\nand over to the peril of their leaves, and in vain! Not a word do I\ndeserve to-day, I suppose! And yet if I don't, I don't deserve the\nflowers either. There should have been an equal justice done to my\ndemerits, O Zeus with the scales!\n\nAfter all I do thank you for these flowers--and they are\nbeautiful--and they came just in a right current of time, just when I\nwanted them, or something like them--so I confess _that_ humbly, and\ndo thank you, at last, rather as I ought to do. Only you ought not to\ngive away all the flowers of your garden to _me_; and your sister\nthinks so, be sure--if as silently as you sent them. Now I shall not\nwrite any more, not having been written to. What with the Wednesday's\nflowers and these, you may think how I in this room, look down on the\ngardens of Damascus, let _your Jew_[1] say what he pleases of\n_them_--and the Wednesday's flowers are as fresh and beautiful, I must\nexplain, as the new ones. They were quite supererogatory ... the new\nones ... in the sense of being flowers. Now, the sense of what I am\nwriting seems questionable, does it not?--at least, more so, than the\nnonsense of it.\n\nNot a word, even under the little blue flowers!!!--\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\n[Footnote 1: 'R. Benjamin of Tudela' added in Robert Browning's\nhandwriting.]",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Afternoon.\n                               [Post-mark, August 11, 1845.]\n\nHow good you are to the smallest thing I try and do--(to show I\n_would_ please you for an instant if I could, rather than from any\nhope such poor efforts as I am restricted to, can please you or\nought.) And that you should care for the note that was not there!--But\nI was surprised by the summons to seal and deliver, since time and the\ncarrier were peremptory--and so, I dared divine, almost, I should hear\nfrom you by our mid-day post--which happened--and the answer to\n_that_, you received on Friday night, did you not? I had to go to\nHolborn, of all places,--not to pluck strawberries in the Bishop's\nGarden like Richard Crouchback, but to get a book--and there I carried\nmy note, thinking to expedite its delivery: this notelet of yours,\nquite as little in its kind as my blue flowers,--this came last\nevening--and here are my thanks, dear E.B.B.--dear friend.\n\nIn the former note there is a phrase I must not forget to call on you\nto account for--that where it confesses to having done 'some\nwork--only nothing worth speaking of.' Just see,--will you be first\nand only compact-breaker? Nor misunderstand me here, please, ... as I\nsaid, I am quite rejoiced that you go out now, 'walk about' now, and\nput off the writing that will follow thrice as abundantly, all because\nof the stopping to gather strength ... so I want no new word, not to\nsay poem, not to say the romance-poem--let the 'finches in the\nshrubberies grow restless in the dark'--_I_ am inside with the lights\nand music: but what is done, is done, _pas vrai_? And 'worth' is, dear\nmy friend, pardon me, not in your arbitration quite.\n\nLet me tell you an odd thing that happened at Chorley's the other\nnight. I must have mentioned to you that I forget my own verses so\nsurely after they are once on paper, that I ought, without\naffectation, to mend them infinitely better, able as I am to bring\nfresh eyes to bear on them--(when I say 'once on paper' that is just\nwhat I mean and no more, for after the sad revising begins they do\nleave their mark, distinctly or less so according to circumstances).\nWell, Miss Cushman, the new American actress (clever and\ntruthful-looking) was talking of a new novel by the Dane Andersen, he\nof the 'Improvisatore,' which will reach us, it should seem, in\ntranslation, _viâ_ America--she had looked over two or three proofs of\nthe work in the press, and Chorley was anxious to know something about\nits character. The title, she said, was capital--'Only a\nFiddler!'--and she enlarged on that word, 'Only,' and its\nsignificance, so put: and I quite agreed with her for several minutes,\ntill first one reminiscence flitted to me, then another and at last I\nwas obliged to stop my praises and say 'but, now I think of it, _I_\nseem to have written something with a similar title--nay, a play, I\nbelieve--yes, and in five acts--'Only an Actress'--and from that\ntime, some two years or more ago to this, I have been every way\nrelieved of it'!--And when I got home, next morning, I made a dark\npocket in my russet horror of a portfolio give up its dead, and there\nfronted me 'Only a Player-girl' (the real title) and the sayings and\ndoings of her, and the others--such others! So I made haste and just\ntore out one sample-page, being Scene the First, and sent it to our\nfriend as earnest and proof I had not been purely dreaming, as might\nseem to be the case. And what makes me recall it now is, that it was\nRussian, and about a fair on the Neva, and booths and droshkies and\nfish-pies and so forth, with the Palaces in the back ground. And in\nChorley's _Athenæum_ of yesterday you may read a paper of _very_\nsimple moony stuff about the death of Alexander, and that Sir James\nWylie I have seen at St. Petersburg (where he chose to mistake me for\nan Italian--'M. l'Italien' he said another time, looking up from his\ncards).... So I think to tell you.\n\nNow I may leave off--I shall see you start, on Tuesday--hear perhaps\nsomething definite about your travelling.\n\nDo you know, 'Consuelo' wearies me--oh, wearies--and the fourth volume\nI have all but stopped at--there lie the three following, but who\ncares about Consuelo after that horrible evening with the Venetian\nscamp, (where he bullies her, and it does answer, after all she says)\nas we say? And Albert wearies too--it seems all false, all\nwriting--not the first part, though. And what easy work these\nnovelists have of it! a Dramatic poet has to _make_ you love or admire\nhis men and women,--they must _do_ and _say_ all that you are to see\nand hear--really do it in your face, say it in your ears, and it is\nwholly for _you_, in _your_ power, to _name_, characterize and so\npraise or blame, _what_ is so said and done ... if you don't perceive\nof yourself, there is no standing by, for the Author, and telling you.\nBut with these novelists, a scrape of the pen--out blurting of a\nphrase, and the miracle is achieved--'Consuelo possessed to perfection\nthis and the other gift'--what would you more? Or, to leave dear\nGeorge Sand, pray think of Bulwer's beginning a 'character' by\ninforming you that lone, or somebody in 'Pompeii,' 'was endowed with\n_perfect_ genius'--'genius'! What though the obliging informer might\nwrite his fingers off before he gave the pitifullest proof that the\npoorest spark of that same, that genius, had ever visited _him_?\n_Ione_ has it '_perfectly_'--perfectly--and that is enough! Zeus with\nthe scales? with the false weights!\n\nAnd now--till Tuesday good-bye, and be willing to get well as (letting\nme send _porter_ instead of flowers--and beefsteaks too!) soon as may\nbe! and may God bless you, ever dear friend.\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, August 11, 1845.]\n\nBut if it 'hurts' you to read and write ever so little, why should I\nbe asked to write ... for instance ... 'before Tuesday?' And I did\nmean to say before to-day, that I wish you never would write to me\nwhen you are not _quite well_, as once or twice you have done if not\nmuch oftener; because there is not a necessity, ... and I do not\nchoose that there should ever be, or _seem_ a necessity, ... do you\nunderstand? And as a matter of personal preference, it is natural for\nme to like the silence that does not hurt you, better than the speech\nthat does. And so, remember.\n\nAnd talking of what may 'hurt' you and me, you would smile, as I have\noften done in the midst of my vexation, if you knew the persecution I\nhave been subjected to by the people who call themselves (_lucus a non\nlucendo_) 'the faculty,' and set themselves against the exercise of\nother people's faculties, as a sure way to death and destruction. The\nmodesty and simplicity with which one's physicians tell one not to\nthink or feel, just as they would tell one not to walk out in the dew,\nwould be quite amusing, if it were not too tryingly stupid sometimes.\nI had a doctor once who thought he had done everything because he had\ncarried the inkstand out of the room--'Now,' he said, 'you will have\nsuch a pulse to-morrow.' He gravely thought poetry a sort of\ndisease--a sort of fungus of the brain--and held as a serious opinion,\nthat nobody could be properly well who exercised it as an art--which\nwas true (he maintained) even of men--he had studied the physiology of\npoets, 'quotha'--but that for women, it was a mortal malady and\nincompatible with any common show of health under any circumstances.\nAnd then came the damnatory clause in his experience ... that he had\nnever known 'a system' approaching mine in 'excitability' ... except\nMiss Garrow's ... a young lady who wrote verses for Lady Blessington's\nannuals ... and who was the only other female rhymer he had had the\nmisfortune of attending. And she was to die in two years, though she\nwas dancing quadrilles then (and has lived to do the same by the\npolka), and _I_, of course, much sooner, if I did not ponder these\nthings, and amend my ways, and take to reading 'a course of history'!!\nIndeed I do not exaggerate. And just so, for a long while I was\npersecuted and pestered ... vexed thoroughly sometimes ... my own\nfamily, instructed to sing the burden out all day long--until the time\nwhen the subject was suddenly changed by my heart being broken by that\ngreat stone that fell out of Heaven. Afterwards I was let do anything\nI could best ... which was very little, until last year--and the\nworking, last year, did much for me in giving me stronger roots down\ninto life, ... much. But think of that absurd reasoning that went\nbefore!--the _niaiserie_ of it! For, granting all the premises all\nround, it is not the _utterance_ of a thought that _can_ hurt anybody;\nwhile only the utterance is dependent on the will; and so, what can\nthe taking away of an inkstand do? Those physicians are such\nmetaphysicians! It's curious to listen to them. And it's wise to leave\noff listening: though I have met with excessive kindness among them,\n... and do not refer to Dr. Chambers in any of this, of course.\n\nI am very glad you went to Chelsea--and it seemed finer afterwards, on\npurpose to make room for the divine philosophy. Which reminds me (the\ngoing to Chelsea) that my brother Henry confessed to me yesterday,\nwith shame and confusion of face, to having mistaken and taken your\numbrella for another belonging to a cousin of ours then in the house.\nHe saw you ... without conjecturing, just at the moment, who you were.\nDo _you_ conjecture sometimes that I live all alone here like Mariana\nin the moated Grange? It is not quite so--: but where there are many,\nas with us, every one is apt to follow his own devices--and my father\nis out all day and my brothers and sisters are in and out, and with\ntoo large a public of noisy friends for me to bear, ... and I see them\nonly at certain hours, ... except, of course, my sisters. And then as\nyou have 'a reputation' and are opined to talk generally in blank\nverse, it is not likely that there should be much irreverent rushing\ninto this room when you are known to be in it.\n\nThe flowers are ... so beautiful! Indeed it was wrong, though, to send\nme the last. It was not just to the lawful possessors and enjoyers of\nthem. That it was kind to _me_ I do not forget.\n\nYou are too teachable a pupil in the art of obliterating--and _omne\nignotum pro terrifico_ ... and therefore I won't frighten you by\nwalking to meet you for fear of being frightened myself.\n\nSo good-bye until Tuesday. I ought not to make you read all this, I\nknow, whether you like to read it or not: and I ought not to have\nwritten it, having no better reason than because I like to write on\nand on. _You_ have better reasons for thinking me very weak--and I,\ntoo good ones for not being able to reproach you for that natural and\nnecessary opinion.\n\n                        May God bless you my dearest friend.\n\n                             E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                               [Post-mark, August 13, 1845.]\n\nWhat can I say, or hope to say to you when I see what you do for me?\n\n_This_--for myself, (nothing for _you_!)--_this_, that I think the\ngreat, great good I get by your kindness strikes me less than that\nkindness.\n\nAll is right, too--\n\nCome, I WILL have my fault-finding at last! So you can decypher my\n_utterest_ hieroglyphic? Now droop the eyes while I triumph: the\nplains cower, cower beneath the mountains their masters--and the\nPriests stomp over the clay ridges, (a palpable plagiarism from two\nlines of a legend that delighted my infancy, and now instruct my\nmaturer years in pretty nearly all they boast of the semi-mythologic\nera referred to--'In London town, when reigned King Lud, His lords\nwent stomping thro' the mud'--would all historic records were half as\npicturesque!)\n\nBut you know, yes, _you_ know you are too indulgent by far--and treat\nthese roughnesses as if they were advanced to many a stage! Meantime\nthe pure gain is mine, and better, the kind generous spirit is mine,\n(mine to profit by)--and best--best--best, the dearest friend is mine,\n\n                                                 So be happy\n\n                                                      R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, August 13, 1845.]\n\nYes, I admit that it was stupid to read that word so wrong. I thought\nthere was a mistake somewhere, but that it was _yours_, who had\nwritten one word, meaning to write another. 'Cower' puts it all right\nof course. But is there an English word of a significance different\nfrom 'stamp,' in 'stomp?' Does not the old word King Lud's men\nstomped withal, claim identity with our 'stamping.' The _a_ and _o_\nused to 'change about,' you know, in the old English writers--see\nChaucer for it. Still the 'stomp' with the peculiar significance, is\nbetter of course than the 'stamp' even with a rhyme ready for it, and\nI dare say you are justified in daring to put this old wine into the\nnew bottle; and we will drink to the health of the poem in it. It _is_\n'Italy in England'--isn't it? But I understand and understood\nperfectly, through it all, that it is _unfinished_, and in a rough\nstate round the edges. I could not help seeing _that_, even if I were\nstill blinder than when I read 'Lower' for 'Cower.'\n\nBut do not, I ask of you, speak of my 'kindness' ... my\nkindness!--mine! It is 'wasteful and ridiculous excess' and\nmis-application to use such words of me. And therefore, talking of\n'compacts' and the 'fas' and 'nefas' of them, I entreat you to know\nfor the future that whatever I write of your poetry, if it isn't to be\ncalled 'impertinence,' isn't to be called 'kindness,' any more, ... _a\nfortiori_, as people say when they are sure of an argument. Now, will\nyou try to understand?\n\nAnd talking still of compacts, how and where did I break any compact?\nI do not see.\n\nIt was very curious, the phenomenon about your 'Only a Player-Girl.'\nWhat an un-godlike indifference to your creatures though--your worlds,\nbreathed away from you like soap bubbles, and dropping and breaking\ninto russet portfolios unobserved! Only a god for the Epicurean, at\nbest, can you be? That Miss Cushman went to Three Mile Cross the other\nday, and visited Miss Mitford, and pleased her a good deal, I fancied\nfrom what she said, ... and with reason, from what _you_ say. And\n'Only a Fiddler,' as I forgot to tell you yesterday, is announced, you\nmay see in any newspaper, as about to issue from the English press by\nMary Howitt's editorship. So we need not go to America for it. But if\nyou complain of George Sand for want of art, how could you bear\nAndersen, who can see a thing under his eyes and place it under yours,\nand take a thought separately into his soul and express it insularly,\nbut has no sort of instinct towards wholeness and unity; and writes a\nbook by putting so many pages together, ... just so!--For the rest,\nthere can be no disagreeing with you about the comparative difficulty\nof novel-writing and drama-writing. I disagree a little, lower down in\nyour letter, because I could not deny (in my own convictions) a\ncertain proportion of genius to the author of 'Ernest Maltravers,' and\n'Alice' (did you ever read those books?), even if he had more\nimpotently tried (supposing it to be possible) for the dramatic\nlaurel. In fact his poetry, dramatic or otherwise, is 'nought'; but\nfor the prose romances, and for 'Ernest Maltravers' above all, I must\nlift up my voice and cry. And I read the _Athenæum_ about your Sir\nJames Wylie who took you for an Italian....\n\n    'Poi vi dirò Signor, che ne fu causa\n    Ch' avio fatto al scriver debita pausa.'--\n\n                                                 Ever your\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                               [Post-mark, August 15, 1845.]\n\nDo you know, dear friend, it is no good policy to stop up all the\nvents of my feeling, nor leave one for safety's sake, as you will do,\nlet me caution you never so repeatedly. I know, quite well enough,\nthat your 'kindness' is not _so_ apparent, even, in this instance of\ncorrecting my verses, as in many other points--but on such points, you\nlift a finger to me and I am dumb.... Am I not to be allowed a word\nhere neither?\n\nI remember, in the first season of German Opera here, when 'Fidelio's'\neffects were going, going up to the gallery in order to get the best\nof the last chorus--get its oneness which you do--and, while perched\nthere an inch under the ceiling, I was amused with the enormous\nenthusiasm of an elderly German (we thought,--I and a cousin of\nmine)--whose whole body broke out in billow, heaved and swayed in the\nperfection of his delight, hands, head, feet, all tossing and striving\nto utter what possessed him. Well--next week, we went again to the\nOpera, and again mounted at the proper time, but the crowd was\n_greater_, and our mild great faced white haired red cheeked German\nwas not to be seen, not at first--for as the glory was at its full, my\ncousin twisted me round and made me see an arm, only an arm, all the\nbody of its owner being amalgamated with a dense crowd on each side,\nbefore, and--not behind, because they, the crowd, occupied the last\nbenches, over which we looked--and this arm waved and exulted as if\n'for the dignity of the whole body,'--relieved it of its dangerous\naccumulation of repressed excitability. When the crowd broke up all\nthe rest of the man disengaged itself by slow endeavours, and there\nstood our friend confessed--as we were sure!\n\n--Now, you would have bade him keep his arm quiet? 'Lady Geraldine,\nyou _would_!'\n\nI have read those novels--but I must keep that word of words,\n'genius'--for something different--'talent' will do here surely.\n\nThere lies 'Consuelo'--done with!\n\nI shall tell you frankly that it strikes me as precisely what in\nconventional language with the customary silliness is styled a\n_woman's_ book, in its merits and defects,--and supremely timid in all\nthe points where one wants, and has a right to expect, some _fruit_ of\nall the pretence and George Sand_ism_. These are occasions when one\ndoes say, in the phrase of her school, 'que la Femme parle!' or what\nis better, let her act! and how does Consuelo comfort herself on such\nan emergency? Why, she bravely lets the uninspired people throw down\none by one their dearest prejudices at her feet, and then, like a\nvery actress, picks them up, like so many flowers, returning them to\nthe breast of the owners with a smile and a courtesy and trips off the\nstage with a glance at the Pit. Count Christian, Baron Frederic,\nBaroness--what is her name--all open their arms, and Consuelo will not\nconsent to entail disgrace &c. &c. No, you say--she leaves them in\norder to solve the problem of her true feeling, whether she can really\nlove Albert; but remember that this is done, (that is, so much of it\nas ever _is_ done, and as determines her to accept his hand at the\nvery last)--this is solved sometime about the next morning--or\nearlier--I forget--and in the meantime, Albert gets that 'benefit of\nthe doubt' of which chapter the last informs you. As for the\nhesitation and self examination on the matter of that Anzoleto--the\nwriter is turning over the leaves of a wrong dictionary, seeking help\nfrom Psychology, and pretending to forget there is such a thing as\nPhysiology. Then, that horrible Porpora:--if George Sand gives _him_\nto a Consuelo for an absolute master, in consideration of his services\nspecified, and is of opinion that _they_ warrant his conduct, or at\nleast, oblige submission to it,--then, I find her objections to the\nfatherly rule of Frederic perfectly impertinent--he having a few\nclaims upon the gratitude of Prussia also, in his way, I believe! If\nthe strong ones _will make_ the weak ones lead them--then, for\nHeaven's sake, let this dear old all-abused world keep on its course\nwithout these outcries and tearings of hair, and don't be for ever\ngoading the Karls and other trodden-down creatures till they get their\ncarbines in order (very rationally) to abate the nuisance--when you\nmake the man a long speech against some enormity he is about to\ncommit, and adjure and beseech and so forth, till he throws down the\naforesaid carbine, falls on his knees, and lets the Frederic go\nquietly on his way to keep on killing his thousands after the fashion\nthat moved your previous indignation. Now is that right,\nconsequential--that is, _inferential_; logically deduced, going\nstraight to the end--_manly_?\n\nThe accessories are not the Principal, the adjuncts--the essence, nor\nthe ornamental incidents the book's self, so what matters it if the\nportraits are admirable, the descriptions eloquent, (eloquent, there\nit is--that is her characteristic--what she _has_ to speak, she\n_speaks out_, speaks volubly _forth_, too well, inasmuch as you say,\nadvancing a step or two, 'And now speak as completely _here_'--and she\nsays nothing)--but all _that_, another could do, as others have\ndone--but 'la femme qui parle'--Ah, that, is _this_ all? So I am not\nGeorge Sand's--she teaches me nothing--I look to her for nothing.\n\nI am ever yours, dearest friend. How I write to you--page on page! But\nTuesday--who could wait till then! Shall I not hear from you?\n\n                                          God bless you ever\n\n                                               R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                               [Post-mark, August 16, 1845.]\n\nBut what likeness is there between opposites; and what has 'M.\nl'Italien' to do with the said 'elderly German'? See how little! For\nto bring your case into point, somebody should have been playing on a\nJew's harp for the whole of the orchestra; and the elderly German\nshould have quoted something about 'Harp of Judah' to the Venetian\nbehind him! And there, you would have proved your analogy!--Because\nyou see, my dear friend, it was not the expression, but the thing\nexpressed, I cried out against--the exaggeration in your mind. I am\nsorry when I write what you do not like--but I have instincts and\nimpulses too strong for me when you say things which put me into such\na miserably false position in respect to you--as for instance, when in\nthis very last letter (oh, I _must_ tell you!) you talk of my\n'correcting your verses'! My correcting your verses!!!--Now is _that_\na thing for you to say?--And do you really imagine that if I kept that\nhappily imagined phrase in my thoughts, I should be able to tell you\none word of my impressions from your poetry, ever, ever again? Do you\nnot see at once what a disqualifying and paralysing phrase it must be,\nof simple necessity? So it is _I_ who have reason to complain, ... it\nappears to _me_, ... and by no means _you_--and in your 'second\nconsideration' you become aware of it, I do not at all doubt.\n\nAs to 'Consuelo' I agree with nearly all that you say of it--though\nGeorge Sand, we are to remember, is greater than 'Consuelo,' and not\nto be depreciated according to the defects of that book, nor\nclassified as 'femme qui parle' ... she who is man and woman together,\n... judging her by the standard of even that book in the nobler\nportions of it. For the inconsequency of much in the book, I admit it\nof course--and _you_ will admit that it is the rarest of phenomena\nwhen men ... men of logic ... follow their own opinions into their\nobvious results--nobody, you know, ever thinks of doing such a thing:\nto pursue one's own inferences is to rush in where angels ... perhaps\n... do _not_ fear to tread, ... but where there will not be much other\ncompany. So the want of practical logic shall be a human fault rather\nthan a womanly one, if you please: and you must please also to\nremember that 'Consuelo' is only 'half the orange'; and that when you\ncomplain of its not being a whole one, you overlook that hand which is\nholding to you the 'Comtesse de Rudolstadt' in three volumes! Not that\nI, who have read the whole, profess a full satisfaction about Albert\nand the rest--and Consuelo is made to be happy by a mere clap-trap at\nlast: and Mme. Dudevant has her specialities,--in which, other women,\nI fancy, have neither part nor lot, ... even _here_!--Altogether, the\nbook is a sort of rambling 'Odyssey,' a female 'Odyssey,' if you like,\nbut full of beauty and nobleness, let the faults be where they may.\nAnd then, I like those long, long books, one can live away into ...\nleaving the world and above all oneself, quite at the end of the\navenue of palms--quite out of sight and out of hearing!--Oh, I have\nfelt something like _that_ so often--so often! and _you_ never felt\nit, and never will, I hope.\n\nBut if Bulwer had written nothing but the 'Ernest Maltravers' books,\nyou would think perhaps more highly of him. Do you _not_ think it\npossible now? It is his most impotent struggling into poetry, which\nsets about proving a negative of genius on him--_that_, which the\n_Athenæum praises_ as 'respectable attainment in various walks of\nliterature'--! _like_ the _Athenæum_, isn't it? and worthy praise, to\nbe administered by professed judges of art? What is to be expected of\nthe public, when the teachers of the public teach _so_?--\n\nWhen you come on Tuesday, do not forget the MS. if any is done--only\ndon't let it be done so as to tire and hurt you--mind! And good-bye\nuntil Tuesday, from\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                               [Post-mark, August 18, 1845.]\n\nI am going to propose to you to give up Tuesday, and to take your\nchoice of two or three other days, say Friday, or Saturday, or\nto-morrow ... Monday. Mr. Kenyon was here to-day and talked of leaving\nLondon on Friday, and of visiting me again on 'Tuesday' ... he said,\n... but that is an uncertainty, and it may be Tuesday or Wednesday or\nThursday. So I thought (wrong or right) that out of the three\nremaining days you would not mind choosing one. And if you do choose\nthe Monday, there will be no need to write--nor time indeed--; but if\nthe Friday or Saturday, I shall hear from you, perhaps. Above all\nthings remember, my dear friend, that I shall not expect you\nto-morrow, except as by a _bare possibility_. In great haste, signed\nand sealed this Sunday evening by\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday, 7 P.M.\n                               [Post-mark, August 19, 1845.]\n\nI this moment get your note--having been out since the early\nmorning--and I must write just to catch the post. You are pure\nkindness and considerateness, _no_ thanks to you!--(since you will\nhave it so--). I choose Friday, then,--but I shall hear from you\nbefore Thursday, I dare hope? I have all but passed your house\nto-day--with an Italian friend, from Rome, whom I must go about with a\nlittle on weariful sight seeing, so I shall earn Friday.\n\n                                                   Bless you\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                               [Post-mark, August 20, 1845.]\n\nI fancied it was just _so_--as I did not hear and did not see you on\nMonday. Not that you were expected particularly--but that you would\nhave written your own negative, it appeared to me, by some post in the\nday, if you had received my note in time. It happened well too,\naltogether, as you have a friend with you, though Mr. Kenyon does not\ncome, and will not come, I dare say; for he spoke like a doubter at\nthe moment; and as this Tuesday wears on, I am not likely to have any\nvisitors on it after all, and may as well, if the rain quite ceases,\ngo and spend my solitude on the park a little. Flush wags his tail at\nthat proposition when I speak it loud out. And I am to write to you\nbefore Friday, and so, am writing, you see ... which I should not,\nshould not have done if I had not been told; because it is not my turn\nto write, ... did you think it was?\n\nNot a word of Malta! except from Mr. Kenyon who talked homilies of it\nlast Sunday and wanted to speak them to Papa--but it would not do in\nany way--now especially--and in a little time there will be a\ndecision for or against; and I am afraid of _both_ ... which is a\nhappy state of preparation. Did I not tell you that early in the\nsummer I did some translations for Miss Thomson's 'Classical Album,'\nfrom Bion and Theocritus, and Nonnus the author of that large (not\ngreat) poem in some forty books of the 'Dionysiaca' ... and the\nparaphrases from Apuleius? Well--I had a letter from her the other\nday, full of compunction and ejaculation, and declaring the fact that\nMr. Burges had been correcting all the proofs of the poems; leaving\nout and emending generally, according to his own particular idea of\nthe pattern in the mount--is it not amusing? I have been wicked enough\nto write in reply that it is happy for her and all readers ... _sua si\nbona norint_ ... if during some half hour which otherwise might have\nbeen dedicated by Mr. Burges to patting out the lights of Sophocles\nand his peers, he was satisfied with the humbler devastation of E.B.B.\nupon Nonnus. You know it is impossible to help being amused. This\ncorrecting is a mania with that man! And then I, who wrote what I did\nfrom the 'Dionysiaca,' with no respect for 'my author,' and an\narbitrary will to 'put the case' of Bacchus and Ariadne as well as I\ncould, for the sake of the art-illustrations, ... those subjects Miss\nThomson sent me, ... and did it all with full liberty and persuasion\nof soul that nobody would think it worth while to compare English with\nGreek and refer me back to Nonnus and detect my wanderings from the\ntext!! But the critic was not to be cheated so! And I do not doubt\nthat he has set me all 'to rights' from beginning to end; and combed\nAriadne's hair close to her cheeks for me. Have _you_ known Nonnus,\n... _you_ who forget nothing? and have known everything, I think? For\nit is quite startling, I must tell you, quite startling and\nhumiliating, to observe how you combine such large tracts of\nexperience of outer and inner life, of books and men, of the world and\nthe arts of it; curious knowledge as well as general knowledge ... and\ndeep thinking as well as wide acquisition, ... and you, looking none\nthe older for it all!--yes, and being besides a man of genius and\nworking your faculty and not wasting yourself over a surface or away\nfrom an end. Dugald Stewart said that genius made naturally a\nlop-sided mind--did he not? He ought to have known _you_. And _I_ who\ndo ... a little ... (for I grow more loth than I was to assume the\nknowledge of you, my dear friend)--_I_ do not mean to use that word\n'humiliation' in the sense of having felt the thing myself in any\n_painful_ way, ... because I never for a moment did, or _could_, you\nknow,--never could ... never did ... except indeed when you have over\npraised me, which forced another personal feeling in. Otherwise it has\nalways been quite pleasant to me to be 'startled and humiliated'--and\nmore so perhaps than to be startled and exalted, if I might choose....\n\nOnly I did not mean to write all this, though you told me to write to\nyou. But the rain which keeps one in, gives one an example of pouring\non ... and you must endure as you can or will. Also ... as you have a\nfriend with you 'from Italy' ... 'from Rome,' and commended me for my\n'kindness and considerateness' in changing Tuesday to Friday ...\n(wasn't it?...) shall I still be more considerate and put off the\nvisit-day to next week? mind, you let it be as you like it best to\nbe--I mean, as is most convenient 'for the nonce' to you and your\nfriend--because all days are equal, as to that matter of convenience,\nto your other friend of this ilk,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                               [Post-mark, August 20, 1845.]\n\nMauvaise, mauvaise, mauvaise, you know as I know, just as much, that\nyour 'kindness and considerateness' consisted, not in putting off\nTuesday for another day, but in caring for my coming at all; for my\ncoming and being told at the door that you were engaged, and _I_ might\ncall another time! And you are NOT, NOT my 'other friend,' any more\nthan this head of mine is my _other_ head, seeing that I have got a\nviolin which has a head too! All which, beware lest you get fully told\nin the letter I will write this evening, when I have done with my\nRomans--who are, it so happens, here at this minute; that is, have\nleft the house for a few minutes with my sister--but are not 'with\nme,' as you seem to understand it,--in the house to stay. They were\nkind to me in Rome, (husband and wife), and I am bound to be of what\nuse I may during their short stay. Let me lose no time in begging and\npraying you to cry 'hands off' to that dreadful Burgess; have not I\ngot a ... but I will tell you to-night--or on Friday which is my day,\nplease--Friday. Till when, pray believe me, with respect and esteem,\n\nYour most obliged and disobliged at these blank endings--what have I\ndone? God bless you ever dearest friend.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday, 7 o'clock.\n                               [Post-mark, August 21, 1845.]\n\nI feel at home, this blue early morning, now that I sit down to write\n(or, _speak_, as I try and fancy) to you, after a whole day with those\n'other friends'--dear good souls, whom I should be so glad to serve,\nand to whom service must go by way of last will and testament, if a\nfew more hours of 'social joy,' 'kindly intercourse,' &c., fall to my\nportion. My friend the Countess began proceedings (when I first saw\nher, not yesterday) by asking 'if I had got as much money as I\nexpected by any works published of late?'--to which I answered, of\ncourse, 'exactly as much'--_è grazioso_! (All the same, if you were to\nask her, or the like of her, 'how much the stone-work of the Coliseum\nwould fetch, properly burned down to lime?'--she would shudder from\nhead to foot and call you 'barbaro' with good Trojan heart.) Now you\nsuppose--(watch my rhetorical figure here)--you suppose I am going to\ncongratulate myself on being so much for the better, _en pays de\nconnaissance_, with my 'other friend,' E.B.B., number 2--or 200, why\nnot?--whereas I mean to 'fulmine over Greece,' since thunder frightens\nyou, for all the laurels,--and to have reason for your taking my own\npart and lot to yourself--I do, will, must, and _will_, again, wonder\nat _you_ and admire _you_, and so on to the climax. It is a fixed,\nimmovable thing: so fixed that I can well forego talking about it. But\nif to talk you once begin, 'the King shall enjoy (or receive quietly)\nhis own again'--I wear no bright weapon out of that Panoply ... or\nPanoplite, as I think you call Nonnus, nor ever, like Leigh Hunt's\n'Johnny, ever blythe and bonny, went singing Nonny, nonny' and see\nto-morrow, what a vengeance I will take for your 'mere suspicion in\nthat kind'! But to the serious matter ... nay, I said yesterday, I\nbelieve--keep off that Burgess--he is stark staring mad--mad, do you\nknow? The last time I met him he told me he had recovered I forget how\nmany of the lost books of Thucydides--found them imbedded in Suidas (I\nthink), and had disengaged them from _his_ Greek, without loss of a\nletter, 'by an instinct he, Burgess, had'--(I spell his name wrongly\nto help the proper _hiss_ at the end). Then, once on a time, he found\nin the 'Christus Patiens,' an odd dozen of lines, clearly dropped out\nof the 'Prometheus,' and proving that Æschylus was aware of the\ninvention of gunpowder. He wanted to help Dr. Leonhard Schmitz in his\n'Museum'--and scared him, as Schmitz told me. What business has he,\nBurges, with English verse--and what on earth, or under it, has Miss\nThomson to do with _him_. If she must displease one of two, why is Mr.\nB. not to be thanked and 'sent to feed,' as the French say prettily?\nAt all events, do pray see what he has presumed to alter ... you can\nalter at sufficient warrant, profit by suggestion, I should think! But\nit is all Miss Thomson's shame and fault: because she is quite in her\npropriety, saying to such intermeddlers, gently for the sake of their\npoor weak heads, 'very good, I dare say, very desirable emendations,\nonly the work is not mine, you know, but my friend's, and you must no\nmore alter it without her leave, than alter this sketch, this\nillustration, because you think you could mend Ariadne's face or\nfigure,--Fecit Tizianus, scripsit E.B.B.' Dear friend, you will tell\nMiss Thomson to stop further proceedings, will you not? There! only,\ndo mind what I say?\n\nAnd now--till to-morrow! It seems an age since I saw you. I want to\ncatch our first post ... (this phrase I ought to get stereotyped--I\nneed it so constantly). The day is fine ... you will profit by it, I\ntrust. 'Flush, wag your tail and grow restless and scratch at the\ndoor!'\n\nGod bless you,--my one friend, without an 'other'--bless you ever--\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                               [Post-mark, August 25, 1845.]\n\nBut what have _I_ done that you should ask what have _you_ done? I\nhave not brought any accusation, have I ... no, nor _thought_ any, I\nam sure--and it was only the 'kindness and considerateness'--argument\nthat was irresistible as a thing to be retorted, when your thanks came\nso naturally and just at the corner of an application. And then, you\nknow, it is gravely true, seriously true, sadly true, that I am always\nexpecting to hear or to see how tired you are at last of me!--sooner\nor later, you know!--But I did not mean any seriousness in that\nletter. No, nor did I mean ... (to pass to another question ...) to\nprovoke you to the\n\n    Mister Hayley ... so are _you_....\n\nreply complimentary. All I observed concerning yourself, was the\n_combination_--which not an idiom in chivalry could treat\ngrammatically as a thing common to _me_ and you, inasmuch as everyone\nwho has known me for half a day, may know that, if there is anything\npeculiar in me, it lies for the most part in an extraordinary\ndeficiency in this and this and this, ... there is no need to describe\nwhat. Only nuns of the strictest sect of the nunneries are rather\nwiser in some points, and have led less restricted lives than I have\nin others. And if it had not been for my 'carpet-work'--\n\nWell--and do you know that I have, for the last few years, taken quite\nto despise book-knowledge and its effect on the mind--I mean when\npeople _live by it_ as most readers by profession do, ... cloistering\ntheir souls under these roofs made with heads, when they might be\nunder the sky. Such people grow dark and narrow and low, with all\ntheir pains.\n\n_Friday._--I was writing you see before you came--and now I go on in\nhaste to speak 'off my mind' some things which are on it. First ... of\nyourself; how can it be that you are unwell again, ... and that you\nshould talk (now did you not?--did I not hear you say so?) of being\n'weary in your soul' ... _you_? What should make _you_, dearest\nfriend, weary in your soul; or out of spirits in any way?--Do ... tell\nme.... I was going to write without a pause--and almost I might,\nperhaps, ... even as one of the two hundred of your friends, ...\nalmost I might say out that 'Do tell me.' Or is it (which I am\ninclined to think most probable) that you are tired of a same life and\nwant change? It may happen to anyone sometimes, and is independent of\nyour will and choice, you know--and I know, and the whole world knows:\nand would it not therefore be wise of you, in that case, to fold your\nlife new again and go abroad at once? What can make you weary in your\nsoul, is a problem to me. You are the last from whom I should have\nexpected such a word. And you did say so, I _think_. I _think_ that it\nwas not a mistake of mine. And _you_, ... with a full liberty, and the\nworld in your hand for every purpose and pleasure of it!--Or is it\nthat, being unwell, your spirits are affected by _that_? But then you\nmight be more unwell than you like to admit--. And I am teasing you\nwith talking of it ... am I not?--and being disagreeable is only one\nthird of the way towards being useful, it is good to remember in time.\n\nAnd then the next thing to write off my mind is ... that you must not,\nyou must not, make an unjust opinion out of what I said to-day. I have\nbeen uncomfortable since, lest you should--and perhaps it would have\nbeen better if I had not said it apart from all context in that way;\nonly that you could not long be a friend of mine without knowing and\nseeing what so lies on the surface. But then, ... as far as I am\nconcerned, ... no one cares less for a 'will' than I do (and this\nthough I never had one, ... in clear opposition to your theory which\nholds generally nevertheless) for a will in the common things of life.\nEvery now and then there must of course be a crossing and\nvexation--but in one's mere pleasures and fantasies, one would rather\nbe crossed and vexed a little than vex a person one loves ... and it\nis possible to get used to the harness and run easily in it at last;\nand there is a side-world to hide one's thoughts in, and 'carpet-work'\nto be immoral on in spite of Mrs. Jameson, ... and the word\n'literature' has, with me, covered a good deal of liberty as you must\nsee ... real liberty which is never enquired into--and it has happened\nthroughout my life by an accident (as far as anything is accident)\nthat my own sense of right and happiness on any important point of\novert action, has never run contrariwise to the way of obedience\nrequired of me ... while in things not exactly _overt_, I and all of\nus are apt to act sometimes up to the limit of our means of acting,\nwith shut doors and windows, and no waiting for cognisance or\npermission. Ah--and that last is the worst of it all perhaps! to be\nforced into concealments from the heart naturally nearest to us; and\nforced away from the natural source of counsel and strength!--and\nthen, the disingenuousness--the cowardice--the 'vices of\nslaves'!--and everyone you see ... all my brothers, ... constrained\n_bodily_ into submission ... apparent submission at least ... by that\nworst and most dishonouring of necessities, the necessity of _living_,\neveryone of them all, except myself, being dependent in money-matters\non the inflexible will ... do you see? But what you do _not_ see, what\nyou _cannot_ see, is the deep tender affection behind and below all\nthose patriarchal ideas of governing grown up children 'in the way\nthey _must_ go!' and there never was (under the strata) a truer\naffection in a father's heart ... no, nor a worthier heart in itself\n... a heart loyaller and purer, and more compelling to gratitude and\nreverence, than his, as I see it! The evil is in the system--and he\nsimply takes it to be his duty to rule, and to make happy according to\nhis own views of the propriety of happiness--he takes it to be his\nduty to rule like the Kings of Christendom, by divine right. But he\nloves us through and through it--and _I_, for one, love _him_! and\nwhen, five years ago, I lost what I loved best in the world beyond\ncomparison and rivalship ... far better than himself as he knew ...\nfor everyone who knew _me_ could not choose but know what was my first\nand chiefest affection ... when I lost _that_, ... I felt that he\nstood the nearest to me on the closed grave ... or by the unclosing\nsea ... I do not know which nor could ask. And I will tell you that\nnot only he has been kind and patient and forbearing to me through the\ntedious trial of this illness (far more trying to standers by than you\nhave an idea of perhaps) but that he was generous and forbearing in\nthat hour of bitter trial, and never reproached me as he might have\ndone and as my own soul has not spared--never once said to me then or\nsince, that if it had not been for _me_, the crown of his house would\nnot have fallen. He _never did_ ... and he might have said it, and\nmore--and I could have answered nothing. Nothing, except that I had\npaid my own price--and that the price I paid was greater than his\n_loss_ ... his!! For see how it was; and how, 'not with my hand but\nheart,' I was the cause or occasion of that misery--and though not\nwith the intention of my heart but with its weakness, yet the\n_occasion_, any way!\n\nThey sent me down you know to Torquay--Dr. Chambers saying that I\ncould not live a winter in London. The worst--what people call the\nworst--was apprehended for me at that time. So I was sent down with my\nsister to my aunt there--and he, my brother whom I loved so, was sent\ntoo, to take us there and return. And when the time came for him to\nleave me, _I_, to whom he was the dearest of friends and brothers in\none ... the only one of my family who ... well, but I cannot write of\nthese things; and it is enough to tell you that he was above us all,\nbetter than us all, and kindest and noblest and dearest to _me_,\nbeyond comparison, any comparison, as I said--and when the time came\nfor him to leave me _I_, weakened by illness, could not master my\nspirits or drive back my tears--and my aunt kissed them away instead\nof reproving me as she should have done; and said that _she_ would\ntake care that I should not be grieved ... _she_! ... and so she sate\ndown and wrote a letter to Papa to tell him that he would 'break my\nheart' if he persisted in calling away my brother--As if hearts were\nbroken _so_! I have thought bitterly since that my heart did not break\nfor a good deal more than _that_! And Papa's answer was--burnt into\nme, as with fire, it is--that 'under such circumstances he did not\nrefuse to suspend his purpose, but that he considered it to be _very\nwrong in me to exact such a thing_.' So there was no separation\n_then_: and month after month passed--and sometimes I was better and\nsometimes worse--and the medical men continued to say that they would\nnot answer for my life ... they! if I were agitated--and so there was\nno more talk of a separation. And once _he_ held my hand, ... how I\nremember! and said that he 'loved me better than them all and that he\n_would not_ leave me ... till I was well,' he said! how I remember\n_that_! And ten days from that day the boat had left the shore which\nnever returned; never--and he _had_ left me! gone! For three days we\nwaited--and I hoped while I could--oh--that awful agony of three days!\nAnd the sun shone as it shines to-day, and there was no more wind than\nnow; and the sea under the windows was like this paper for\nsmoothness--and my sisters drew the curtains back that I might see for\nmyself how smooth the sea was, and how it could hurt nobody--and other\nboats came back one by one.\n\nRemember how you wrote in your 'Gismond'\n\n    What says the body when they spring\n    Some monstrous torture-engine's whole\n    Strength on it? No more says the soul,\n\nand you never wrote anything which _lived_ with me more than _that_.\nIt is such a dreadful truth. But you knew it for truth, I hope, by\nyour genius, and not by such proof as mine--I, who could not speak or\nshed a tear, but lay for weeks and months half conscious, half\nunconscious, with a wandering mind, and too near to God under the\ncrushing of His hand, to pray at all. I expiated all my weak tears\nbefore, by not being able to shed then one tear--and yet they were\nforbearing--and no voice said 'You have done this.'\n\nDo not notice what I have written to you, my dearest friend. I have\nnever said so much to a living being--I never _could_ speak or write\nof it. I asked no question from the moment when my last hope went: and\nsince then, it has been impossible for me to speak what was in me. I\nhave borne to do it to-day and to you, but perhaps if you were to\nwrite--so do not let this be noticed between us again--_do not_! And\nbesides there is no need! I do not reproach myself with such acrid\nthoughts as I had once--I _know_ that I would have died ten times over\nfor _him_, and that therefore though it was wrong of me to be weak,\nand I have suffered for it and shall learn by it I hope; _remorse_ is\nnot precisely the word for me--not at least in its full sense. Still\nyou will comprehend from what I have told you how the spring of life\nmust have seemed to break within me _then_; and how natural it has\nbeen for me to loathe the living on--and to lose faith (even without\nthe loathing), to lose faith in myself ... which I have done on some\npoints utterly. It is not from the cause of illness--no. And you will\ncomprehend too that I have strong reasons for being grateful to the\nforbearance.... It would have been _cruel_, you think, to reproach me.\nPerhaps so! yet the kindness and patience of the desisting from\nreproach, are positive things all the same.\n\nShall I be too late for the post, I wonder? Wilson tells me that you\nwere followed up-stairs yesterday (I write on Saturday this latter\npart) by somebody whom you probably took for my father. Which is\nWilson's idea--and I hope not yours. No--it was neither father nor\nother relative of mine, but an old friend in rather an ill temper.\n\nAnd so good-bye until Tuesday. Perhaps I shall ... not ... hear from\nyou to-night. Don't let the tragedy or aught else do you harm--will\nyou? and try not to be 'weary in your soul' any more--and forgive me\nthis gloomy letter I half shrink from sending you, yet will send.\n\n                                          May God bless you.\n\n                                               E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning,\n                               [Post-mark, August 27, 1845.]\n\nOn the subject of your letter--quite irrespective of the injunction in\nit--I would not have dared speak; now, at least. But I may permit\nmyself, perhaps, to say I am _most_ grateful, _most grateful_, dearest\nfriend, for this admission to participate, in my degree, in these\nfeelings. There is a better thing than being happy in your happiness;\nI feel, now that you teach me, it is so. I will write no more now;\nthough that sentence of 'what you are _expecting_,--that I shall be\ntired of you &c.,'--though I _could_ blot that out of your mind for\never by a very few words _now_,--for you _would believe_ me at this\nmoment, close on the other subject:--but I will take no such\nadvantage--I will wait.\n\nI have many things (indifferent things, after those) to say; will you\nwrite, if but a few lines, to change the associations for that\npurpose? Then I will write too.--\n\nMay God bless you,--in what is past and to come! I pray that from my\nheart, being yours\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning,\n                               [Post-mark, August 27, 1845.]\n\nBut your 'Saul' is unobjectionable as far as I can see, my dear\nfriend. He was tormented by an evil spirit--but how, we are not told\n... and the consolation is not obliged to be definite, ... is it? A\nsinger was sent for as a singer--and all that you are called upon to\nbe true to, are the general characteristics of David the chosen,\nstanding between his sheep and his dawning hereafter, between\ninnocence and holiness, and with what you speak of as the 'gracious\ngold locks' besides the chrism of the prophet, on his own head--and\nsurely you have been happy in the tone and spirit of these lyrics ...\nbroken as you have left them. Where is the wrong in all this? For the\nright and beauty, they are more obvious--and I cannot tell you how the\npoem holds me and will not let me go until it blesses me ... and so,\nwhere are the 'sixty lines' thrown away? I do beseech you ... you who\nforget nothing, ... to remember them directly, and to go on with the\nrest ... _as_ directly (be it understood) as is not injurious to your\nhealth. The whole conception of the poem, I like ... and the execution\nis exquisite up to this point--and the sight of Saul in the tent, just\nstruck out of the dark by that sunbeam, 'a thing to see,' ... not to\nsay that afterwards when he is visibly 'caught in his fangs' like the\nking serpent, ... the sight is grander still. How could you doubt\nabout this poem....\n\nAt the moment of writing which, I receive your note. Do _you_ receive\nmy assurances from the deepest of my heart that I never did otherwise\nthan _'believe' you_ ... never did nor shall do ... and that you\ncompletely misinterpreted my words if you drew another meaning from\nthem. Believe _me_ in this--will you? I could not believe _you_ any\nmore for anything you could say, now or hereafter--and so do not\navenge yourself on my unwary sentences by remembering them against me\nfor evil. I did not mean to vex you ... still less to suspect\nyou--indeed I did not! and moreover it was quite your fault that I did\nnot blot it out after it was written, whatever the meaning was. So you\nforgive me (altogether) for your own sins: you must:--\n\nFor my part, though I have been sorry since to have written you such a\ngloomy letter, the sorrow unmakes itself in hearing you speak so\nkindly. Your sympathy is precious to me, I may say. May God bless you.\nWrite and tell me among the 'indifferent things' something not\nindifferent, how you are yourself, I mean ... for I fear you are not\nwell and thought you were not looking so yesterday.\n\n                             Dearest friend, I remain yours,\n\n                                  E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Evening.\n                               [Post-mark, August 30, 1845].\n\nI do not hear; and come to you to ask the alms of just one line,\nhaving taken it into my head that something is the matter. It is not\nso much exactingness on my part, as that you spoke of meaning to write\nas soon as you received a note of mine ... which went to you five\nminutes afterwards ... which is three days ago, or will be when you\nread this. Are you not well--or what? Though I have tried and _wished_\nto remember having written in the last note something very or even a\nlittle offensive to you, I failed in it and go back to the worse fear.\nFor you could not be vexed with me for talking of what was 'your\nfault' ... 'your own fault,' viz. in having to read sentences which,\nbut for your commands, would have been blotted out. You could not very\nwell take _that_ for serious blame! from _me_ too, who have so much\nreason and provocation for blaming the archangel Gabriel.--No--you\ncould not misinterpret so,--and if you could not, and if you are not\ndispleased with me, you must be unwell, I think. I took for granted\nyesterday that you had gone out as before--but to-night it is\ndifferent--and so I come to ask you to be kind enough to write one\nword for me by some post to-morrow. Now remember ... I am not asking\nfor a letter--but for a _word_ ... or line strictly speaking.\n\n                                    Ever yours, dear friend,\n\n                                         E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, August 30, 1845.]\n\nThis sweet Autumn Evening, Friday, comes all golden into the room and\nmakes me write to you--not think of you--yet what shall I write?\n\nIt must be for another time ... after Monday, when I am to see you,\nyou know, and hear if the headache be gone, since your note would not\nround to the perfection of kindness and comfort, and tell me so.\n\n                                God bless my dearest friend.\n\n                                     R.B.\n\nI am much better--well, indeed--thank you.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, August 30, 1845.]\n\nCan you understand me _so_, dearest friend, after all? Do you see\nme--when I am away, or with you--'taking offence' at words, 'being\nvexed' at words, or deeds of yours, even if I could not immediately\ntrace them to their source of entire, pure kindness; as I have\nhitherto done in every smallest instance?\n\nI believe in _you_ absolutely, utterly--I believe that when you bade\nme, that time, be silent--that such was your bidding, and I was\nsilent--dare I say I think you did not know at that time the power I\nhave over myself, that I could sit and speak and listen as I have done\nsince? Let me say now--_this only once_--that I loved you from my\nsoul, and gave you my life, so much of it as you would take,--and all\nthat is _done_, not to be altered now: it was, in the nature of the\nproceeding, wholly independent of any return on your part. I will not\nthink on extremes you might have resorted to; as it is, the assurance\nof your friendship, the intimacy to which you admit me, _now_, make\nthe truest, deepest joy of my life--a joy I can never think fugitive\nwhile we are in life, because I KNOW, as to me, I _could_ not\nwillingly displease you,--while, as to you, your goodness and\nunderstanding will always see to the bottom of involuntary or ignorant\nfaults--always help me to correct them. I have done now. If I thought\nyou were like other women I have known, I should say so\nmuch!--but--(my first and last word--I _believe_ in you!)--what you\ncould and would give me, of your affection, you would give nobly and\nsimply and as a giver--you would not need that I tell you--(_tell_\nyou!)--what would be supreme happiness to me in the event--however\ndistant--\n\nI repeat ... I call on your justice to remember, on your intelligence\nto believe ... that this is merely a more precise stating the _first_\nsubject; to put an end to any possible misunderstanding--to prevent\nyour henceforth believing that because I _do not write_, from thinking\ntoo deeply of you, I am offended, vexed &c. &c. I will never recur to\nthis, nor shall you see the least difference in my manner next Monday:\nit is indeed, always before me ... how I know nothing of you and\nyours. But I think I ought to have spoken when I did--and to speak\nclearly ... or more clearly what I do, as it is my pride and duty to\nfall back, now, on the feeling with which I have been in the\nmeantime--Yours--God bless you--\n\n                                                        R.B.\n\nLet me write a few words to lead into Monday--and say, you have\nprobably received my note. I am much better--with a little headache,\nwhich is all, and fast going this morning. Of yours you say nothing--I\ntrust you see your ... dare I say your _duty_ in the Pisa affair, as\nall else _must_ see it--shall I hear on Monday? And my 'Saul' that you\nare so lenient to.\n\n                                            Bless you ever--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                          [August 31, 1845.]\n\nI did not think you were angry--I never said so. But you might\nreasonably have been wounded a little, if you had suspected me of\nblaming you for any bearing of yours towards myself; and this was the\namount of my fear--or rather hope ... since I conjectured most that\nyou were not well. And after all you did think ... do think ... that\nin some way or for some moment I blamed you, disbelieved you,\ndistrusted you--or why this letter? How have I provoked this letter?\nCan I forgive myself for having even seemed to have provoked it? and\nwill you believe me that if for the past's sake you sent it, it was\nunnecessary, and if for the future's, irrelevant? Which I say from no\nwant of sensibility to the words of it--your words always make\nthemselves felt--but in fulness of purpose not to suffer you to hold\nto words because they have been said, nor to say them as if to be\nholden by them. Why, if a thousand more such words were said by you to\nme, how could they operate upon the future or present, supposing me to\nchoose to keep the possible modification of your feelings, as a\nprobability, in my sight and yours? Can you help my sitting with the\ndoors all open if I think it right? I do attest to you--while I trust\nyou, as you must see, in word and act, and while I am confident that\nno human being ever stood higher or purer in the eyes of another, than\nyou do in mine,--that you would still stand high and remain\nunalterably my friend, if the probability in question became a fact,\nas now at this moment. And this I must say, since you have said other\nthings: and this alone, which _I_ have said, concerns the future, I\nremind you earnestly.\n\nMy dearest friend--you have followed the most _generous_ of impulses\nin your whole bearing to me--and I have recognised and called by its\nname, in my heart, each one of them. Yet I cannot help adding that, of\nus two, yours has not been quite the hardest part ... I mean, to a\ngenerous nature like your own, to which every sort of nobleness comes\neasily. Mine has been more difficult--and I have sunk under it again\nand again: and the sinking and the effort to recover the duty of a\nlost position, may have given me an appearance of vacillation and\nlightness, unworthy at least of _you_, and perhaps of both of us.\nNotwithstanding which appearance, it was right and just (only just) of\nyou, to believe in me--in my truth--because I have never failed to you\nin it, nor been capable of _such_ failure: the thing I have said, I\nhave meant ... always: and in things I have not said, the silence has\nhad a reason somewhere different perhaps from where you looked for it.\nAnd this brings me to complaining that you, who profess to believe in\nme, do yet obviously believe that it was only merely silence, which I\nrequired of you on one occasion--and that if I had 'known your power\nover yourself,' I should not have minded ... no! In other words you\nbelieve of me that I was thinking just of my own (what shall I call it\nfor a motive base and small enough?) my own scrupulousness ... freedom\nfrom embarrassment! of myself in the least of me; in the tying of my\nshoestrings, say!--so much and no more! Now this is so wrong, as to\nmake me impatient sometimes in feeling it to be your impression: I\nasked for silence--but _also_ and chiefly for the putting away of ...\nyou know very well what I asked for. And this was sincerely done, I\nattest to you. You wrote once to me ... oh, long before May and the\nday we met: that you 'had been so happy, you should be now justified\nto yourself in taking any step most hazardous to the happiness of your\nlife'--but if you were justified, could _I_ be therefore justified in\nabetting such a step,--the step of wasting, in a sense, your best\nfeelings ... of emptying your water gourds into the sand? What I\nthought then I think now--just what any third person, knowing you,\nwould think, I think and feel. I thought too, at first, that the\nfeeling on your part was a mere generous impulse, likely to expand\nitself in a week perhaps. It affects me and has affected me, very\ndeeply, more than I dare attempt to say, that you should persist\n_so_--and if sometimes I have felt, by a sort of instinct, that after\nall you would not go on to persist, and that (being a man, you know)\nyou might mistake, a little unconsciously, the strength of your own\nfeeling; you ought not to be surprised; when I felt it was more\nadvantageous and happier for you that it should be so. _In any case_,\nI shall never regret my own share in the events of this summer, and\nyour friendship will be dear to me to the last. You know I told you\nso--not long since. And as to what you say otherwise, you are right in\nthinking that I would not hold by unworthy motives in avoiding to\nspeak what you had any claim to hear. But what could I speak that\nwould not be unjust to you? Your life! if you gave it to me and I put\nmy whole heart into it; what should I put but anxiety, and more\nsadness than you were born to? What could I give you, which it would\nnot be ungenerous to give? Therefore we must leave this subject--and I\nmust trust you to leave it without one word more; (too many have been\nsaid already--but I could not let your letter pass quite silently ...\nas if I had nothing to do but to receive all as matter of course\n_so_!) while you may well trust _me_ to remember to my life's end, as\nthe grateful remember; and to feel, as those do who have felt sorrow\n(for where these pits are dug, the water will stand), the full price\nof your regard. May God bless you, my dearest friend. I shall send\nthis letter after I have seen you, and hope you may not have expected\nto hear sooner.\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\n_Monday, 6 p.m._--I send in _dis_obedience to your commands, Mrs.\nShelley's book--but when books accumulate and when besides, I want to\nlet you have the American edition of my poems ... famous for all\nmanner of blunders, you know; what is to be done but have recourse to\nthe parcel-medium? You were in jest about being at Pisa _before or as\nsoon as we were_?--oh no--that must not be indeed--we must wait a\nlittle!--even if you determine to go at all, which is a question of\ndoubtful expediency. Do take more exercise, this week, and make war\nagainst those dreadful sensations in the head--now, will you?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                             [Post-mark, September 3, 1845.]\n\nI rather hoped ... with no right at all ... to hear from you this\nmorning or afternoon--to know how you are--that, 'how are you,' there\nis no use disguising, is,--vary it how one may--my own life's\nquestion.--\n\nI had better write no more, now. Will you not tell me something about\nyou--the head; and that too, _too_ warm hand ... or was it my fancy?\nSurely the report of Dr. Chambers is most satisfactory,--all seems to\nrest with yourself: you know, in justice to me, you _do_ know that _I_\nknow the all but mockery, the absurdity of anyone's counsel 'to be\ncomposed,' &c. &c. But try, dearest friend!\n\n                                             God bless you--\n\n                                                  I am yours\n\n                                                       R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Night.\n                             [Post-mark, September 3, 1845.]\n\nBefore you leave London, I will answer your letter--all my attempts\nend in nothing now--\n\n                             Dearest friend--I am yours ever\n\n                                  R.B.\n\nBut meantime, you will tell me about yourself, will you not? The\nparcel came a few minutes after my note left--Well, I can thank you\nfor _that_; for the Poems,--though I cannot wear them round my\nneck--and for the too great trouble. My heart's friend! Bless you--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, September 4, 1845.]\n\nIndeed my headaches are not worth enquiring about--I mean, they are\nnot of the slightest consequence, and seldom survive the remedy of a\ncup of coffee. I only wish it were the same with everybody--I mean,\nwith every _head_! Also there is nothing the matter otherwise--and I\nam going to prove my right to a 'clean bill of health' by going into\nthe park in ten minutes. Twice round the inner enclosure is what I can\ncompass now--which is equal to once round the world--is it not?\n\nI had just time to be afraid that the parcel had not reached you. The\nreason why I sent you the poems was that I had a few copies to give to\nmy personal friends, and so, wished you to have one; and it was quite\nto please myself and not to please _you_ that I made you have it; and\nif you put it into the 'plum-tree' to hide the errata, I shall be\npleased still, if not rather more. Only let me remember to tell you\nthis time in relation to those books and the question asked of\nyourself by your noble Romans, that just as I was enclosing my\nsixty-pounds debt to Mr. Moxon, I did actually and miraculously\nreceive a remittance of fourteen pounds from the selfsame bookseller\nof New York who agreed last year to print my poems at his own risk and\ngive me 'ten per cent on the profit.' Not that I ever asked for such a\nthing! They were the terms offered. And I always considered the 'per\ncentage' as quite visionary ... put in for the sake of effect, to make\nthe agreement look better! But no--you see! One's poetry has a real\n'commercial value,' if you do but take it far away enough from the\n'civilization of Europe.' When you get near the backwoods and the red\nIndians, it turns out to be nearly as good for something as\n'cabbages,' after all! Do you remember what you said to me of cabbages\n_versus_ poems, in one of the first letters you ever wrote to me?--of\nselling cabbages and buying _Punches_?\n\nPeople complain of Dr. Chambers and call him rough and\nunfeeling--neither of which _I_ ever found him for a moment--and I\nlike him for his truthfulness, which is the nature of the man, though\nit is essential to medical morality never to let a patient think\nhimself mortal while it is possible to prevent it, and even Dr.\nChambers may incline to this on occasion. Still he need not have said\nall the good he said to me on Saturday--he _used_ not to say any of\nit; and he must have thought some of it: and, any way, the Pisa-case\nis strengthened all round by his opinion and injunction, so that all\nmy horror and terror at the thoughts of his visit, (and it's really\ntrue that I would rather _suffer_ to a certain extent than be _cured_\nby means of those doctors!) had some compensation. How are you? do not\nforget to say! I found among some papers to-day, a note of yours which\nI asked Mr. Kenyon to give me for an autograph, two years ago.\n\nMay God bless you, dearest friend. And I have a dispensation from\n'beef and porter' [Greek: eis tous aiônas]. 'On no account' was the\nanswer!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Afternoon.\n                             [Post-mark, September 5, 1845.]\n\nWhat you tell me of Dr. Chambers, 'all the good of you' he said, and\nall I venture to infer; this makes me most happy and thankful. Do you\nuse to attach our old [Greek: tuphlas elpidas] (and the practice of\ninstilling them) to that medical science in which Prometheus boasted\nhimself proficient? I had thought the 'faculty' dealt in fears, on the\ncontrary, and scared you into obedience: but I know most about the\ndoctors in Molière. However the joyous truth is--must be, that you are\nbetter, and if one could transport you quietly to Pisa, save you all\nworry,--what might one not expect!\n\nWhen I know your own intentions--measures, I should say, respecting\nyour journey--mine will of course be submitted to you--it will just be\n'which day next--month'?--Not week, alas.\n\nI can thank you now for this edition of your poems--I have not yet\ntaken to read it, though--for it does not, each volume of it, open\nobediently to a thought, here, and here, and here, like my green books\n... no, my Sister's they are; so these you give me are really mine.\nAnd America, with its ten per cent., shall have my better word\nhenceforth and for ever ... for when you calculate, there must have\nbeen a really extraordinary circulation; and in a few months: it is\nwhat newspapers call 'a great fact.' Have they reprinted the\n'Seraphim'? Quietly, perhaps!\n\nI shall see you on Monday, then--\n\nAnd my all-important headaches are tolerably kept under--headaches\nproper they are not--but the noise and slight turning are less\ntroublesome--will soon go altogether.\n\n                        Bless you ever--ever dearest friend.\n\n                             R.B.\n\n_Oh, oh, oh!_ As many thanks for that precious card-box and jewel of\na flower-holder as are consistent with my dismay at finding you _only_\nreturn _them_ ... and not the costly brown paper wrappages also ... to\nsay nothing of the inestimable pins with which my sister uses to\nfasten the same!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                             [Post-mark, September 8, 1845.]\n\nI am in the greatest difficulty about the steamers. Will you think a\nlittle for me and tell me what is best to do? It appears that the\ndirect Leghorn steamer will not sail on the third, and may not until\nthe middle of October, and if forced to still further delay, which is\npossible, will not at all. One of my brothers has been to Mr. Andrews\nof St. Mary Axe and heard as much as this. What shall I do? The middle\nof October, say my sisters ... and I half fear that it may prove so\n... is too late for me--to say nothing for the uncertainty which\ncompletes the difficulty.\n\nOn the 20th of September (on the other hand) sails the Malta vessel;\nand I hear that I may go in it to Gibraltar and find a French steamer\nthere to proceed by. Is there an objection to this--except the change\nof steamers ... repeated ... for I must get down to Southampton--and\nthe leaving England so soon? Is any better to be done? Do think for me\na little. And now that the doing comes so near ... and in this dead\nsilence of Papa's ... it all seems impossible, ... and I seem to see\nthe stars _constellating_ against me, and give it as my serious\nopinion to you that I shall not go. Now, mark.\n\nBut I have had the kindest of letters from dear Mr. Kenyon, urging\nit--.\n\nWell--I have no time for writing any more--and this is only a note of\nbusiness to bespeak your thoughts about the steamers. My wisdom looks\nback regretfully ... only rather too late ... on the Leghorn vessel\nof the third of September. It would have been wise if I had gone\n_then_.\n\n                          May God bless you, dearest friend.\n\n                               E.B.B.\n\nBut if your head turns still, ... _do_ you walk enough? Is there not\nfault in your not walking, by your own confession? Think of this\nfirst--and then, if you please, of the steamers.\n\nSo, till Monday!--",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                             [Post-mark, September 9, 1845.]\n\nOne reason against printing the tragedies now, is your not being well\nenough for the necessary work connected with them, ... a sure reason\nand strong ... nay, chiefest of all. Plainly you are unfit for work\nnow--and even to complete the preparation of the lyrics, and take them\nthrough the press, may be too much for you, I am afraid; and if so,\nwhy you will not do it--will you?--you will wait for another year,--or\nat least be satisfied for this, with bringing out a number of the old\nsize, consisting of such poems as are fairly finished and require no\nretouching. 'Saul' for instance, you might leave--! You will not let\nme hear when I am gone, of your being ill--you will take care ... will\nyou not? Because you see ... or rather _I_ see ... you are _not_\nlooking well at all--no, you are not! and even if you do not care for\nthat, you should and must care to consider how unavailing it will be\nfor you to hold those golden keys of the future with a more resolute\nhand than your contemporaries, should you suffer yourself to be struck\ndown before the gate ... should you lose the physical power while\nkeeping the heart and will. Heart and will are great things, and\nsufficient things in your case--but after all we carry a barrow-full\nof clay about with us, and we must carry it a little carefully if we\nmean to keep to the path and not run zigzag into the border of the\ngarden. A figure which reminds me ... and I wanted no figure to remind\nme ... to ask you to thank your sister for me and from me for all her\nkindness about the flowers. Now you will not forget? you must not.\nWhen I think of the repeated trouble she has taken week after week,\nand all for a stranger, I must think again that it has been very\nkind--and I take the liberty of saying so moreover ... _as I am not\nthanking you_. Also these flowers of yesterday, which yesterday you\ndisdained so, look full of summer and are full of fragrance, and when\nthey seem to say that it is not September, I am willing to be lied to\njust _so_. For I wish it were not September. I wish it were July ...\nor November ... two months before or after: and that this journey were\nthrown behind or in front ... anywhere to be out of sight. You do not\nknow the courage it requires to hold the intention of it fast through\nwhat I feel sometimes. If it (the courage) had been prophesied to me\nonly a year ago, the prophet would have been laughed to scorn.\nWell!--but I want you to see. George's letter, and how he and Mrs.\nHedley, when she saw Papa's note of consent to me, give unhesitating\ncounsel. Burn it when you have read it. It is addressed to me ...\nwhich you will doubt from the address of it perhaps ... seeing that it\ngoes [Greek: ba ... rbarizôn]. We are famous in this house for what\nare called nick-names ... though a few of us have escaped rather by a\ncaprice than a reason: and I am never called anything else (never at\nall) except by the nom de _paix_ which you find written in the\nletter:--proving as Mr. Kenyon says, that I am just 'half a Ba-by' ...\nno more nor less;--and in fact the name has that precise definition.\nBurn the note when you have read it.\n\nAnd then I take it into my head, as you do not distinguish my sisters,\nyou say, one from the other, to send you my own account of them in\nthese enclosed 'sonnets' which were written a few weeks ago, and\nthough only pretending to be 'sketches,' pretend to be like, as far as\nthey go, and _are_ like--my brothers thought--when I 'showed them\nagainst' a profile drawn in pencil by Alfred, on the same subjects. I\nwas laughing and maintaining that mine should be as like as his--and\nhe yielded the point to me. So it is mere portrait-painting--and you\nwho are in 'high art,' must not be too scornful. Henrietta is the\nelder, and the one who brought you into this room first--and Arabel,\nwho means to go with me to Pisa, has been the most with me through my\nillness and is the least wanted in the house here, ... and perhaps ...\nperhaps--is my favourite--though my heart smites me while I write that\nunlawful word. They are both affectionate and kind to me in all\nthings, and good and lovable in their own beings--very unlike, for the\nrest; one, most caring for the Polka, ... and the other for the sermon\npreached at Paddington Chapel, ... _that_ is Arabel ... so if ever you\nhappen to know her you must try not to say before her how 'much you\nhate &c.' Henrietta always 'managed' everything in the house even\nbefore I was ill, ... because she liked it and I didn't, and I waived\nmy right to the sceptre of dinner-ordering.\n\nI have been thinking much of your 'Sordello' since you spoke of\nit--and even, I _had_ thought much of it before you spoke of it\nyesterday; feeling that it might be thrown out into the light by your\nhand, and greatly justify the additional effort. It is like a noble\npicture with its face to the wall just now--or at least, in the\nshadow. And so worthy as it is of you in all ways! individual all\nthrough: you have _made_ even the darkness of it! And such a work as\nit might become if you chose ... if you put your will to it! What I\nmeant to say yesterday was not that it wanted more additional verses\nthan the 'ten per cent' you spoke of ... though it does perhaps ... so\nmuch as that (to my mind) it wants drawing together and fortifying in\nthe connections and associations ... which hang as loosely every here\nand there, as those in a dream, and confound the reader who persists\nin thinking himself awake.\n\nHow do you mean that I am 'lenient'? Do you not believe that I tell\nyou what I think, and as I think it? I may _think wrong_, to be\nsure--but _that_ is not my fault:--and so there is no use reproaching\nme generally, unless you can convict me definitely at the same\ntime:--is there, now?\n\nAnd I have been reading and admiring these letters of Mr. Carlyle, and\nreceiving the greatest pleasure from them in every way. He is greatly\n_himself always_--which is the hardest thing for a man to be, perhaps.\nAnd what his appreciation of you is, it is easy to see--and what he\nexpects from you--notwithstanding that prodigious advice of his, to\nwrite your next work in prose! Also Mrs. Carlyle's letter--thank you\nfor letting me see it. I admire _that_ too! It is as ingenious 'a\ncase' against poor Keats, as could well be drawn--but nobody who knew\nvery deeply what poetry _is_, _could_, you know, draw any case against\nhim. A poet of the senses, he may be and is, just as she says--but\nthen it is of the senses idealized; and no dream in a 'store-room'\nwould ever be like the 'Eve of St. Agnes,' unless dreamed by some\n'animosus infans,' like Keats himself. Still it is all true ... isn't\nit?... what she observes of the want of thought as thought. He was a\n_seer_ strictly speaking. And what noble oppositions--(to go back to\nCarlyle's letters) ... he writes to the things you were speaking of\nyesterday! These letters are as good as Milton's picture for\nconvicting and putting to shame. Is not the difference between the men\nof our day and 'the giants which were on the earth,' less ... far less\n... in the faculty ... in the gift, ... or in the general intellect,\n... than in the stature of the soul itself? Our inferiority is not in\nwhat we can do, but in what we are. We should write poems like Milton\nif [we] lived them like Milton.\n\nI write all this just to show, I suppose, that I am not industrious as\nyou did me the honour of apprehending that I was going to be ...\npacking trunks perhaps ... or what else in the way of 'active\nusefulness.'\n\nSay how you are--will you? And do take care, and walk and do what is\ngood for you. I shall be able to see you twice before I go. And oh,\nthis going! Pray for me, dearest friend. May God bless you.\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n                            [Post-mark, September 11, 1845.]\n\nHere are your beautiful, and I am sure _true_ sonnets; they look\ntrue--I remember the light hair, I find. And who paints, and dares\nexhibit, E.B.B.'s self? And surely 'Alfred's' pencil has not foregone\nits best privilege, not left _the_ face unsketched? Italians call such\nan 'effect defective'--'l'andar a Roma senza vedere il Papa.' He must\nhave begun by seeing his Holiness, I know, and ... _he_ will not trust\nme with the result, that my sister may copy it for me, because we are\nstrangers, he and I, and I could give him nothing, nothing like the\nproper price for it--but _you_ would lend it to me, I think, nor need\nI do more than thank you in my usual effective and very eloquent\nway--for I have already been allowed to visit you seventeen times, do\nyou know; and this last letter of yours, fiftieth is the same! So all\nmy pride is gone, pride in that sense--and I mean to take of you for\never, and reconcile myself with my lot in this life. Could, and would,\nyou give me such a sketch? It has been on my mind to ask you ever\nsince I knew you if nothing in the way of _good_ portrait existed--and\nthis occasion bids me speak out, I dare believe: the more, that you\nhave also quieted--have you not?--another old obstinate and very\nlikely impertinent questioning of mine--as to the little name which\nwas neither Orinda, nor Sacharissa (for which thank providence) and is\nnever to appear in books, though you write them. Now I know it and\nwrite it--'Ba'--and thank you, and your brother George, and only\nburned his kind letter because you bade me who know best. So, wish by\nwish, one gets one's wishes--at least I do--for one instance, you will\ngo to Italy\n\n[Illustration: Music followed by ?]\n\nWhy, 'lean and harken after it' as Donne says--\n\nDon't expect Neapolitan Scenery at Pisa, quite in the North, remember.\nMrs. Shelley found Italy for the first time, real Italy, at Sorrento,\nshe says. Oh that book--does one wake or sleep? The 'Mary dear' with\nthe brown eyes, and Godwin's daughter and Shelley's wife, and who\nsurely was something better once upon a time--and to go through Rome\nand Florence and the rest, after what I suppose to be Lady\nLondonderry's fashion: the intrepidity of the commonplace quite\nastounds me. And then that way, when she and the like of her are put\nin a new place, with new flowers, new stones, faces, walls, all\nnew--of looking wisely up at the sun, clouds, evening star, or\nmountain top and wisely saying 'who shall describe _that_ sight!'--Not\n_you_, we very well see--but why don't you tell us that at Rome they\neat roasted chestnuts, and put the shells into their aprons, the women\ndo, and calmly empty the whole on the heads of the passengers in the\nstreet below; and that at Padua when a man drives his waggon up to a\nhouse and stops, all the mouse-coloured oxen that pull it from a beam\nagainst their foreheads sit down in a heap and rest. But once she\ntravelled the country with Shelley on arm; now she plods it, Rogers in\nhand--to such things and uses may we come at last! Her remarks on art,\nonce she lets go of Rio's skirts, are amazing--Fra Angelico, for\ninstance, only painted Martyrs, Virgins &c., she had no eyes for the\ndivine _bon-bourgeoisie_ of his pictures; the dear common folk of his\ncrowds, those who sit and listen (spectacle at nose and bent into a\ncomfortable heap to hear better) at the sermon of the Saint--and the\nchildren, and women,--divinely pure they all are, but fresh from the\nstreets and market place--but she is wrong every where, that is, not\nright, not seeing what is to see, speaking what one expects to hear--I\nquarrel with her, for ever, I think.\n\nI am much better, and mean to be well as you desire--shall correct the\nverses you have seen, and make them do for the present.\n\nSaturday, then! And one other time only, do you say?\n\nGod bless you, my own, best friend.\n\n                                                  Yours ever\n\n                                                       R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                            [Post-mark, September 11, 1845.]\n\nWill you come on Friday ... to-morrow ... instead of Saturday--will it\nbe the same thing? Because I have heard from Mr. Kenyon, who is to be\nin London on Friday evening he says, and therefore may mean to visit\nme on Saturday I imagine. So let it be Friday--if you should not, for\nany reason, prove Monday to be better still.\n\n                                         May God bless you--\n\n                                              Ever yours,\n\n                                                   E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Morning.\n                            [Post-mark, September 13, 1845.]\n\nNow, dearest, I will try and write the little I shall be able, in\nreply to your letter of last week--and first of all I have to entreat\nyou, now more than ever, to help me and understand from the few words\nthe feelings behind them--(should _speak_ rather more easily, I\nthink--but I dare not run the risk: and I know, after all, you will be\njust and kind where you can.) I have read your letter again and\nagain. I will tell you--no, not _you_, but any imaginary other person,\nwho should hear what I am going to avow; I would tell that person most\nsincerely there is not a particle of fatuity, shall I call it, in that\navowal; cannot be, seeing that from the beginning and at this moment I\nnever dreamed of winning your _love_. I can hardly write this word, so\nincongruous and impossible does it seem; such a change of our places\ndoes it imply--nor, next to that, though long after, _would_ I, if I\n_could_, supplant one of any of the affections that I know to have\ntaken root in you--_that_ great and solemn one, for instance. I feel\nthat if I could get myself _remade_, as if turned to gold, I WOULD not\neven then desire to become more than the mere setting to _that_\ndiamond you must always wear. The regard and esteem you now give me,\nin this letter, and which I press to my heart and bow my head upon, is\nall I can take and all too embarrassing, using _all_ my gratitude. And\nyet, with that contented pride in being infinitely your debtor as it\nis, bound to you for ever as it is; when I read your letter with all\nthe determination to be just to us both; I dare not so far withstand\nthe light I am master of, as to refuse seeing that whatever is\nrecorded as an objection to your disposing of that life of mine I\nwould give you, has reference to some supposed good in that life which\nyour accepting it would destroy (of which fancy I shall speak\npresently)--I say, wonder as I may at this, I cannot but find it\nthere, surely there. I could no more 'bind _you_ by words,' than you\nhave bound me, as you say--but if I misunderstand you, one assurance\nto that effect will be but too intelligible to me--but, as it _is_, I\nhave difficulty in imagining that while one of so many reasons, which\nI am not obliged to repeat to myself, but which any one easily\nconceives; while _any one_ of those reasons would impose silence on me\n_for ever_ (for, as I observed, I love you as you now are, and _would_\nnot remove one affection that is already part of you,)--_would_ you,\nbeing able to speak _so_, only say _that you_ desire not to put 'more\nsadness than I was born to,' into my life?--that you 'could give me\nonly what it were ungenerous to give'?\n\nHave I your meaning here? In so many words, is it on my account that\nyou bid me 'leave this subject'? I think if it were so, I would for\nonce call my advantages round me. I am not what your generous\nself-forgetting appreciation would sometimes make me out--but it is\nnot since yesterday, nor ten nor twenty years before, that I began to\nlook into my own life, and study its end, and requirements, what would\nturn to its good or its loss--and I _know_, if one may know anything,\nthat to make that life yours and increase it by union with yours,\nwould render me _supremely happy_, as I said, and say, and feel. My\nwhole suit to you is, in that sense, _selfish_--not that I am ignorant\nthat _your_ nature would most surely attain happiness in being\nconscious that it made another happy--but _that best, best end of\nall_, would, like the rest, come from yourself, be a reflection of\nyour own gift.\n\nDearest, I will end here--words, persuasion, arguments, if they were\nat my service I would not use them--I believe in you, altogether have\nfaith in you--in you. I will not think of insulting by trying to\nreassure you on one point which certain phrases in your letter might\nat first glance seem to imply--you do not understand me to be living\nand labouring and writing (and _not_ writing) in order to be\nsuccessful in the world's sense? I even convinced the people _here_\nwhat was my true 'honourable position in society,' &c. &c. therefore I\nshall not have to inform _you_ that I desire to be very rich, very\ngreat; but not in reading Law gratis with dear foolish old Basil\nMontagu, as he ever and anon bothers me to do;--much less--enough of\nthis nonsense.\n\n'Tell me what I have a claim to hear': I can hear it, and be as\ngrateful as I was before and am now--your friendship is my pride and\nhappiness. If you told me your love was bestowed elsewhere, and that\nit was in my power to serve you _there_, to serve you there would\nstill be my pride and happiness. I look on and on over the prospect of\nmy love, it is all _on_wards--and all possible forms of unkindness ...\nI quite laugh to think how they are _behind_ ... cannot be encountered\nin the route we are travelling! I submit to you and will obey you\nimplicitly--obey what I am able to conceive of your least desire, much\nmore of your expressed wish. But it was necessary to make this avowal,\namong other reasons, for one which the world would recognize too. My\nwhole scheme of life (with its wants, material wants at least, closely\ncut down) was long ago calculated--and it supposed _you_, the finding\nsuch an one as you, utterly impossible--because in calculating one\ngoes upon _chances_, not on providence--how could I expect you? So for\nmy own future way in the world I have always refused to care--any one\nwho can live a couple of years and more on bread and potatoes as I did\nonce on a time, and who prefers a blouse and a blue shirt (such as I\nnow write in) to all manner of dress and gentlemanly appointment, and\nwho can, if necessary, groom a horse not so badly, or at all events\nwould rather do it all day long than succeed Mr. Fitzroy Kelly in the\nSolicitor-Generalship,--such an one need not very much concern himself\nbeyond considering the lilies how they grow. But now I see you near\nthis life, all changes--and at a word, I will do all that ought to be\ndone, that every one used to say could be done, and let 'all my powers\nfind sweet employ' as Dr. Watts sings, in getting whatever is to be\ngot--not very much, surely. I would print these things, get them away,\nand do this now, and go to you at Pisa with the news--at Pisa where\none may live for some £100 a year--while, lo, I seem to remember, I\n_do_ remember, that Charles Kean offered to give me 500 of those\npounds for any play that might suit him--to say nothing of Mr. Colburn\nsaying confidentially that he wanted more than his dinner 'a novel on\nthe subject of _Napoleon_'! So may one make money, if one does not\nlive in a house in a row, and feel impelled to take the Princess's\nTheatre for a laudable development and exhibition of one's faculty.\n\nTake the sense of all this, I beseech you, dearest--all you shall say\nwill be best--I am yours--\n\nYes, Yours ever. God bless you for all you have been, and are, and\nwill certainly be to me, come what He shall please!\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, September 16, 1845.]\n\nI scarcely know how to write what is to be written nor indeed why it\nis to be written and to what end. I have tried in vain--and you are\nwaiting to hear from me. I am unhappy enough even where I am\nhappy--but ungrateful nowhere--and I thank you from my\nheart--profoundly from the depths of my heart ... which is nearly all\nI can do.\n\nOne letter I began to write and asked in it how it could become me to\nspeak at all if '_from the beginning and at this moment you never\ndreamed of_' ... and there, I stopped and tore the paper; because I\nfelt that you were too loyal and generous, for me to bear to take a\nmoment's advantage of the same, and bend down the very flowering\nbranch of your generosity (as it might be) to thicken a little the\nfence of a woman's caution and reserve. You will not say that you have\nnot acted as if you 'dreamed'--and I will answer therefore to the\ngeneral sense of your letter and former letters, and admit at once\nthat I _did_ state to you the difficulties most difficult to myself\n... though not all ... and that if I had been worthier of you I should\nhave been proportionably less in haste to 'bid you leave that\nsubject.' I do not understand how you can seem at the same moment to\nhave faith in my integrity and to have doubt whether all this time I\nmay not have felt a preference for another ... which you are ready\n'to serve,' you say. Which is generous in you--but in _me_, where were\nthe integrity? Could you really hold me to be blameless, and do you\nthink that truehearted women act usually so? Can it be necessary for\nme to tell you that I could not have acted so, and did not? And shall\nI shrink from telling you besides ... you, who have been generous to\nme and have a right to hear it ... and have spoken to me in the name\nof an affection and memory most precious and holy to me, in this same\nletter ... that neither now nor formerly has any man been to my\nfeelings what you are ... and that if I were different in some\nrespects and free in others by the providence of God, I would accept\nthe great trust of your happiness, gladly, proudly, and gratefully;\nand give away my own life and soul to that end. I _would_ do it ...\n_not, I do_ ... observe! it is a truth without a consequence; only\nmeaning that I am not all stone--only proving that I am not likely to\nconsent to help you in wrong against yourself. You see in me what is\nnot:--_that_, I know: and you overlook in me what is unsuitable to you\n... _that_ I know, and have sometimes told you. Still, because a\nstrong feeling from some sources is self-vindicating and ennobling to\nthe object of it, I will not say that, if it were proved to me that\nyou felt this for me, I would persist in putting the sense of my own\nunworthiness between you and me--not being heroic, you know, nor\npretending to be so. But something worse than even a sense of\nunworthiness, _God_ has put between us! and judge yourself if to beat\nyour thoughts against the immovable marble of it, can be anything but\npain and vexation of spirit, waste and wear of spirit to you ...\njudge! The present is here to be seen ... speaking for itself! and the\nbest future you can imagine for me, what a precarious thing it must be\n... a thing for making burdens out of ... only not for your carrying,\nas I have vowed to my own soul. As dear Mr. Kenyon said to me to-day\nin his smiling kindness ... 'In ten years you may be strong\nperhaps'--or 'almost strong'! that being the encouragement of my best\nfriends! What would he say, do you think, if he could know or\nguess...! what _could_ he say but that you were ... a poet!--and I ...\nstill worse! _Never_ let him know or guess!\n\nAnd so if you are wise and would be happy (and you have excellent\npractical sense after all and should exercise it) you must leave\nme--these thoughts of me, I mean ... for if we might not be true\nfriends for ever, I should have less courage to say the other truth.\nBut we may be friends always ... and cannot be so separated, that your\nhappiness, in the knowledge of it, will not increase mine. And if you\nwill be persuaded by me, as you say, you will be persuaded _thus_ ...\nand consent to take a resolution and force your mind at once into\nanother channel. Perhaps I might bring you reasons of the class which\nyou tell me 'would silence you for ever.' I might certainly tell you\nthat my own father, if he knew that you had written to me _so_, and\nthat I had answered you--_so_, even, would not forgive me at the end\nof ten years--and this, from none of the causes mentioned by me here\nand in no disrespect to your name and your position ... though he does\nnot over-value poetry even in his daughter, and is apt to take the\nworld's measures of the means of life ... but for the singular reason\nthat he never _does_ tolerate in his family (sons or daughters) the\ndevelopment of one class of feelings. Such an objection I could not\nbring to you of my own will--it rang hollow in my ears--perhaps I\nthought even too little of it:--and I brought to you what I thought\nmuch of, and cannot cease to think much of equally. Worldly thoughts,\nthese are not at all, nor have been: there need be no soiling of the\nheart with any such:--and I will say, in reply to some words of yours,\nthat you cannot despise the gold and gauds of the world more than I\ndo, and should do even if I found a use for them. And if I _wished_ to\nbe very poor, in the world's sense of poverty, I _could not_, with\nthree or four hundred a year of which no living will can dispossess\nme. And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the\nneed of thinking of it? It seems so to me.\n\nThe obstacles then are of another character, and the stronger for\nbeing so. Believe that I am grateful to you--_how_ grateful, cannot be\nshown in words nor even in tears ... grateful enough to be truthful in\nall ways. You know I might have hidden myself from you--but I would\nnot: and by the truth told of myself, you may believe in the\nearnestness with which I tell the other truths--of you ... and of this\nsubject. The subject will not bear consideration--it breaks in our\nhands. But that God is stronger than we, cannot be a bitter thought to\nyou but a holy thought ... while He lets me, as much as I can be\nanyone's, be only yours.\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, September 17, 1845.]\n\nI do not know whether you imagine the precise effect of your letter on\nme--very likely you do, and write it just for that--for I conceive\n_all_ from your goodness. But before I tell you what is that effect,\nlet me say in as few words as possible what shall stop any\nfear--though only for a moment and on the outset--that you have been\nmisunderstood, that the goodness _outside_, and round and over all,\nhides all or any thing. I understand you to signify to me that you\nsee, at this present, insurmountable obstacles to that--can I speak\nit--entire gift, which I shall own, was, while I dared ask it, above\nmy hopes--and wishes, even, so it seems to me ... and yet could not\nbut be asked, so plainly was it dictated to me, by something quite out\nof those hopes and wishes. Will it help me to say that once in this\nAladdin-cavern I knew I ought to stop for no heaps of jewel-fruit on\nthe trees from the very beginning, but go on to the lamp, _the_ prize,\nthe last and best of all? Well, I understand you to pronounce that at\npresent you believe this gift impossible--and I acquiesce entirely--I\nsubmit wholly to you; repose on you in all the faith of which I am\ncapable. Those obstacles are solely for _you_ to see and to declare\n... had _I_ seen them, be sure I should never have mocked you or\nmyself by affecting to pass them over ... what _were_ obstacles, I\nmean: but you _do_ see them, I must think,--and perhaps they strike me\nthe more from my true, honest unfeigned inability to imagine what they\nare,--not that I shall endeavour. After what you _also_ apprise me of,\nI know and am joyfully confident that if ever they cease to be what\nyou now consider them, you who see now _for me_, whom I implicitly\ntrust in to see for me; you will _then_, too, see and remember me, and\nhow I trust, and shall then be still trusting. And until you so see,\nand so inform me, I shall never utter a word--for that would involve\nthe vilest of implications. I thank God--I _do_ thank him, that in\nthis whole matter I have been, to the utmost of my power, not unworthy\nof his introducing you to me, in this respect that, being no longer in\nthe first freshness of life, and having for many years now made up my\nmind to the impossibility of loving any woman ... having wondered at\nthis in the beginning, and fought not a little against it, having\nacquiesced in it at last, and accounted for it all to myself, and\nbecome, if anything, rather proud of it than sorry ... I say, when\nreal love, making itself at once recognized as such, _did_ reveal\nitself to me at last, I _did_ open my heart to it with a cry--nor care\nfor its overturning all my theory--nor mistrust its effect upon a mind\nset in ultimate order, so I fancied, for the few years more--nor\napprehend in the least that the new element would harm what was\nalready organized without its help. Nor have I, either, been guilty of\nthe more pardonable folly, of treating the new feeling after the\npedantic fashions and instances of the world. I have not spoken when\n_it_ did not speak, because 'one' might speak, or has spoken, or\n_should_ speak, and 'plead' and all that miserable work which, after\nall, I may well continue proud that I am not called to attempt. _Here_\nfor instance, _now_ ... 'one' should despair; but 'try again' first,\nand work blindly at removing those obstacles (--if I saw them, I\nshould be silent, and only speak when a month hence, ten years hence,\nI could bid you look where they _were_)--and 'one' would do all this,\nnot for the _play-acting's_ sake, or to 'look the character' ...\n(_that_ would be something quite different from folly ...) but from a\nnot unreasonable anxiety lest by too sudden a silence, too complete an\nacceptance of your will; the earnestness and endurance and\nunabatedness ... the _truth_, in fact, of what had already been\nprofessed, should get to be questioned--But I believe that you believe\nme--And now that all is clear between us I will say, what you will\nhear, without fearing for me or yourself, that I am utterly contented\n... ('grateful' I have done with ... it must go--) I accept what you\ngive me, what those words deliver to me, as--not all I asked for ...\nas I said ... but as more than I ever hoped for,--_all_, in the best\nsense, that I deserve. That phrase in my letter which you objected to,\nand the other--may stand, too--I never attempted to declare, describe\nmy feeling for you--one word of course stood for it all ... but having\nto put down some one _point_, so to speak, of it--you could not wonder\nif I took any extreme one _first_ ... never minding all the untold\nportion that _led_ up to it, made it possible and natural--it is true,\n'I could not dream of _that_'--that I was eager to get the horrible\nnotion away from never so flitting a visit to you, that you were thus\nand thus to me _on condition_ of my proving just the same to you--just\nas if we had waited to acknowledge that the moon lighted us till we\nascertained within these two or three hundred years that the earth\nhappens to light the moon as well! But I felt that, and so said\nit:--now you have declared what I should never have presumed to\nhope--and I repeat to you that I, with all to be thankful for to God,\nam most of all thankful for this the last of his providences ... which\nis no doubt, the natural and inevitable feeling, could one always see\nclearly. Your regard for me is _all_ success--let the rest come, or\nnot come. In my heart's thankfulness I would ... I am sure I would\npromise anything that would gratify you ... but it would _not_ do\nthat, to agree, in words, to change my affections, put them elsewhere\n&c. &c. That would be pure foolish talking, and quite foreign to the\npractical results which you will attain in a better way from a higher\nmotive. I will cheerfully promise you, however, to be 'bound by no\nwords,' blind to no miracle; in sober earnest, it is not because I\nrenounced once for all oxen and the owning and having to do with them,\nthat I will obstinately turn away from any unicorn when such an\napparition blesses me ... but meantime I shall walk at peace on our\nhills here nor go looking in all corners for the bright curved horn!\nAnd as for you ... if I did not dare 'to dream of that'--, now it is\nmine, my pride and joy prevent in no manner my taking the whole\nconsolation of it at once, _now_--I will be confident that, if I obey\nyou, I shall get no wrong for it--if, endeavouring to spare you\nfruitless pain, I do not eternally revert to the subject; do indeed\n'quit' it just now, when no good can come of dwelling on it to you;\nyou will never say to yourself--so I said--'the \"generous impulse\"\n_has_ worn itself out ... time is doing his usual work--this was to be\nexpected' &c. &c. You will be the first to say to me 'such an obstacle\nhas ceased to exist ... or is now become one palpable to _you_, one\n_you_ may try and overcome'--and I shall be there, and ready--ten\nyears hence as now--if alive.\n\nOne final word on the other matters--the 'worldly matters'--I shall\nown I alluded to them rather ostentatiously, because--because _that\nwould be_ the _one_ poor sacrifice I could make you--one I would\ncheerfully make, but a sacrifice, and the only one: this careless\n'sweet habitude of living'--this absolute independence of mine, which,\nif I had it not, my heart would starve and die for, I feel, and which\nI have fought so many good battles to preserve--for that has\nhappened, too--this light rational life I lead, and know so well that\nI lead; this I could give up for nothing less than--what you know--but\nI _would_ give it up, not for you merely, but for those whose\ndisappointment might re-act on you--and I should break no promise to\nmyself--the money getting would not be for the sake of _it_; 'the\nlabour not for that which is nought'--indeed the necessity of doing\nthis, if at all, _now_, was one of the reasons which make me go on to\nthat _last request of all_--at once; one must not be too old, they\nsay, to begin their ways. But, in spite of all the babble, I feel sure\nthat whenever I make up my mind to that, I can be rich enough and to\nspare--because along with what you have thought _genius_ in me, is\ncertainly talent, what the world recognizes as such; and I have tried\nit in various ways, just to be sure that I _was_ a little magnanimous\nin never intending to use it. Thus, in more than one of the reviews\nand newspapers that laughed my 'Paracelsus' to scorn ten years ago--in\nthe same column, often, of these reviews, would follow a most\nlaudatory notice of an Elementary French book, on a new plan, which I\n'_did_' for my old French master, and he published--'_that_ was really\nan useful work'!--So that when the only obstacle is only that there is\nso much _per annum_ to be producible, you will tell me. After all it\nwould be unfair in me not to confess that this was always intended to\nbe _my_ own single stipulation--'an objection' which I could see,\ncertainly,--but meant to treat myself to the little luxury of\nremoving.\n\nSo, now, dearest--let me once think of that, and of you as my own, my\ndearest--this once--dearest, I have done with words for the present. I\nwill wait. God bless you and reward you--I kiss your hands _now_. This\nis my comfort, that if you accept my feeling as all but _un_expressed\nnow, more and more will become spoken--or understood, that is--we both\nlive on--you will know better _what_ it was, how much and manifold,\nwhat one little word had to give out.\n\n                                             God bless you--\n\n                                                  Your R.B.\n\nOn Thursday,--you remember?\n\nThis is Tuesday Night--\n\nI called on Saturday at the Office in St. Mary Axe--all uncertainty\nabout the vessel's sailing again for Leghorn--it could not sail before\nthe middle of the month--and only then _if_ &c. But if I would leave\nmy card &c. &c.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                            [Post-mark, September 17, 1845.]\n\nI write one word just to say that it is all over with Pisa; which was\na probable evil when I wrote last, and which I foresaw from the\nbeginning--being a prophetess, you know. I cannot tell you now how it\nhas all happened--_only do not blame me_, for I have kept my ground to\nthe last, and only yield when Mr. Kenyon and all the world see that\nthere is no standing. I am ashamed almost of having put so much\nearnestness into a personal matter--and I spoke face to face and quite\nfirmly--so as to pass with my sisters for the 'bravest person in the\nhouse' without contestation.\n\nSometimes it seems to me as if it _could not_ end so--I mean, that the\nresponsibility of such a negative must be reconsidered ... and you see\nhow Mr. Kenyon writes to me. Still, as the matter lies, ... no Pisa!\nAnd, as I said before, my prophetic instincts are not likely to fail,\nsuch as they have been from the beginning.\n\nIf you wish to come, it must not be until Saturday at soonest. I have\na headache and am weary at heart with all this vexation--and besides\nthere is no haste now: and when you do come, _if you do_, I will trust\nto you not to recur to one subject, which must lie where it fell ...\nmust! I had begun to write to you on Saturday, to say how I had\nforgotten to give you your MSS. which were lying ready for you ... the\n_Hood_ poems. Would it not be desirable that you made haste to see\nthem through the press, and went abroad with your Roman friends at\nonce, to try to get rid of that uneasiness in the head? Do think of\nit--and more than think.\n\nFor me, you are not to fancy me unwell. Only, not to be worn a little\nwith the last week's turmoil, were impossible--and Mr. Kenyon said to\nme yesterday that he quite wondered how I could bear it at all, do\nanything reasonable at all, and confine my misdoings to sending\nletters addressed to him at Brighton, when he was at Dover! If\nanything changes, you shall hear from--\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nMr. Kenyon returns to Dover immediately. His kindness is impotent in\nthe case.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Evening.\n                            [Post-mark, September 18, 1845.]\n\nBut one word before we leave the subject, and then to leave it\nfinally; but I cannot let you go on to fancy a mystery anywhere, in\nobstacles or the rest. You deserve at least a full frankness; and in\nmy letter I meant to be fully frank. I even told you what was an\nabsurdity, so absurd that I should far rather not have told you at\nall, only that I felt the need of telling you all: and no mystery is\ninvolved in that, except as an 'idiosyncrasy' is a mystery. But the\n'insurmountable' difficulty is for you and everybody to see; and for\nme to feel, who have been a very byword among the talkers, for a\nconfirmed invalid through months and years, and who, even if I were\ngoing to Pisa and had the best prospects possible to me, should yet\nremain liable to relapses and stand on precarious ground to the end of\nmy life. Now that is no mystery for the trying of 'faith'; but a plain\nfact, which neither thinking nor speaking can make less a fact. But\n_don't_ let us speak of it.\n\nI must speak, however, (before the silence) of what you said and\nrepeat in words for which I gratefully thank you--and which are _not_\n'ostentatious' though unnecessary words--for, if I were in a position\nto accept sacrifices from you, I would not accept _such_ a sacrifice\n... amounting to a sacrifice of duty and dignity as well as of ease\nand satisfaction ... to an exchange of higher work for lower work ...\nand of the special work you are called to, for that which is work for\nanybody. I am not so ignorant of the right uses and destinies of what\nyou have and are. You will leave the Solicitor-Generalships to the\nFitzroy Kellys, and justify your own nature; and besides, do me the\nlittle right, (_over_ the _over_-right you are always doing me) of\nbelieving that I would not bear or dare to do _you_ so much wrong, if\nI were in the position to do it.\n\nAnd for all the rest I thank you--believe that I thank you ... and\nthat the feeling is not so weak as the word. That _you_ should care at\nall for _me_ has been a matter of unaffected wonder to me from the\nfirst hour until now--and I cannot help the pain I feel sometimes, in\nthinking that it would have been better for you if you never had known\nme. May God turn back the evil of me! Certainly I admit that I cannot\nexpect you ... just at this moment, ... to say more than you say, ...\nand I shall try to be at ease in the consideration that you are as\naccessible to the 'unicorn' now as you ever could be at any former\nperiod of your life. And here I have done. I had done _living_, I\nthought, when you came and sought me out! and why? and to what end?\n_That_, I cannot help thinking now. Perhaps just that I may pray for\nyou--which were a sufficient end. If you come on Saturday I trust you\nto leave this subject untouched,--as it must be indeed henceforth.\n\n                                                 I am yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nNo word more of Pisa--I shall not go, I think.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, September 18, 1845.]\n\nWords!--it was written I should hate and never use them to any\npurpose. I will not say one word here--very well knowing neither word\nnor deed avails--from me.\n\nMy letter will have reassured you on the point you seem undecided\nabout--whether I would speak &c.\n\nI will come whenever you shall signify that I may ... whenever, acting\nin my best interests, you feel that it will not hurt you (weary you in\nany way) to see me--but I fear that on Saturday I must be\notherwhere--I enclose the letter from my old foe. Which could not but\nmelt me for all my moroseness and I can hardly go and return for my\nsister in time. Will you tell me?\n\nIt is dark--but I want to save the post--\n\n                                                  Ever yours\n\n                                                       R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                            [Post-mark, September 18, 1845.]\n\nOf course you cannot do otherwise than go with your sister--or it will\nbe 'Every man _out_ of his humour' perhaps--and you are not so very\n'savage' after all.\n\nOn Monday then, if you do not hear--to the contrary.\n\nPapa has been walking to and fro in this room, looking thoughtfully\nand talking leisurely--and every moment I have expected I confess,\nsome word (that did not come) about Pisa. Mr. Kenyon thinks it cannot\nend so--and I do sometimes--and in the meantime I do confess to a\nlittle 'savageness' also--at heart! All I asked him to say the other\nday, was that he was not displeased with me--_and he wouldn't_; and\nfor me to walk across his displeasure spread on the threshold of the\ndoor, and moreover take a sister and brother with me, and do such a\nthing for the sake of going to Italy and securing a personal\nadvantage, were altogether impossible, obviously impossible! So poor\nPapa is quite in disgrace with me just now--if he would but care for\n_that_!\n\nMay God bless you. Amuse yourself well on Saturday. I could not see\nyou on Thursday any way, for Mr. Kenyon is here every day ... staying\nin town just on account of this Pisa business, in his abundant\nkindness.... On Monday then.\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n                            [Post-mark, September 18, 1845.]\n\nBut you, too, will surely want, if you think me a rational creature,\n_my_ explanation--without which all that I have said and done would be\npure madness, I think. It _is_ just 'what I see' that I _do_ see,--or\nrather it has proved, since I first visited you, that the reality was\ninfinitely worse than I know it to be ... for at, and after the\nwriting of _that first letter_, on my first visit, I believed--through\nsome silly or misapprehended talk, collected at second hand too--that\nyour complaint was of quite another nature--a spinal injury\nirremediable in the nature of it. Had it been _so_--now speak for\n_me_, for what you hope I am, and say how _that_ should affect or\nneutralize what you _were_, what I wished to associate with myself in\nyou? But _as you now are_:--then if I had married you seven years ago,\nand this visitation came now first, I should be 'fulfilling a pious\nduty,' I suppose, in enduring what could not be amended--a pattern to\ngood people in not running away ... for where were _now_ the use and\nthe good and the profit and--\n\nI desire in this life (with very little fluctuation for a man and too\nweak a one) to live and just write out certain things which are in me,\nand so save my soul. I would endeavour to do this if I were forced to\n'live among lions' as you once said--but I should best do this if I\nlived quietly with myself and with you. That you cannot dance like\nCerito does not materially disarrange this plan--nor that I might\n(beside the perpetual incentive and sustainment and consolation) get,\nover and above the main reward, the incidental, particular and\nunexpected happiness of being allowed when not working to rather\noccupy myself with watching you, than with certain other pursuits I\nmight be otherwise addicted to--_this_, also, does not constitute an\nobstacle, as I see obstacles.\n\nBut _you_ see them--and I see _you_, and know my first duty and do it\nresolutely if not cheerfully.\n\nAs for referring again, till leave by word or letter--you will see--\n\nAnd very likely, the tone of this letter even will be\nmisunderstood--because I studiously cut out all vain words, protesting\n&c.:--No--will it?\n\nI said, unadvisedly, that Saturday was taken from me ... but it was\ndark and I had not looked at the tickets: the hour of the performance\nis later than I thought. If to-morrow does not suit you, as I infer,\nlet it be Saturday--at 3--and I will leave earlier, a little, and all\nwill be quite right here. One hint will apprise me.\n\n                              God bless you, dearest friend.\n\n                                   R.B.\n\nSomething else just heard, makes me reluctantly strike out\n_Saturday_--\n\n_Monday_ then?",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                            [Post-mark, September 19, 1845.]\n\nIt is not 'misunderstanding' you to know you to be the most generous\nand loyal of all in the world--you overwhelm me with your\ngenerosity--only while you see from above and I from below, we cannot\nsee the same thing in the same light. Moreover, if we _did_, I should\nbe more beneath you in one sense, than I am. Do me the justice of\nremembering this whenever you recur in thought to the subject which\nends here in the words of it.\n\nI began to write last Saturday to thank you for all the delight I had\nhad in Shelley, though you beguiled me about the pencil-marks, which\nare few. Besides the translations, some of the original poems were not\nin my copy and were, so, quite new to me. 'Marianne's Dream' I had\nbeen anxious about to no end--I only know it now.--\n\nOn Monday at the usual hour. As to coming twice into town on Saturday,\nthat would have been quite foolish if it had been possible.\n\n                                            Dearest friend,\n\n                                                 I am yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, September 24, 1845.]\n\nI have nothing to say about Pisa, ... but a great deal (if I could say\nit) about _you_, who do what is wrong by your own confession and are\nill because of it and make people uneasy--now _is_ it right\naltogether? is it right to do wrong?... for it comes to _that_:--and\nis it kind to do so much wrong?... for it comes almost to _that_\nbesides. Ah--you should not indeed! I seem to see quite plainly that\nyou will be ill in a serious way, if you do not take care and take\nexercise; and so you must consent to be teazed a little into taking\nboth. And if you will not take them here ... or not so effectually as\nin other places; _why not go with your Italian friends_? Have you\nthought of it at all? _I_ have been thinking since yesterday that it\nmight be best for you to go at once, now that the probability has\nturned quite against me. If I were going, I should ask you not to do\nso immediately ... but you see how unlikely it is!--although I mean\nstill to speak my whole thoughts--I _will do that_ ... even though\nfor the mere purpose of self-satisfaction. George came last night--but\nthere is an adverse star this morning, and neither of us has the\nopportunity necessary. Only both he and I _will speak_--that is\ncertain. And Arabel had the kindness to say yesterday that if I liked\nto go, she would go with me at whatever hazard--which is very\nkind--but you know I could not--it would not be right of me. And\nperhaps after all we may gain the point lawfully; and if not ... at\nthe worst ... the winter may be warm (it is better to fall into the\nhands of God, as the Jew said) and I may lose less strength than\nusual, ... having more than usual to lose ... and altogether it may\nnot be so bad an alternative. As to being the cause of any anger\nagainst my sister, you would not advise me into such a position, I am\nsure--it would be untenable for one moment.\n\nBut _you_ ... in that case, ... would it not be good for your head if\nyou went at once? I praise myself for saying so to you--yet if it\nreally is good for you, I don't deserve the praising at all. And how\nwas it on Saturday--that question I did not ask yesterday--with Ben\nJonson and the amateurs? I thought of you at the time--I mean, on that\nSaturday evening, nevertheless.\n\nYou shall hear when there is any more to say. May God bless you,\ndearest friend! I am ever yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Evening.\n                            [Post-mark, September 25, 1845.]\n\nI walked to town, this morning, and back again--so that when I found\nyour note on my return, and knew what you had been enjoining me in the\nway of exercise, I seemed as if I knew, too, why that energetic fit\nhad possessed me and why I succumbed to it so readily. You shall never\nhave to intimate twice to me that such an insignificant thing, even,\nas the taking exercise should be done. Besides, I have many motives\nnow for wishing to continue well. But Italy _just now_--Oh, no! My\nfriends would go through Pisa, too.\n\nOn that subject I must not speak. And you have 'more strength to\nlose,' and are so well, evidently so well; that is, so much better, so\nsure to be still better--can it be that you will not go!\n\nHere are your new notes on my verses. Where are my words for the\nthanks? But you know what I feel, and shall feel--ever feel--for these\nand for all. The notes would be beyond price to me if they came from\nsome dear Phemius of a teacher--but from you!\n\nThe Theatricals 'went off' with great éclat, and the performance was\nreally good, really clever or better. Forster's 'Kitely' was very\nemphatic and earnest, and grew into great interest, quite up to the\npoet's allotted tether, which is none of the longest. He pitched the\ncharacter's key note too gravely, I thought; _beginning_ with\ncertainty, rather than mere suspicion, of evil. Dickens' 'Bobadil'\n_was_ capital--with perhaps a little too much of the consciousness of\nentire cowardice ... which I don't so willingly attribute to the noble\nwould-be pacificator of Europe, besieger of Strigonium &c.--but the\nend of it all was really pathetic, as it should be, for Bobadil is\nonly too clever for the company of fools he makes wonderment for:\nhaving once the misfortune to relish their society, and to need but\ntoo pressingly their 'tobacco-money,' what can he do but suit himself\nto their capacities?--And D. Jerrold was very amusing and clever in\nhis 'Country Gull'--And Mr. Leech superb in the Town Master Mathew.\nAll were good, indeed, and were voted good, and called on, and cheered\noff, and praised heartily behind their backs and before the curtain.\nStanfield's function had exercise solely in the touching up (very\neffectively) sundry 'Scenes'--painted scenes--and the dresses, which\nwere perfect, had the advantage of Mr. Maclise's experience. And--all\nis told!\n\nAnd now; I shall hear, you promise me, if anything occurs--with what\nfeeling, I wait and hope, you know. If there is _no_ best of reasons\nagainst it, Saturday, you remember, is my day--This fine weather, too!\n\n                           May God bless my dearest friend--\n\n                                Ever yours\n\n                                     R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, September 25, 1845.]\n\nI have spoken again, and the result is that we are in precisely the\nsame position; only with bitterer feelings on one side. If I go or\nstay they _must_ be bitter: words have been said that I cannot easily\nforget, nor remember without pain; and yet I really do almost smile in\nthe midst of it all, to think how I was treated this morning as an\nundutiful daughter because I tried to put on my gloves ... for there\nwas no worse provocation. At least he complained of the undutifulness\nand rebellion (!!!) of everyone in the house--and when I asked if he\nmeant that reproach for _me_, the answer was that he meant it for all\nof us, one with another. And I could not get an answer. He would not\neven grant me the consolation of thinking that I sacrificed what I\nsupposed to be good, to _him_. I told him that my prospects of health\nseemed to me to depend on taking this step, but that through my\naffection for him, I was ready to sacrifice those to his pleasure if\nhe exacted it--only it was necessary to my self-satisfaction in future\nyears, to understand definitely that the sacrifice _was_ exacted by\nhim and _was_ made to him, ... and not thrown away blindly and by a\nmisapprehension. And he would not answer _that_. I might do my own\nway, he said--_he_ would not speak--_he_ would not say that he was not\ndispleased with me, nor the contrary:--I had better do what I\nliked:--for his part, he washed his hands of me altogether.\n\nAnd so I have been very wise--witness how my eyes are swelled with\nannotations and reflections on all this! The best of it is that now\nGeorge himself admits I can do no more in the way of speaking, ... I\nhave no spell for charming the dragons, ... and allows me to be\npassive and enjoins me to be tranquil, and not 'make up my mind' to\nany dreadful exertion for the future. Moreover he advises me to go on\nwith the preparations for the voyage, and promises to state the case\nhimself at the last hour to the 'highest authority'; and judge finally\nwhether it be possible for me to go with the necessary companionship.\nAnd it seems best to go to Malta on the 3rd of October--if at all ...\nfrom steam-packet reasons ... without excluding Pisa ... remember ...\nby any means.\n\nWell!--and what do you think? Might it be desirable for me to give up\nthe whole? Tell me. I feel aggrieved of course and wounded--and\nwhether I go or stay that feeling must last--I cannot help it. But my\nspirits sink altogether at the thought of leaving England _so_--and\nthen I doubt about Arabel and Stormie ... and it seems to me that I\n_ought not_ to mix them up in a business of this kind where the\nadvantage is merely personal to myself. On the other side, George\nholds that if I give up and stay even, there will be displeasure just\nthe same, ... and that, when once gone, the irritation will exhaust\nand smooth itself away--which however does not touch my chief\nobjection. Would it be better ... more _right_ ... to give it up?\nThink for me. Even if I hold on to the last, at the last I shall be\nthrown off--_that_ is my conviction. But ... shall I give up _at\nonce_? Do think for me.\n\nAnd I have thought that if you like to come on Friday instead of\nSaturday ... as there is the uncertainty about next week, ... it would\ndivide the time more equally: but let it be as you like and according\nto circumstances as you see them. Perhaps you have decided to go at\nonce with your friends--who knows? I wish I could know that you were\nbetter to-day. May God bless you\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, September 25, 1845.]\n\nYou have said to me more than once that you wished I might never know\ncertain feelings _you_ had been forced to endure. I suppose all of us\nhave the proper place where a blow should fall to be felt most--and I\ntruly wish _you_ may never feel what I have to bear in looking on,\nquite powerless, and silent, while you are subjected to this\ntreatment, which I refuse to characterize--so blind is it _for_\nblindness. I think I ought to understand what a father may exact, and\na child should comply with; and I respect the most ambiguous of love's\ncaprices if they give never so slight a clue to their all-justifying\nsource. Did I, when you signified to me the probable objections--you\nremember what--to myself, my own happiness,--did I once allude to,\nmuch less argue against, or refuse to acknowledge those objections?\nFor I wholly sympathize, however it go against me, with the highest,\nwariest, pride and love for you, and the proper jealousy and vigilance\nthey entail--but now, and here, the jewel is not being over guarded,\nbut ruined, cast away. And whoever is privileged to interfere should\ndo so in the possessor's own interest--all common sense\ninterferes--all rationality against absolute no-reason at all. And you\nask whether you ought to obey this no-reason? I will tell you: all\npassive obedience and implicit submission of will and intellect is by\nfar too easy, if well considered, to be the course prescribed by God\nto Man in this life of probation--for they _evade_ probation\naltogether, though foolish people think otherwise. Chop off your legs,\nyou will never go astray; stifle your reason altogether and you will\nfind it is difficult to reason ill. 'It is hard to make these\nsacrifices!'--not so hard as to lose the reward or incur the penalty\nof an Eternity to come; 'hard to effect them, then, and go through\nwith them'--_not_ hard, when the leg is to be _cut off_--that it is\nrather harder to keep it quiet on a stool, I know very well. The\npartial indulgence, the proper exercise of one's faculties, there is\nthe difficulty and problem for solution, set by that Providence which\nmight have made the laws of Religion as indubitable as those of\nvitality, and revealed the articles of belief as certainly as that\ncondition, for instance, by which we breathe so many times in a minute\nto support life. But there is no reward proposed for the feat of\nbreathing, and a great one for that of believing--consequently there\nmust go a great deal more of voluntary effort to this latter than is\nimplied in the getting absolutely rid of it at once, by adopting the\ndirection of an infallible church, or private judgment of another--for\nall our life is some form of religion, and all our action some belief,\nand there is but one law, however modified, for the greater and the\nless. In your case I do think you are called upon to do your duty to\nyourself; that is, to God in the end. Your own reason should examine\nthe whole matter in dispute by every light which can be put in\nrequisition; and every interest that appears to be affected by your\nconduct should have its utmost claims considered--your father's in the\nfirst place; and that interest, not in the miserable limits of a few\ndays' pique or whim in which it would seem to express itself; but in\nits whole extent ... the _hereafter_ which all momentary passion\nprevents him seeing ... indeed, the _present_ on either side which\neveryone else must see. And this examination made, with whatever\nearnestness you will, I do think and am sure that on its conclusion\nyou should act, in confidence that a duty has been performed ...\n_difficult_, or how were it a duty? Will it _not_ be infinitely harder\nto act so than to blindly adopt his pleasure, and die under it? Who\ncan _not_ do that?\n\nI fling these hasty rough words over the paper, fast as they will\nfall--knowing to whom I cast them, and that any sense they may contain\nor point to, will be caught and understood, and presented in a better\nlight. The hard thing ... this is all I want to say ... is to act on\none's own best conviction--not to abjure it and accept another will,\nand say '_there_ is my plain duty'--easy it is, whether plain or no!\n\nHow 'all changes!' When I first knew you--you know what followed. I\nsupposed you to labour under an incurable complaint--and, of course,\nto be completely dependent on your father for its commonest\nalleviations; the moment after that inconsiderate letter, I reproached\nmyself bitterly with the selfishness apparently involved in any\nproposition I might then have made--for though I have never been at\nall frightened of the world, nor mistrustful of my power to deal with\nit, and get my purpose out of it if once I thought it worth while, yet\nI could not but feel the consideration, of _what_ failure would _now_\nbe, paralyse all effort even in fancy. When you told me lately that\n'you could never be poor'--all my solicitude was at an end--I had but\nmyself to care about, and I told you, what I believed and believe,\nthat I can at any time amply provide for that, and that I could\ncheerfully and confidently undertake the removing _that_ obstacle. Now\nagain the circumstances shift--and you are in what I should wonder at\nas the veriest slavery--and I who _could_ free you from it, I am here\nscarcely daring to write ... though I know you must feel for me and\nforgive what forces itself from me ... what retires so mutely into my\nheart at your least word ... what _shall not_ be again written or\nspoken, if you so will ... that I should be made happy beyond all hope\nof expression by. Now while I _dream_, let me once dream! I would\nmarry you now and thus--I would come when you let me, and go when you\nbade me--I would be no more than one of your brothers--'_no\nmore_'--that is, instead of getting to-morrow for Saturday, I should\nget Saturday as well--two hours for one--when your head ached I\nshould be _here_. I deliberately choose the realization of that dream\n(--of sitting simply by you for an hour every day) rather than any\nother, excluding you, I am able to form for this world, or any world I\nknow--And it will continue but a dream.\n\n                                 God bless my dearest E.B.B.\n\n                                      R.B.\n\nYou understand that I see you to-morrow, Friday, as you propose.\n\nI am better--thank you--and will go out to-day.\n\nYou know what I am, what I would speak, and all I would do.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Evening.\n                            [Post-mark, September 27, 1845.]\n\nI had your letter late last night, everyone almost, being out of the\nhouse by an accident, so that it was left in the letter-box, and if I\nhad wished to answer it before I saw you, it had scarcely been\npossible.\n\nBut it will be the same thing--for you know as well as if you saw my\nanswer, what it must be, what it cannot choose but be, on pain of\nsinking me so infinitely below not merely your level but my own, that\nthe depth cannot bear a glance down. Yet, though I am not made of such\nclay as to admit of my taking a base advantage of certain noble\nextravagances, (and that I am not I thank God for your sake) I will\nsay, I must say, that your words in this letter have done me good and\nmade me happy, ... that I thank and bless you for them, ... and that\nto receive such a proof of attachment from _you_, not only overpowers\nevery present evil, but seems to me a full and abundant amends for the\nmerely personal sufferings of my whole life. When I had read that\nletter last night I _did_ think so. I looked round and round for the\nsmall bitternesses which for several days had been bitter to me, and I\ncould not find one of them. The tear-marks went away in the moisture\nof new, happy tears. Why, how else could I have felt? how else do you\nthink I could? How would any woman have felt ... who could feel at all\n... hearing such words said (though 'in a dream' indeed) by such a\nspeaker?\n\nAnd now listen to me in turn. You have touched me more profoundly than\nI thought even _you_ could have touched me--my heart was full when you\ncame here to-day. Henceforward I am yours for everything but to do you\nharm--and I am yours too much, in my heart, ever to consent to do you\nharm in that way. If I could consent to do it, not only should I be\nless loyal ... but in one sense, less yours. I say this to you without\ndrawback and reserve, because it is all I am able to say, and perhaps\nall I _shall_ be able to say. However this may be, a promise goes to\nyou in it that none, except God and your will, shall interpose between\nyou and me, ... I mean, that if He should free me within a moderate\ntime from the trailing chain of this weakness, I will then be to you\nwhatever at that hour you shall choose ... whether friend or more than\nfriend ... a friend to the last in any case. So it rests with God and\nwith you--only in the meanwhile you are most absolutely free ...\n'unentangled' (as they call it) by the breadth of a thread--and if I\ndid not know that you considered yourself so, I would not see you any\nmore, let the effort cost me what it might. You may force me _feel_:\n... but you cannot force me to _think_ contrary to my first thought\n... that it were better for you to forget me at once in one relation.\nAnd if better for _you_, can it be bad for _me_? which flings me down\non the stone-pavement of the logicians.\n\nAnd now if I ask a boon of you, will you forget afterwards that it\never was asked? I have hesitated a great deal; but my face is down on\nthe stone-pavement--no--I will not ask to-day--It shall be for another\nday--and may God bless you on this and on those that come after, my\ndearest friend.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, September 27, 1845.]\n\nThink for me, speak for me, my dearest, _my own_! You that are all\ngreat-heartedness and generosity, do that one more generous thing?\n\n                                           God bless you for\n\n                                                R.B.\n\nWhat can it be you ask of me!--'a boon'--once my answer to _that_ had\nbeen the plain one--but now ... when I have better experience of--No,\nnow I have BEST experience of how you understand my interests; that at\nlast we _both_ know what is my true good--so ask, ask! _My own_, now!\nFor there it is!--oh, do not fear I am '_entangled_'--my crown is\nloose on my head, not nailed there--my pearl lies in my hand--I may\nreturn it to the sea, if I will!\n\nWhat is it you ask of me, this first asking?",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, September 29, 1845.]\n\nThen _first_, ... first, I ask you not to misunderstand. Because we do\nnot ... no, we do not ... agree (but disagree) as to 'what is your\ntrue good' ... but disagree, and as widely as ever indeed.\n\nThe other asking shall come in its season ... some day before I go, if\nI go. It only relates to a restitution--and you cannot guess it if you\ntry ... so don't try!--and perhaps you can't grant it if you try--and\nI cannot guess.\n\nCabins and berths all taken in the Malta steamer for both third and\ntwentieth of October! see what dark lanterns the stars hold out, and\nhow I shall stay in England after all as I think! And thus we are\nthrown back on the old Gibraltar scheme with its shifting of steamers\n... unless we take the dreary alternative of Madeira!--or Cadiz! Even\nsuppose Madeira, ... why it were for a few months alone--and there\nwould be no temptation to loiter as in Italy.\n\n_Don't_ think too hardly of poor Papa. You have his wrong side ... his\nside of peculiar wrongness ... to you just now. When you have walked\nround him you will have other thoughts of him.\n\nAre you better, I wonder? and taking exercise and trying to be better?\nMay God bless you! Tuesday need not be the last day if you like to\ntake one more besides--for there is no going until the fourth or\nseventh, ... and the seventh is the more probable of those two. But\nnow you have done with me until Tuesday.\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                               [Post-mark, October 1, 1845.]\n\nI have read to the last line of your 'Rosicrucian'; and my scepticism\ngrew and grew through Hume's process of doubtful doubts, and at last\nrose to the full stature of incredulity ... for I never could believe\nShelley capable of such a book (call it a book!), not even with a\nflood of boarding-school idiocy dashed in by way of dilution.\nAltogether it roused me to deny myself so far as to look at the date\nof the book, and to get up and travel to the other end of the room to\nconfront it with other dates in the 'Letters from Abroad' ... (I, who\nnever think of a date except the 'A.D.,' and am inclined every now and\nthen to write _that_ down as 1548 ...) well! and on comparing these\ndates in these two volumes before my eyes, I find that your\nRosicrucian was 'printed for Stockdale' in _1822_, and that Shelley\n_died in the July of the same year_!!--There, is a vindicating fact\nfor you! And unless the 'Rosicrucian' went into more editions than\none, and dates here from a later one, ... which is not ascertainable\nfrom this fragment of a titlepage, ... the innocence of the great poet\nstands proved--now doesn't it? For nobody will say that he published\nsuch a book in the last year of his life, in the maturity of his\ngenius, and that Godwin's daughter helped him in it! That 'dripping\ndew' from the skeleton is the only living word in the book!--which\nreally amused me notwithstanding, from the intense absurdity of the\nwhole composition ... descriptions ... sentiments ... and morals.\n\nJudge yourself if I had not better say 'No' about the cloak! I would\ntake it if you wished such a kindness to me--and although you might\nfind it very useful to yourself ... or to your mother or sister ...\nstill if you _wished_ me to take it I should like to have it, and the\nmantle of the prophet might bring me down something of his spirit! but\ndo you remember ... do you consider ... how many talkers there are in\nthis house, and what would be talked--or that it is not worth while to\nprovoke it all? And Papa, knowing it, would not like it--and\naltogether it is far better, believe me, that you should keep your own\ncloak, and I, the thought of the kindness you meditated in respect to\nit. I have heard nothing more--nothing.\n\nI was asked the other day by a very young friend of mine ... the\ndaughter of an older friend who once followed you up-stairs in this\nhouse ... Mr. Hunter, an Independent minister ... for 'Mr. Browning's\nautograph.' She wants it for a collection ... for her album--and so,\nwill you write out a verse or two on one side of note paper ... not as\nyou write for the printers ... and let me keep my promise and send it\nto her? I forgot to ask you before. Or one verse will do ... anything\nwill do ... and don't let me be bringing you into vexation. It need\nnot be of MS. rarity.\n\nYou are not better ... really ... I fear. And your mother's being ill\naffects you more than you like to admit, I fear besides. Will you,\nwhen you write, say how _both_ are ... nothing extenuating, you know.\nMay God bless you, my dearest friend.\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                               [Post-mark, October 2, 1845.]\n\nWell, let us hope against hope in the sad matter of the novel--yet,\nyet,--it _is_ by Shelley, if you will have the truth--as I happen to\n_know_--proof _last_ being that Leigh Hunt told me he unearthed it in\nShelley's own library at Marlow once, to the writer's horror and\nshame--'He snatched it out of my hands'--said H. Yet I thrust it into\nyours ... so much for the subtle fence of friends who reach your heart\nby a side-thrust, as I told you on Tuesday, after the enemy has fallen\nback breathless and baffled. As for the date, that Stockdale was a\nnotorious pirate and raker-up of rash publications ... and, do you\nknow, I suspect the _title-page_ is all that boasts such novelty,--see\nif the _book_, the inside leaves, be not older evidently!--a common\ntrick of the 'trade' to this day. The history of this and 'Justrozzi,'\nas it is spelt,--the other novel,--may be read in Medwin's\n'Conversations'--and, as I have been told, in Lady Ch. Bury's\n'Reminiscences' or whatever she calls them ... the 'Guistrozzi' was\n_certainly_ 'written in concert with'--somebody or other ... for I\nconfess the whole story grows monstrous and even the froth of wine\nstrings itself in bright bubbles,--ah, but this was the scum of the\nfermenting vat, do you see? I am happy to say I forget the novel\nentirely, or almost--and only keep the exact impression which you have\ngained ... through me! 'The fair cross of gold _he dashed on the\nfloor_'--(_that_ is my pet-line ... because the 'chill dew' of a place\nnot commonly supposed to favour humidity is a plagiarism from Lewis's\n'Monk,' it now flashes on me! Yes, Lewis, too, puts the phrase into\nintense italics.) And now, please read a chorus in the 'Prometheus\nUnbound' or a scene from the 'Cenci'--and join company with Shelley\nagain!\n\n--From 'chill dew' I come to the _cloak_--you are quite right--and I\ngive up that fancy. Will you, then, take one more precaution when\n_all_ proper safe-guards have been adopted; and, when _everything_ is\nsure, contrive some one sureness besides, against cold or wind or\nsea-air; and say '_this_--for the cloak which is not here, and to help\nthe heart's wish which is,'--so I shall be there _palpably_. Will you\ndo this? Tell me you will, to-morrow--and tell me all good news.\n\nMy Mother suffers still.... I hope she is no worse--but a little\nbetter--certainly better. I am better too, in my unimportant way.\n\nNow I will write you the verses ... some easy ones out of a paper-full\nmeant to go between poem and poem in my next number, and break the\nshock of collision.\n\nLet me kiss your hand--dearest! My heart and life--all is yours, and\nforever--God make you happy as I am through you--Bless you\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                               [Post-mark, October 6, 1845.]\n\nTuesday is given up in full council. The thing is beyond doubting of,\nas George says and as you thought yesterday. And then George has it in\nhis head to beguile the Duke of Palmella out of a smaller cabin, so\nthat I might sail from the Thames on the twentieth--and whether he\nsucceeds or not, I humbly confess that one of the chief advantages of\nthe new plan if not the very chief (as _I_ see it) is just in the\n_delay_.\n\nYour spring-song is full of beauty as you know very well--and 'that's\nthe wise thrush,' so characteristic of you (and of the thrush too)\nthat I was sorely tempted to ask you to write it 'twice over,' ... and\nnot send the first copy to Mary Hunter notwithstanding my promise to\nher. And now when you come to print these fragments, would it not be\nwell if you were to stoop to the vulgarism of prefixing some word of\nintroduction, as other people do, you know, ... a title ... a name?\nYou perplex your readers often by casting yourself on their\nintelligence in these things--and although it is true that readers in\ngeneral are stupid and can't understand, it is still more true that\nthey are lazy and won't understand ... and they don't catch your point\nof sight at first unless you think it worth while to push them by the\nshoulders and force them into the right place. Now these fragments ...\nyou mean to print them with a line between ... and not one word at the\ntop of it ... now don't you! And then people will read\n\n    Oh, to be in England\n\nand say to themselves ... 'Why who is this? ... who's out of England?'\nWhich is an extreme case of course; but you will see what I mean ...\nand often I have observed how some of the very most beautiful of your\nlyrics have suffered just from your disdain of the usual tactics of\nwriters in this one respect.\n\nAnd you are not better, still--you are worse instead of better ... are\nyou not? Tell me--And what can you mean about 'unimportance,' when you\nwere worse last week ... this expiring week ... than ever before, by\nyour own confession? And now?--And your mother?\n\nYes--I promise! And so, ... _Elijah_ will be missed instead of his\nmantle ... which will be a losing contract after all. But it shall be\nas you say. May you be able to say that you are better! God bless you.\n\n                                                 Ever yours.\n\nNever think of the 'White Slave.' I had just taken it up. The trash of\nit is prodigious--far beyond Mr. Smythe. Not that I can settle upon a\nbook just now, in all this wind, to judge of it fairly.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                               [Post-mark, October 6, 1845.]\n\nI should certainly think that the Duke of Palmella may be induced, and\nwith no great difficulty, to give up a cabin under the\ncircumstances--and _then_ the plan becomes really objection-proof, so\nfar as mortal plans go. But now you must think all the boldlier about\nwhatever difficulties remain, just because they are so much the fewer.\nIt _is_ cold already in the mornings and evenings--cold and (this\nmorning) foggy--I did not ask if you continue to go out from time to\ntime.... I am sure you _should_,--you would so prepare yourself\nproperly for the fatigue and change--yesterday it was very warm and\nfine in the afternoon, nor is this noontime so bad, if the requisite\nprecautions are taken. And do make 'journeys across the room,' and out\nof it, meanwhile, and _stand_ when possible--get all the strength\nready, now that so much is to be spent. Oh, if I were by you!\n\nThank you, thank you--I will devise titles--I quite see what you say,\nnow you do say it. I am (this Monday morning, the prescribed day for\nefforts and beginnings) looking over and correcting what you read--to\npress they shall go, and then the plays can follow gently, and then\n... 'Oh to be in Pisa. Now that E.B.B. is there!'--And I _shall_ be\nthere!... I am much better to-day; and my mother better--and to-morrow\nI shall see you--So come good things together!\n\nDearest--till to-morrow and ever I am yours, wholly yours--May God\nbless you!\n\n                                                        R.B.\n\nYou do not ask me that 'boon'--why is that?--Besides, I have my own\n_real_ boons to ask too, as you will inevitably find, and I shall\nperhaps get heart by your example.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, October 7, 1845.]\n\nAh but the good things do _not_ come together--for just as your letter\ncomes I am driven to asking you to leave Tuesday for Wednesday.\n\nOn Tuesday Mr. Kenyon is to be here or not to be here, he\nsays--there's a doubt; and you would rather go to a clear day. So if\nyou do not hear from me again I shall expect you on _Wednesday_ unless\nI hear to the contrary from you:--and if anything happens to Wednesday\nyou shall hear. Mr. Kenyon is in town for only two days, or three. I\nnever could grumble against him, so good and kind as he is--but he may\nnot come after all to-morrow--so it is not grudging the obolus to\nBelisarius, but the squandering of the last golden days at the bottom\nof the purse.\n\nDo I 'stand'--Do I walk? Yes--most uprightly. I 'walk upright every\nday.' Do I go out? no, never. And I am not to be scolded for _that_,\nbecause when you were looking at the sun to-day, I was marking the\neast wind; and perhaps if I had breathed a breath of it ... farewell\nPisa. People who can walk don't always walk into the lion's den as a\nconsequence--do they? should they? Are you 'sure that they should?' I\nwrite in great haste. So Wednesday then ... perhaps!\n\n                                        And yours every day.\n\nYou understand. Wednesday--if nothing to the contrary.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "12--Wednesday.\n                               [Post-mark, October 8, 1845.]\n\nWell, dearest, at all events I get up with the assurance I shall see\nyou, and go on till the fatal 11-1/4 p.m. believing in the same, and\n_then_, if after all there _does_ come such a note as this with its\ninstructions, why, first, it _is_ such a note and such a gain, and\nnext it makes a great day out of to-morrow that was to have been so\nlittle of a day, that is all. Only, only, I am suspicious, now, of a\nreal loss to me in the end; for, _putting_ off yesterday, I dared put\noff (on your part) Friday to Saturday ... while _now_ ... what shall\nbe said to that?\n\nDear Mr. Kenyon to be the smiling inconscious obstacle to any pleasure\nof mine, if it were merely pleasure!\n\nBut I want to catch our next post--to-morrow, then, excepting what is\nto be excepted!\n\n                                     Bless you, my dearest--\n\n                                          Your own\n\n                                               R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Evening.\n                               [Post-mark, October 8, 1845.]\n\nMr. Kenyon never came. My sisters met him in the street, and he had\nbeen 'detained all day in the city and would certainly be here\nto-morrow,' Wednesday! And so you see what has happened to Wednesday!\nMoreover he may come besides on Thursday, ... I can answer for\nnothing. Only if I do not write and if you find Thursday admissible,\nwill you come then? In the case of an obstacle, you shall hear. And it\nis not (in the meantime) my fault--now is it? I have been quite enough\nvexed about it, indeed.\n\nDid the Monday work work harm to the head, I wonder? I do fear so that\nyou won't get through those papers with impunity--especially if the\nplays are to come after ... though ever so 'gently.' And if you are to\nsuffer, it would be right to tongue-tie that silver Bell, and leave\nthe congregations to their selling of cabbages. Which is\nunphilanthropic of me perhaps, ... [Greek: ô philtate].\n\nBe sure that I shall be 'bold' when the time for going comes--and both\nbold and capable of the effort. I am desired to keep to the respirator\nand the cabin for a day or two, while the cold can reach us; and\nmidway in the bay of Biscay some change of climate may be felt, they\nsay. There is no sort of danger for me; except that I shall _stay in\nEngland_. And why is it that I feel to-night more than ever almost, as\nif I should stay in England? Who can tell? _I_ can tell one thing.\n_If_ I stay, it will not be from a failure in my resolution--_that\nwill_ not be--_shall_ not be. Yes--and Mr. Kenyon and I agreed the\nother day that there was something of the tigress-nature very\ndistinctly cognisable under what he is pleased to call my\n'Ba-lambishness.'\n\nThen, on Thursday!... unless something happens to _Thursday_ ... and I\nshall write in that case. And I trust to you (as always) to attend to\nyour own convenience--just as you may trust to me to remember my own\n'boon.' Ah--you are curious, I think! Which is scarcely wise of\nyou--because it _may_, you know, be the roc's egg after all. But no,\nit _isn't_--I will say just so much. And besides I _did_ say that it\nwas a 'restitution,' which limits the guesses if it does not put an\nend to them. Unguessable, I choose it to be.\n\nAnd now I feel as if I should _not_ stay in England. Which is the\ndifference between one five minutes and another. May God bless you.\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, October 11, 1845.]\n\nDear Mr. Kenyon has been here again, and talking so (in his kindness\ntoo) about the probabilities as to Pisa being against me ... about all\ndepending 'on one throw' and the 'dice being loaded' &c. ... that I\nlooked at him aghast as if he looked at the future through the folded\ncurtain and was licensed to speak oracles:--and ever since I have been\nout of spirits ... oh, out of spirits--and must write myself back\nagain, or try. After all he may be wrong like another--and I should\ntell you that he reasons altogether from the delay ... and that 'the\ncabins will therefore be taken' and the 'circular bills' out of reach!\nHe _said_ that one of his purposes in staying in town, was to\n'_knout_' me every day--didn't he?\n\nWell--George will probably speak before _he_ leaves town, which will\nbe on Monday! and now that the hour approaches, I do feel as if the\nhouse stood upon gunpowder, and as if I held Guy Fawkes's lantern in\nmy right hand. And no: I shall not go. The obstacles will not be those\nof Mr. Kenyon's finding--and what their precise character will be I do\nnot see distinctly. Only that they will be sufficient, and thrown by\none hand just where the wheel should turn, ... _that_, I see--and you\nwill, in a few days.\n\nDid you go to Moxon's and settle the printing matter? Tell me. And\nwhat was the use of telling Mr. Kenyon that you were 'quite well' when\nyou know you are not? Will you say to me how you are, saying the\ntruth? and also how your mother is?\n\nTo show the significance of the omission of those evening or rather\nnight visits of Papa's--for they came sometimes at eleven, and\nsometimes at twelve--I will tell you that he used to sit and talk in\nthem, and then _always_ kneel and pray with me and for me--which I\nused of course to feel as a proof of very kind and affectionate\nsympathy on his part, and which has proportionably pained me in the\nwithdrawing. They were no ordinary visits, you observe, ... and he\ncould not well throw me further from him than by ceasing to pay\nthem--the thing is quite expressively significant. Not that I pretend\nto complain, nor to have reason to complain. One should not be\ngrateful for kindness, only while it lasts: _that_ would be a\nshort-breathed gratitude. I just tell you the fact, proving that it\ncannot be accidental.\n\nDid you ever, ever tire me? Indeed no--you never did. And do\nunderstand that I am not to be tired 'in that way,' though as Mr. Boyd\nsaid once of his daughter, one may be so 'far too effeminate.' No--if\nI were put into a crowd I should be tired soon--or, apart from the\ncrowd, if you made me discourse orations De Coronâ ... concerning your\nbag even ... I should be tired soon--though peradventure not very much\nsooner than you who heard. But on the smooth ground of quiet\nconversation (particularly when three people don't talk at once as my\nbrothers do ... to say the least!) I last for a long while:--not to\nsay that I have the pretension of being as good and inexhaustible a\nlistener to your own speaking as you could find in the world. So\nplease not to accuse me of being tired again. I can't be tired, and\nwon't be tired, you see.\n\nAnd now, since I began to write this, there is a new evil and\nanxiety--a worse anxiety than any--for one of my brothers is ill; had\nbeen unwell for some days and we thought nothing of it, till to-day\nSaturday: and the doctors call it a fever of the typhoid character ...\nnot typhus yet ... but we are very uneasy. You must not come on\nWednesday if an infectious fever be in the house--_that_ must be out\nof the question. May God bless you--I am quite heavy-hearted to-day,\nbut never less yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                              [Post-mark, October 13, 1845].\n\nThese are bad news, dearest--all bad, except the enduring comfort of\nyour regard; the illness of your brother is worst ... that _would_\nstay you, and is the first proper obstacle. I shall not attempt to\nspeak and prove my feelings,--you know what even Flush is to me\nthrough you: I wait in anxiety for the next account.\n\nIf after all you do _not_ go to Pisa; why, we must be cheerful and\nwise, and take courage and hope. I cannot but see with your eyes and\nfrom your place, you know,--and will let this all be one surprizing\nand deplorable mistake of mere love and care ... but no such another\nmistake ought to be suffered, if you escape the effects of this. I\nwill not cease to believe in a better event, till the very last,\nhowever, and it is a deep satisfaction that all has been made plain\nand straight up to this strange and sad interposition like a bar. You\nhave done _your_ part, at least--with all that forethought and counsel\nfrom friends and adequate judges of the case--so, if the bar _will_\nnot move, you will consider--will you not, dearest?--where one may\nbest encamp in the unforbidden country, and wait the spring and fine\nweather. Would it be advisable to go where Mr. Kenyon suggested, or\nelsewhere? Oh, these vain wishes ... the will here, and no means!\n\nMy life is bound up with yours--my own, first and last love. What\nwonder if I feared to tire you--I who, knowing you as I do, admiring\nwhat is so admirable (let me speak), loving what must needs be loved,\nfain to learn what you only can teach; proud of so much, happy in so\nmuch of you; I, who, for all this, neither come to admire, nor feel\nproud, nor be taught,--but only, only to live with you and be by\nyou--that is love--for I _know_ the rest, as I say. I know those\nqualities are in you ... but at them I could get in so many ways.... I\nhave your books, here are my letters you give me; you would answer my\nquestions were _I_ in Pisa--well, and it all would amount to nothing,\ninfinitely much as I know it is; to nothing if I could not sit by you\nand see you.... I can stop at that, but not before. And it seems\nstrange to me how little ... less than little I have laid open of my\nfeelings, the nature of them to you--I smile to think how if all this\nwhile I had been acting with the profoundest policy in intention, so\nas to pledge myself to nothing I could not afterwards perform with the\nmost perfect ease and security, I should have done not much unlike\nwhat I _have_ done--to be sure, one word includes many or all ... but\nI have not said ... what I will not even now say ... you will\n_know_--in God's time to which I trust.\n\nI will answer your note now--the questions. I did go--(it may amuse\nyou to write on)--to Moxon's. First let me tell you that when I called\nthere the Saturday before, his brother (in his absence) informed me,\nreplying to the question when it came naturally in turn with a round\nof like enquiries, that your poems continued to sell 'singularly\nwell'--they would 'end in bringing a clear profit,' he said. I thought\nto catch him, and asked if they _had_ done so ... 'Oh; not at the\nbeginning ... it takes more time--he answered. On Thursday I saw\nMoxon--he spoke rather encouragingly of my own prospects. I send him a\nsheetful to-morrow, I believe, and we are 'out' on the 1st of next\nmonth. Tennyson, by the way, has got his pension, £200 per annum--by\nthe other way, Moxon has bought the MSS. of Keats in the possession of\nTaylor the publisher, and is going to bring out a complete edition;\nwhich is pleasant to hear.\n\nAfter settling with Moxon I went to Mrs. Carlyle's--who told me\ncharacteristic quaintnesses of Carlyle's father and mother over the\ntea she gave me. And all yesterday, you are to know, I was in a\npermanent mortal fright--for my uncle came in the morning to intreat\nme to go to Paris in _the evening_ about some urgent business of\nhis,--a five-minutes matter with his brother there,--and the affair\nbeing really urgent and material to his and the brother's interest,\nand no substitute being to be thought of, I was forced to promise to\ngo--in case a letter, which would arrive in Town at noon, should not\nprove satisfactory. So I calculated times, and found I could be at\nParis to-morrow, and back again, _certainly_ by Wednesday--and so not\nlose you on that day--oh, the fear I had!--but I was sure then and\nnow, that the 17th would not see you depart. But night came, and the\nlast Dover train left, and I drew breath freely--this morning I find\nthe letter was all right--so may it be with all worse apprehensions!\nWhat you fear, precisely that, never happens, as Napoleon observed and\nthereon grew bold. I had stipulated for an hour's notice, if go I\nmust--and that was to be wholly spent in writing to you--for in quiet\nconsternation my mother cared for my carpet bag.\n\nAnd so, I shall hear from you to-morrow ... that is, you will write\n_then_, telling me _all_ about your brother. As for what you say, with\nthe kindest intentions, 'of fever-contagion' and keeping away on\nWednesday on _that_ account, it is indeed 'out of the question,'--for\na first reason (which dispenses with any second) because I disbelieve\naltogether in contagion from fevers, and especially from typhus\nfevers--as do much better-informed men than myself--I speak quite\nadvisedly. If there should be only _that_ reason, therefore, you will\nnot deprive me of the happiness of seeing you next Wednesday.\n\nI am not well--have a cold, influenza or some unpleasant thing, but am\nbetter than yesterday--My mother is much better, I think (she and my\nsister are resolute non-contagionists, mind you that!)\n\nGod bless you and all you love! dearest, I am your\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                              [Post-mark, October 14, 1845.]\n\nIt was the merest foolishness in me to write about fevers and the rest\nas I did to-day, just as if it could do any good, all the wringing of\nhands in the world. And there is no typhus _yet_ ... and no danger of\nany sort I hope and trust!--and how weak it is that habit of spreading\nthe cloud which is in you all around you, how weak and selfish ... and\nunlike what _you_ would do ... just as you are unlike Mr. Kenyon. And\nyou _are_ unlike him--and you were right on Thursday when you said\nso, and I was wrong in setting up a phrase on the other side ... only\nwhat I said came by an instinct because you seemed to be giving him\nall the sunshine to use and carry, which should not be after all. But\nyou are unlike him and must be ... seeing that the producers must\ndiffer from the 'nati consumere fruges' in the intellectual as in the\nmaterial. You create and he enjoys, and the work makes you pale and\nthe pleasure makes him ruddy, and it is so of a necessity. So differs\nthe man of genius from the man of letters--and then dear Mr. Kenyon is\nnot even a man of letters in a full sense ... he is rather a Sybarite\nof letters. Do you think he ever knew what mental labour is? I fancy\nnot. Not more than he has known what mental inspiration is! And not\nmore than he has known what the strife of the heart is ... with all\nhis tenderness and sensibility. He seems to me to _evade_ pain, and\nwhere he suffers at all to do so rather negatively than positively ...\nif you understand what I mean by that ... rather by a want than by a\nblow: the secret of all being that he has a certain latitudinarianism\n(not indifferentism) in his life and affections, and has no capacity\nfor concentration and intensity. Partly by temperament and partly by\nphilosophy he contrives to keep the sunny side of the street--though\nnever inclined to forget the blind man at the corner. Ah, dear Mr.\nKenyon: he is magnanimous in toleration, and excellent in\nsympathy--and he has the love of beauty and the reverence of\ngenius--but the faculty of _worship_ he has not: he will not worship\naright either your heroes or your gods ... and while you do it he only\n'tolerates' the act in you. Once he said ... not to me ... but I heard\nof it: 'What, if genius should be nothing but scrofula?' and he doubts\n(I very much fear) whether the world is not governed by a throw of\nthose very same 'loaded dice,' and no otherwise. Yet he reveres genius\nin the acting of it, and recognizes a God in creation--only it is but\n'so far,' and not farther. At least I think not--and I have a right to\nthink what I please of him, holding him as I do, in such true\naffection. One of the kindest and most indulgent of human beings has\nhe been to me, and I am happy to be grateful to him.\n\n_Sunday._--The Duke of Palmella takes the whole vessel for the 20th\nand therefore if I go it must be on the 17th. Therefore (besides) as\nGeorge must be on sessions to-morrow, he will settle the question with\nPapa to-night. In the meantime our poor Occy is not much better,\nthough a little, and is ordered leeches on his head, and is confined\nto his bed and attended by physician and surgeon. It is not decided\ntyphus, but they will not answer for its not being infectious; and\nalthough he is quite at the top of the house, two stories above me, I\nshall not like you to come indeed. And then there will be only room\nfor a farewell, and I who am a coward shrink from the saying of it.\nNo--not being able to see you to-morrow, (Mr. Kenyon is to be here\nto-morrow, he says) let us agree to throw away Wednesday. I will\nwrite, ... you will write perhaps--and above all things you will\npromise to write by the 'Star' on Monday, that the captain may give me\nyour letter at Gibraltar. You promise? But I shall hear from you\nbefore then, and oftener than once, and you will acquiesce about\nWednesday and grant at once that there can be no gain, no good, in\nthat miserable good-bye-ing. I do not want the pain of it to remember\nyou by--I shall remember very well without it, be sure. Still it shall\nbe as you like--as you shall chose--and if you are _disappointed_\nabout Wednesday (if it is not vain in me to talk of disappointments)\nwhy do with Wednesday as you think best ... always understanding that\nthere's no risk of infection.\n\n_Monday._--All this I had written yesterday--and to-day it all is\nworse than vain. Do not be angry with me--do not think it my\nfault--but _I do not go to Italy_ ... it has ended as I feared. What\npassed between George and Papa there is no need of telling: only the\nlatter said that I 'might go if I pleased, but that going it would be\nunder his heaviest displeasure.' George, in great indignation,\npressed the question fully: but all was vain ... and I am left in this\nposition ... to go, if I please, with his displeasure over me, (which\nafter what you have said and after what Mr. Kenyon has said, and after\nwhat my own conscience and deepest moral convictions say aloud, I\nwould unhesitatingly do at this hour!) and necessarily run the risk of\nexposing my sister and brother to that same displeasure ... from which\nrisk I shrink and fall back and feel that to incur it, is impossible.\nDear Mr. Kenyon has been here and we have been talking--and he sees\nwhat I see ... that I am justified in going myself, but not in\nbringing others into difficulty. The very kindness and goodness with\nwhich they desire me (both my sisters) 'not to think of them,'\nnaturally makes me think more of them. And so, tell me that I am not\nwrong in taking up my chain again and acquiescing in this hard\nnecessity. The bitterest 'fact' of all is, that I had believed Papa to\nhave loved me more than he obviously does: but I never regret\nknowledge ... I mean I never would _un_know anything ... even were it\nthe taste of the apples by the Dead sea--and this must be accepted\nlike the rest. In the meantime your letter comes--and if I could seem\nto be very unhappy after reading it ... why it would be 'all pretence'\non my part, believe me. Can you care for me so much ... _you_? Then\n_that_ is light enough to account for all the shadows, and to make\nthem almost unregarded--the shadows of the life behind. Moreover dear\nOccy is somewhat better--with a pulse only at ninety: and the doctors\ndeclare that visitors may come to the house without any manner of\ndanger. Or I should not trust to your theories--no, indeed: it was not\nthat I expected you to be afraid, but that _I_ was afraid--and if I am\nnot ashamed for _that_, why at least I am, for being _lâche_ about\nWednesday, when you thought of hurrying back from Paris only for it!\nYou _could_ think _that_!--You _can_ care for me so much!--(I come to\nit again!) When I hold some words to my eyes ... such as these in\nthis letter ... I can see nothing beyond them ... no evil, no want.\nThere _is_ no evil and no want. Am I wrong in the decision about\nItaly? Could I do otherwise? I had courage and to spare--but the\nquestion, you see, did not regard myself wholly. For the rest, the\n'unforbidden country' lies within these four walls. Madeira was\nproposed in vain--and any part of England would be as objectionable as\nItaly, and not more advantageous to _me_ than Wimpole Street. To take\ncourage and be cheerful, as you say, is left as an alternative--and\n(the winter may be mild!) to fall into the hands of God rather than of\nman: _and I shall be here for your November, remember_.\n\nAnd now that you are not well, will you take care? and not come on\nWednesday unless you are better? and never again bring me _wet\nflowers_, which probably did all the harm on Thursday? I was afraid\nfor you then, though I said nothing. May God bless you.\n\n                                  Ever yours I am--your own.\n\nNinety is not a high pulse ... for a fever of this kind--is it? and\nthe heat diminishes, and his spirits are better--and we are all much\neasier ... have been both to-day and yesterday indeed.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning,\n                              [Post-mark, October 14, 1845.]\n\nBe sure, my own, dearest love, that this is for the best; will be seen\nfor the best in the end. It is hard to bear now--but _you_ have to\nbear it; any other person could not, and you will, I know, knowing\nyou--_will_ be well this one winter if you can, and then--since I am\n_not_ selfish in this love to you, my own conscience tells me,--I\ndesire, more earnestly than I ever knew what desiring was, to be yours\nand with you and, as far as may be in this life and world, YOU--and\nno hindrance to that, but one, gives me a moment's care or fear; but\nthat one is just your little hand, as I could fancy it raised in any\nleast interest of yours--and before that, I am, and would ever be,\nstill silent. But now--what is to make you raise that hand? I will not\nspeak _now_; not seem to take advantage of your present feelings,--we\nwill be rational, and all-considering and weighing consequences, and\nforeseeing them--but first I will prove ... if _that_ has to be done,\nwhy--but I begin speaking, and I should not, I know.\n\n                                            Bless you, love!\n\n                                                 R.B.\n\nTo-morrow I see you, without fail. I am rejoiced as you can imagine,\nat your brother's improved state.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday,\n                              [Post-mark, October 15, 1845.]\n\nWill this note reach you at the 'fatal hour' ... or sooner? At any\nrate it is forced to ask you to take Thursday for Wednesday, inasmuch\nas Mr. Kenyon in his exceeding kindness has put off his journey just\nfor _me_, he says, because he saw me depressed about the decision, and\nwished to come and see me again to-morrow and talk the spirits up, I\nsuppose. It is all so kind and good, that I cannot find a voice to\ngrumble about the obligation it brings of writing thus. And then, if\nyou suffer from cold and influenza, it will be better for you not to\ncome for another day, ... I think _that_, for comfort. Shall I hear\nhow you are to-night, I wonder? Dear Occy 'turned the corner,' the\nphysician said, yesterday evening, and, although a little fluctuating\nto-day, remains on the whole considerably better. They were just in\ntime to keep the fever from turning to typhus.\n\nHow fast you print your book, for it is to be out on the first of\nNovember! Why it comes out suddenly like the sun. Mr. Kenyon asked me\nif I had seen anything you were going to print; and when I mentioned\nthe second part of the 'Duchess' and described how your perfect\nrhymes, perfectly new, and all clashing together as by natural\nattraction, had put me at once to shame and admiration, he began to\npraise the first part of the same poem (which I had heard him do\nbefore, by the way) and extolled it as one of your most striking\nproductions.\n\nAnd so until Thursday! May God bless you--\n\n                          and as the heart goes, ever yours.\n\nI am glad for Tennyson, and glad for Keats. It is well to be able to\nbe glad about something--is is it not? about something out of\nourselves. And (_in_ myself) I shall be most glad, if I have a letter\nto-night. Shall I?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, October 15, 1845.]\n\nThanks, my dearest, for the good news--of the fever's abatement--it is\ngood, too, that you write cheerfully, on the whole: what is it to _me_\nthat you write is of _me_ ... I shall never say _that_! Mr. Kenyon is\nall kindness, and one gets to take it as not so purely natural a\nthing, the showing kindness to those it concerns, and belongs\nto,--well! On Thursday, then,--to-morrow! Did you not get a note of\nmine, a hurried note, which was meant for yesterday-afternoon's\ndelivery?\n\nMr. Forster came yesterday and was very profuse of graciosities: he\nmay have, or must have meant well, so we will go on again with the\nfriendship, as the snail repairs his battered shell.\n\nMy poems went duly to press on Monday night--there is not much\n_correctable_ in them,--you make, or you spoil, one of these things;\nthat is, _I_ do. I have adopted all your emendations, and thrown in\nlines and words, just a morning's business; but one does not write\nplays so. You may like some of my smaller things, which stop\ninterstices, better than what you have seen; I shall wonder to know. I\nam to receive a _proof_ at the end of the week--will you help me and\nover-look it. ('Yes'--she says ... my thanks I do not say!--)\n\nWhile writing this, the _Times_ catches my eye (it just came in) and\nsomething from the _Lancet_ is extracted, a long article against\nquackery--and, as I say, this is the first and only sentence I\nread--'There is scarcely a peer of the realm who is not the patron of\nsome quack pill or potion: and the literati too, are deeply tainted.\nWe have heard of barbarians who threw quacks and their medicines into\nthe sea: but here in England we have Browning, a prince of poets,\ntouching the pitch which defiles and making Paracelsus the hero of a\npoem. Sir E.L. Bulwer writes puffs for the water doctors in a style\nworthy of imitation by the scribe that does the poetical for Moses and\nSon. Miss Martineau makes a finessing servant girl her\nphysician-general: and Richard Howitt and the Lady aforesaid stand\nGod-father and mother to the contemptible mesmeric vagaries of Spencer\nHall.'--Even the sweet incense to me fails of its effect if Paracelsus\nis to figure on a level with Priessnitz, and 'Jane'!\n\nWhat weather, now at last! Think for yourself and for me--could you\nnot go out on such days?\n\nI am quite well now--cold, over and gone. Did I tell you my Uncle\narrived from Paris on Monday, as they hoped he would--so my travel\nwould have been to great purpose!\n\nBless my dearest--my own!\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                              [Post-mark, October 16, 1845.]\n\nYour letter which should have reached me in the morning of yesterday,\nI did not receive until nearly midnight--partly through the\neccentricity of our new postman whose good pleasure it is to make use\nof the letter-box without knocking; and partly from the confusion in\nthe house, of illness in different ways ... the very servants being\nill, ... one of them breaking a blood-vessel--for there is no new case\nof fever; ... and for dear Occy, he grows better slowly day by day.\nAnd just so late last night, five letters were found in the\nletter-box, and mine ... yours ... among them--which accounts for my\nbeginning to answer it only now.\n\nWhat am I to say but this ... that I know what you are ... and that I\nknow also what you are to _me_,--and that I should accept that\nknowledge as more than sufficient recompense for worse vexations than\nthese late ones. Therefore let no more be said of them: and no more\n_need_ be said, even if they were not likely to prove their own end\ngood, as I believe with you. You may be quite sure that I shall be\nwell this winter, if in any way it should be possible, and that I\n_will not_ be beaten down, if the will can do anything. I admire how,\nif all had happened so but a year ago, (yet it could not have happened\nquite _so_!), I should certainly have been beaten down--and how it is\ndifferent now, ... and how it is only gratitude to you, to _say_ that\nit is different now. My cage is not worse but better since you brought\nthe green groundsel to it--and to dash oneself against the wires of it\nwill not open the door. We shall see ... and God will oversee. And in\nthe meantime you will not talk of extravagances; and then nobody need\nhold up the hand--because, as I said and say, I am yours, your\nown--only not to _hurt you_. So now let us talk of the first of\nNovember and of the poems which are to come out then, and of the poems\nwhich are to come after then--and of the new avatar of 'Sordello,' for\ninstance, which you taught me to look for. And let us both be busy and\ncheerful--and you will come and see me throughout the winter, ... if\nyou do not decide rather on going abroad, which may be better ...\nbetter for your health's sake?--in which case I shall have your\nletters.\n\nAnd here is another ... just arrived. How I thank you. Think of the\n_Times_! Still it was very well of them to recognise your\nprincipality. Oh yes--do let me see the proof--I understand too about\nthe 'making and spoiling.'\n\nAlmost you forced me to smile by thinking it worth while to say that\nyou are '_not selfish_.' Did Sir Percival say so to Sir Gawaine across\nthe Round Table, in those times of chivalry to which you belong by the\nsoul? Certainly you are not selfish! May God bless you.\n\n                                                   Ever your\n\n                                                        E.B.B.\n\nThe fever may last, they say, for a week longer, or even a\nfortnight--but it _decreases_. Yet he is hot still, and very weak.\n\nTo to-morrow!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                              [Post-mark, October 17, 1845.]\n\nDo tell me what you mean precisely by your 'Bells and Pomegranates'\ntitle. I have always understood it to refer to the Hebraic priestly\ngarment--but Mr. Kenyon held against me the other day that your\nreference was different, though he had not the remotest idea how. And\nyesterday I forgot to ask, for not the first time. Tell me too why you\nshould not in the new number satisfy, by a note somewhere, the Davuses\nof the world who are in the majority ('Davi sumus, non Oedipi') with a\nsolution of this one Sphinx riddle. Is there a reason against it?\n\nOccy continues to make progress--with a pulse at only eighty-four this\nmorning. Are you learned in the pulse that I should talk as if you\nwere? _I_, who have had my lessons? He takes scarcely anything yet but\nwater, and his head is very hot still--but the progress is quite\nsure, though it may be a lingering case.\n\nYour beautiful flowers!--none the less beautiful for waiting for water\nyesterday. As fresh as ever, they were; and while I was putting them\ninto the water, I thought that your visit went on all the time. Other\nthoughts too I had, which made me look down blindly, quite blindly, on\nthe little blue flowers, ... while I thought what I could not have\nsaid an hour before without breaking into tears which would have run\nfaster then. To say now that I never can forget; that I feel myself\nbound to you as one human being cannot be more bound to another;--and\nthat you are more to me at this moment than all the rest of the world;\nis only to say in new words that it would be a wrong against _myself_,\nto seem to risk your happiness and abuse your generosity. For _me_ ...\nthough you threw out words yesterday about the testimony of a 'third\nperson,' ... it would be monstrous to assume it to be necessary to\nvindicate my trust of you--_I trust you implicitly_--and am not too\nproud to owe all things to you. But now let us wait and see what this\nwinter does or undoes--while God does His part for good, as we know. I\nwill never fail to you from any human influence whatever--_that_ I\nhave promised--but you must let it be different from the other sort of\npromise which it would be a wrong to make. May God bless you--you,\nwhose fault it is, to be too generous. You _are_ not like other men,\nas I could see from the beginning--no.\n\nShall I have the proof to-night, I ask myself.\n\nAnd if you like to come on Monday rather than Tuesday, I do not see\nwhy there should be a 'no' to that. Judge from your own convenience.\nOnly we must be wise in the general practice, and abstain from too\nfrequent meetings, for fear of difficulties. I am Cassandra you know,\nand smell the slaughter in the bath-room. It would make no difference\nin fact; but in comfort, much.\n\n                                             Ever your own--",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                              [Post-mark, October 18, 1845.]\n\nI must not go on tearing these poor sheets one after the other,--the\nproper phrases _will not_ come,--so let them stay, while you care for\nmy best interests in their best, only way, and say for _me_ what I\nwould say if I could--dearest,--say it, as I feel it!\n\nI am thankful to hear of the continued improvement of your brother. So\nmay it continue with him! Pulses I know very little about--I go by\nyour own impressions which are evidently favourable.\n\nI will make a note as you suggest--or, perhaps, keep it for the\nclosing number (the next), when it will come fitly in with two or\nthree parting words I shall have to say. The Rabbis make Bells and\nPomegranates symbolical of Pleasure and Profit, the gay and the grave,\nthe Poetry and the Prose, Singing and Sermonizing--such a mixture of\neffects as in the original hour (that is quarter of an hour) of\nconfidence and creation. I meant the whole should prove at last. Well,\nit _has_ succeeded beyond my most adventurous wishes in one\nrespect--'Blessed eyes mine eyes have been, if--' if there was any\nsweetness in the tongue or flavour in the seeds to _her_. But I shall\ndo quite other and better things, or shame on me! The proof has not\nyet come.... I should go, I suppose, and enquire this afternoon--and\nprobably I will.\n\nI weigh all the words in your permission to come on Monday ... do not\nthink _I_ have not seen _that_ contingency from the first! Let it be\nTuesday--no sooner! Meanwhile you are never away--never from your\nplace here.\n\n                                       God bless my dearest.\n\n                                            Ever yours\n\n                                                 R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n           [In the same envelope with the preceding letter.]\n\nThis arrived on Saturday night--I just correct it in time for this our\nfirst post--will it do, the new matter? I can take it to-morrow--when\nI am to see you--if you are able to glance through it by then.\n\nThe 'Inscription,' how does that read?\n\nThere is strange temptation, by the way, in the space they please to\nleave for the presumable 'motto'--'they but remind me of mine own\nconception' ... but one must give no clue, of a silk's breadth, to the\n'_Bower_,' _yet_, One day!\n\n--Which God send you, dearest, and your\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, October 22, 1845.]\n\nEven at the risk of teazing you a little I must say a few words, that\nthere may be no misunderstanding between us--and this, before I sleep\nto-night. To-day and before to-day you surprised me by your manner of\nreceiving my remark about your visits, for I believed I had\nsufficiently made clear to you long ago how certain questions were\nordered in this house and how no exception was to be expected for my\nsake or even for yours. Surely I told you this quite plainly long ago.\nI only meant to say in my last letter, in the same track ... (fearing\nin the case of your wishing to come oftener that you might think it\nunkind in me not to seem to wish the same) ... that if you came too\noften and it was _observed_, difficulties and vexations would follow\nas a matter of course, and it would be wise therefore to run no risk.\nThat was the head and front of what I meant to say. The weekly one\nvisit is a thing established and may go on as long as you please--and\nthere is no objection to your coming twice a week _now_ and _then_ ...\nif now and then merely ... if there is no habit ... do you understand?\nI may be prudent in an extreme perhaps--and certainly everybody in the\nhouse is not equally prudent!--but I did shrink from running any risk\nwith that calm and comfort of the winter as it seemed to come on. And\nwas it more than I said about the cloak? was there any newness in it?\nanything to startle you? Still I do perfectly see that whether new or\nold, what it _involves_ may well be unpleasant to you--and that\n(however old) it may be apt to recur to your mind with a new\nincreasing unpleasantness. We have both been carried too far perhaps,\nby late events and impulses--but it is never too late to come back to\na right place, and I for my part come back to mine, and entreat you my\ndearest friend, first, _not to answer this_, and next, to weigh and\nconsider thoroughly 'that particular contingency' which (I tell you\nplainly, I who know) the tongue of men and of angels would not modify\nso as to render less full of vexations to you. Let Pisa prove the\nexcellent hardness of some marbles! Judge. From motives of\nself-respect, you may well walk an opposite way ... _you_.... When I\ntold you once ... or twice ... that 'no human influence should' &c.\n&c., ... I spoke for myself, quite over-looking you--and now that I\nturn and see you, I am surprised that I did not see you before ...\n_there_. I ask you therefore to consider 'that contingency' well--not\nforgetting the other obvious evils, which the late decision about Pisa\nhas aggravated beyond calculation ... for as the smoke rolls off we\nsee the harm done by the fire. And so, and now ... is it not advisable\nfor you to go abroad at once ... as you always intended, you know ...\nnow that your book is through the press? What if you go next week? I\nleave it to you. In any case _I entreat you not to answer\nthis_--neither let your thoughts be too hard on me for what you may\ncall perhaps vacillation--only that I stand excused (I do not say\njustified) before my own moral sense. May God bless you. If you go, I\nshall wait to see you till your return, and have letters in the\nmeantime. I write all this as fast as I can to have it over. What I\nask of you is, to consider alone and decide advisedly ... for both our\nsakes. If it should be your choice not to make an end now, ... why I\nshall understand _that_ by your not going ... or you may say '_no_' in\na word ... for I require no '_protestations_' indeed--and _you_ may\ntrust to _me_ ... it shall be as you choose. _You will consider my\nhappiness most by considering your own_ ... and that is my last word.\n\n_Wednesday morning._--I did not say half I thought about the poems\nyesterday--and their various power and beauty will be striking and\nsurprising to your most accustomed readers. 'St. Praxed'--'Pictor\nIgnotus'--'The Ride'--'The Duchess'!--Of the new poems I like\nsupremely the first and last ... that 'Lost Leader' which strikes so\nbroadly and deep ... which nobody can ever forget--and which is worth\nall the journalizing and pamphleteering in the world!--and then, the\nlast 'Thought' which is quite to be grudged to that place of fragments\n... those grand sea-sights in the long lines. Should not these\nfragments be severed otherwise than by numbers? The last stanza but\none of the 'Lost Mistress' seemed obscure to me. Is it so really? The\nend you have put to 'England in Italy' gives unity to the whole ...\njust what the poem wanted. Also you have given some nobler lines to\nthe middle than met me there before. 'The Duchess' appears to me more\nthan ever a new-minted golden coin--the rhythm of it answering to your\nown description, 'Speech half asleep, or song half awake?' You have\nright of trove to these novel effects of rhythm. Now if people do not\ncry out about these poems, what are we to think of the world?\n\nMay God bless you always--send me the next proof _in any case_.\n\n                                                 Your\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, October 23, 1845.]\n\nBut I _must_ answer you, and be forgiven, too, dearest. I was (to\nbegin at the beginning) surely not '_startled_' ... only properly\naware of the deep blessing I have been enjoying this while, and not\ndisposed to take its continuance as pure matter of course, and so\ntreat with indifference the first shadow of a threatening intimation\nfrom without, the first hint of a possible abstraction from the\nquarter to which so many hopes and fears of mine have gone of late. In\nthis case, knowing you, I was sure that if any imaginable form of\ndispleasure could touch you without reaching me, I should not hear of\nit too soon--so I spoke--so _you_ have spoken--and so now you get\n'excused'? No--wondered at, with all my faculty of wonder for the\nstrange exalting way you will persist to think of me; now, once for\nall, I _will_ not pass for what I make no least pretence to. I quite\nunderstand the grace of your imaginary self-denial, and fidelity to a\ngiven word, and noble constancy; but it all happens to be none of\nmine, none in the least. I love you because I _love_ you; I see you\n'once a week' because I cannot see you all day long; I think of you\nall day long, because I most certainly could not think of you once an\nhour less, if I tried, or went to Pisa, or 'abroad' (in every sense)\nin order to 'be happy' ... a kind of adventure which you seem to\nsuppose you have in some way interfered with. Do, for this once,\nthink, and never after, on the impossibility of your ever (you know I\nmust talk your own language, so I shall say--) hindering any scheme of\nmine, stopping any supposable advancement of mine. Do you really think\nthat before I found you, I was going about the world seeking whom I\nmight devour, that is, be devoured by, in the shape of a wife ... do\nyou suppose I ever dreamed of marrying? What would it mean for me,\nwith my life I am hardened in--considering the rational chances; how\nthe land is used to furnish its contingent of Shakespeare's women: or\nby 'success,' 'happiness' &c. &c. you never never can be seeing for a\nmoment with the world's eyes and meaning 'getting rich' and all that?\nYet, put that away, and what do you meet at every turn, if you are\nhunting about in the dusk to catch my good, but yourself?\n\n_I_ know who has got it, caught it, and means to keep it on his\nheart--the person most concerned--_I_, dearest, who cannot play the\ndisinterested part of bidding _you_ forget your 'protestation' ...\nwhat should I have to hold by, come what will, through years, through\nthis life, if God shall so determine, if I were not sure, _sure_ that\nthe first moment when you can suffer me with you 'in that relation,'\nyou will remember and act accordingly. I will, as you know, conform my\nlife to _any_ imaginable rule which shall render it possible for your\nlife to move with it and possess it, all the little it is worth.\n\nFor your friends ... whatever can be 'got over,' whatever opposition\nmay be rational, will be easily removed, I suppose. You know when I\nspoke lately about the 'selfishness' I dared believe I was free from,\nI hardly meant the low faults of ... I shall say, a different\norganization to mine--which has vices in plenty, but not those.\nBesides half a dozen scratches with a pen make one stand up an\napparent angel of light, from the lawyer's parchment; and Doctors'\nCommons is one bland smile of applause. The selfishness I deprecate is\none which a good many women, and men too, call 'real passion'--under\nthe influence of which, I ought to say 'be mine, what ever happens to\n_you_'--but I know better, and you know best--and you know me, for all\nthis letter, which is no doubt in me, I feel, but dear entire goodness\nand affection, of which God knows whether I am proud or not--and now\nyou will let me be, will not you. Let me have my way, live my life,\nlove my love.\n\nWhen I am, praying God to bless her ever,\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, October 24, 1845.]\n\n'_And be forgiven_' ... yes! and be thanked besides--if I knew how to\nthank you worthily and as I feel ... only that I do not know it, and\ncannot say it. And it was not indeed 'doubt' of you--oh no--that made\nme write as I did write; it was rather because I felt you to be surely\nnoblest, ... and therefore fitly dearest, ... that it seemed to me\ndetestable and intolerable to leave you on this road where the mud\nmust splash up against you, and never cry 'gare.' Yet I was quite\nenough unhappy yesterday, and before yesterday ... I will confess\nto-day, ... to be too gratefully glad to 'let you be' ... to 'let you\nhave your way'--you who overcome always! Always, but where you tell me\nnot to think of you so and so!--as if I could help thinking of you\n_so_, and as if I should not take the liberty of persisting to think\nof you just so. 'Let me be'--Let me have my way.' I am unworthy of you\nperhaps in everything except one thing--and _that_, you cannot guess.\nMay God bless you--\n\n                                            Ever I am yours.\n\nThe proof does not come!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                              [Post-mark, October 25, 1845.]\n\nI wrote briefly yesterday not to make my letter longer by keeping it;\nand a few last words which belong to it by right, must follow after it\n... must--for I want to say that you need not indeed talk to me about\nsquares being not round, and of _you_ being not 'selfish'! You know it\nis foolish to talk such superfluities, and not a compliment.\n\nI won't say to my knowledge of you and faith in you ... but to my\nunderstanding generally. Why should you say to me at all ... much\nless for this third or fourth time ... 'I am not selfish?' to _me_ who\nnever ... when I have been deepest asleep and dreaming, ... never\ndreamed of attributing to you any form of such a fault? Promise not to\nsay so again--now promise. Think how it must sound to my ears, when\nreally and truly I have sometimes felt jealous of myself ... of my own\ninfirmities, ... and thought that you cared for me only because your\nchivalry touched them with a silver sound--and that, without them, you\nwould pass by on the other side:--why twenty times I have thought\n_that_ and been vexed--ungrateful vexation! In exchange for which too\nfrank confession, I will ask for another silent promise ... a silent\npromise--no, but first I will say another thing.\n\nFirst I will say that you are not to fancy any the least danger of my\nfalling under displeasure through your visits--there is no sort of\nrisk of it _for the present_--and if I ran the risk of making you\nuncomfortable about _that_, I did foolishly, and what I meant to do\nwas different. I wish you also to understand that _even if you came\nhere every day_, my brothers and sisters would simply care to know if\nI liked it, and then be glad if I was glad:--the caution referred to\none person alone. In relation to _whom_, however, there will be no\n'getting over'--you might as well think to sweep off a third of the\nstars of Heaven with the motion of your eyelashes--this, for matter of\nfact and certainty--and this, as I said before, the keeping of a\ngeneral rule and from no disrespect towards individuals: a great\npeculiarity _in the individual_ of course. But ... though I have been\na submissive daughter, and this from no effort, but for love's sake\n... because I loved him tenderly (and love him), ... and hoped that he\nloved me back again even if the proofs came untenderly sometimes--yet\nI have reserved for myself _always_ that right over my own affections\nwhich is the most strictly personal of all things, and which involves\nprinciples and consequences of infinite importance and scope--even\nthough I _never_ thought (except perhaps when the door of life was\njust about to open ... before it opened) never thought it probable or\npossible that I should have occasion for the exercise; from without\nand from within at once. I have too much need to look up. For friends,\nI can look any way ... round, and _down_ even--the merest thread of a\nsympathy will draw me sometimes--or even the least look of kind eyes\nover a dyspathy--'Cela se peut facilement.' But for another\nrelation--it was all different--and rightly so--and so very\ndifferent--'Cela ne se peut nullement'--as in Malherbe.\n\nAnd now we must agree to 'let all this be,', and set ourselves to get\nas much good and enjoyment from the coming winter (better spent at\nPisa!) as we can--and I begin my joy by being glad that you are not\ngoing since I am not going, and by being proud of these new green\nleaves in your bay which came out with the new number. And then will\ncome the tragedies--and then, ... what beside? We shall have a happy\nwinter after all ... _I_ shall at least; and if Pisa had been better,\nLondon might be worse: and for _me_ to grow pretentious and fastidious\nand critical about various sorts of _purple_ ... I, who have been used\nto the _brun foncé_ of Mme. de Sévigné, (_foncé_ and _enfoncé_\n...)--would be too absurd. But why does not the proof come all this\ntime? I have kept this letter to go back with it.\n\nI had a proposition from the New York booksellers about six weeks ago\n(the booksellers who printed the poems) to let them re-print those\nprose papers of mine in the _Athenæum_, with additional matter on\nAmerican literature, in a volume by itself--to be published at the\nsame time both in America and England by Wiley and Putnam in Waterloo\nPlace, and meaning to offer liberal terms, they said. Now what shall I\ndo? Those papers are not fit for separate publication, and I am not\ninclined to the responsibility of them; and in any case, they must\ngive as much trouble as if they were re-written (trouble and not\npoetry!), before I could consent to such a thing. Well!--and if I do\nnot ... these people are just as likely to print them without leave\n... and so without correction. What do you advise? What shall I do?\nAll this time they think me sublimely indifferent, they who pressed\nfor an answer by return of packet--and now it is past six ... eight\nweeks; and I must say something.\n\nAm I not 'femme qui parle' to-day? And let me talk on ever so, the\nproof won't come. May God bless you--and me as I am\n\n                                                 Yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nAnd the silent promise I would have you make is this--that if ever you\nshould leave me, it shall be (though you are not 'selfish') for your\nsake--and not for mine: for your good, and not for mine. I ask it--not\nbecause I am disinterested; but because one class of motives would be\nvalid, and the other void--simply for that reason.\n\nThen the _femme qui parle_ (looking back over the parlance) did not\nmean to say on the first page of this letter that she was ever for a\nmoment _vexed in her pride_ that she should owe anything to her\nadversities. It was only because adversities are accidents and not\nessentials. If it had been prosperities, it would have been the same\nthing--no, not the same thing!--but far worse.\n\nOccy is up to-day and doing well.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, October 27, 1845.]\n\nHow does one make 'silent promises' ... or, rather, how does the maker\nof them communicate that fact to whomsoever it may concern? I know,\nthere have been many, very many unutterable vows and promises\nmade,--that is, _thought_ down upon--the white slip at the top of my\nnotes,--such as of this note; and not trusted to the pen, that always\ncomes in for the shame,--but given up, and replaced by the poor forms\nto which a pen is equal; and a glad minute I should account _that_, in\nwhich you collected and accepted _those_ 'promises'--because they\nwould not be all so unworthy of me--much less you! I would receive, in\nvirtue of _them_, the ascription of whatever worthiness is supposed to\nlie in deep, truest love, and gratitude--\n\n     Read my silent answer there too!\n\nAll your letter is one comfort: we will be happy this winter, and\nafter, do not fear. I am most happy, to begin, that your brother is so\nmuch better: he must be weak and susceptible of cold, remember.\n\nIt was on my lip, I do think, _last_ visit, or the last but one, to\nbeg you to detach those papers from the _Athenæum's gâchis_. Certainly\nthis opportunity is _most_ favourable, for every reason: you cannot\nhesitate, surely. At present those papers are lost--_lost_ for\npractical purposes. Do pray reply without fail to the proposers; no,\nno harm of these really fine fellows, who _could_ do harm (by printing\nincorrect copies, and perhaps eking out the column by suppositious\nmatter ... ex-gr. they strengthened and lengthened a book of Dickens',\nin Paris, by adding quant. suff. of Thackeray's 'Yellowplush Papers'\n... as I discovered by a Parisian somebody praising the latter to me\nas Dickens' best work!)--and who _do_ really a good straightforward\nun-American thing. You will encourage 'the day of small\nthings'--though this is not small, nor likely to have small results. I\nshall be impatient to hear that you have decided. I like the progress\nof these Americans in taste, their amazing leaps, like grasshoppers up\nto the sun--from ... what is the '_from_,' what depth, do you\nremember, say, ten or twelve years back?--_to_--Carlyle, and Tennyson,\nand you! So children leave off Jack of Cornwall and go on just to\nHomer.\n\nI can't conceive why my proof does not come--I must go to-morrow and\nsee. In the other, I have corrected all the points you noted, to their\nevident improvement. Yesterday I took out 'Luria' and read it\nthrough--the skeleton--I shall hope to finish it soon now. It is for a\npurely imaginary stage,--very simple and straightforward. Would you\n... no, Act by Act, as I was about to propose that you should read it;\nthat process would affect the oneness I most wish to preserve.\n\nOn Tuesday--at last, I am with you. Till when be with me ever,\ndearest--God bless you ever--\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday 9 a.m.\n           [In the same envelope with the preceding letter.]\n\nI got this on coming home last night--have just run through it this\nmorning, and send it that time may not be lost. Faults, faults; but I\ndon't know how I have got tired of this. The Tragedies will be better,\nat least the second--\n\nAt 3 this day! Bless you--\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "I write in haste, not to lose time about the proof. You will see on\nthe papers here my doubtfulnesses such as they are--but silence\nswallows up the admirations ... and there is no time. 'Theocrite'\novertakes that wish of mine which ran on so fast--and the 'Duchess'\ngrows and grows the more I look--and 'Saul' is noble and must have his\nfull royalty some day. Would it not be well, by the way, to print it\nin the meanwhile as a fragment confessed ... sowing asterisks at the\nend. Because as a poem of yours it stands there and wants unity, and\npeople can't be expected to understand the difference between\nincompleteness and defect, unless you make a sign. For the new\npoems--they are full of beauty. You throw largesses out on all sides\nwithout counting the coins: how beautiful that 'Night and Morning' ...\nand the 'Earth's Immortalities' ... and the 'Song' too. And for your\n'Glove,' all women should be grateful,--and Ronsard, honoured, in\nthis fresh shower of music on his old grave ... though the chivalry of\nthe interpretation, as well as much beside, is so plainly yours, ...\ncould only be yours perhaps. And even _you_ are forced to let in a\nthird person ... close to the doorway ... before you can do any good.\nWhat a noble lion you give us too, with the 'flash on his forehead,'\nand 'leagues in the desert already' as we look on him! And then, with\nwhat a 'curious felicity' you turn the subject 'glove' to another use\nand strike De Lorge's blow back on him with it, in the last paragraph\nof your story! And the versification! And the lady's speech--(to\nreturn!) so calm, and proud--yet a little bitter!\n\nAm I not to thank you for all the pleasure and pride in these poems?\nwhile you stand by and try to talk them down, perhaps.\n\nTell me how your mother is--tell me how you are ... you who never were\nto be told twice about walking. Gone the way of all promises, is that\npromise?\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Night.\n                              [Post-mark, October 30, 1845.]\n\nLike your kindness--too, far too generous kindness,--all this trouble\nand correcting,--and it is my proper office now, by this time, to sit\nstill and receive, by right _Human_ (as opposed to Divine). When you\nsee the pamphlet's self, you will find your own doing,--but where will\nyou find the proofs of the best of all helping and counselling and\ninciting, unless in new works which shall justify the\n_unsatisfaction_, if I may not say shame, at these, these written\nbefore your time, my best love?\n\nAre you doing well to-day? For I feel well, have walked some eight or\nnine miles--and my mother is very much better ... is singularly\nbetter. You know whether you rejoiced me or no by that information\nabout the exercise _you_ had taken yesterday. Think what telling one\nthat you grow stronger would mean!\n\n'Vexatious' with you! Ah, prudence is all very right, and one ought,\nno doubt, to say, 'of course, we shall not expect a life exempt from\nthe usual proportion of &c. &c.--' but truth is still more right, and\nincludes the highest prudence besides, and I do believe that we shall\nbe happy; that is, that _you_ will be happy: you see I dare\nconfidently expect _the_ end to it all ... so it has always been with\nme in my life of wonders--absolute wonders, with God's hand over\nall.... And this last and best of all would never have begun so, and\ngone on so, to break off abruptly even here, in this world, for the\nlittle time.\n\nSo try, try, dearest, every method, take every measure of hastening\nsuch a consummation. Why, we shall see Italy together! I could, would,\n_will_ shut myself in four walls of a room with you and never leave\nyou and be most of all _then_ 'a lord of infinite space'--but, to\ntravel with you to Italy, or Greece. Very vain, I know that, all such\nday dreaming! And ungrateful, too; with the real sufficing happiness\nhere of being, and knowing that you know me to be, and suffer me to\ntell you I am yours, ever your own.\n\n                                 God bless you, my dearest--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, November 1, 1845.]\n\nAll to-day, Friday, Miss Mitford has been here! She came at two and\nwent away at seven--and I feel as if I had been making a five-hour\nspeech on the corn laws in Harriet Martineau's parliament; ... so\ntired I am. Not that dear Miss Mitford did not talk both for me and\nherself, ... for that, of course she did. But I was forced to answer\nonce every ten minutes at least--and Flush, my usual companion, does\nnot exact so much--and so I am tired and come to rest myself on this\npaper. Your name was not once spoken to-day; a little from my good\nfencing: when I saw you at the end of an alley of associations, I\npushed the conversation up the next--because I was afraid of questions\nsuch as every moment I expected, with a pair of woman's eyes behind\nthem; and those are worse than Mr. Kenyon's, when he puts on his\nspectacles. So your name was not once spoken--not thought of, I do not\nsay--perhaps when I once lost her at Chevy Chase and found her\nsuddenly with Isidore the queen's hairdresser, my thoughts might have\nwandered off to you and your unanswered letter while she passed\ngradually from that to this--I am not sure of the contrary. And\nIsidore, they say, reads Béranger, and is supposed to be the most\nliterary person at court--and wasn't at Chevy Chase one must needs\nthink.\n\nOne must needs write nonsense rather--for I have written it there. The\nsense and the truth is, that your letter went to the bottom of my\nheart, and that my thoughts have turned round it ever since and\nthrough all the talking to-day. Yes indeed, dreams! But what _is_ not\ndreaming is this and this--this reading of these words--this proof of\nthis regard--all this that you are to me in fact, and which you cannot\nguess the full meaning of, dramatic poet as you are ... cannot ...\nsince you do not know what my life meant before you touched it, ...\nand my angel at the gate of the prison! My wonder is greater than your\nwonders, ... I who sate here alone but yesterday, so weary of my own\nbeing that to take interest in my very poems I had to lift them up by\nan effort and separate them from myself and cast them out from me into\nthe sunshine where I was not--feeling nothing of the light which fell\non them even--making indeed a sort of pleasure and interest about that\nfactitious personality associated with them ... but knowing it to be\nall far on the outside of _me_ ... _myself_ ... not seeming to touch\nit with the end of my finger ... and receiving it as a mockery and a\nbitterness when people persisted in confounding one with another.\nMorbid it was if you like it--perhaps very morbid--but all these heaps\nof letters which go into the fire one after the other, and which,\nbecause I am a woman and have written verses, it seems so amusing to\nthe letter-writers of your sex to write and see 'what will come of\nit,' ... some, from kind good motives I know, ... well, ... how could\nit all make for me even such a narrow strip of sunshine as Flush finds\non the floor sometimes, and lays his nose along, with both ears out in\nthe shadow? It was not for _me_ ... _me_ ... in any way: it was not\nwithin my reach--I did not seem to touch it as I said. Flush came\nnearer, and I was grateful to him ... yes, grateful ... for not being\ntired! I have felt grateful and flattered ... yes flattered ... when\nhe has chosen rather to stay with me all day than go down-stairs.\nGrateful too, with reason, I have been and am to my own family for not\nletting me see that I was a burthen. These are facts. And now how am I\nto feel when you tell me what you have told me--and what you 'could\nwould and will' do, and _shall not_ do?... but when you tell me?\n\nOnly remember that such words make you freer and freer--if you can be\nfreer than free--just as every one makes me happier and richer--too\nrich by you, to claim any debt. May God bless you always. When I wrote\nthat letter to let you come the first time, do you know, the tears ran\ndown my cheeks.... I could not tell why: partly it might be mere\nnervousness. And then, I was vexed with you for wishing to come as\nother people did, and vexed with myself for not being able to refuse\nyou as I did them.\n\nWhen does the book come out? Not on the first, I begin to be glad.\n\n                                                 Ever yours,\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nI trust that you go on to take exercise--and that your mother is still\nbetter. Occy's worst symptom now is too great an appetite ... a\nmonster-appetite indeed.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                              [Post-mark, November 4, 1845.]\n\nOnly a word to tell you Moxon promises the books for to-morrow,\nWednesday--so towards evening yours will reach you--'parve liber, sine\nme ibis' ... would I were by you, then and ever! You see, and know,\nand understand why I can neither talk to you, nor write to you _now_,\nas we are now;--from the beginning, the personal interest absorbed\nevery other, greater or smaller--but as one cannot well,--or should\nnot,--sit quite silently, the words go on, about Horne, or what\nchances--while you are in my thought.\n\nBut when I have you ... so it seems ... _in_ my very heart; when you\nare entirely with me--oh, the day--then it will all go better, talk\nand writing too.\n\nLove me, my own love; not as I love you--not for--but I cannot write\nthat. Nor do I ask anything, with all your gifts here, except for the\nluxury of asking. Withdraw nothing, then, dearest, from your\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                              [Post-mark, November 6, 1845.]\n\nI had your note last night, and am waiting for the book to-day; a true\nliving breathing book, let the writer say of it what he will. Also\nwhen it comes it won't certainly come 'sine te.' Which is my comfort.\n\nAnd now--not to make any more fuss about a matter of simple\nrestitution--may I have my letter back?... I mean the letter which if\nyou did not destroy ... did not punish for its sins long and long ago\n... belongs to me--which, if destroyed, I must lose for my sins, ...\nbut, if undestroyed, which I may have back; may I not? is it not my\nown? must I not?--that letter I was made to return and now turn to ask\nfor again in further expiation. Now do I ask humbly enough? And send\nit at once, if undestroyed--do not wait till Saturday.\n\nI have considered about Mr. Kenyon and it seems best, in the event of\na question or of a remark equivalent to a question, to confess to the\nvisits 'generally once a week' ... because he may hear, one, two,\nthree different ways, ... not to say the other reasons and Chaucer's\ncharge against 'doubleness.' I fear ... I fear that he (not Chaucer)\nwill wonder a little--and he has looked at me with scanning spectacles\nalready and talked of its being a mystery to him how you made your way\nhere; and _I_, who though I can _bespeak_ self-command, have no sort\nof presence of mind (not so much as one would use to play at Jack\nstraws) did not help the case at all. Well--it cannot be helped. Did I\never tell you what he said of you once--'_that you deserved to be a\npoet_--being one in your heart and life:' he said _that_ of you to me,\nand I thought it a noble encomium and deserving its application.\n\nFor the rest ... yes: you know I do--God knows I do. Whatever I can\nfeel is for you--and perhaps it is not less, for not being simmered\naway in too much sunshine as with women accounted happier. _I_ am\nhappy besides now--happy enough to die now.\n\n                          May God bless you, dear--dearest--\n\n                             Ever I am yours--\n\nThe book does not come--so I shall not wait. Mr. Kenyon came instead,\nand comes again on _Friday_ he says, and Saturday seems to be clear\nstill.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "_Just_ arrived!--(mind, the _silent writing_ overflows the page, and\nlaughs at the black words for Mr. Kenyon to read!)--But your note\narrived earlier--more of that, when I write after this dreadful\ndispatching-business that falls on me--friend A. and B. and C. must\nget their copy, and word of regard, all by next post!--\n\nCould you think _that_ that untoward letter lived one _moment_ after\nit returned to me? I burned it and cried 'serve it right'! Poor\nletter,--yet I should have been vexed and offended _then_ to be told I\n_could_ love you better than I did already. 'Live and _learn_!' Live\nand love you--dearest, as loves you\n\n                                                        R.B.\n\nYou will write to reassure me about Saturday, if not for other\nreasons. See your corrections ... and understand that in one or two\ninstances in which they would seem not to be adopted, they _are_ so,\nby some modification of the previous, or following line ... as in one\nof the Sorrento lines ... about a 'turret'--see! (Can you give me\nHorne's address--I would send then.)",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                              [Post-mark, November 7, 1845.]\n\nI see and know; read and mark; and only hope there is no harm done by\nmy meddling; and lose the sense of it all in the sense of beauty and\npower everywhere, which nobody could kill, if they took to meddling\nmore even. And now, what will people say to this and this and this--or\n'O seclum insipiens et inficetum!' or rather, O ungrateful right hand\nwhich does not thank you first! I do thank you. I have been reading\neverything with new delight; and at intervals remembering in\ninglorious complacency (for which you must try to forgive me) that Mr.\nForster is no longer anything like an enemy. And yet (just see what\ncontradiction!) the _British Quarterly_ has been abusing me so at\nlarge, that I can only take it to be the achievement of a very\nparticular friend indeed,--of someone who positively never reviewed\nbefore and tries his new sword on me out of pure friendship. Only I\nsuppose it is not the general rule, and that there are friends 'with a\ndifference.' Not that you are to fancy me pained--oh no!--merely\nsurprised. I was prepared for anything almost from the quarter in\nquestion, but scarcely for being hung 'to the crows' so publicly ...\nthough within the bounds of legitimate criticisms, mind. But oh--the\ncreatures of your sex are not always magnanimous--_that_ is true. And\nto put _you_ between me and all ... the thought of _you_ ... in a\ngreat eclipse of the world ... _that_ is happy ... only, too happy for\nsuch as I am; as my own heart warns me hour by hour.\n\n'Serve _me_ right'--I do not dare to complain. I wished for the safety\nof that letter so much that I finished by persuading myself of the\nprobability of it: but 'serve _me_ right' quite clearly. And yet--but\nno more 'and yets' about it. 'And yets' fray the silk.\n\nI see how the 'turret' stands in the new reading, triumphing over the\n'tower,' and unexceptionable in every respect. Also I do hold that\nnobody with an ordinary understanding has the slightest pretence for\nattaching a charge of obscurity to this new number--there are lights\nenough for the critics to scan one another's dull blank of visage by.\nOne verse indeed in that expressive lyric of the 'Lost Mistress,' does\nstill seem questionable to me, though you have changed a word since I\nsaw it; and still I fancy that I rather leap at the meaning than reach\nit--but it is my own fault probably ... I am not sure. With that one\nexception I _am quite_ sure that people who shall complain of darkness\nare blind ... I mean, that the construction is clear and unembarrassed\neverywhere. Subtleties of thought which are not directly apprehensible\nby minds of a common range, are here as elsewhere in your\nwritings--but if to utter things 'hard to understand' from _that_\ncause be an offence, why we may begin with 'our beloved brother Paul,'\nyou know, and go down through all the geniuses of the world, and bid\nthem put away their inspirations. You must descend to the level of\ncritic A or B, that he may look into your face.... Ah well!--'Let them\nrave.' You will live when all _those_ are under the willows. In the\nmeantime there is something better, as you said, even than your\npoetry--as the giver is better than the gift, and the maker than the\ncreature, and _you_ than _yours_. Yes--_you_ than _yours_.... (I did\nnot mean it so when I wrote it first ... but I accept the 'bona\nverba,' and use the phrase for the end of my letter) ... as _you_ are\nbetter than _yours_; even when so much yours as your own\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nMay I see the first act first? Let me!--And you walk?\n\nMr. Horne's address is Hill Side, Fitzroy Park, Highgate.\n\nThere is no reason against Saturday so far. Mr. Kenyon comes\nto-morrow, Friday, and therefore--!--and if Saturday should become\nimpracticable, I will write again.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Evening.\n                             [Post-mark, November 10, 1845.]\n\nWhen I come back from seeing you, and think over it all, there never\nis a least word of yours I could not occupy myself with, and wish to\nreturn to you with some ... not to say, all ... the thoughts and\nfancies it is sure to call out of me. There is nothing in you that\ndoes not draw out all of me. You possess me, dearest ... and there is\nno help for the expressing it all, no voice nor hand, but these of\nmine which shrink and turn away from the attempt. So you must go on,\npatiently, knowing me more and more, and your entire power on me, and\nI will console myself, to the full extent, with your\nknowledge--penetration, intuition--_somehow_ I must believe you can\nget to what is here, in me, without the pretence of my telling or\nwriting it. But, because I give up the great achievements, there is no\nreason I should not secure any occasion of making clear one of the\nless important points that arise in our intercourse ... if I fancy I\ncan do it with the least success. For instance, it is on my mind to\nexplain what I meant yesterday by trusting that the entire happiness I\nfeel in the letters, and the help in the criticising might not be hurt\nby the surmise, even, that those labours to which you were born, might\nbe suspended, in any degree, through such generosity to _me_. Dearest,\nI believed in your glorious genius and knew it for a true star from\nthe moment I saw it; long before I had the blessing of knowing it was\nMY star, with my fortune and futurity in it. And, when I draw back\nfrom myself, and look better and more clearly, then I _do_ feel, with\nyou, that the writing a few letters more or less, reading many or few\nrhymes of any other person, would not interfere in any material degree\nwith that power of yours--that you might easily make one so happy and\nyet go on writing 'Geraldines' and 'Berthas'--but--how can I, dearest,\nleave my heart's treasures long, even to look at your genius?... and\nwhen I come back and find all safe, find the comfort of you, the\ntraces of you ... _will_ it do--tell me--to trust all that as a light\neffort, an easy matter?\n\nYet, if you can lift me with one hand, while the other suffices to\ncrown you--there is queenliness in _that_, too!\n\nWell, I have spoken. As I told you, your turn comes now. How have you\ndetermined respecting the American Edition? You tell me nothing of\nyourself! It is all ME you help, me you do good to ... and I take it\nall! Now see, if this goes on! I have not had _every_ love-luxury, I\nnow find out ... where is the proper, rationally\nto-be-expected--'_lovers' quarrel_'? _Here_, as you will find! 'Iræ;\namantium'.... I am no more 'at a loss with my Naso,' than Peter\nRonsard. Ah, but then they are to be _reintegratio amoris_--and to get\nback into a thing, one must needs get for a moment first out of it ...\ntrust me, no! And now, the natural inference from all this? The\nconsistent inference ... the 'self-denying ordinance'? Why--do you\ndoubt? even this,--you must just put aside the Romance, and tell the\nAmericans to wait, and make my heart start up when the letter is laid\nto it; the letter full of your news, telling me you are well and\nwalking, and working for my sake towards _the time_--informing me,\nmoreover, if Thursday or Friday is to be my day--.\n\nMay God bless you, my own love.\n\nI will certainly bring you an Act of the Play ... for this serpent's\nreason, in addition to the others ... that--No, I will _tell_ you\nthat--I can tell you now more than even lately!\n\n                                               Ever your own\n\n                                                    R.B.\n\n[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF LETTER OF ROBERT BROWNING\n\n(See Vol. I., p. 270)]",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                             [Post-mark, November 11, 1845.]\n\nIf it were possible that you could do me harm in the way of work, (but\nit isn't) it would be possible, not through writing letters and\nreading manuscripts, but because of a reason to be drawn from your own\ngreat line\n\n    What man is strong until he stands alone?\n\nWhat man ... what woman? For have I not felt twenty times the desolate\nadvantage of being insulated here and of not minding anybody when I\nmade my poems?--of living a little like a disembodied spirit, and\ncaring less for suppositious criticism than for the black fly buzzing\nin the pane?--_That_ made me what dear Mr. Kenyon calls\n'insolent,'--untimid, and unconventional in my degree; and not so much\nby strength, you see, as by separation. _You_ touch your greater ends\nby mere strength; breaking with your own hands the hampering threads\nwhich, in your position would have hampered _me_.\n\nStill ... when all is changed for me now, and different, it is not\npossible, ... for all the changing, nor for all your line and my\nspeculation, ... that I should not be better and stronger for being\nwithin your influences and sympathies, in this way of writing as in\nother ways. We shall see--you will see. Yet I have been idle lately I\nconfess; leaning half out of some turret-window of the castle of\nIndolence and watching the new sunrise--as why not?--Do I mean to be\nidle always?--no!--and am I not an industrious worker on the average\nof days? Indeed yes! Also I have been less idle than you think\nperhaps, even this last year, though the results seem so like\ntrifling: and I shall set about the prose papers for the New York\npeople, and the something rather better besides we may hope ... may\n_I_ not hope, if _you_ wish it? Only there is no 'crown' for me, be\nsure, except what grows from this letter and such letters ... this\nsense of being anything to _one_! there is no room for another crown.\nHave I a great head like Goethe's that there should be room? and mine\nis bent down already by the unused weight--and as to bearing it, ...\n'Will it do,--tell me; to treat _that_ as a light effort, an easy\nmatter?'\n\nNow let me remember to tell you that the line of yours I have just\nquoted, and which has been present with me since you wrote it, Mr.\nChorley has quoted too in his new novel of 'Pomfret.' You were right\nin your identifying of servant and waistcoat--and Wilson waited only\ntill you had gone on Saturday, to give me a parcel and note; the novel\nitself in fact, which Mr. Chorley had the kindness to send me 'some\ndays or weeks,' said the note, 'previous to the publication.' Very\ngoodnatured of him certainly: and the book seems to me his best work\nin point of sustainment and vigour, and I am in process of being\ninterested in it. Not that he is a _maker_, even for this prose. A\nfeeler ... an observer ... a thinker even, in a certain sphere--but a\nmaker ... no, as it seems to me--and if I were he, I would rather herd\nwith the essayists than the novelists where he is too good to take\ninferior rank and not strong enough to 'go up higher.' Only it would\nbe more right in me to be grateful than to talk so--now wouldn't it?\n\nAnd here is Mr. Kenyon's letter back again--a kind good letter ... a\nletter I have liked to read (so it was kind and good in you to let\nme!)--and he was with me to-day and praising the 'Ride to Ghent,' and\npraising the 'Duchess,' and praising you altogether as I liked to hear\nhim. The Ghent-ride was 'very fine'--and the\n\n    Into the midnight they galloped abreast\n\ndrew us out into the night as witnesses. And then, the 'Duchess' ...\nthe conception of it was noble, and the vehicle, rhythm and all, most\ncharacteristic and individual ... though some of the rhymes ... oh,\nsome of the rhymes did not find grace in his ears--but the\nincantation-scene, 'just trenching on the supernatural,' _that_ was\ntaken to be 'wonderful,' ... 'showing extraordinary power, ... as\nindeed other things did ... works of a highly original writer and of\nsuch various faculty!'--Am I not tired of writing your praises as he\nsaid then? So I shall tell you, instead of any more, that I went down\nto the drawing-room yesterday (because it was warm enough) by an act\nof supererogatory virtue for which you may praise _me_ in turn. What\nweather it is! and how the year seems to have forgotten itself into\nApril.\n\nBut after all, how have I answered your letter? and how _are_ such\nletters to be answered? Do we answer the sun when he shines? May God\nbless you ... it is my answer--with one word besides ... that I am\nwholly and ever your\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nOn Thursday as far as I know yet--and you shall hear if there should\nbe an obstacle. _Will you walk?_ If you will not, you know, you must\nbe forgetting me a little. Will you remember me too in the act of the\nplay?--but above all things in taking the right exercise, and in not\noverworking the head. And this for no serpent's reason.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Two letters in one--Wednesday.\n                             [Post-mark, November 15, 1845.]\n\nI shall see you to-morrow and yet am writing what you will have to\nread perhaps. When you spoke of 'stars' and 'geniuses' in that letter,\nI did not seem to hear; I was listening to those words of the letter\nwhich were of a better silver in the sound than even your praise could\nbe; and now that at last I come to hear them in their extravagance (oh\nsuch pure extravagance about 'glorious geniuses'--) I can't help\ntelling you they were heard last, and deserved it.\n\nShall I tell you besides?--The first moment in which I seemed to admit\nto myself in a flash of lightning the _possibility_ of your affection\nfor me being more than dream-work ... the first moment was _that_ when\nyou intimated (as you have done since repeatedly) that you cared for\nme not for a reason, but because you cared for me. Now such a\n'parceque' which reasonable people would take to be irrational, was\njust the only one fitted to the uses of my understanding on the\nparticular question we were upon ... just the 'woman's reason'\nsuitable to the woman ...; for I could understand that it might be as\nyou said, and, if so, that it was altogether unanswerable ... do you\nsee? If a fact includes its own cause ... why there it stands for\never--one of 'earth's immortalities'--_as long as it includes it_.\n\nAnd when unreasonableness stands for a reason, it is a promising state\nof things, we may both admit, and proves what it would be as well not\ntoo curiously to enquire into. But then ... to look at it in a\nbrighter aspect, ... I do remember how, years ago, when talking the\nfoolishnesses which women will talk when they are by themselves, and\nnot forced to be sensible, ... one of my friends thought it 'safest to\nbegin with a little aversion,' and another, wisest to begin with a\ngreat deal of esteem, and how the best attachments were produced so\nand so, ... I took it into my head to say that the best was where\nthere was no cause at all for it, and the more wholly unreasonable,\nthe better still; that the motive should lie in the feeling itself and\nnot in the object of it--and that the affection which could (if it\ncould) throw itself out on an idiot with a goître would be more\nadmirable than Abelard's. Whereupon everybody laughed, and someone\nthought it affected of me and no true opinion, and others said plainly\nthat it was immoral, and somebody else hoped, in a sarcasm, that I\nmeant to act out my theory for the advantage of the world. To which I\nreplied quite gravely that I had not virtue enough--and so, people\nlaughed as it is fair to laugh when other people are esteemed to talk\nnonsense. And all this came back to me in the south wind of your\n'parceque,' and I tell it as it came ... now.\n\nWhich proves, if it proves anything, ... while I have every sort of\nnatural pleasure in your praises and like you to like my poetry just\nas I should, and perhaps more than I should; yet _why_ it is all\nbehind ... and in its place--and _why_ I have a tendency moreover to\nsift and measure any praise of yours and to separate it from the\nsuperfluities, far more than with any other person's praise in the\nworld.\n\n_Friday evening._--Shall I send this letter or not? I have been 'tra\n'l si e 'l no,' and writing a new beginning on a new sheet even--but\nafter all you ought to hear the remote echo of your last letter ...\nfar out among the hills, ... as well as the immediate reverberation,\nand so I will send it,--and what I send is not to be answered,\nremember!\n\nI read Luria's first act twice through before I slept last night, and\nfeel just as a bullet might feel, not because of the lead of it but\nbecause shot into the air and suddenly arrested and suspended. It\n('Luria') is all life, and we know (that is, the reader knows) that\nthere must be results here and here. How fine that sight of Luria is\nupon the lynx hides--how you see the Moor in him just in the glimpse\nyou have by the eyes of another--and that laugh when the horse drops\nthe forage, what wonderful truth and character you have in\n_that_!--And then, when _he_ is in the scene--: 'Golden-hearted Luria'\nyou called him once to me, and his heart shines already ... wide open\nto the morning sun. The construction seems to me very clear\neverywhere--and the rhythm, even over-smooth in a few verses, where\nyou invert a little artificially--but that shall be set down on a\nseparate strip of paper: and in the meantime I am snatched up into\n'Luria' and feel myself driven on to the ends of the poet, just as a\nreader should.\n\nBut _you_ are not driven on to any ends? so as to be tired, I mean?\nYou will not suffer yourself to be overworked because you are\n'interested' in this work. I am so certain that the sensations in your\nhead _demand_ repose; and it must be so injurious to you to be\nperpetually calling, calling these new creations, one after another,\nthat you must consent to be called _to_, and not hurry the next act,\nno, nor any act--let the people have time to learn the last number by\nheart. And how glad I am that Mr. Fox should say what he did of it ...\nthough it wasn't true, you know ... not exactly. Still, I do hold that\nas far as construction goes, you never put together so much\nunquestionable, smooth glory before, ... not a single entanglement for\nthe understanding ... unless 'the snowdrops' make an exception--while\nfor the undeniableness of genius it never stood out before your\nreaders more plainly than in that same number! Also you have extended\nyour sweep of power--the sea-weed is thrown farther (if not higher)\nthan it was found before; and one may calculate surely now how a few\nmore waves will cover the brown stones and float the sight up away\nthrough the fissure of the rocks. The rhythm (to touch one of the\nvarious things) the rhythm of that 'Duchess' does more and more strike\nme as a new thing; something like (if like anything) what the Greeks\ncalled pedestrian-metre, ... between metre and prose ... the difficult\nrhymes combining too quite curiously with the easy looseness of the\ngeneral measure. Then 'The Ride'--with that touch of natural feeling\nat the end, to prove that it was not in brutal carelessness that the\npoor horse was driven through all that suffering ... yes, and how that\none touch of softness acts back upon the energy and resolution and\nexalts both, instead of weakening anything, as might have been\nexpected by the vulgar of writers or critics. And then 'Saul'--and in\na first place 'St. Praxed'--and for pure description, 'Fortú' and the\ndeep 'Pictor Ignotus'--and the noble, serene 'Italy in England,' which\ngrows on you the more you know of it--and that delightful 'Glove'--and\nthe short lyrics ... for one comes to _'select' everything_ at last,\nand certainly I do like these poems better and better, as your poems\nare made to be liked. But you will be tired to hear it said over and\nover so, ... and I am going to 'Luria,' besides.\n\nWhen you write will you say exactly how you are? and will you write?\nAnd I want to explain to you that although I don't make a profession\nof equable spirits, (as a matter of temperament, my spirits were\nalways given to rock a little, up and down) yet that I did not mean to\nbe so ungrateful and wicked as to complain of low spirits now and to\nyou. It would not be true either: and I said 'low' to express a merely\nbodily state. My opium comes in to keep the pulse from fluttering and\nfainting ... to give the right composure and point of balance to the\nnervous system. I don't take it for 'my spirits' in the usual sense;\nyou must not think such a thing. The medical man who came to see me\nmade me take it the other day when he was in the room, before the\nright hour and when I was talking quite cheerfully, just for the need\nhe observed in the pulse. 'It was a necessity of my position,' he\nsaid. Also I do not suffer from it in any way, as people usually do\nwho take opium. I am not even subject to an opium-headache. As to the\nlow spirits I will not say that mine _have not_ been low enough and\nwith cause enough; but _even then_, ... why if you were to ask the\nnearest witnesses, ... say, even my own sisters, ... everybody would\ntell you, I think, that the 'cheerfulness' even _then_, was the\nremarkable thing in me--certainly it has been remarked about me again\nand again. Nobody has known that it was an effort (a habit of effort)\nto throw the light on the outside,--I do abhor so that ignoble\ngroaning aloud of the 'groans of Testy and Sensitude'--yet I may say\nthat for three years I never was conscious of one movement of pleasure\nin anything. Think if I could mean to complain of 'low spirits' now,\nand to you. Why it would be like complaining of not being able to see\nat noon--which would simply prove that I was very blind. And you, who\nare not blind, cannot make out what is written--so you _need not try_.\nMay God bless you long after you have done blessing me!\n\n                                                    Your own\n\n                                                         E.B.B.\n\nNow I am half tempted to tear this letter in two (and it is long\nenough for three) and to send you only the latter half. But you will\nunderstand--you will not think that there is a contradiction between\nthe first and last ... you _cannot_. One is a truth of me--and the\nother a truth of you--and we two are different, you know.\n\nYou are not over-working in 'Luria'? That you _should not_, is a\ntruth, too.\n\nI observed that Mr. Kenyon put in '_Junior_' to your address. Ought\nthat to be done? or does my fashion of directing find you without\nhesitation?\n\nMr. Kenyon asked me for Mr. Chorley's book, or you should have it.\nShall I send it to you presently?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Morning.\n                             [Post-mark, November 17, 1845.]\n\nAt last your letter comes--and the deep joy--(I know and use to\nanalyse my own feelings, and be sober in giving distinctive names to\ntheir varieties; this is _deep_ joy,)--the true love with which I\ntake this much of you into my heart, ... _that_ proves what it is I\nwanted so long, and find at last, and am happy for ever. I must have\nmore than 'intimated'--I must have spoken plainly out the truth, if I\ndo myself the barest justice, and told you long ago that the\nadmiration at your works went _away_, quite another way and afar from\nthe love of you. If I could fancy some method of what I shall say\nhappening without all the obvious stumbling-blocks of falseness, &c.\nwhich no foolish fancy dares associate with you ... if you COULD tell\nme when I next sit by you--'I will undeceive you,--I am not _the_ Miss\nB.--she is up-stairs and you shall see her--I only wrote those\nletters, and am what you see, that is all now left you' (all the\nmisapprehension having arisen from _me_, in some inexplicable way) ...\nI should not begin by _saying_ anything, dear, dearest--but _after\nthat_, I should assure you--soon make you believe that I did not much\nwonder at the event, for I have been all my life asking what\nconnection there is between the satisfaction at the display of power,\nand the sympathy with--ever-increasing sympathy with--all imaginable\nweakness? Look now: Coleridge writes on and on,--at last he writes a\nnote to his 'War-Eclogue,' in which he avers himself to have been\nactuated by a really--on the whole--_benevolent_ feeling to Mr. Pitt\nwhen he wrote that stanza in which 'Fire' means to 'cling to him\neverlastingly'--where is the long line of admiration now that the end\nsnaps? And now--here I refuse to fancy--you KNOW whether, if you never\nwrite another line, speak another intelligible word, recognize me by a\nlook again--whether I shall love you less or _more_ ... MORE; having a\nright to expect more strength with the strange emergency. And it is\nbecause I know this, build upon this entirely, that as a reasonable\ncreature, I am bound to look first to what hangs farthest and most\nloosely from me ... what _might_ go from you to your loss, and so to\nmine, to say the least ... because I want ALL of you, not just so much\nas I could not live without--and because I see the danger of your\nentirely generous disposition and cannot quite, yet, bring myself to\nprofit by it in the quiet way you recommend. Always remember, I never\nwrote to you, all the years, on the strength of your poetry, though I\nconstantly heard of you through Mr. K. and was near seeing you once,\nand might have easily availed myself of his intervention to commend\nany letter to your notice, so as to reach you out of the foolish crowd\nof rushers-in upon genius ... who come and eat their bread and cheese\non the high-altar, and talk of reverence without one of its surest\ninstincts--never quiet till they cut their initials on the cheek of\nthe Medicean Venus to prove they worship her. My admiration, as I\nsaid, went its natural way in silence--but when on my return to\nEngland in December, late in the month, Mr. K. sent those Poems to my\nsister, and I read my name there--and when, a day or two after, I met\nhim and, beginning to speak my mind on them, and getting on no better\nthan I should now, said quite naturally--'if I were to _write_ this,\nnow?'--and he assured me with his perfect kindness, you would be even\n'pleased' to hear from me under those circumstances ... nay,--for I\nwill tell you all, in this, in everything--when he wrote me a note\nsoon after to reassure me on that point ... THEN I _did_ write, on\n_account of my purely personal obligation_, though of course taking\nthat occasion to allude to the general and customary delight in your\nworks: I did write, on the whole, UNWILLINGLY ... with consciousness\nof having to _speak_ on a subject which I _felt_ thoroughly\nconcerning, and could not be satisfied with an imperfect expression\nof. As for expecting THEN what has followed ... I shall only say I was\nscheming how to get done with England and go to my heart in Italy. And\nnow, my love--I am round you ... my whole life is wound up and down\nand over you.... I feel you stir everywhere. I am not conscious of\nthinking or feeling but _about_ you, with some reference to you--so I\nwill live, so may I die! And you have blessed me _beyond_ the _bond_,\nin more than in giving me yourself to love; inasmuch as you believed\nme from the first ... what you call 'dream-work' _was_ real of its\nkind, did you not think? and now you believe me, _I_ believe and am\nhappy, in what I write with my heart full of love for you. Why do you\ntell me of a doubt, as now, and bid me not clear it up, 'not answer\nyou?' Have I done wrong in thus answering? Never, never do _me_ direct\n_wrong_ and hide for a moment from me what a word can explain as now.\nYou see, you thought, if but for a moment, I loved your intellect--or\nwhat predominates in your poetry and is most distinct from your\nheart--better, or as well as you--did you not? and I have told you\nevery thing,--explained everything ... have I not? And now I will dare\n... yes, dearest, kiss you back to my heart again; my own. There--and\nthere!\n\nAnd since I wrote what is above, I have been reading among other poems\nthat sonnet--'Past and Future'--which affects me more than any poem I\never read. How can I put your poetry away from you, even in these\nineffectual attempts to concentrate myself upon, and better apply\nmyself to what remains?--poor, poor work it is; for is not that sonnet\nto be loved as a true utterance of yours? I cannot attempt to put down\nthe thoughts that rise; may God bless me, as you pray, by letting that\nbeloved hand shake the less ... I will only ask, _the less_ ... for\nbeing laid on mine through this life! And, indeed, you write down, for\nme to calmly read, that I make you happy! Then it is--as with all\npower--God through the weakest instrumentality ... and I am past\nexpression proud and grateful--My love,\n\n                                                   I am your\n\n                                                        R.B.\n\nI must answer your questions: I am better--and will certainly have\nyour injunction before my eyes and work quite moderately. Your letters\ncome _straight_ to me--my father's go to Town, except on extraordinary\noccasions, so that _all_ come for my first looking-over. I saw Mr. K.\nlast night at the Amateur Comedy--and heaps of old acquaintances--and\ncame home tired and savage--and _yearned_ literally, for a letter this\nmorning, and so it came and I was well again. So, I am not even to\nhave your low spirits leaning on mine? It was just because I always\nfind you alike, and _ever_ like yourself, that I seemed to discern a\ndepth, when you spoke of 'some days' and what they made uneven where\nall is agreeable to _me_. Do not, now, deprive me of a right--a right\n... to find you as you _are_; get no habit of being cheerful with\nme--I have universal sympathy and can show you a SIDE of me, a true\nface, turn as you may. If you _are_ cheerful ... so will I be ... if\nsad, my cheerfulness will be all the while _behind_, and propping up,\nany sadness that meets yours, if that should be necessary. As for my\nquestion about the opium ... you do not misunderstand _that_ neither:\nI trust in the eventual consummation of my--shall I not say,\n_our_--hopes; and all that bears upon your health immediately or\nprospectively, affects me--how it affects me! Will you write again?\n_Wednesday_, remember! Mr. K. wants me to go to him one of the three\nnext days after. I will bring you some letters ... one from Landor.\nWhy should I trouble you about 'Pomfret.'\n\nAnd Luria ... does it so interest you? Better is to come of it. How\nyou lift me up!--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                             [Post-mark, November 18, 1845.]\n\nHow you overcome me as always you do--and where is the answer to\nanything except too deep down in the heart for even the pearl-divers?\nBut understand ... what you do not quite ... that I did not mistake\nyou as far even as you say here and even 'for a moment.' I did not\nwrite any of that letter in a 'doubt' of you--not a word.... I was\nsimply looking back in it on my own states of feeling, ... looking\nback from that point of your praise to what was better ... (or I\nshould not have looked back)--and so coming to tell you, by a natural\nassociation, how the completely opposite point to that of any praise\nwas the one which struck me first and most, viz. the no-reason of your\nreasoning ... acknowledged to be yours. Of course I acknowledge it to\nbe yours, ... that high reason of no reason--I acknowledged it to be\nyours (didn't I?) in acknowledging that it made an impression on me.\nAnd then, referring to the traditions of my experience such as I told\nthem to you, I meant, so, farther to acknowledge that I would rather\nbe cared for in _that_ unreasonable way, than for the best reason in\nthe world. But all _that_ was history and philosophy simply--was it\nnot?--and not _doubt of you_.\n\nThe truth is ... since we really are talking truths in this world ...\nthat I never have doubted you--ah, you _know_!--I felt from the\nbeginning so sure of the nobility and integrity in you that I would\nhave trusted you to make a path for my soul--_that_, you _know_. I\nfelt certain that you believed of yourself every word you spoke or\nwrote--and you must not blame me if I thought besides sometimes (it\nwas the extent of my thought) that you were self-deceived as to the\nnature of your own feelings. If you could turn over every page of my\nheart like the pages of a book, you would see nothing there offensive\nto the least of your feelings ... not even to the outside fringes of\nyour man's vanity ... should you have any vanity like a man; which I\n_do_ doubt. I never wronged you in the least of things--never ... I\nthank God for it. But 'self-deceived,' it was so easy for you to be:\nsee how on every side and day by day, men are--and women too--in this\nsort of feelings. 'Self-deceived,' it was so possible for you to be,\nand while I thought it possible, could I help thinking it _best_ for\nyou that it should be so--and was it not right in me to persist in\nthinking it possible? It was my reverence for you that made me\npersist! What was _I_ that I should think otherwise? I had been shut\nup here too long face to face with my own spirit, not to know myself,\nand, so, to have lost the common illusions of vanity. All the men I\nhad ever known could not make your stature among them. So it was not\ndistrust, but reverence rather. I sate by while the angel stirred the\nwater, and I called it _Miracle_. Do not blame me now, ... _my_ angel!\n\nNor say, that I 'do not lean' on you with all the weight of my 'past'\n... because I do! You cannot guess what you are to me--you cannot--it\nis not possible:--and though I have said _that_ before, I must say it\nagain ... for it comes again to be said. It is something to me between\ndream and miracle, all of it--as if some dream of my earliest\nbrightest dreaming-time had been lying through these dark years to\nsteep in the sunshine, returning to me in a double light. _Can_ it be,\nI say to myself, that _you_ feel for me _so_? can it be meant for me?\nthis from _you_?\n\nIf it is your 'right' that I should be gloomy at will with you, you\nexercise it, I do think--for although I cannot promise to be very\nsorrowful when you come, (how could that be?) yet from different\nmotives it seems to me that I have written to you quite superfluities\nabout my 'abomination of desolation,'--yes indeed, and blamed myself\nafterwards. And now I must say this besides. When grief came upon\ngrief, I never was tempted to ask 'How have I deserved this of God,'\nas sufferers sometimes do: I always felt that there must be cause\nenough ... corruption enough, needing purification ... weakness\nenough, needing strengthening ... _nothing_ of the chastisement could\ncome to me without cause and need. But in this different hour, when\njoy follows joy, and God makes me happy, as you say, _through_ you ...\nI cannot repress the ... 'How have I deserved _this_ of Him?'--I know\nI have not--I know I do not.\n\nCould it be that heart and life were devastated to make room for\nyou?--If so, it was well done,--dearest! They leave the ground fallow\nbefore the wheat.\n\n'Were you wrong in answering?' Surely not ... unless it is wrong to\nshow all this goodness ... and too much, it may be for _me_. When the\nplants droop for drought and the copious showers fall suddenly, silver\nupon silver, they die sometimes of the reverse of their adversities.\nBut no--_that_, even, shall not be a danger! And if I said 'Do not\nanswer,' I did not mean that I would not have a doubt removed--(having\n_no_ doubt!--) but I was simply unwilling to seem to be asking for\ngolden words ... going down the aisles with that large silken purse,\nas _quêteuse_. Try to understand.\n\nOn Wednesday then!--George is invited to meet you on Thursday at Mr.\nKenyon's.\n\nThe _Examiner_ speaks well, upon the whole, and with allowances ...\noh, that absurdity about metaphysics apart from poetry!--'Can such\nthings be' in one of the best reviews of the day? Mr. Kenyon was here\non Sunday and talking of the poems with real living tears in his eyes\nand on his cheeks. But I will tell you. 'Luria' is to climb to the\nplace of a great work, I see. And if I write too long letters, is it\nnot because you spoil me, and because (being spoilt) I cannot help\nit?--May God bless you always--\n\n                                                 Your\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n\nHere is the copy of Landor's verses.\n\nYou know thoroughly, do you not, why I brought all those good-natured\nletters, desperate praise and all? Not, _not_ out of the least vanity\nin the world--nor to help myself in your sight with such testimony:\nwould it seem very extravagant, on the contrary, if I said that\nperhaps I laid them before your eyes in a real fit of compunction at\nnot being, in my heart, thankful enough for the evident motive of the\nwriters,--and so was determined to give them the 'last honours' if\nnot the first, and not make them miss _you_ because, through my fault,\nthey had missed _me_? Does this sound too fantastical? Because it is\nstrictly true: the most laudatory of all, I _skimmed_ once over with\nmy flesh _creeping_--it seemed such a death-struggle, that of good\nnature over--well, it is fresh ingratitude of me, so here it shall\nend.\n\nI am not ungrateful to _you_--but you must wait to know that:--I can\nspeak less than nothing with my living lips.\n\nI mean to ask your brother how you are to-night ... so quietly!\n\nGod bless you, my dearest, and reward you.\n\n                                                   Your R.B.\n\nMrs. Shelley--with the 'Ricordi.'\n\nOf course, Landor's praise is altogether a different gift; a gold vase\nfrom King Hiram; beside he has plenty of conscious rejoicing in his\nown riches, and is not left painfully poor by what he sends away.\n_That_ is the unpleasant point with some others--they spread you a\nboard and want to gird up their loins and wait on you there. Landor\nsays 'come up higher and let us sit and eat together.' Is it not that?\n\nNow--you are not to turn on me because the first is my proper feeling\nto _you_, ... for poetry is not the thing given or taken between\nus--it is heart and life and _my_self, not _mine_, I give--give? That\nyou glorify and change and, in returning then, give _me_!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                             [Post-mark, November 21, 1845.]\n\nThank you! and will you, if your sister made the copy of Landor's\nverses for _me_ as well as for you, thank _her_ from me for another\nkindness, ... not the second nor the third? For my own part, be sure\nthat if I did not fall on the right subtle interpretation about the\nletters, at least I did not 'think it vain' of you! vain: when,\nsupposing you really to have been over-gratified by such letters, it\ncould have proved only an excess of humility!--But ... besides the\nsubtlety,--you meant to be kind to _me_, you know,--and I had a\npleasure and an interest in reading them--only that ... mind. Sir John\nHanmer's, I was half angry with! Now _is_ he not cold?--and is it not\neasy to see _why_ he is forced to write his own scenes five times over\nand over? He might have mentioned the 'Duchess' I think; and he a\npoet! Mr. Chorley speaks some things very well--but what does he mean\nabout 'execution,' _en revanche_? but I liked his letter and his\ncandour in the last page of it. Will Mr. Warburton review you? does he\nmean _that_? Now do let me see any other letters you receive. _May_ I?\nOf course Landor's 'dwells apart' from all: and besides the reason you\ngive for being gratified by it, it is well that one prophet should\nopen his mouth and prophesy and give his witness to the inspiration of\nanother. See what he says in the letter.... '_You may stand quite\nalone if you will--and I think you will.' That_ is a noble testimony\nto a _truth_. And he discriminates--he understands and discerns--they\nare not words thrown out into the air. The 'profusion of imagery\ncovering the depth of thought' is a true description. And, in the\nverses, he lays his finger just on your characteristics--just on those\nwhich, when you were only a poet to me, (only a poet: does it sound\nirreverent? almost, I think!) which, when you were only a poet to me,\nI used to study, characteristic by characteristic, and turn myself\nround and round in despair of being ever able to approach, taking them\nto be so essentially and intensely masculine that like effects were\nunattainable, even in a lower degree, by any female hand. Did I not\ntell you so once before? or oftener than once? And must not these\nverses of Landor's be printed somewhere--in the _Examiner_? and again\nin the _Athenæum_? if in the _Examiner_, certainly again in the\n_Athenæum_--it would be a matter of course. Oh those verses: how they\nhave pleased me! It was an act worthy of him--and of _you_.\n\nGeorge has been properly 'indoctrinated,' and, we must hope, will do\ncredit to my instructions. Just now ... just as I was writing ... he\ncame in to say good-morning and good-night (he goes to chambers\nearlier than I receive visitors generally), and to ask with a smile,\nif I had 'a message for my friend' ... _that_ was you ... and so he\nwas indoctrinated. He is good and true, honest and kind, but a little\nover-grave and reasonable, as I and my sisters complain continually.\nThe great Law lime-kiln dries human souls all to one colour--and he is\nan industrious reader among law books and knows a good deal about\nthem, I have heard from persons who can judge; but with a sacrifice of\nimpulsiveness and liberty of spirit, which _I_ should regret for him\nif he sate on the Woolsack even. Oh--that law! how I do detest it! I\nhate it and think ill of it--I tell George so sometimes--and he is\ngood-natured and only thinks to himself (a little audibly now and\nthen) that I am a woman and talking nonsense. But the morals of it,\nand the philosophy of it! And the manners of it! in which the whole\nhost of barristers looks down on the attorneys and the rest of the\nworld!--how long are these things to last!\n\nTheodosia Garrow, I have seen face to face once or twice. She is very\nclever--very accomplished--with talents and tastes of various kinds--a\nmusician and linguist, in most modern languages I believe--and a\nwriter of fluent graceful melodious verses, ... you cannot say any\nmore. At least _I_ cannot--and though I have not seen this last poem\nin the 'Book of Beauty,' I have no more trust ready for it than for\nits predecessors, of which Mr. Landor said as much. It is the personal\nfeeling which speaks in him, I fancy--simply the personal\nfeeling--and, _that_ being the case, it does not spoil the\ndiscriminating appreciation on the other page of this letter. I might\nhave the modesty to admit besides that I may be wrong and he, right,\nall through. But ... 'more intense than Sappho'!--more intense than\nintensity itself!--to think of _that_!--Also the word 'poetry' has a\nclear meaning to me, and all the fluency and facility and quick\near-catching of a tune which one can find in the world, do not answer\nto it--no.\n\nHow is the head? will you tell me? I have written all this without a\nword of it, and yet ever since yesterday I have been uneasy, ... I\ncannot help it. You see you are not better but worse. 'Since you were\nin Italy'--Then is it England that disagrees with you? and is it\nchange away from England that you want? ... _require_, I mean. If\nso--why what follows and ought to follow? You must not be ill\nindeed--_that_ is the first necessity. Tell me how you are, exactly\nhow you are; and remember to walk, and not to work too much--for my\nsake--if you care for me--if it is not too bold of me to say so. I had\nfancied you were looking better rather than otherwise: but those\nsensations in the head are frightful and ought to be stopped by\nwhatever means; even by the worst, as they would seem to _me_.\nWell--it was bad news to hear of the increase of pain; for the\namendment was a 'passing show' I fear, and not caused even by thoughts\nof mine or it would have appeared before; while on the other side (the\nsunny side of the way) I heard on that same yesterday, what made me\nglad as good news, a whole gospel of good news, and from _you_ too who\nprofess to say 'less than nothing,' and _that_ was that '_the times\nseemed longer to you_':--do you remember saying it? And it made me\nglad ... happy--perhaps too glad and happy--and surprised: yes,\nsurprised!--for if you had told me (but you would not have told me) if\nyou had let me guess ... just the contrary, ... '_that the times\nseemed shorter_,' ... why it would have seemed to _me_ as natural as\nnature--oh, believe me it would, and I could not have thought hardly\nof you for it in the most secret or silent of my thoughts. How am I\nto feel towards you, do you imagine, ... who have the world round you\nand yet make me this to you? I never can tell you how, and you never\ncan know it without having my heart in you with all its experiences:\nwe measure by those weights. May God bless you! and save _me_ from\nbeing the cause to you of any harm or grief!... I choose it for _my_\nblessing instead of another. What should I be if I could fail\nwillingly to you in the least thing? But I _never will_, and you know\nit. I will not move, nor speak, nor breathe, so as willingly and\nconsciously to touch, with one shade of wrong, that precious deposit\nof 'heart and life' ... which may yet be recalled.\n\nAnd, so, may God bless you and your\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nRemember to say how you are.\n\nI sent 'Pomfret'--and Shelley is returned, and the letters, in the\nsame parcel--but my letter goes by the post as you see. Is there\ncontrast enough between the two rival female personages of 'Pomfret.'\n_I_ fancy not. Helena should have been more 'demonstrative' than she\nappeared in Italy, to secure the 'new modulation' with Walter. But you\nwill not think it a strong book, I am sure, with all the good and pure\nintention of it. The best character ... most life-like ... as\nconventional life goes ... seems to _me_ 'Mr. Rose' ... beyond all\ncomparison--and the best point, the noiseless, unaffected manner in\nwhich the acting out of the 'private judgment' in Pomfret himself is\nmade no heroic virtue but simply an integral part of the love of\ntruth. As to Grace she is too good to be interesting, I am afraid--and\npeople say of her more than she expresses--and as to 'generosity,' she\ncould not do otherwise in the last scenes.\n\nBut I will not tell you the story after all.\n\nAt the beginning of this letter I meant to write just one page; but my\ngenerosity is like Grace's, and could not help itself. There were the\nletters to write of, and the verses! and then, you know, 'femme qui\nparle' never has done. _Let_ me hear! and I will be as brisk as a\nmonument next time for variety.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Night.\n                             [Post-mark, November 22, 1845.]\n\nHow good and kind to send me these books! (The letter I say nothing\nof, according to convention: if I wrote down 'best and kindest' ...\noh, what poorest words!) I shall tell you all about 'Pomfret,' be\nsure. Chorley talked of it, as we walked homewards together last\nnight,--modestly and well, and spoke of having given away two copies\nonly ... to his mother one, and the other to--Miss Barrett, and 'she\nseemed interested in the life of it, entered into his purpose in it,'\nand I listened to it all, loving Chorley for his loveability which is\nconsiderable at other times, and saying to myself what might run\nbetter in the child's couplet--'Not more than others I deserve, Though\nGod has given me more'!--Given me the letter which expresses surprise\nthat I shall feel these blanks between the days when I see you longer\nand longer! So am _I_ surprised--that I should have mentioned so\nobvious a matter at all; or leave unmentioned a hundred others its\ncorrelatives which I cannot conceive you to be ignorant of, you! When\nI spread out my riches before me, and think _what_ the hour and more\nmeans that you endow one with, I _do_--not to say _could_--I _do_ form\nresolutions, and say to myself--'If next time I am bidden stay away a\nFORTNIGHT, I will not reply by a word beyond the grateful assent.' I\n_do_, God knows, lay up in my heart these priceless treasures,--shall\nI tell you? I never in my life kept a journal, a register of sights,\nor fancies, or feelings; in my last travel I put down on a slip of\npaper a few dates, that I might remember in England, on such a day I\nwas on Vesuvius, in Pompeii, at Shelley's grave; all that should be\nkept in memory is, with _me_, best left to the brain's own process.\nBut I have, from the first, recorded the date and the duration of\nevery visit to you; the numbers of minutes you have given me ... and I\nput them together till they make ... nearly two days now;\nfour-and-twenty-hour-long-days, that I have been _by you_--and I enter\nthe room determining to get up and go sooner ... and I go away into\nthe light street repenting that I went so soon by I don't know how\nmany minutes--for, love, what is it all, this love for you, but an\nearnest desiring to include you in myself, if that might be; to feel\nyou in my very heart and hold you there for ever, through all chance\nand earthly changes!\n\nThere, I had better leave off; the words!\n\nI was very glad to find myself with your brother yesterday; I like him\nvery much and mean to get a friend in him--(to supply the loss of my\nfriend ... Miss Barrett--which is gone, the friendship, so gone!) But\nI did not ask after you because I heard Moxon do it. Now of Landor's\nverses: I got a note from Forster yesterday telling me that he, too,\nhad received a copy ... so that there is no injunction to be secret.\nSo I got a copy for dear Mr. Kenyon, and, lo! what comes! I send the\nnote to make you smile! I shall reply that I felt in duty bound to\napprise you; as I did. You will observe that I go to that too facile\ngate of his on Tuesday, _my day_ ... from your house directly. The\nworst is that I have got entangled with invitations already, and must\ngo out again, _hating_ it, to more than one place.\n\nI am _very_ well--quite well; yes, dearest! The pain is quite gone;\nand the inconvenience, hard on its trace. You will write to me again,\nwill you not? And be as brief as your heart lets you, to me who hoard\nup your words and get remote and imperfect ideas of what ... shall it\nbe written?... anger at you could mean, when I see a line blotted out;\na _second-thoughted_ finger-tip rapidly put forth upon one of my gold\npieces!\n\nI rather think if Warburton reviews me it will be in the _Quarterly_,\nwhich I know he writes for. Hanmer is a very sculpturesque passionless\nhigh-minded and amiable man ... this coldness, as you see it, is part\nof him. I like his poems, I think, better than you--'the Sonnets,' do\nyou know them? Not 'Fra Cipolla.' See what is here, since you will not\nlet me have only you to look at--this is Landor's first\nopinion--expressed to Forster--see the date! and last of all, see me\nand know me, beloved! May God bless you!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                             [Post-mark, November 22, 1845.]\n\nMr. Kenyon came yesterday--and do you know when he took out those\nverses and spoke his preface and I understood what was to follow, I\nhad a temptation from my familiar Devil not to say I had read them\nbefore--I had the temptation strong and clear. For he (Mr. K.) told me\nthat your sister let him see them--.\n\nBut no--My 'vade retro' prevailed, and I spoke the truth and shamed\nthe devil and surprised Mr. Kenyon besides, as I could observe. Not an\nobservation did he make till he was just going away half an hour\nafterwards, and then he said rather dryly ... 'And now may I ask how\nlong ago it was when you first read these verses?--was it a fortnight\nago?' It was better, I think, that I should not have made a mystery of\nsuch a simple thing, ... and yet I felt half vexed with myself and\nwith him besides. But the verses,--how he praised them! more than I\nthought of doing ... as verses--though there is beauty and music and\nall that ought to be. Do you see clearly now that the latter lines\nrefer to the combination in you,--the qualities over and above those\nheld in common with Chaucer? And I have heard this morning from two or\nthree of the early readers of the _Chronicle_ (I never care to see it\ntill the evening) that the verses are there--so that my wishes have\nfulfilled themselves _there_ at least--strangely, for wishes of mine\n... which generally 'go by contraries' as the soothsayers declare of\ndreams. How kind of you to send me the fragment to Mr. Forster! and\nhow I like to read it. Was the Hebrew yours _then_ ... _written then_,\nI mean ... or written _now_?\n\nMr. Kenyon told me that you were to dine with him on Tuesday, and I\ntook for granted, at first hearing, that you would come on Wednesday\nperhaps to me--and afterwards I saw the possibility of the two ends\nbeing joined without much difficulty. Still, I was not sure, before\nyour letter came, how it might be.\n\nThat you really are better is the best news of all--thank you for\ntelling me. It will be wise not to go out _too_ much--'aequam servare\nmentem' as Landor quotes, ... in this as in the rest. Perhaps that\nworst pain was a sort of crisis ... the sharp turn of the road about\nto end ... oh, I do trust it may be so.\n\nMr. K. wrote to Landor to the effect that it was not because he (Mr.\nK.) held you in affection, nor because the verses expressed critically\nthe opinion entertained of you by all who could judge, nor because\nthey praised a book with which his own name was associated ... but for\nthe abstract beauty of those verses ... for _that_ reason he could not\nhelp naming them to Mr. Landor. All of which was repeated to me\nyesterday.\n\nAlso I heard of you from George, who admired you--admired you ... as\nif you were a chancellor in _posse_, a great lawyer in _esse_--and\nthen he thought you ... what he never could think a lawyer ...\n'_unassuming_.' And _you_ ... you are so kind! Only _that_ makes me\nthink bitterly what I have thought before, but cannot write to-day.\n\nIt was good-natured of Mr. Chorley to send me a copy of his book, and\nhe sending so few--very! George who admires _you_, does not tolerate\nMr. Chorley ... (did I tell ever?) declares that the affectation is\n'bad,' and that there is a dash of vulgarity ... which I positively\nrefuse to believe, and _should_, I fancy, though face to face with the\nmost vainglorious of waistcoats. How can there be vulgarity even of\nmanners, with so much mental refinement? I never could believe in\nthose combinations of contradictions.\n\n'An obvious matter,' you think! as obvious, as your 'green hill' ...\nwhich I cannot see. For the rest ... my thought upon your 'great\n_fact_' of the 'two days,' is quite different from yours ... for I\nthink directly, 'So little'! so dreadfully little! What shallow earth\nfor a deep root! What can be known of me in that time? 'So _there_, is\nthe only good, you see, that comes from making calculations on a slip\nof paper! It is not and it cannot come to good.' I would rather look\nat my seventy-five letters--there is room to breathe in them. And this\nis my idea (_ecce_!) of monumental brevity--and _hic jacet_ at last\n\n                                                 Your E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Night.\n                             [Post-mark, November 24, 1845.]\n\nBut a word to-night, my love--for my head aches a little,--I had to\nwrite a long letter to my friend at New Zealand, and now I want to sit\nand think of you and get well--but I must not quite lose the word I\ncounted on.\n\nSo, _that_ way you will take my two days and turn them against me?\n_Oh, you!_ Did I say the 'root' had been striking then, or rather,\nthat the seeds, whence the roots take leisure and grow, _they_ had\nbeen planted then--and might not a good heart and hand drop acorns\nenough to grow up into a complete Dodona-grove,--when the very rook,\nsay farmers, hides and forgets whole navies of ship-wood one day to\nbe, in his summer storing-journeys? But this shall do--I am not going\nto prove what _may_ be, when here it _is_, to my everlasting\nhappiness.\n\n--And 'I am kind'--there again! Do I not know what you mean by that?\nWell it is some comfort that you make all even in some degree, and\ntake from my faculties here what you give them, spite of my\nprotesting, in other directions. So I could not when I first saw you\nadmire you very much, and wish for your friendship, and be willing to\ngive you mine, and desirous of any opportunity of serving you,\nbenefiting you; I could not think the finding myself in a position to\nfeel this, just this and no more, a sufficiently fortunate event ...\nbut I must needs get up, or imitate, or ... what is it you fancy I do?\n... an utterly distinct, unnecessary, inconsequential regard for you,\nwhich should, when it got too hard for shamming at the week's\nend,--should simply spoil, in its explosion and departure, all the\nreal and sufficing elements of an honest life-long attachment and\naffections! that I should do this, and think it a piece of kindness\ndoes....\n\nNow, I'll tell you what it _does_ deserve, and what it shall get. Give\nme, dearest beyond expression, what I have always dared to think I\nwould ask you for ... one day! Give me ... wait--for your own sake,\nnot mine who never, never dream of being worth such a gift ... but for\nyour own sense of justice, and to _say_, so as my heart shall hear,\nthat you were wrong and are no longer so, give me so much of you--all\nprecious that you are--as may be given in a lock of your hair--I will\nlive and die with it, and with the memory of you--this _at_ the\n_worst_! If you give me what I beg,--shall I say next Tuesday ... when\nI leave you, I will not speak a word. If you do not, I will not think\nyou unjust, for all my light words, but I will pray you to wait and\nremember me one day--when the power to deserve more may be greater ...\nnever the will. God supplies all things: may he bless you, beloved! So\nI can but pray, kissing your hand.\n\n                                                        R.B.\n\nNow pardon me, dearest, for what is written ... what I cannot cancel,\nfor the love's sake that it grew from.\n\nThe _Chronicle_ was through Moxon, I believe--Landor had sent the\nverses to Forster at the same time as to me, yet they do not appear. I\nnever in my life less cared about people's praise or blame for myself,\nand never more for its influence on _other people_ than now--I would\nstand as high as I could in the eyes of all about you--yet not, after\nall, at poor Chorley's expense whom your brother, I am sure,\nunintentionally, is rather hasty in condemning; I have told you of my\nown much rasher opinion and how I was ashamed and sorry when I\ncorrected it after. C. is of a different species to your brother,\ndifferently trained, looking different ways--and for some of the\npeculiarities that strike at first sight, C. himself gives a good\nreason to the enquirer on better acquaintance. For 'Vulgarity'--NO!\nBut your kind brother will alter his view, I know, on further\nacquaintance ... and,--woe's me--will find that 'assumption's' pertest\nself would be troubled to exercise its quality at such a house as Mr.\nK.'s, where every symptom of a proper claim is met half way and helped\nonward far too readily.\n\nGood night, now. Am I not yours--are you not mine? And can that make\n_you_ happy too?\n\nBless you once more and for ever.\n\nThat scrap of Landor's being for no other eye than mine--I made the\nfoolish comment, that there was no blotting out--made it some four or\nfive years ago, when I could read what I only guess at now, through my\nidle opening the hand and letting the caught bird go--but there used\nto be a real satisfaction to me in writing those grand Hebrew\ncharacters--the noble languages!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                             [Post-mark, November 24, 1845.]\n\nBut what unlawful things have I said about 'kindness'? I did not mean\nany harm--no, indeed! And as to thinking ... as to having ever\nthought, that you could 'imitate' (can this word be 'imitate'?) an\nunfelt feeling or a feeling unsupposed to be felt ... I may solemnly\nassure you that I never, never did so. 'Get up'--'imitate'!! But it\nwas the contrary ... _all_ the contrary! From the beginning, now _did_\nI not believe you too much? Did I not believe you even in your\ncontradiction of yourself ... in your _yes_ and _no_ on the same\nsubject, ... and take the world to be turning round backwards and\nmyself to have been shut up here till I grew mad, ... rather than\ndisbelieve you either way? Well!--You know it as well as I can tell\nyou, and I will not, any more. If I have been 'wrong,' it was not _so_\n... nor indeed _then_ ... it is not _so_, though it is _now_, perhaps.\n\nTherefore ... but wait! I never gave away what you ask me to give\n_you_, to a human being, except my nearest relatives and once or twice\nor thrice to female friends, ... never, though reproached for it; and\nit is just three weeks since I said last to an asker that I was 'too\ngreat a prude for such a thing'! it was best to anticipate the\naccusation!--And, prude or not, I could not--I never\ncould--_something_ would not let me. And now ... what am I to do ...\n'for my own sake and not yours?' Should you have it, or not? Why I\nsuppose ... _yes_. I suppose that 'for my own sense of justice and in\norder to show that I was wrong' (which is wrong--you wrote a wrong\nword there ... 'right,' you meant!) 'to show that I was _right_ and am\nno longer so,' ... I suppose you must have it, 'Oh, _You_,' ... who\nhave your way in everything! Which does not mean ... Oh, vous, qui\navez toujours raison--far from it.\n\nAlso ... which does not mean that I shall give you what you ask for,\n_to-morrow_,--because I shall not--and one of my conditions is (with\nothers to follow) that _not a word be said to-morrow_, you understand.\nSome day I will send it perhaps ... as you _knew_ I should ... ah, as\nyou knew I should ... notwithstanding that 'getting up' ... that\n'imitation' ... of humility: as you knew _too_ well I should!\n\nOnly I will not teaze you as I might perhaps; and now that your\nheadache has begun again--the headache again: the worse than headache!\nSee what good my wishes do! And try to understand that if I speak of\nmy being 'wrong' now in relation to you ... of my being right before,\nand wrong now, ... I mean wrong for your sake, and not for mine ...\nwrong in letting you come out into the desert here to me, you whose\nplace is by the waters of Damascus. But I need not tell you over\nagain--you _know_. May God bless you till to-morrow and past it for\never. Mr. Kenyon brought me your note yesterday to read about the\n'order in the button-hole'--ah!--or 'oh, _you_,' may I not re-echo? It\nenrages me to think of Mr. Forster; publishing too as he does, at a\nmoment, the very sweepings of Landor's desk! Is the motive of the\nreticence to be looked for somewhere among the cinders?--Too bad it\nis. So, till to-morrow! and you shall not be 'kind' any more.\n\n                                                  Your\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nBut how, 'a _foolish_ comment'? Good and true rather! And I admired\nthe _writing_[1] ... worthy of the reeds of Jordan!\n\n[Footnote 1: Mr. Browning's letter is written in an unusually bold\nhand.]",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n                             [Post-mark, November 27, 1845.]\n\nHow are you? and Miss Bayley's visit yesterday, and Mr. K.'s\nto-day--(He told me he should see you this morning--and _I_ shall pass\nclose by, having to be in town and near you,--but only the thought\nwill reach you and be with you--) tell me all this, dearest.\n\nHow kind Mr. Kenyon was last night and the day before! He neither\nwonders nor is much vexed, I dare believe--and I write now these few\nwords to say so--My heart is set on next Thursday, remember ... and\nthe prize of Saturday! Oh, dearest, believe for truth's sake, that I\nWOULD most frankly own to any fault, any imperfection in the beginning\nof my love of you; in the pride and security of this present stage it\nhas reached--I _would_ gladly learn, by the full lights now, what an\ninsufficient glimmer it grew from, ... but there _never has been\nchange_, only development and increased knowledge and strengthened\nfeeling--I was made and meant to look for you and wait for you and\nbecome yours for ever. God bless you, and make me thankful!\n\nAnd you _will_ give me _that_? What shall save me from wreck: but\ntruly? How must I feel to you!\n\n                                                  Yours R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Evening.\n                             [Post-mark, November 27, 1845.]\n\nNow you must not blame me--you must not. To make a promise is one\nthing, and to keep it, quite another: and the conclusion you see 'as\nfrom a tower.' Suppose I had an oath in heaven somewhere ... near to\n'coma Berenices,' ... never to give you what you ask for! ... would\nnot such an oath be stronger than a mere half promise such as I sent\nyou a few hours ago? Admit that it would--and that I am not to blame\nfor saying now ... (listen!) that I _never can_ nor _will give you\nthis thing_;--only that I will, if you please, exchange it for another\nthing--you understand. _I_ too will avoid being 'assuming'; I will not\npretend to be generous, no, nor 'kind.' It shall be pure merchandise\nor nothing at all. Therefore determine!--remembering always how our\n'ars poetica,' after Horace, recommends 'dare et petere\nvicissim'--which is making a clatter of pedantry to take advantage of\nthe noise ... because perhaps I ought to be ashamed to say this to\nyou, and perhaps I _am_! ... yet say it none the less.\n\nAnd ... less lightly ... if you have right and reason on your side,\nmay I not have a little on mine too? And shall I not care, do you\nthink?... Think!\n\nThen there is another reason for me, entirely mine. You have come to\nme as a dream comes, as the best dreams come ... dearest--and so there\nis need to me of 'a sign' to know the difference between dream and\nvision--and _that_ is my completest reason, my own reason--you have\nnone like it; none. A ticket to know the horn-gate from the ivory, ...\nought I not to have it? Therefore send it to me before I send you\nanything, and if possible by that Lewisham post which was the most\nfrequent bringer of your letters until these last few came, and which\nreaches me at eight in the evening when all the world is at dinner and\nmy solitude most certain. Everything is so still then, that I have\nheard the footsteps of a letter of yours ten doors off ... or more,\nperhaps. Now beware of imagining from this which I say, that there is\na strict police for my correspondence ... (it is not so--) nor that I\ndo not like hearing from you at any and every hour: it _is_ so. Only I\nwould make the smoothest and sweetest of roads for ... and you\n_understand_, and do not _imagine_ beyond.\n\n_Tuesday evening._--What is written is written, ... all the above: and\nit is forbidden to me to write a word of what I could write down here\n... forbidden for good reasons. So I am silent on _conditions_ ...\nthose being ... first ... that you never do such things again ... no,\nyou must not and shall not.... I _will not let it be_: and secondly,\nthat you try to hear the unspoken words, and understand how your gift\nwill remain with me while _I_ remain ... they need not be said--just\nas _it_ need not have been so beautiful, for that. The beauty drops\n'full fathom five' into the deep thought which covers it. So I study\nmy Machiavelli to contrive the possibility of wearing it, without\nbeing put to the question violently by all the curiosity of all my\nbrothers;--the questions 'how' ... 'what' ... 'why' ... put round and\nedgeways. They are famous, some of them, for asking questions. I say\nto them--'well: how many more questions?' And now ... for _me_--_have_\nI said a word?--_have_ I not been obedient? And by rights and in\njustice, there should have been a reproach ... if there could!\nBecause, friendship or more than friendship, Pisa or no Pisa, it was\nunnecessary altogether from you to me ... but I have done, and you\nshall not be teazed.\n\n_Wednesday._--Only ... I persist in the view of the _other_ question.\nThis will not do for the '_sign_,' ... this, which, so far from being\nqualified for disproving a dream, is the beautiful image of a dream in\nitself ... _so_ beautiful: and with the very shut eyelids, and the\n\"little folding of the hands to sleep.\" You see at a glance it will\nnot do. And so--\n\nJust as one might be interrupted while telling a fairy-tale, ... in\nthe midst of the \"and so's\" ... just _so_, I have been interrupted by\nthe coming in of Miss Bayley, and here she has been sitting for nearly\ntwo hours, from twelve to two nearly, and I like her, do you know. Not\nonly she talks well, which was only a thing to expect, but she seems\nto _feel_ ... to have great sensibility--_and_ her kindness to me ...\nkindness of manner and words and expression, all together ... quite\ntouched me.--I did not think of her being so loveable a person. Yet it\nwas kind and generous, her proposition about Italy; (did I tell you\nhow she made it to me through Mr. Kenyon long ago--when I was a mere\nstranger to her?) the proposition to go there with me herself. It was\nquite a grave, earnest proposal of hers--which was one of the reasons\nwhy I could not even _wish_ not to see her to-day. Because you see, it\nwas a tremendous degree of experimental generosity, to think of going\nto Italy by sea with an invalid stranger, \"seule _à_ seule.\" And she\nwas wholly in earnest, wholly. Is there not good in the world after\nall?\n\nTell me how you are, for I am not at ease about you--You were not well\neven yesterday, I thought. If this goes on ... but it mustn't go\non--oh, it must not. May God bless us more!\n\nDo not fancy, in the meantime, that you stay here 'too long' for any\nobservation that can be made. In the first place there is nobody to\n'observe'--everybody is out till seven, except the one or two who will\nnot observe if I tell them not. My sisters are glad when you come,\nbecause it is a gladness of mine, ... they observe. I have a great\ndeal of liberty, to have so many chains; we all have, in this house:\nand though the liberty has melancholy motives, it saves some daily\ntorment, and _I_ do not complain of it for one.\n\nMay God bless you! Do not forget me. Say how you are. What good can I\ndo you with all my thoughts, when you keep unwell? See!--Facts are\nagainst fancies. As when I would not have the lamp lighted yesterday\nbecause it seemed to make it later, and you proved directly that it\nwould not make it _earlier_, by getting up and going away!\n\n                                        Wholly and ever your\n\n                                             E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, November 28, 1845.][1]\n\nTake it, dearest; what I am forced to think you mean--and take _no\nmore_ with it--for I gave all to give long ago--I am all yours--and\nnow, _mine_; give me _mine_ to be happy with!\n\nYou will have received my note of yesterday.--I am glad you are\nsatisfied with Miss Bayley, whom I, too, thank ... that is, sympathize\nwith, ... (not wonder at, though)--for her intention.... Well, may it\nall be for best--here or at Pisa, you are my blessing and life.\n\n... How all considerate you are, _you_ that are the kind, kind one!\nThe post arrangement I will remember--to-day, for instance, will this\nreach you at 8? I shall be with you then, in thought. 'Forget\nyou!'--_What_ does that mean, dearest?\n\nAnd I might have stayed longer and you let me go. What does _that_\nmean, also tell me? Why, I make up my mind to go, always, like a man,\nand praise myself as I get through it--as when one plunges into the\ncold water--ONLY ... ah, _that_ too is no more a merit than any other\nthing I do ... there is the reward, the last and best! Or is it the\n'lure'?\n\nI would not be ashamed of my soul if it might be shown you,--it is\nwholly grateful, conscious of you.\n\nBut another time, do not let me wrong myself _so_! Say, 'one minute\nmore.'\n\nOn Monday?--I am _much_ better--and, having got free from an\nengagement for Saturday, shall stay quietly here and think the post\nnever intending to come--for you will not let me wait longer?\n\nShall I dare write down a grievance of my heart, and not offend you?\nYes, trusting in the right of my love--you tell me, sweet, here in the\nletter, 'I do not look so well'--and sometimes, I 'look better' ...\n_how do you know_? When I first saw you--_I saw your eyes_--since\nthen, _you_, it should appear, see mine--but I only _know_ yours are\nthere, and have to use that memory as if one carried dried flowers\nabout when fairly inside the garden-enclosure. And while I resolve,\nand hesitate, and resolve again to complain of this--(kissing your\nfoot ... not boldly complaining, nor rudely)--while I have this on my\nmind, on my heart, ever since that May morning ... can it be?\n\n--No, nothing _can be_ wrong now--you will never call me 'kind' again,\nin that sense, you promise! Nor think 'bitterly' of my kindness, that\nword!\n\nShall I _see_ you on Monday?\n\nGod bless you my dearest--I see her now--and _here_ and _now_ the eyes\nopen, wide _enough_, and I will kiss them--_how_ gratefully!\n\n                                                    Your own\n\n                                                         R.B.\n\n[Footnote 1: Envelope endorsed by E.B.B. 'hair.']",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                              [Post-mark, December 1, 1845.]\n\nIt comes at eight o'clock--the post says eight ... _I_ say nearer half\npast eight ... it _comes_--and I thank you, thank you, as I can. Do\nyou remember the purple lock of a king on which hung the fate of a\ncity? _I_ do! And I need not in conscience--because this one here did\nnot come to me by treason--'ego et rex meus,' on the contrary, do\nfairly give and take.\n\nI meant at first only to send you what is in the ring ... which, by\nthe way, will not fit you I know--(not certainly in the finger which\nit was meant for ...) as it would not Napoleon before you--but can\neasily be altered to the right size.... I meant at first to send you\nonly what was in the ring: but your fashion is best so you shall have\nit both ways. Now don't say a word on Monday ... nor at all. As for\nthe ring, recollect that I am forced to feel blindfold into the outer\nworld, and take what is nearest ... by chance, not choice ... or it\nmight have been better--a little better--perhaps. The _best_ of it is\nthat it's the colour of your blue flowers. Now you will not say a\nword--I trust to you.\n\nIt is enough that you should have said these others, I think. Now _is_\nit just of you? isn't it hard upon me? And if the charge is true,\nwhose fault is it, pray? I have been ashamed and vexed with myself\nfifty times for being so like a little girl, ... for seeming to have\n'affectations'; and all in vain: 'it was stronger than I,' as the\nFrench say. And for _you_ to complain! As if Haroun Alraschid after\ncutting off a head, should complain of the want of an\nobeisance!--Well!--I smile notwithstanding. Nobody can help\nsmiling--both for my foolishness which is great, I confess, though\nsomewhat exaggerated in your statement--(because if it was quite as\nbad as you say, you know, I never should have _seen you_ ... and _I\nhave_!) and also for yours ... because you take such a very\npreposterously wrong way for overcoming anybody's shyness. Do you\nknow, I have laughed ... really laughed at your letter. No--it has not\nbeen so bad. I have seen you at every visit, as well as I could with\nboth eyes wide open--only that by a supernatural influence they won't\nstay open with _you_ as they are used to do with other people ... so\nnow I tell you. And for the rest I promise nothing at all--as how can\nI, when it is quite beyond my control--and you have not improved my\ncapabilities ... do you think you have? Why what nonsense we have come\nto--we, who ought to be 'talking Greek!' said Mr. Kenyon.\n\nYes--he came and talked of you, and told me how you had been speaking\nof ... me; and I have been thinking how I should have been proud of it\na year ago, and how I could half scold you for it now. Ah yes--and Mr.\nKenyon told me that you had spoken exaggerations--such\nexaggerations!--Now should there not be some scolding ... some?\n\nBut how did you expect Mr. Kenyon to 'wonder' at _you_, or be 'vexed'\nwith _you_? That would have been strange surely. You are and always\nhave been a chief favourite in that quarter ... appreciated, praised,\nloved, I think.\n\nWhile I write, a letter from America is put into my hands, and having\nread it through with shame and confusion of face ... not able to help\na smile though notwithstanding, ... I send it to you to show how you\nhave made me behave!--to say nothing of my other offences to the kind\npeople at Boston--and to a stray gentleman in Philadelphia who is to\nperform a pilgrimage next year, he says, ... to visit the Holy Land\nand your E.B.B. I was naughty enough to take _that_ letter to be a\ncircular ... for the address of various 'Europ_a_ians.' In any case\n... just see how I have behaved! and if it has not been worse than ...\nnot opening one's eyes!--Judge. Really and gravely I am ashamed--I\nmean as to Mr. Mathews, who has been an earnest, kind friend to\nme--and I do mean to behave better. I say _that_ to prevent your\nscolding, you know. And think of Mr. Poe, with that great Roman\njustice of his (if not rather American!), dedicating a book to one and\nabusing one in the preface of the same. He wrote a review of me in\njust that spirit--the two extremes of laudation and reprehension,\nfolded in on one another. You would have thought that it had been\nwritten by a friend and foe, each stark mad with love and hate, and\nwriting the alternate paragraphs--a most curious production indeed.\n\nAnd here I shall end. I have been waiting ... waiting for what does\nnot come ... the ring ... sent to have the hair put in; but it won't\ncome (now) until too late for the post, and you must hear from me\nbefore Monday ... you ought to have heard to-day. It has not been my\nfault--I have waited. Oh these people--who won't remember that it is\npossible to be out of patience! So I send you my letter now ... and\nwhat is in the paper now ... and the rest, you shall have after\nMonday. And you _will not say a word_ ... not then ... not at all!--I\ntrust you. And may God bless you.\n\nIf ever you care less for me--I do not say it in distrust of you ... I\ntrust you wholly--but you are a man, and free to care less, ... and if\never you _do_ ... why in that case you will destroy, burn, ... do all\nbut send back ... enough is said for you to understand.\n\nMay God bless you. You are _best_ to me--best ... as I see ... in the\nworld--and so, dearest aright to\n\n                                                 Your\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nFinished on Saturday evening. Oh--this thread of silk--And to post!!\nAfter all you must wait till Tuesday. I have no silk within reach and\nshall miss the post. Do forgive me.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Evening.\n\nThis is the mere postscript to the letter I have just sent away. By a\nfew minutes too late, comes what I have all day been waiting for, ...\nand besides (now it is just too late!) now I may have a skein of silk\nif I please, to make that knot with, ... for want of which, two locks\nmeant for you, have been devoted to the infernal gods already ...\nfallen into a tangle and thrown into the fire ... and all the hair of\nmy head might have followed, for I was losing my patience and temper\nfast, ... and the post to boot. So wisely I shut my letter, (after\nunwisely having driven everything to the last moment!)--and now I have\nsilk to tie fast with ... to tie a 'nodus' ... 'dignus' of the\ncelestial interposition--and a new packet shall be ready to go to you\ndirectly.\n\nAt last I remember to tell you that the first letter you had from me\nthis week, was forgotten, (not by _me_) forgotten, and detained, so,\nfrom the post--a piece of carelessness which Wilson came to confess to\nme too frankly for me to grumble as I should have done otherwise.\n\nFor the staying longer, I did not mean to say you were wrong not to\nstay. In the first place you were keeping your father 'in a maze,' as\nyou said yourself--and then, even without that, I never know what\no'clock it is ... never. Mr. Kenyon tells me that I must live in a\ndream--which I do--time goes ... seeming to go round rather than go\nforward. The watch I have, broke its spring two years ago, and there I\nleave it in the drawer--and the clocks all round strike out of\nhearing, or at best, when the wind brings the sound, one upon another\nin a confusion. So you know more of time than I do or can.\n\nTill Monday then! I send the 'Ricordi' to take care of the rest ... of\nmine. It is a touching story--and there is an impracticable nobleness\nfrom end to end in the spirit of it. How _slow_ (to the ear and mind)\nthat Italian rhetoric is! a language for dreamers and declaimers. Yet\nDante made it for action, and Machiavelli's prose can walk and strike\nas well as float and faint.\n\nThe ring is smaller than I feared at first, and may perhaps--\n\nNow you will not say a word. My excuse is that you had nothing to\nremember me by, while I had this and this and this and this ... how\nmuch too much!\n\n                                      If I could be too much\n\n                                           Your\n\n                                                E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                              [Post-mark, December 2, 1845.]\n\nI was happy, so happy before! But I am happier and richer now. My\nlove--no words could serve here, but there is life before us, and to\nthe end of it the vibration now struck will extend--I will live and\ndie with your beautiful ring, your beloved hair--comforting me,\nblessing me.\n\nLet me write to-morrow--when I think on all you have been and are to\nme, on the wonder of it and the deliciousness, it makes the paper\nwords that come seem vainer than ever--To-morrow I will write.\n\nMay God bless you, my own, my precious--\n\n                                           I am all your own\n\n                                                R.B.\n\nI have thought again, and believe it will be best to select the finger\n_you_ intended ... as the alteration will be simpler, I find; and one\nis less liable to observation and comment.\n\nWas not that Mr. Kenyon last evening? And did he ask, or hear, or say\nanything?",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, December 3, 1845.]\n\nSee, dearest, what the post brings me this minute! Now, is it not a\ngood omen, a pleasant inconscious prophecy of what is to be? Be it\nwell done, or badly--there are you, leading me up and onward, in his\nreview as everywhere, at every future time! And our names will go\ntogether--be read together. In itself this is nothing to _you_, dear\npoet--but the unexpectedness, unintended significance of it has\npleased me very much--_does_ it not please you?--I thought I was to\nfigure in that cold _Quarterly_ all by myself, (for he writes for\nit)--but here you are close by me; it cannot but be for good. He has\nno knowledge whatever that I am even a friend of yours. Say you are\npleased!\n\nThere was no writing yesterday for me--nor will there be much to-day.\nIn some moods, you know, I turn and take a thousand new views of what\nyou say ... and find fault with you to your surprise--at others, I\nrest on you, and feel _all_ well, all _best_ ... now, for one\ninstance, even that phrase of the _possibility_ 'and what is to\nfollow,'--even _that_ I cannot except against--I am happy, contented;\ntoo well, too prodigally blessed to be even able to murmur just\nsufficiently loud to get, in addition to it all, a sweetest stopping\nof the mouth! I will say quietly and becomingly 'Yes--I do promise\nyou'--yet it is some solace to--No--I will _not_ even couple the\npromise with an adjuration that you, at the same time, see that they\ncare for me properly at Hanwell Asylum ... the best by all accounts:\nyet I feel so sure of _you_, so safe and confident in you! If any of\nit had been _my_ work, my own ... distrust and foreboding had pursued\nme from the beginning; but all is _yours_--you crust me round with\ngold and jewelry like the wood of a sceptre; and why should you\ntransfer your own work? Wood enough to choose from in the first\ninstance, but the choice once made!... So I rest on you, for life, for\ndeath, beloved--beside you do stand, in my solemn belief, the direct\nmiraculous gift of God to me--that is my solemn belief; may I be\nthankful!\n\nI am anxious to hear from you ... when am I not?--but _not_ before the\nAmerican letter is written and sent. Is that done? And who was the\nvisitor on Monday--and if &c. _what_ did he remark?--And what is\nright or wrong with Saturday--is it to be mine?\n\nBless you, dearest--now and for ever--words cannot say how much I am\nyour own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                              [Post-mark, December 4, 1845.]\n\nNo Mr. Kenyon after all--not yesterday, not to-day; and the knock at\nthe door belonged perhaps to the post, which brought me a kind letter\nfrom Mrs. Jameson to ask how I was, and if she might come--but she\nwon't come on Saturday.... I shall 'provide'--she may as well (and\nbetter) come on a free day. On the other side, are you sure that Mr.\nProcter may not stretch out his hand and seize on Saturday (he was to\ndine with you, you said), or that some new engagement may not start up\nsuddenly in the midst of it? I trust to you, in such a case, to alter\n_our_ arrangement, without a second thought. Monday stands close by,\nremember, and there's a Saturday to follow Monday ... and I should\nunderstand at a word, or apart from a word.\n\nJust as _you_ understand how to 'take me with guile,' when you tell me\nthat anything in me can have any part in making you happy ... you, who\ncan say such words and call them 'vain words.' Ah, well! If I only\nknew certainly, ... more certainly than the thing may be known by\neither me or you, ... that nothing in me could have any part in making\nyou _un_happy, ... ah, would it not be enough ... _that_ knowledge ...\nto content me, to overjoy me? but _that_ lies too high and out of\nreach, you see, and one can't hope to get at it except by the ladder\nJacob saw, and which an archangel helped to hide away behind the gate\nof Heaven afterwards.\n\n_Wednesday._--In the meantime I had a letter from you yesterday, and\nam promised another to-day. How ... I was going to say 'kind' and\npull down the thunders ... how _un_kind ... will _that_ do? ... how\ngood you are to me--how dear you must be! Dear--dearest--if I feel\nthat you love me, can I help it if, without any other sort of certain\nknowledge, the world grows lighter round me? being but a mortal woman,\ncan I help it? no--certainly.\n\nI comfort myself by thinking sometimes that I can at least understand\nyou, ... comprehend you in what you are and in what you possess and\ncombine; and that, if doing this better than others who are better\notherwise than I, I am, so far, worthier of the ... I mean that to\nunderstand you is something, and that I account it something in my own\nfavour ... mine.\n\nYet when you tell me that I ought to know some things, though untold,\nyou are wrong, and speak what is impossible. My imagination sits by\nthe roadside [Greek: apedilos] like the startled sea nymph in\nÆschylus, but never dares to put one unsandalled foot, unbidden, on a\ncertain tract of ground--never takes a step there unled! and never (I\nwrite the simple truth) even as the alternative of the probability of\nyour ceasing to care for me, have I touched (untold) on the\npossibility of your caring _more_ for me ... never! That you should\n_continue_ to care, was the utmost of what I saw in that direction.\nSo, when you spoke of a 'strengthened feeling,' judge how I listened\nwith my heart--judge!\n\n'Luria' is very great. You will avenge him with the sympathies of the\nworld; that, I foresee.... And for the rest, it is a magnanimity which\ngrows and grows, and which will, of a worldly necessity, fall by its\nown weight at last; nothing less being possible. The scene with\nTiburzio and the end of the act with its great effects, are more\npathetic than professed pathos. When I come to criticise, it will be\nchiefly on what I take to be a little occasional flatness in the\nversification, which you may remove if you please, by knotting up a\nfew lines here and there. But I shall write more of 'Luria,'--and\nwell remember in the meanwhile, that you wanted smoothness, you said.\n\nMay God bless you. I shall have the letter to-night, I think gladly.\nYes,--I thought of the greater safety from 'comment'--it is best in\nevery way.\n\nI lean on you and trust to you, and am always, as to one who is all to\nme,\n\n                                                  Your own--",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, December 4, 1845.]\n\nWhy of course I am pleased--I should have been pleased last year, for\nthe vanity's sake of being reviewed in your company. Now, as far as\nthat vice of vanity goes ... shall I tell you?... I would infinitely\nprefer to see you set before the public in your own right solitude,\nand supremacy, apart from me or any one else, ... this, as far as my\nvice of vanity goes, ... and because, vainer I am of my poet than of\nmy poems ... _pour cause_. But since, according to the _Quarterly_\nrégime, you were to be not apart but with somebody of my degree, I am\nglad, pleased, that it should be with myself:--and since I was to be\nthere at all, I am pleased, very much pleased that it should be with\n_you_,--oh, of course I am pleased!--I am pleased that the 'names\nshould be read together' as you say, ... and am happily safe from the\napprehension of that ingenious idea of yours about 'my leading _you_'\n&c. ... quite happily safe from the apprehension of that idea's\noccurring to any mind in the world, except just your own. Now if I\n'find fault' with you for writing down such an extravagance, such an\nungainly absurdity, (oh, I shall abuse it just as I shall choose!)\n_can_ it be 'to your surprise?' _can_ it? Ought you to say such\nthings, when in the first place they are unfit in themselves and\ninapplicable, and in the second place, abominable in my eyes? The\nqualification for Hanwell Asylum is different peradventure from what\nyou take it to be--we had better not examine it too nearly. You never\nwill say such words again? It is your promise to me? Not those\nwords--and not any in their likeness.\n\nAlso ... nothing is _my_ work ... if you please! What an omen you take\nin calling anything my work! If it is my work, woe on it--for\neverything turns to evil which I touch. Let it be God's work and\nyours, and I may take breath and wait in hope--and indeed I exclaim to\nmyself about the miracle of it far more even than you can do. It seems\nto me (as I say over and over ... I say it to my own thoughts\noftenest) it seems to me still a dream how you came here at all, ...\nthe very machinery of it seems miraculous. Why did I receive you and\nonly you? Can I tell? no, not a word.\n\nLast year I had such an escape of seeing Mr. Horne; and in this way it\nwas. He was going to Germany, he said, for an indefinite time, and\ntook the trouble of begging me to receive him for ten minutes before\nhe went. I answered with my usual 'no,' like a wild Indian--whereupon\nhe wrote me a letter so expressive of mortification and vexation ...\n'mortification' was one of the words used, I remember, ... that I grew\nashamed of myself and told him to come any day (of the last five or\nsix days he had to spare) between two and five. Well!--he never came.\nEither he was overcome with work and engagements of various sorts and\nhad not a moment, (which was his way of explaining the matter and\nquite true I dare say) or he was vexed and resolved on punishing me\nfor my caprices. If the latter was the motive, I cannot call the\npunishment effective, ... for I clapped my hands for joy when I felt\nmy danger to be passed--and now of course, I have no scruples.... I\nmay be as capricious as I please, ... may I not? Not that I ask you.\nIt is a settled matter. And it is useful to keep out Mr. Chorley with\nMr. Horne, and Mr. Horne with Mr. Chorley, and the rest of the world\nwith those two. Only the miracle is that _you_ should be behind the\nenclosure--within it ... and so!--\n\n_That_ is _my_ side of the wonder! of the machinery of the wonder, ...\nas _I_ see it!--But there are greater things than these.\n\nSpeaking of the portrait of you in the 'Spirit of the Age' ... which\nis not like ... no!--which has not your character, in a line of it ...\nsomething in just the forehead and eyes and hair, ... but even _that_,\nthrown utterly out of your order, by another bearing so unlike you...!\nspeaking of that portrait ... shall I tell you?--Mr. Horne had the\ngoodness to send me all those portraits, and I selected the heads\nwhich, in right hero-worship, were anything to me, and had them framed\nafter a rough fashion and hung up before my eyes; Harriet Martineau's\n... because she was a woman and admirable, and had written me some\nkind letters--and for the rest, Wordsworth's, Carlyle's, Tennyson's\nand yours. The day you paid your first visit here, I, in a fit of\nshyness not quite unnatural, ... though I have been cordially laughed\nat for it by everybody in the house ... pulled down your portrait, ...\n(there is the nail, under Wordsworth--) and then pulled down\nTennyson's in a fit of justice,--because I would not have his hung up\nand yours away. It was the delight of my brothers to open all the\ndrawers and the boxes, and whatever they could get access to, and find\nand take those two heads and hang them on the old nails and analyse my\n'absurdity' to me, day after day; but at last I tired them out, being\nobstinate; and finally settled the question one morning by fastening\nthe print of you inside your Paracelsus. Oh no, it is not like--and I\nknew it was not, before I saw you, though Mr. Kenyon said, 'Rather\nlike!'\n\nBy the way Mr. Kenyon does not come. It is strange that he should not\ncome: when he told me that he could not see me 'for a week or a\nfortnight,' he meant it, I suppose.\n\nSo it is to be on Saturday? And I will write directly to America--the\nletter will be sent by the time you get this. May God bless you ever.\n\nIt is not so much a look of 'ferocity,' ... as you say, ... in that\nhead, as of _expression by intention_. Several people have said of it\nwhat nobody would say of you ... 'How affected-looking.' Which is too\nstrong--but it is not like you, in any way, and there's the truth.\n\nSo until Saturday. I read 'Luria' and feel the life in him. But _walk_\nand do not _work_! do you?\n\n                                                 Wholly your\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Night.\n                              [Post-mark, December 8, 1845.]\n\nWell, I did see your brother last night ... and very wisely neither\nspoke nor kept silence in the proper degree, but said that 'I hoped\nyou were well'--from the sudden feeling that I must say _something_ of\nyou--not pretend indifference about you _now_ ... and from the\nimpossibility of saying the _full_ of what I might; because other\npeople were by--and after, in the evening, when I should have remedied\nthe first imperfect expression, I had not altogether the heart. So,\nyou, dearest, will clear me with him if he wonders, will you not? But\nit all hangs together; speaking of you,--to you,--writing to you--all\nis helpless and sorrowful work by the side of what is in my soul to\nsay and to write--or is it not the natural consequence? If these\nvehicles of feelings sufficed--_there_ would be the end!--And that my\nfeeling for you should end!... For the rest, the headache which kept\naway while I sate with you, made itself amends afterward, and as it is\nunkind to that warm Talfourd to look blank at his hospitable\nendeavours, all my power of face went _à qui de droit_--\n\nDid your brother tell you ... yes, I think ... of the portentous book,\nlettered II, and thick as a law-book, of congratulatory letters on\nthe appearance of 'Ion'?--But how under the B's in the Index came\n'Miss Barrett' and, woe's me, 'R.B.'! I don't know when I have had so\nghastly a visitation. There was the utterly _forgotten_ letter, in the\nas thoroughly disused hand-writing, in the ... I fear ... still as\ncompletely obsolete feeling--no, not so bad as that--but at first\nthere was all the novelty, and social admiration at the friend--it is\ntruly not right to pluck all the rich soil from the roots and hold\nthem up clean and dry as if they came _so_ from all you now see, which\nis nothing at all ... like the Chinese Air-plant! Do you understand\nthis? And surely 'Ion' is a _very_, very beautiful and noble\nconception, and finely executed,--a beautiful work--what has come\nafter, has lowered it down by grade after grade ... it don't stand\napart on the hill, like a wonder, now it is _built up_ to by other\nattempts; but the great difference is in myself. Another maker of\nanother 'Ion,' finding me out and behaving as Talfourd did, would not\nfind _that me_, so to be behaved to, so to be honoured--though he\nshould have all the good will! Ten years ago!\n\nAnd ten years hence!\n\nAlways understand that you do _not_ take me as I was at the beginning\n... with a crowd of loves to give to _something_ and so get rid of\ntheir pain and burden. I have _known_ what that ends in--a handful of\nanything may be as sufficient a sample, serve your purposes and teach\nyou its nature, as well as whole heaps--and I know what most of the\npleasures of this world are--so that I _can_ be surer of myself, and\nmake you surer, on calm demonstrated grounds, than if I had a host of\nobjects of admiration or ambition _yet_ to become acquainted with. You\nsay, 'I am a man and may change'--I answer, yes--but, while I hold my\nsenses, only change for the _presumable_ better ... not for the\n_experienced worst_.\n\nHere is my Uncle's foot on the stair ... his knock hurried the last\nsentence--here he is by me!--Understand what this would have led to,\nhow you would have been _proved logically_ my own, best, extreme want,\nmy life's end--YES; dearest! Bless you ever--\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                              [Post-mark, December 8, 1845.]\n\nLet me hear how you are, and that you are better instead of worse for\nthe exertions of last night. After you left me yesterday I considered\nhow we might have managed it more conveniently for you, and had the\nlamp in, and arranged matters so as to interpose less time between the\ngoing and the dining, even if you and George did not go together,\nwhich might have been best, but which I did not like quite to propose.\nNow, supposing that on Thursday you dine in town, remember not to be\nunnecessarily 'perplext in the extreme' where to spend the time before\n... _five_, ... shall I say, at any rate? We will have the lamp, and I\ncan easily explain if an observation should be made ... only it will\nnot be, because our goers-out here never come home until six, and the\nhead of the house, not until seven ... as I told you. George thought\nit worth while going to Mr. Talfourd's yesterday, just to see the\nauthor of 'Paracelsus' dance the Polka ... should I not tell you?\n\nI am vexed by another thing which he tells _me_--vexed, if amused a\nlittle by the absurdity of it. I mean that absurd affair of the\n'Autography'--now _isn't_ it absurd? And for neither you nor George to\nhave the chivalry of tearing out that letter of mine, which was absurd\ntoo in its way, and which, knowing less of the world than I know now,\nI wrote as if writing for my private conscience, and privately\nrepented writing in a day, and have gone on repenting ever since when\nI happened to think enough of it for repentance! Because if Mr.\nSerjeant Talfourd sent then his 'Ion' to _me_, he did it in mere\ngood-nature, hearing by chance of me through the publisher of my\n'Prometheus' at the moment, and of course caring no more for my\n'opinion' than for the rest of me--and it was excessively bad taste in\nme to say more than the briefest word of thanks in return, even if I\nhad been competent to say it. Ah well!--you see how it is, and that I\nam vexed _you_ should have read it, ... as George says you did ... he\nlaughing to see me so vexed. So I turn round and avenge myself by\ncrying aloud against the editor of the 'Autography'! Surely such a\nthing was never done before ... even by an author in the last stage of\na mortal disease of self-love. To edit the common parlance of\nconventional flatteries, ... lettered in so many volumes, bound in\ngreen morocco, and laid on the drawing-room table for one's own\nparticular private public,--is it not a miracle of vanity ... neither\nmore nor less?\n\nI took the opportunity of the letter to Mr. Mathews (talking of vanity\n... _mine_!) to send Landor's verses to America ... yours--so they\nwill be in the American papers.... I know Mr. Mathews. I was speaking\nto him of your last number of 'Bells and Pomegranates,' and the verses\ncame in naturally; just as my speaking did, for it is not the first\ntime nor the second nor the third even that I have written to him of\nyou, though I admire how in all those previous times I did it in pure\ndisinterestedness, ... purely because your name belonged to my country\nand to her literature, ... and how I have a sort of reward at this\npresent, in being able to write what I please without anyone's saying\n'it is a new fancy.' As for the Americans, they have 'a zeal without\nknowledge' for poetry. There is more love for _verse_ among them than\namong the English. But they suffer themselves to be led in their\nchoice of poets by English critics of average discernment; this is\nsaid of them by their own men of letters. Tennyson is idolized deep\ndown in the bush woods (to their honour be it said), but to\nunderstand _you_ sufficiently, they wait for the explanations of the\ncritics. So I wanted them to see what Landor says of you. The comfort\nin these questions is, that there can be _no_ question, except between\nthe sooner and the later--a little sooner, and a little later: but\nwhen there is real love and zeal it becomes worth while to try to\nripen the knowledge. They love Tennyson so much that the colour of his\nwaistcoats is a sort of minor Oregon question ... and I like that--do\nnot _you_?\n\n_Monday._--Now I have your letter: and you will observe, without a\nfinger post from me, how busily we have both been preoccupied in\ndisavowing our own letters of old on 'Ion'--Mr. Talfourd's collection\ngoes to prove too much, I think--and you, a little too much, when you\ndraw inferences of no-changes, from changes like these. Oh yes--I\nperfectly understand that every sort of inconstancy of purpose regards\na 'presumably better' thing--but I do not so well understand how any\npresumable doubt is to be set to rest by that fact, ... I do not\nindeed. Have you seen all the birds and beasts in the world? have you\nseen the 'unicorns'?--Which is only a pebble thrown down into your\nsmooth logic; and we need not stand by to watch the bubbles born of\nit. And as to the 'Ion' letters, I am delighted that you have anything\nto repent, as I have everything. Certainly it is a noble play--there\nis the moral sublime in it: but it is not the work of a poet, ... and\nif he had never written another to show what was _not_ in him, this\nmight have been 'predicated' of it as surely, I hold. Still, it is a\nnoble work--and even if you over-praised it, (I did not read your\nletter, though you read mine, alas!) you, under the circumstances,\nwould have been less noble yourself not to have done so--only, how I\nagree with you in what you say against the hanging up of these dry\nroots, the soil shaken off! Such abominable taste--now isn't it? ...\nthough you do not use that word.\n\nI thought Mr. Kenyon would have come yesterday and that I might have\nsomething to tell you, of him at least.\n\nAnd George never told me of the thing you found to say to him of me,\nand which makes me smile, and would have made him wonder if he had not\nbeen suffering probably from some legal distraction at the moment,\ninasmuch as _he knew perfectly that you had just left me_. My sisters\ntold him down-stairs and he came into this room just before he set off\non Saturday, with a, ... '_So_ I am to meet Mr. Browning?' But he made\nno observation afterwards--none: and if he heard what you said at all\n(which I doubt), he referred it probably to some enforced civility on\n'Yorick's' part when the 'last chapter' was too much with him.\n\nI have written about 'Luria' in another place--you shall have the\npapers when I have read through the play. How different this living\npoetry is from the polished rhetoric of 'Ion.' The man and the statue\nare not more different. After all poetry is a distinct thing--it is\nhere or it is not here ... it is not a matter of '_taste_,' but of\nsight and feeling.\n\nAs to the 'Venice' it gives proof (does it not?) rather of poetical\nsensibility than of poetical faculty? or did you expect me to say\nmore?--of the perception of the poet, rather than of his conception.\nDo you think more than this? There are fine, eloquent expressions, and\nthe tone of sentiment is good and high everywhere.\n\nDo not write 'Luria' if your head is uneasy--and you cannot say that\nit is not ... can you? Or will you if you can? In any case you will do\nwhat you can ... take care of yourself and not suffer yourself to be\ntired either by writing or by too much going out, and take the\nnecessary exercise ... this, you will do--I entreat you to do it.\n\nMay God bless and make you happy, as ... you will lose nothing if I\nsay ... as I am yours--",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n                              [Post-mark, December 9, 1845.]\n\nWell, then, I am no longer sorry that I did _not_ read _either_ of\nyour letters ... for there were two in the collection. I did not read\none word of them--and hear why. When your brother and I took the book\nbetween us in wonderment at the notion--we turned to the index, in\nlarge text-hand, and stopped at 'Miss B.'--and _he_ indeed read them,\nor some of them, but holding the volume at a distance which defied my\nshort-sighted eye--all _I_ saw was the _faint_ small characters--and,\ndo you know ... I neither trusted myself to ask a nearer look ... nor\na second look ... as if I were studying unduly what I had just said\nwas most unfairly exposed to view!--so I was silent, and lost you (in\nthat)--then, and for ever, I promise you, now that you speak of\nvexation it would give you. _All_ I know of the notes, that _one_ is\naddressed to Talfourd in the third person--and when I had run through\nmy own ... not far off ... (BA-BR)--I was sick of the book altogether.\nYou are generous to me--but, to say the truth, I might have remembered\nthe most justifying circumstance in my case ... which was, that my own\n'Paracelsus,' printed a few months before, had been as dead a failure\nas 'Ion' a brilliant success--for, until just before.... Ah, really I\nforget!--but I know that until Forster's notice in the _Examiner_\nappeared, _every_ journal that thought worth while to allude to the\npoem at all, treated it with entire contempt ... beginning, I think,\nwith the _Athenæum_ which _then_ made haste to say, a few days after\nits publication, 'that it was not without talent but spoiled by\nobscurity and only an imitation of--Shelley'!--something to this\neffect, in a criticism of about three lines among their 'Library\nTable' notices. And that first taste was a most flattering sample of\nwhat the 'craft' had in store for me--since my publisher and I had\nfairly to laugh at _his_ 'Book'--(quite of another kind than the\nSerjeant's)--in which he was used to paste extracts from newspapers\nand the like--seeing that, out of a long string of notices, one vied\nwith its predecessor in disgust at my 'rubbish,' as their word went:\nbut Forster's notice altered a good deal--which I have to recollect\nfor his good. Still, the contrast between myself and Talfourd was so\n_utter_--you remember the world's-wonder 'Ion' made,--that I was\ndetermined not to pass for the curious piece of neglected merit I\nreally _was not_--and so!--\n\nBut, dearest, why should you leave your own especial sphere of doing\nme good for another than yours?\n\nDoes the sun rake and hoe about the garden as well as thine steadily\nover it? _Why_ must you, who give me heart and power, as nothing else\ndid or could, to do well--concern yourself with what might be done by\nany good, kind ministrant _only_ fit for such offices? Not that I\n_feel_, even, more bound to you for them--they have their weight, I\n_know_ ... but _what_ weight beside the divine gift of yourself? Do\nnot, dear, dearest, care for making me known: _you_ know me!--and\n_they_ know so little, after all your endeavour, who are ignorant of\nwhat _you_ are to me--if you ... well, but that _will_ follow; if I do\ngreater things one day--what shall they serve for, what range\nthemselves under of right?--\n\nMr. Mathews sent me two copies of his poems--and, I believe, a\nnewspaper, 'when time was,' about the 'Blot in the Scutcheon'--and\nalso, through Moxon--(I _believe_ it was Mr. M.)--a proposition for\nreprinting--to which I assented of course--and there was an end to the\nmatter.\n\nAnd might I have stayed _till five_?--dearest, I will never ask for\nmore than you give--but I feel every single sand of the gold showers\n... spite of what I say above! I _have_ an invitation for Thursday\nwhich I had no intention of remembering (it admitted of such\nliberty)--but _now_....\n\nSomething I will _say_! 'Polka,' forsooth!--one lady whose _head_\ncould not, and another whose feet could not, dance!--But I talked a\nlittle to your brother whom I like more and more: it comforts me that\nhe is yours.\n\nSo, _Thursday_,--thank you from the heart! I am well, and about to go\nout. This week I have done nothing to 'Luria'--is it that my _ring_ is\ngone? There surely _is_ something to forgive in me--for that shameful\nbusiness--or I should not feel as I do in the matter: but you _did_\nforgive me.\n\n                         God bless my own, only love--ever--\n\n                              Yours wholly\n\n                                   R.B.\n\nN.B. An antiquarian friend of mine in old days picked up a nondescript\nwonder of a coin. I just remember he described it as Rhomboid in\nshape--cut, I fancy, out of church-plate in troubled times. What did\nmy friend do but get ready a box, lined with velvet, and properly\n_compartmented_, to have always about him, so that the _next such coin\nhe picked_ up, say in Cheapside, he might at once transfer to a place\nof safety ... his waistcoat pocket being no happy receptacle for the\nsame. I saw the box--and encouraged the man to keep a vigilant eye.\n\n_Parallel._ R.B. having found an unicorn....\n\nDo you forgive these strips of paper? I could not wait to send for\nmore--having exhausted my stock.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening\n                             [Post-mark, December 10, 1845.]\n\nIt was right of you to write ... (now see what jangling comes of not\nusing the fit words.... I said 'right,' not to say 'kind') ... right\nof you to write to me to-day--and I had begun to be disappointed\nalready because the post _seemed_ to be past, when suddenly the knock\nbrought the letter which deserves all this praising. If not 'kind' ...\nthen _kindest_ ... will that do better? Perhaps.\n\nMr. Kenyon was here to-day and asked when you were coming again--and\nI, I answered at random ... 'at the end of the week--Thursday or\nFriday'--which did not prevent another question about 'what we were\nconsulting about.' He said that he 'must have you,' and had written to\nbeg you to go to his door on days when you came here; only murmuring\nsomething besides of neither Thursday nor Friday being disengaged days\nwith him. Oh, my disingenuousness!--Then he talked again of 'Saul.' A\ntrue impression the poem has made on him! He reads it every night, he\nsays, when he comes home and just before he goes to sleep, to put his\ndreams into order, and observed very aptly, I thought, that it\nreminded him of Homer's shield of Achilles, thrown into lyrical whirl\nand life. Quite ill he took it of me the 'not expecting him to like it\nso much' and retorted on me with most undeserved severity (as I felt\nit), that I 'never understood anybody to have any sensibility except\nmyself.' Wasn't it severe, to come from dear Mr. Kenyon? But he has\ncaught some sort of evil spirit from your 'Saul' perhaps; though\nadmiring the poem enough to have a good spirit instead. And do _you_\nremember of the said poem, that it is there only as a first part, and\nthat the next parts must certainly follow and complete what will be a\ngreat lyrical work--now remember. And forget 'Luria' ... if you are\nbetter forgetting. And forget _me_ ... _when_ you are happier\nforgetting. I say _that_ too.\n\nSo your idea of an unicorn is--one horn broken off. And you a\npoet!--one horn broken off--or hid in the blackthorn hedge!--\n\nSuch a mistake, as our enlightened public, on their part, made, when\nthey magnified the divinity of the brazen chariot, just under the\nthunder-cloud! I don't remember the _Athenæum_, but can well believe\nthat it said what you say. The _Athenæum_ admires only what gods, men\nand columns reject. It applauds nothing but mediocrity--mark it, as a\ngeneral rule! The good, they see--the great escapes them. Dare to\nbreathe a breath above the close, flat conventions of literature, and\nyou are 'put down' and instructed how to be like other people. By the\nway, see by the very last number, that you never think to write\n'peoples,' on pain of writing what is obsolete--and these the teachers\nof the public! If the public does not learn, where is the marvel of\nit? An imitation of Shelley!--when if 'Paracelsus' was anything it was\nthe expression of a new mind, as all might see--as _I_ saw, let me be\nproud to remember, and I was not overdazzled by 'Ion.'\n\nAh, indeed if I could 'rake and hoe' ... or even pick up weeds along\nthe walk, ... which is the work of the most helpless children, ... if\nI could do any of this, there would be some good of me: but as for\n'shining' ... shining ... when there is not so much light in me as to\ndo 'carpet work' by, why let anyone in the world, _except you_, tell\nme to shine, and it will just be a mockery! But you have studied\nastronomy with your favourite snails, who are apt to take a\ndark-lanthorn for the sun, and so.--\n\nAnd so, you come on Thursday, and I only hope that Mrs. Jameson will\nnot come too, (the carpet work makes me think of her; and, not having\ncome yet, she may come on Thursday by a fatal cross-stitch!) for I do\nnot hear from her, and my precautions are 'watched out,' May God bless\nyou always.\n\n                                                  Your own--\n\nBut no--I did not forgive. Where was the fault to be forgiven, except\nin _me_, for not being right in my meaning?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                             [Post-mark, December 12, 1845.]\n\nAnd now, my heart's love, I am waiting to hear from you; my heart is\n_full_ of you. When I try to remember what I said yesterday, _that_\nthought, of what fills my heart--only _that_ makes me bear with the\nmemory.... I know that even such imperfect, poorest of words _must_\nhave come _from_ thence if not bearing up to you all that is\nthere--and I know you are ever above me to receive, and help, and\nforgive, and _wait_ for the one day which I will never say to myself\ncannot come, when I shall speak what I feel--more of it--or _some_ of\nit--for now nothing is spoken.\n\nMy all-beloved--\n\nAh, you opposed very rightly, I dare say, the writing that paper I\nspoke of! The process should be so much simpler! I most earnestly\n_expect_ of you, my love, that in the event of any such necessity as\nwas then alluded to, you accept at once in my name _any_ conditions\npossible for a human will to submit to--there is no imaginable\ncondition to which you allow me to accede that I will not joyfully\nbend all my faculties to comply with. And you know this--but so, also\ndo you know _more_ ... and yet 'I may tire of you'--'may forget you'!\n\nI will write again, having the long, long week to wait! And one of the\nthings I must say, will be, that with my love, I cannot lose my pride\nin you--that nothing _but_ that love could balance that pride--and\nthat, blessing the love so divinely, you must minister to the pride as\nwell; yes, my own--I shall follow your fame,--and, better than fame,\nthe good you do--in the world--and, if you please, it shall all be\nmine--as your hand, as your eyes--\n\nI will write and pray it from you into a promise ... and your promises\nI live upon.\n\nMay God bless you! your R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                             [Post-mark, December 13, 1845.]\n\nDo not blame me in your thoughts for what I said yesterday or wrote a\nday before, or think perhaps on the dark side of some other days when\nI cannot help it ... always when I cannot help it--you could not\nblame me if you saw the full motives as I feel them. If it is\ndistrust, it is not of _you_, dearest of all!--but of myself\nrather:--it is not doubt _of_ you, but _for_ you. From the beginning I\nhave been subject to the too reasonable fear which rises as my spirits\nfall, that your happiness might suffer in the end through your having\nknown me:--it is for _you_ I fear, whenever I fear:--and if you were\nless to me, ... _should_ I fear do you think?--if you were to me only\nwhat I am to myself for instance, ... if your happiness were only as\nprecious as my own in my own eyes, ... should I fear, do you think,\n_then_? Think, and do not blame me.\n\nTo tell you to 'forget me when forgetting seemed happiest for you,'\n... (was it not _that_, I said?) proved more affection than might go\nin smoother words.... I could prove the truth of _that_ out of my\nheart.\n\nAnd for the rest, you need not fear any fear of mine--my fear will not\ncross a wish of yours, be sure! Neither does it prevent your being all\nto me ... all: more than I used to take for all when I looked round\nthe world, ... almost more than I took for all in my earliest dreams.\nYou stand in between me and not merely the living who stood closest,\nbut between me and the closer graves, ... and I reproach myself for\nthis sometimes, and, so, ask you not to blame me for a different\nthing.\n\nAs to unfavourable influences, ... I can speak of them quietly, having\nforeseen them from the first, ... and it is true, I have been thinking\nsince yesterday, that I might be prevented from receiving you here,\nand _should_, if all were known: but with that act, the adverse power\nwould end. It is not my fault if I have to choose between two\naffections; only my pain; and I have not to choose between two duties,\nI feel, ... since I am yours, while I am of any worth to you at all.\nFor the plan of the sealed letter, it would correct no evil,--ah, you\ndo not see, you do not understand. The danger does not come from the\nside to which a reason may go. Only one person holds the thunder--and\nI shall be thundered at; I shall not be reasoned with--it is\nimpossible. I could tell you some dreary chronicles made for laughing\nand crying over; and you know that if I once thought I might be loved\nenough to be spared above others, I cannot think so now. In the\nmeanwhile we need not for the present be afraid. Let there be ever so\nmany suspectors, there will be no informers. I suspect the suspectors,\nbut the informers are out of the world, I am very sure:--and then, the\none person, by a curious anomaly, _never_ draws an inference of this\norder, until the bare blade of it is thrust palpably into his hand,\npoint outwards. So it has been in other cases than ours--and so it is,\nat this moment in the house, with others than ourselves.\n\nI have your letter to stop me. If I had my whole life in my hands with\nyour letter, could I thank you for it, I wonder, at all worthily? I\ncannot believe that I could. Yet in life and in death I shall be\ngrateful to you.--\n\nBut for the paper--no. Now, observe, that it would seem like a\nprepared apology for something wrong. And besides--the apology would\nbe nothing but the offence in another form--unless you said it was all\na mistake--(_will_ you, again?)--that it was all a mistake and you\nwere only calling for your boots! Well, if you said _that_, it would\nbe worth writing, but anything less would be something worse than\nnothing: and would not save me--which you were thinking of, I\nknow--would not save me the least of the stripes. For\n'conditions'--now I will tell you what I said once in a jest....\n\n'If a prince of Eldorado should come, with a pedigree of lineal\ndescent from some signory in the moon in one hand, and a ticket of\ngood-behaviour from the nearest Independent chapel, in the other'--?\n\n'Why even _then_,' said my sister Arabel, 'it would not _do_.' And she\nwas right, and we all agreed that she was right. It is an obliquity of\nthe will--and one laughs at it till the turn comes for crying. Poor\nHenrietta has suffered silently, with that softest of possible\nnatures, which hers is indeed; beginning with implicit obedience, and\nending with something as unlike it as possible: but, you see, where\nmoney is wanted, and where the dependence is total--see! And when\nonce, in the case of the one dearest to me; when just at the last he\nwas involved in the same grief, and I attempted to make over my\nadvantages to him; (it could be no sacrifice, you know--_I_ did not\nwant the money, and could buy nothing with it so good as his\nhappiness,--) why then, my hands were seized and tied--and then and\nthere, in the midst of the trouble, came the end of all! I tell you\nall this, just to make you understand a little. Did I not tell you\nbefore? But there is no danger at present--and why ruffle this present\nwith disquieting thoughts? Why not leave that future to itself? For\nme, I sit in the track of the avalanche quite calmly ... so calmly as\nto surprise myself at intervals--and yet I know the reason of the\ncalmness well.\n\nFor Mr. Kenyon--dear Mr. Kenyon--he will speak the softest of words,\nif any--only he will think privately that you are foolish and that I\nam ungenerous, but I will not say so any more now, so as to teaze you.\n\nThere is another thing, of more consequence than _his_ thoughts, which\nis often in my mind to ask you of--but there will be time for such\nquestions--let us leave the winter to its own peace. If I should be\nill again you will be reasonable and we both must submit to God's\nnecessity. Not, you know, that I have the least intention of being\nill, if I can help it--and in the case of a tolerably mild winter, and\nwith all this strength to use, there are probabilities for me--and\nthen I have sunshine from _you_, which is better than Pisa's.\n\nAnd what more would you say? Do I not hear and understand! It seems to\nme that I do both, or why all this wonder and gratitude? If the\ndevotion of the remainder of my life could prove that I hear, ...\nwould it be proof enough? Proof enough perhaps--but not gift enough.\n\nMay God bless you always.\n\nI have put _some_ of the hair into a little locket which was given to\nme when I was a child by my favourite uncle, Papa's only brother, who\nused to tell me that he loved me better than my own father did, and\nwas jealous when I was not glad. It is through him in part, that I am\nricher than my sisters--through him and his mother--and a great grief\nit was and trial, when he died a few years ago in Jamaica, proving by\nhis last act that I was unforgotten. And now I remember how he once\nsaid to me: 'Do you beware of ever loving!--If you do, you will not do\nit half: it will be for life and death.'\n\nSo I put the hair into his locket, which I wear habitually, and which\nnever had hair before--the natural use of it being for perfume:--and\nthis is the best perfume for all hours, besides the completing of a\nprophecy.\n\n                                                  Your\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                             [Post-mark, December 15, 1845.]\n\nEvery word you write goes to my heart and lives there: let us live so,\nand die so, if God will. I trust many years hence to begin telling you\nwhat I feel now;--that the beam of the light will have _reached_\nyou!--meantime it _is_ here. Let me kiss your forehead, my sweetest,\ndearest.\n\nWednesday I am waiting for--how waiting for!\n\nAfter all, it seems probable that there was no intentional mischief in\nthat jeweller's management of the ring. The divided gold must have\nbeen exposed to fire--heated thoroughly, perhaps,--and what became of\nthe contents then! Well, all is safe now, and I go to work again of\ncourse. My next act is just done--that is, _being_ done--but, what I\ndid not foresee, I cannot bring it, copied, by Wednesday, as my sister\nwent this morning on a visit for the week.\n\nOn the matters, the others, I will not think, as you bid me,--if I can\nhelp, at least. But your kind, gentle, good sisters! and the provoking\nsorrow of the _right_ meaning at bottom of the wrong doing--wrong to\nitself and its plain purpose--and meanwhile, the real tragedy and\nsacrifice of a life!\n\nIf you should see Mr. Kenyon, and can find if he will be disengaged on\nWednesday evening, I shall be glad to go in that case.\n\nBut I have been writing, as I say, and will leave off this, for the\nbetter communing with you. Don't imagine I am unwell; I feel quite\nwell, but a little tired, and the thought of you waits in such\nreadiness! So, may God bless you, beloved!\n\n                                           I am all your own\n\n                                                R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                             [Post-mark, December 16, 1845.]\n\nMr. Kenyon has not come--he does not come so often, I think. Did he\n_know_ from _you_ that you were to see me last Thursday? If he did it\nmight be as well, do you not think? to go to him next week. Will it\nnot seem frequent, otherwise? But if you did _not_ tell him of\nThursday distinctly (_I_ did not--remember!), he might take the\nWednesday's visit to be the substitute for rather than the successor\nof Thursday's: and in that case, why not write a word to him yourself\nto propose dining with him as he suggested? He really wishes to see\nyou--of that, I am sure. But you will know what is best to do, and he\nmay come here to-morrow perhaps, and ask a whole set of questions\nabout you; so my right hand may forget its cunning for any good it\ndoes. Only don't send messages by _me_, please!\n\nHow happy I am with your letter to-night.\n\nWhen I had sent away my last letter I began to remember, and could not\nhelp smiling to do so, that I had totally forgotten the great subject\nof my 'fame,' and the oath you administered about it--totally! Now how\ndo you read that omen? If I forget myself, who is to remember me, do\nyou think?--except _you_?--which brings me where I would stay.\nYes--'yours' it must be, but _you_, it had better be! But, to leave\nthe vain superstitions, let me go on to assure you that I did mean to\nanswer that part of your former letter, and do mean to behave well and\nbe obedient. Your wish would be enough, even if there could be\nlikelihood without it of my doing nothing ever again. Oh, certainly I\nhave been idle--it comes of lotus-eating--and, besides, of sitting too\nlong in the sun. Yet 'idle' may not be the word! silent I have been,\nthrough too many thoughts to speak just _that_!--As to writing letters\nand reading manuscripts' filling all my time, why I must lack 'vital\nenergy' indeed--you do not mean seriously to fancy such a thing of me!\nFor the rest.... Tell me--Is it your opinion that when the apostle\nPaul saw the unspeakable things, being snatched up into the third\nHeavens 'whether in the body or out of the body he could not\ntell,'--is it your opinion that, all the week after, he worked\nparticularly hard at the tent-making? For my part, I doubt it.\n\nI would not speak profanely or extravagantly--it is not the best way\nto thank God. But to say only that I was in the desert and that I am\namong the palm-trees, is to say nothing ... because it is easy to\n_understand how_, after walking straight on ... on ... furlong after\nfurlong ... dreary day after dreary day, ... one may come to the end\nof the sand and within sight of the fountain:--there is nothing\nmiraculous in _that_, you know!\n\nYet even in that case, to doubt whether it may not all be _mirage_,\nwould be the natural first thought, the recurring dream-fear! now\nwould it not? And you can reproach me for _my_ thoughts, as if _they_\nwere unnatural!\n\nNever mind about the third act--the advantage is that you will not\ntire yourself perhaps the next week. What gladness it is that you\nshould really seem better, and how much better _that_ is than even\n'Luria.'\n\nMrs. Jameson came to-day--but I will tell you.\n\nMay God bless you now and always.\n\n                                                  Your\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                             [Post-mark, December 17, 1845.]\n\nHenrietta had a note from Mr. Kenyon to the effect that he was 'coming\nto see _Ba_' to-day if in any way he found it possible. Now he has not\ncome--and the inference is that he will come to-morrow--in which case\nyou will be convicted of not wishing to be with him perhaps. So ...\nwould it not be advisable for you to call at his door for a\nmoment--and _before_ you come here? Think of it. You know it would not\ndo to vex him--would it?\n\n                                                  Your\n\n                                                      E.B.B.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                             [Post-mark, December 19, 1845.]\n\nI ought to have written yesterday: so to-day when I need a letter and\nget none, there is my own fault besides, and the less consolation. A\nletter from you would light up this sad day. Shall I fancy how, if a\nletter lay _there_ where I look, rain might fall and winds blow while\nI listened to you, long after the _words_ had been laid to heart? But\nhere you are in your place--with me who am your own--your own--and so\nthe rhyme joins on,\n\n    She shall speak to me in places lone\n    With a low and holy tone--\n    Ay: when I have lit my lamp at night\n    She shall be present with my sprite:\n    And I will say, whate'er it be,\n    Every word she telleth me!\n\nNow, is that taken from your book? No--but from _my_ book, which holds\nmy verses as I write them; and as I open it, I read that.\n\nAnd speaking of verse--somebody gave me a few days ago that Mr.\nLowell's book you once mentioned to me. Anyone who 'admires' _you_\nshall have my sympathy at once--even though he _do_ change the\nlaughing wine-_mark_ into a 'stain' in that perfectly beautiful\ntriplet--nor am I to be indifferent to his good word for myself\n(though not very happily connected with the criticism on the epithet\nin that 'Yorkshire Tragedy'--which has better things, by the\nway--seeing that 'white boy,' in old language, meant just 'good boy,'\na general epithet, as Johnson notices in the life of Dryden, whom the\nschoolmaster Busby was used to class with his 'white boys'--this is\nhypercriticism, however). But these American books should not be\nreprinted here--one asks, what and where is the class to which they\naddress themselves? for, no doubt, we have our congregations of\nignoramuses that enjoy the profoundest ignorance imaginable on the\nsubjects treated of; but _these_ are evidently not the audience Mr.\nLowell reckons on; rather, if one may trust the manner of his setting\nto work, he would propound his doctrine to the class. Always to be\nfound, of spirits instructed up to a certain height and there\nresting--vines that run up a prop and there tangle and grow to a\nknot--which want supplying with fresh poles; so the provident man\nbrings his bundle into the grounds, and sticks them in laterally or\na-top of the others, as the case requires, and all the old stocks go\non growing again--but here, with us, whoever _wanted_ Chaucer, or\nChapman, or Ford, got him long ago--what else have Lamb, and\nColeridge, and Hazlitt and Hunt and so on to the end of their\ngenerations ... what else been doing this many a year? What one\npassage of all these, cited with the very air of a Columbus, but has\nbeen known to all who know anything of poetry this many, many a year?\nThe others, who don't know anything, are the stocks that have got to\n_shoot_, not climb higher--_compost_, they want in the first place!\nFord's and Crashaw's rival Nightingales--why they have been\ndissertated on by Wordsworth and Coleridge, then by Lamb and Hazlitt,\nthen worked to death by Hunt, who printed them entire and quoted them\nto pieces again, in every periodical he was ever engaged upon; and yet\nafter all, here 'Philip'--'must read' (out of a roll of dropping\npapers with yellow ink tracings, so old!) something at which 'John'\nclaps his hands and says 'Really--that these ancients should own so\nmuch wit &c.'! The _passage_ no longer looks its fresh self after this\nveritable passage from hand to hand: as when, in old dances, the belle\nbegan the figure with her own partner, and by him was transferred to\nthe next, and so to the next--_they_ ever _beginning_ with all the old\nalacrity and spirit; but she bearing a still-accumulating weight of\ntokens of gallantry, and none the better for every fresh pushing and\nshoving and pulling and hauling--till, at the bottom of the room--\n\nTo which Mr. Lowell might say, that--No, I will say the true thing\nagainst myself--and it is, that when I turn from what is in my mind,\nand determine to write about anybody's book to avoid writing that I\nlove and love and love again my own, dearest love--because of the\ncuckoo-song of it,--_then_, I shall be in no better humour with that\nbook than with Mr. Lowell's!\n\nBut I _have_ a new thing to say or sing--you never before heard me\nlove and bless and send my heart after--'Ba'--did you? Ba ... and\nthat is you! I TRIED ... (more than _wanted_) to call you _that_, on\nWednesday! I have a flower here--rather, a tree, a mimosa, which must\nbe turned and turned, the side to the light changing in a little time\nto the _leafy_ side, where all the fans lean and spread ... so I turn\nyour name to me, that side I have not last seen: you cannot tell how I\nfeel glad that you will not part with the name--Barrett--seeing you\nhave two of the same--and must always, moreover, remain my EBB!\n\nDearest 'E.B.C.'--no, no! and so it will never be!\n\nHave you seen Mr. Kenyon? I did not write ... knowing that such a\nprocedure would draw the kind sure letter in return, with the\ninvitation &c., as if I had asked for it! I had perhaps better call on\nhim some morning very early.\n\nBless you, my own sweetest. You will write to me, I know in my heart!\n\n                                     Ever may God bless you!\n\n                                          R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                             [Post-mark, December 20, 1845.]\n\nDearest, you know how to say what makes me happiest, you who never\nthink, you say, of making me happy! For my part I do not think of it\neither; I simply understand that you _are_ my happiness, and that\ntherefore you could not make another happiness for me, such as would\nbe worth having--not even _you_! Why, how could you? _That_ was in my\nmind to speak yesterday, but I could not speak it--to write it, is\neasier.\n\nTalking of happiness--shall I tell you? Promise not to be angry and I\nwill tell you. I have thought sometimes that, if I considered myself\nwholly, I should choose to die this winter--now--before I had\ndisappointed you in anything. But because you are better and dearer\nand more to be considered than I, I do _not_ choose it. I _cannot_\nchoose to give you any pain, even on the chance of its being a less\npain, a less evil, than what may follow perhaps (who can say?), if I\nshould prove the burden of your life.\n\nFor if you make me happy with some words, you frighten me with\nothers--as with the extravagance yesterday--and seriously--_too_\nseriously, when the moment for smiling at them is past--I am\nfrightened, I tremble! When you come to know me as well as I know\nmyself, what can save me, do you think, from disappointing and\ndispleasing you? I ask the question, and find no answer.\n\nIt is a poor answer, to say that I can do one thing well ... that I\nhave one capacity largely. On points of the general affections, I have\nin thought applied to myself the words of Mme. de Stael, not\nfretfully, I hope, not complainingly, I am sure (I can thank God for\nmost affectionate friends!) not complainingly, yet mournfully and in\nprofound conviction--those words--'_jamais je n'ai pas été aimée comme\nj'aime_.' The capacity of loving is the largest of my powers I\nthink--I thought so before knowing you--and one form of feeling. And\nalthough any woman might love you--_every_ woman,--with understanding\nenough to discern you by--(oh, do not fancy that I am unduly\nmagnifying mine office) yet I persist in persuading myself that!\nBecause I have the capacity, as I said--and besides I owe more to you\nthan others could, it seems to me: let me boast of it. To many, you\nmight be better than all things while one of all things: to me you are\ninstead of all--to many, a crowning happiness--to me, the happiness\nitself. From out of the deep dark pits men see the stars more\ngloriously--and _de profundis amavi_--\n\nIt is a very poor answer! Almost as poor an answer as yours could be\nif I were to ask you to teach me to please you always; or rather, how\nnot to displease you, disappoint you, vex you--what if all those\nthings were in my fate?\n\nAnd--(to begin!)--_I_ am disappointed to-night. I expected a letter\nwhich does not come--and I had felt so sure of having a letter\nto-night ... unreasonably sure perhaps, which means doubly sure.\n\n_Friday._--Remember you have had two notes of mine, and that it is\ncertainly not my turn to write, though I am writing.\n\nScarcely you had gone on Wednesday when Mr. Kenyon came. It seemed\nbest to me, you know, that you should go--I had the presentiment of\nhis footsteps--and so near they were, that if you had looked up the\nstreet in leaving the door, you must have seen him! Of course I told\nhim of your having been here and also at his house; whereupon he\nenquired eagerly if you meant to dine with him, seeming disappointed\nby my negative. 'Now I had told him,' he said ... and murmured on to\nhimself loud enough for me to hear, that 'it would have been a\npeculiar pleasure &c.' The reason I have not seen him lately is the\neternal 'business,' just as you thought, and he means to come 'oftener\nnow,' so nothing is wrong as I half thought.\n\nAs your letter does not come it is a good opportunity for asking what\nsort of ill humour, or (to be more correct) bad temper, you most\nparticularly admire--sulkiness?--the divine gift of sitting aloof in a\ncloud like any god for three weeks together perhaps--pettishness? ...\nwhich will get you up a storm about a crooked pin or a straight one\neither? obstinacy?--which is an agreeable form of temper I can assure\nyou, and describes itself--or the good open passion which lies on the\nfloor and kicks, like one of my cousins?--Certainly I prefer the last,\nand should, I think, prefer it (as an evil), even if it were not the\nborn weakness of my own nature--though I humbly confess (to _you_, who\nseem to think differently of these things) that never since I was a\nchild have I upset all the chairs and tables and thrown the books\nabout the room in a fury--I am afraid I do not even 'kick,' like my\ncousin, now. Those demonstrations were all done by the 'light of other\ndays'--not a very full light, I used to be accustomed to think:--but\n_you_,--_you_ think otherwise, _you_ take a fury to be the opposite of\n'indifference,' as if there could be no such thing as self-control!\nNow for my part, I do believe that the worst-tempered persons in the\nworld are less so through sensibility than selfishness--they spare\nnobody's heart, on the ground of being themselves pricked by a straw.\nNow see if it isn't so. What, after all, is a good temper but\ngenerosity in trifles--and what, without it, is the happiness of life?\nWe have only to look round us. I _saw_ a woman, once, burst into\ntears, because her husband cut the bread and butter too thick. I saw\n_that_ with my own eyes. Was it _sensibility_, I wonder! They were at\nleast real tears and ran down her cheeks. 'You _always_ do it'! she\nsaid.\n\nWhy how you must sympathize with the heroes and heroines of the French\nromances (_do_ you sympathize with them very much?) when at the\nslightest provocation they break up the tables and chairs, (a degree\nbeyond the deeds of my childhood!--_I_ only used to upset them) break\nup the tables and chairs and chiffoniers, and dash the china to atoms.\nThe men _do_ the furniture, and the women the porcelain: and pray\nobserve that they always set about this as a matter of course! When\nthey have broken everything in the room, they sink down quite (and\nvery naturally) _abattus_. I remember a particular case of a hero of\nFrederic Soulié's, who, in the course of an 'emotion,' takes up a\nchair _unconsciously_, and breaks it into very small pieces, and then\nproceeds with his soliloquy. Well!--the clearest idea this excites in\n_me_, is of the low condition in Paris, of moral government and of\nupholstery. Because--just consider for yourself--how _you_ would\nsucceed in breaking to pieces even a three-legged stool if it were\nproperly put together--as stools are in England--just yourself,\nwithout a hammer and a screw! You might work at it _comme quatre_, and\nfind it hard to finish, I imagine. And then as a demonstration, a\nchild of six years old might demonstrate just so (in his sphere) and\nbe whipped accordingly.\n\nHow I go on writing!--and you, who do not write at all!--two extremes,\none set against the other.\n\nBut I must say, though in ever such an ill temper (which you know is\njust the time to select for writing a panegyric upon good temper) that\nI am glad you do not despise my own right name too much, because I\nnever was called Elizabeth by any one who loved me at all, and I\naccept the omen. So little it seems my name that if a voice said\nsuddenly 'Elizabeth,' I should as soon turn round as my sisters would\n... no sooner. Only, my own right name has been complained of for want\nof euphony ... _Ba_ ... now and then it has--and Mr. Boyd makes a\ncompromise and calls me _Elibet_, because nothing could induce him to\ndesecrate his organs accustomed to Attic harmonies, with a _Ba_. So I\nam glad, and accept the omen.\n\nBut I give you no credit for not thinking that I may forget you ... I!\nAs if you did not see the difference! Why, _I_ could not even forget\nto _write_ to _you_, observe!--\n\nWhenever you write, say how you are. Were you wet on Wednesday?\n\n                                                  Your own--",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                             [Post-mark, December 20, 1845.]\n\nI do not, nor will not think, dearest, of ever 'making you happy'--I\ncan imagine no way of working that end, which does not go straight to\nmy own truest, only true happiness--yet in every such effort there is\nimplied some distinction, some supererogatory grace, or why speak of\nit at all? _You_ it is, are my happiness, and all that ever can be:\nYOU--dearest!\n\nBut never, if you would not, what you will not do I know, never revert\nto _that_ frightful wish. 'Disappoint me?' 'I speak what I know and\ntestify what I have seen'--you shall 'mystery' again and again--I do\nnot dispute that, but do not _you_ dispute, neither, that mysteries\nare. But it is simply because I do most justice to the mystical part\nof what I feel for you, because I consent to lay most stress on that\nfact of facts that I love you, beyond admiration, and respect, and\nesteem and affection even, and do not adduce any reason which stops\nshort of accounting for _that_, whatever else it would account for,\nbecause I do this, in pure logical justice--_you_ are able to turn and\nwonder (if you _do ... now_) what causes it all! My love, only wait,\nonly believe in me, and it cannot be but I shall, little by little,\nbecome known to you--after long years, perhaps, but still one day: I\n_would_ say _this_ now--but I will write more to-morrow. God bless my\nsweetest--ever, love, I am your\n\n                                                        R.B.\n\nBut my letter came last night, did it not?\n\nAnother thing--no, _to-morrow_--for time presses, and, in all cases,\n_Tuesday_--remember!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                             [Post-mark, December 20, 1845.]\n\nI have your letter now, and now I am sorry I sent mine. If I wrote\nthat you had 'forgotten to write,' I did not mean it; not a word! If I\nhad meant it I should not have written it. But it would have been\nbetter for every reason to have waited just a little longer before\nwriting at all. A besetting sin of mine is an impatience which makes\npeople laugh when it does not entangle their silks, pull their knots\ntighter, and tear their books in cutting them open.\n\nHow right you are about Mr. Lowell! He has a refined fancy and is\ngraceful for an American critic, but the truth is, otherwise, that he\nknows nothing of English poetry or the next thing to nothing, and has\nmerely had a dream of the early dramatists. The amount of his reading\nin that direction is an article in the _Retrospective Review_ which\ncontains extracts; and he re-extracts the extracts, re-quotes the\nquotations, and, 'a pede Herculem,' from the foot infers the man, or\nrather from the sandal-string of the foot, infers and judges the soul\nof the man--it is comparative anatomy under the most speculative\nconditions. How a writer of his talents and pretensions could make up\nhis mind to make up a book on such slight substratum, is a curious\nproof of the state of literature in America. Do you not think so? Why\na lecturer on the English Dramatists for a 'Young Ladies' academy'\nhere in England, might take it to be necessary to have better\ninformation than he could gather from an odd volume of an old review!\nAnd then, Mr. Lowell's naïveté in showing his authority,--as if the\nElizabethan poets lay mouldering in inaccessible manuscript somewhere\nbelow the lowest deep of Shakespeare's grave,--is curious beyond the\nrest! Altogether, the fact is an epigram on the surface-literature of\nAmerica. As you say, their books do not suit us:--Mrs. Markham might\nas well send her compendium of the History of France to M. Thiers. If\nthey _knew_ more they could not give parsley crowns to their own\nnative poets when there is greater merit among the rabbits. Mrs.\nSigourney has just sent me--just this morning--her 'Scenes in my\nNative Land' and, peeping between the uncut leaves, I read of the poet\nHillhouse, of 'sublime spirit and Miltonic energy,' standing in 'the\ntemple of Fame' as if it were built on purpose for him. I suppose he\nis like most of the American poets, who are shadows of the true, as\nflat as a shadow, as colourless as a shadow, as lifeless and as\ntransitory. Mr. Lowell himself is, in his verse-books, poetical, if\nnot a poet--and certainly this little book we are talking of is\ngrateful enough in some ways--you would call it a _pretty book_--would\nyou not? Two or three letters I have had from him ... all very\nkind!--and _that_ reminds me, alas! of some ineffable ingratitude on\nmy own part! When one's conscience grows too heavy, there is nothing\nfor it but to throw it away!--\n\nDo you remember how I tried to tell you what he said of you, and how\nyou would not let me?\n\nMr. Mathews said of _him_, having met him once in society, that he was\nthe concentration of conceit in appearance and manner. But since then\nthey seem to be on better terms.\n\nWhere is the meaning, pray, of E.B._C._? _your_ meaning, I mean?\n\nMy true initials are E.B.M.B.--my long name, as opposed to my short\none, being Elizabeth Barrett Moulton Barrett!--there's a full length\nto take away one's breath!--Christian name ... Elizabeth\nBarrett:--surname, Moulton Barrett. So long it is, that to make it\nportable, I fell into the habit of doubling it up and packing it\nclosely, ... and of forgetting that I was a _Moulton_, altogether. One\nmight as well write the alphabet as all four initials. Yet our\nfamily-name is _Moulton Barrett_, and my brothers reproach me\nsometimes for sacrificing the governorship of an old town in Norfolk\nwith a little honourable verdigris from the Heralds' Office. As if I\ncared for the _Retrospective Review_! Nevertheless it is true that I\nwould give ten towns in Norfolk (if I had them) to own some purer\nlineage than that of the blood of the slave! Cursed we are from\ngeneration to generation!--I seem to hear the 'Commination Service.'\n\nMay God bless you always, always! beyond the always of this world!--\n\n                                                  Your\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nMr. Dickens's 'Cricket' sings repetitions, and, with considerable\nbeauty, is extravagant. It does not appear to me by any means one of\nhis most successful productions, though quite free from what was\nreproached as bitterness and one-sidedness, last year.\n\nYou do not say how you are--not a word! And you are wrong in saying\nthat you 'ought to have written'--as if 'ought' could be in place\n_so_! You _never 'ought' to write to me you know_! or rather ... if\nyou ever think you ought, you ought not! Which is a speaking of\nmysteries on my part!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Night.\n                             [Post-mark, December 22, 1845.]\n\nNow, '_ought_' you to be 'sorry you sent that letter,' which made, and\nmakes me so happy--so happy--can you bring yourself to turn round and\ntell one you have so blessed with your bounty that there was a\nmistake, and you meant only half that largess? If you are not sensible\nthat you _do_ make me most happy by such letters, and do not warm in\nthe reflection of your own rays, then I _do_ give up indeed the last\nchance of procuring _you_ happiness. My own 'ought,' which you object\nto, shall be withdrawn--being only a pure bit of selfishness; I felt,\nin missing the letter of yours, next day, that I _might_ have drawn it\ndown by one of mine,--if I had begged never so gently, the gold would\nhave fallen--_there_ was my omitted duty to myself which you properly\nblame. I should stand silently and wait and be sure of the\never-remembering goodness.\n\nLet me count my gold now--and rub off any speck that stays the full\nshining. First--_that thought_ ... I told you; I pray you, pray you,\nsweet--never that again--or what leads never so remotely or indirectly\nto it! On _your own fancied ground_, the fulfilment would be of\nnecessity fraught with every woe that can fall in this life. I am\nyours for ever--if you are not _here_, with me--what then? Say, you\ntake all of yourself away but just enough to live on; then, _that_\ndefeats every kind purpose ... as if you cut away all the ground from\nmy feet but so much as serves for bare standing room ... why still, I\n_stand_ there--and is it the better that I have no broader space,\nwhen off _that_ you cannot force me? I have your memory, the knowledge\nof you, the idea of you printed into my heart and brain,--on that, I\ncan live my life--but it is for you, the dear, utterly generous\ncreature I know you, to give me more and more beyond mere life--to\nextend life and deepen it--as you do, and will do. Oh, _how_ I love\nyou when I think of the entire truthfulness of your generosity to\nme--how, meaning and willing to _give_, you gave _nobly_! Do you think\nI have not seen in this world how women who _do_ love will manage to\nconfer that gift on occasion? And shall I allow myself to fancy how\nmuch alloy such pure gold as _your_ love would have rendered\nendurable? Yet it came, virgin ore, to complete my fortune! And what\nbut this makes me confident and happy? _Can_ I take a lesson by your\nfancies, and begin frightening myself with saying ... 'But if she saw\nall the world--the worthier, better men there ... those who would' &c.\n&c. No, I think of the great, dear _gift_ that it was; how I '_won_'\nNOTHING (the hateful word, and _French_ thought)--did nothing by my\nown arts or cleverness in the matter ... so what pretence have the\n_more_ artful or more clever for:--but I cannot write out this\nfolly--I am yours for ever, with the utmost sense of gratitude--to say\nI would give you my life joyfully is little.... I would, I hope, do\nthat for two or three other people--but I am not conscious of any\nimaginable point in which I would not implicitly devote my whole self\nto you--be disposed of by you as for the best. There! It is not to be\nspoken of--let me _live_ it into proof, beloved!\n\nAnd for 'disappointment and a burden' ... now--let us get quite away\nfrom ourselves, and not see one of the filaments, but only the _cords_\nof love with the world's horny eye. Have we such jarring tastes, then?\nDoes your inordinate attachment to gay life interfere with my deep\npassion for society? 'Have they common sympathy in each other's\npursuits?'--always asks Mrs. Tomkins! Well, here was I when you knew\nme, fixed in my way of life, meaning with God's help to write what\nmay be written and so die at peace with myself so far. Can you help me\nor no? Do you _not_ help me so much that, if you saw the more likely\nperil for poor human nature, you would say, 'He will be jealous of all\nthe help coming from me,--none from him to me!'--And _that would_ be a\nconsequence of the help, all-too-great for hope of return, with any\none less possessed than I with the exquisiteness of being\n_transcended_ and the _blest_ one.\n\nBut--'here comes the Selah and the voice is hushed'--I will speak of\nother things. When we are together one day--the days I believe in--I\nmean to set about that reconsidering 'Sordello'--it has always been\nrather on my mind--but yesterday I was reading the 'Purgatorio' and\nthe first speech of the group of which Sordello makes one struck me\nwith a new significance, as well describing the man and his purpose\nand fate in my own poem--see; one of the burthened, contorted souls\ntells Virgil and Dante--\n\n    Noi fummo già tutti per forza morti,\n    E _peccatori infin' all' ultim' ora_:\n    QUIVI--_lume del ciel ne fece accorti\n    Si chè, pentendo e perdonando, fora\n    Di vita uscimmo a Dio pacificati\n    Che del disio di se veder n'accora._[1]\n\nWhich is just my Sordello's story ... could I '_do_' it off hand, I\nwonder--\n\n    And sinners were we to the extreme hour;\n    _Then_, light from heaven fell, making us aware,\n    So that, repenting us and pardoned, out\n    Of life we passed to God, at peace with Him\n    Who fills the heart with yearning Him to see.\n\nThere were many singular incidents attending my work on that\nsubject--thus, quite at the end, I found out there _was printed_ and\nnot published, a little historical tract by a Count V---- something,\ncalled 'Sordello'--with the motto 'Post fata resurgam'! I hope he\nprophesied. The main of this--biographical notices--is extracted by\nMuratori, I think. Last year when I set foot in Naples I found after a\nfew minutes that at some theatre, that night, the opera was to be 'one\nact of Sordello' and I never looked twice, nor expended a couple of\ncarlines on the _libretto_!\n\nI wanted to tell you, in last letter, that when I spoke of people's\ntempers _you_ have no concern with 'people'--I do not glance obliquely\nat _your_ temper--either to discover it, or praise it, or adapt myself\nto it. I speak of the relation one sees in other cases--how one\nopposes passionate foolish people, but hates cold clever people who\ntake quite care enough of themselves. I myself am born supremely\npassionate--so I was born with light yellow hair: all changes--that is\nthe passion changes its direction and, taking a channel large enough,\nlooks calmer, perhaps, than it should--and all my sympathies go with\nquiet strength, of course--but I know what the other kind is. As for\nthe breakages of chairs, and the appreciation of Parisian _meubles_;\nmanibus, pedibusque descendo in tuam sententiam, Ba, mi ocelle! ('What\nwas E.B. C?' why, the first letter after, and _not_, E.B. _B_, my own\n_B_! There was no latent meaning in the C--but I had no inclination to\ngo on to D, or E, for instance).\n\nAnd so, love, Tuesday is to be our day--one day more--and then! And\nmeanwhile '_care_' for me! a good word for you--but _my_ care, what is\nthat! One day I aspire to _care_, though! I shall not go away at any\ndear Mr. K.'s coming! They call me down-stairs to supper--and my fire\nis out, and you keep me from feeling cold and yet ask if I am well?\nYes, well--yes, happy--and your own ever--I must bid God bless\nyou--dearest!\n\n                                                        R.B.\n\n[Footnote 1: 'Purg.' v. 52 7.]",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Night.\n                             [Post-mark, December 24, 1845.]\n\nBut did I dispute? Surely not. Surely I believe in you and in\n'mysteries.' Surely I prefer the no-reason to ever so much rationalism\n... (rationalism and infidelity go together they say!). All which I\nmay do, and be afraid sometimes notwithstanding, and when you\noverpraise me (_not_ over_love_) I must be frightened as I told you.\n\nIt is with me as with the theologians. I believe in you and can be\nhappy and safe _so_; but when my 'personal merits' come into question\nin any way, even the least, ... why then the position grows untenable:\nit is no more 'of grace.'\n\nDo I tease you as I tease myself sometimes? But do not wrong me in\nturn! Do not keep repeating that 'after long years' I shall know\nyou--know you!--as if I did not without the years. If you are forced\nto refer me to those long ears, I must deserve the thistles besides.\nThe thistles are the corollary.\n\nFor it is obvious--manifest--that I cannot doubt of you, that I may\ndoubt of myself, of happiness, of the whole world,--but of\n_you_--_not_: it is obvious that if I could doubt of you and _act so_\nI should be a very idiot, or worse indeed. And _you_ ... you think I\ndoubt of you whenever I make an interjection!--now do you not? And is\nit reasonable?--Of _you_, I mean?\n\n_Monday._--For my part, you must admit it to be too possible that you\nmay be, as I say, 'disappointed' in me--it _is_ too possible. And if\nit does me good to say so, even now perhaps ... if it is mere weakness\nto say so and simply torments you, why do _you_ be magnanimous and\nforgive _that_ ... let it pass as a weakness and forgive it _so_.\nOften I think painful things which I do not tell you and....\n\nWhile I write, your letter comes. Kindest of you it was, to write me\nsuch a letter, when I expected scarcely the shadow of one!--this makes\nup for the other letter which I expected unreasonably and which you\n'_ought not_' to have written, as was proved afterwards. And now why\nshould I go on with that sentence? What had I to say of 'painful\nthings,' I wonder? all the painful things seem gone ... vanished. I\nforget what I had to say. Only do you still think of this, dearest\nbeloved; that I sit here in the dark but for _you_, and that the light\nyou bring me (from _my_ fault!--from the nature of _my_ darkness!) is\nnot a settled light as when you open the shutters in the morning, but\na light made by candles which burn some of them longer and some\nshorter, and some brighter and briefer, at once--being 'double-wicks,'\nand that there is an intermission for a moment now and then between\nthe dropping of the old light into the socket and the lighting of the\nnew. Every letter of yours is a new light which burns so many hours\n... and _then_!--I am morbid, you see--or call it by what name you\nlike ... too wise or too foolish. 'If the light of the body is\ndarkness, how great is that darkness.' Yet even when I grow too wise,\nI admit always that while you love me it is an answer to all. And I am\nnever so much too foolish as to wish to be worthier for my own\nsake--only for yours:--not for my own sake, since I am content to owe\nall things to you.\n\nAnd it could be so much to you to lose me!--and you say so,--and\n_then_ think it needful to tell me not to think the other thought! As\nif _that_ were possible! Do you remember what you said once of the\nflowers?--that you 'felt a respect for them when they had passed out\nof your hands.' And must it not be so with my life, which if you\nchoose to have it, must be respected too? Much more with my life!\nAlso, see that I, who had my warmest affections on the other side of\nthe grave, feel that it is otherwise with me now--quite otherwise. I\ndid not like it at first to be so much otherwise. And I could not have\nhad any such thought through a weariness of life or any of my old\nmotives, but simply to escape the 'risk' I told you of. Should I have\nsaid to you instead of it ... '_Love me for ever_'? Well then, ... I\n_do_.\n\nAs to my 'helping' you, my help is in your fancy; and if you go on\nwith the fancy, I perfectly understand that it will be as good as\ndeeds. We _have_ sympathy too--we walk one way--oh, I do not forget\nthe advantages. Only Mrs. Tomkins's ideas of happiness are below my\nambition for you.\n\nSo often as I have said (it reminds me) that in this situation I\nshould be more exacting than any other woman--so often I have said it:\nand so different everything is from what I thought it would be!\nBecause if I am exacting it is for _you_ and not for _me_--it is\naltogether for _you_--you understand _that_, dearest of all ... it is\nfor _you wholly_. It never crosses my thought, in a lightning even,\nthe question whether I may be happy so and so--_I_. It is the other\nquestion which comes always--too often for peace.\n\nPeople used to say to me, 'You expect too much--you are too romantic.'\nAnd my answer always was that 'I could not expect too much when I\nexpected nothing at all' ... which was the truth--for I never thought\n(and how often I have _said that_!) I never thought that anyone whom\n_I_ could love, would stoop to love _me_ ... the two things seemed\nclearly incompatible to my understanding.\n\nAnd now when it comes in a miracle, you wonder at me for looking\ntwice, thrice, four times, to see if it comes through ivory or _horn_.\nYou wonder that it should seem to me at first all illusion--illusion\nfor you,--illusion for me as a consequence. But how natural.\n\nIt is true of me--very true--that I have not a high appreciation of\nwhat passes in the world (and not merely the Tomkins-world!) under the\nname of love; and that a distrust of the thing had grown to be a habit\nof mind with me when I knew you first. It has appeared to me, through\nall the seclusion of my life and the narrow experience it admitted\nof, that in nothing men--and women too--were so apt to mistake their\nown feelings, as in this one thing. Putting _falseness_ quite on one\nside, quite out of sight and consideration, an honest mistaking of\nfeeling appears wonderfully common, and no mistake has such frightful\nresults--none can. Self-love and generosity, a mistake may come from\neither--from pity, from admiration, from any blind impulse--oh, when I\nlook at the histories of my own female friends--to go no step further!\nAnd if it is true of the _women_, what must the other side be? To see\nthe marriages which are made every day! worse than solitudes and more\ndesolate! In the case of the two happiest I ever knew, one of the\nhusbands said in confidence to a brother of mine--not much in\nconfidence or I should not have heard it, but in a sort of smoking\nfrankness,--that he had 'ruined his prospects by marrying'; and the\nother said to himself at the very moment of professing an\nextraordinary happiness, ... 'But I should have done as well if I had\nnot married _her_.'\n\nThen for the falseness--the first time I ever, in my own experience,\nheard that word which rhymes to glove and comes as easily off and on\n(on some hands!)--it was from a man of whose attentions to another\nwoman I was at that _time her confidante_. I was bound so to silence\nfor her sake, that I could not even speak the scorn that was in\nme--and in fact my uppermost feeling was a sort of horror ... a\nterror--for I was very young then, and the world did, at the moment,\nlook ghastly!\n\nThe falseness and the calculations!--why how can you, who are _just_,\n_blame women_ ... when you must know what the 'system' of man is\ntowards them,--and of men not ungenerous otherwise? Why are women to\nbe blamed if they act as if they had to do with swindlers?--is it not\nthe mere instinct of preservation which makes them do it? These make\nwomen what they are. And your 'honourable men,' the most loyal of\nthem, (for instance) is it not a rule with them (unless when taken\nunaware through a want of self-government) to force a woman (trying\nall means) to force a woman to stand committed in her affections ...\n(they with their feet lifted all the time to trample on her for want\nof delicacy) before _they_ risk the pin-prick to their own personal\npitiful vanities? Oh--to see how these things are set about by _men_!\nto see how a man carefully holding up on each side the skirts of an\nembroidered vanity to keep it quite safe from the wet, will contrive\nto tell you in so many words that he ... might love you if the sun\nshone! And women are to be blamed! Why there are, to be sure, cold and\nheartless, light and changeable, ungenerous and calculating women in\nthe world!--that is sure. But for the most part, they are only what\nthey are made ... and far better than the nature of the making ... of\nthat I am confident. The loyal make the loyal, the disloyal the\ndisloyal. And I give no more discredit to those women you speak of,\nthan I myself can take any credit in this thing--I. Because who could\nbe disloyal with _you_ ... with whatever corrupt inclination? _you_,\nwho are the noblest of all? If you judge me so, ... it is my privilege\nrather than my merit ... as I feel of myself.\n\n_Wednesday._--All but the last few lines of all this was written\nbefore I saw you yesterday, ever dearest--and since, I have been\nreading your third act which is perfectly noble and worthy of you both\nin the conception and expression, and carries the reader on\ntriumphantly ... to speak for one reader. It seems to me too that the\nlanguage is freer--there is less inversion and more breadth of rhythm.\nIt just strikes me so for the first impression. At any rate the\ninterest grows and grows. You have a secret about Domizia, I\nguess--which will not be told till the last perhaps. And that poor,\nnoble Luria, who will be equal to the leap ... as it is easy to see.\nIt is full, altogether, of magnanimities;--noble, and nobly put. I\nwill go on with my notes, and those, you shall have at once ... I mean\ntogether ... presently. And don't hurry and chafe yourself for the\nfourth act--now that you are better! To be ill again--think what that\nwould be! Luria will be great now whatever you do--or whatever you do\n_not_. Will he not?\n\nAnd never, never for a moment (I quite forgot to tell you) did I fancy\nthat you were talking at _me_ in the temper-observations--never. It\nwas the most unprovoked egotism, all that I told you of my temper; for\ncertainly I never suspected you of asking questions so. I was simply\namused a little by what you said, and thought to myself (if you _will_\nknow my thoughts on that serious subject) that you had probably lived\namong very good-tempered persons, to hold such an opinion about the\ninnocuousness of ill-temper. It was all I thought, indeed. Now to\nfancy that I was capable of suspecting you of such a manoeuvre! Why\nyou would have _asked_ me directly;--if you had wished 'curiously to\nenquire.'\n\nAn excellent solemn chiming, the passage from Dante makes with your\n'Sordello,' and the 'Sordello' _deserves_ the labour which it needs,\nto make it appear the great work it is. I think that the principle of\nassociation is too subtly in movement throughout it--so that _while_\nyou are going straight forward you go at the same time round and\nround, until the progress involved in the motion is lost sight of by\nthe lookers on. Or did I tell you that before?\n\nYou have heard, I suppose, how Dickens's 'Cricket' sells by nineteen\nthousand copies at a time, though he takes Michael Angelo to be 'a\nhumbug'--or for 'though' read 'because.' Tell me of Mr. Kenyon's\ndinner and Moxon?\n\nIs not this an infinite letter? I shall hear from you, I hope.... I\n_ask_ you to let me hear soon. I write all sorts of things to you,\nrightly and wrongly perhaps; when wrongly forgive it. I think of you\nalways. May God bless you. 'Love me for ever,' as\n\n                                                   Your\n\n                                                        _Ba_",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "25th Dec. [1845.]\n\nMy dear Christmas gift of a letter! I will write back a few lines,\n(all I can, having to go out now)--just that I may forever,--certainly\nduring our mortal 'forever'--mix my love for you, and, as you suffer\nme to say, your love for me ... dearest! ... these shall be mixed with\nthe other loves of the day and live therein--as I write, and trust,\nand know--forever! While I live I will remember what was my feeling in\nreading, and in writing, and in stopping from either ... as I have\njust done ... to kiss you and bless you with my whole heart.--Yes,\nyes, bless you, my own!\n\nAll is right, all of your letter ... admirably right and just in the\ndefence of the women I _seemed_ to speak against; and only\nseemed--because that is a way of mine which you must have observed;\nthat foolish concentrating of thought and feeling, for a moment, on\nsome one little spot of a character or anything else indeed, and in\nthe attempt to do justice and develop whatever may seem ordinarily to\nbe overlooked in it,--that over vehement _insisting_ on, and giving an\nundue prominence to, the same--which has the effect of taking away\nfrom the importance of the rest of the related objects which, in\ntruth, are not considered at all ... or they would also rise\nproportionally when subjected to the same (that is, correspondingly\nmagnified and dilated) light and concentrated feeling. So, you\nremember, the old divine, preaching on 'small sins,' in his zeal to\nexpose the tendencies and consequences usually made little account of,\nwas led to maintain the said small sins to be 'greater than great\nones.' _But then_ ... if you look on the world _altogether_, and\naccept the small natures, in their usual proportion with the greater\n... things do not look _quite_ so bad; because the conduct which _is_\natrocious in those higher cases, of proposal and acceptance, _may_ be\nno more than the claims of the occasion justify (wait and hear) in\ncertain other cases where the thing sought for and granted is avowedly\nless by a million degrees. It shall all be traffic, exchange (counting\nspiritual gifts as only coin, for our purpose), but surely the\nformalities and policies and decencies all vary with the nature of the\nthing trafficked for. If a man makes up his mind during half his life\nto acquire a Pitt-diamond or a Pilgrim-pearl--[he] gets witnesses and\ntestimony and so forth--but, surely, when I pass a shop where oranges\nare ticketed up seven for sixpence I offend no law by sparing all\nwords and putting down the piece with a certain authoritative ring on\nthe counter. If instead of diamonds you want--(being a king or\nqueen)--provinces with live men on them ... there is so much more\ndiplomacy required; new interests are appealed to--high motives\n_supposed_, at all events--whereas, when, in Naples, a man asks leave\nto black your shoe in the dusty street 'purely for the honour of\nserving your Excellency' you laugh and would be sorry to find yourself\nwithout a 'grano' or two--(six of which, about, make a farthing)--Now\ndo you not see! Where so little is to be got, why offer much more? If\na man knows that ... but I am teaching you! All I mean is, that, in\nBenedick's phrase, 'the world must go on.' He who honestly wants his\nwife to sit at the head of his table and carve ... that is be his\n_help-meat_ (not 'help mete for him')--he shall assuredly find a girl\nof his degree who wants the table to sit at; and some dear friend to\nmortify, who _would_ be glad of such a piece of fortune; and if that\nman offers that woman a bunch of orange-flowers and a sonnet, instead\nof a buck-horn-handled sabre-shaped knife, sheathed in a 'Every Lady\nHer Own _Market-Woman_, Being a Table of' &c. &c.--_then_, I say he\nis--\n\nBless you, dearest--the clock strikes--and time is none--but--bless\nyou!\n\n                                               Your own R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday 4. p.m.\n                             [Post-mark, December 27, 1845.]\n\nI was forced to leave off abruptly on Christmas Morning--and now I\nhave but a few minutes before our inexorable post leaves. I hoped to\nreturn from Town earlier. But I can say something--and Monday will\nmake amends.\n\n'For ever' and for ever I _do_ love you, dearest--love you with my\nwhole heart--in life, in death--\n\nYes; I did go to Mr. Kenyon's--who had a little to forgive in my slack\njustice to his good dinner, but was for the rest his own kind\nself--and I went, also, to Moxon's--who said something about my\nnumber's going off 'rather heavily'--so let it!\n\nToo good, too, too indulgent you are, my own Ba, to 'acts' first or\nlast; but all the same, I am glad and encouraged. _Let_ me get done\nwith these, and better things will follow.\n\nNow, bless you, ever, my sweetest--I have you ever in my thoughts--And\non Monday, remember, I am to see you.\n\n                                               Your own R.B.\n\nSee what I cut out of a _Cambridge Advertiser_[1] of the 24th--to make\nyou laugh!\n\n[Footnote 1: The cutting enclosed is:--'A Few Rhymes for the Present\nChristmas' by J. Purchas, Esq., B.A. It is headed by several\nquotations, the first of which is signed 'Elizabeth B. Barrett:'\n\n    'This age shows to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam,\n    Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to God.'\n\nThis is followed by extracts from Pindar, 'Lear,' and the Hon. Mrs.\nNorton.]",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                             [Post-mark, December 27, 1845.]\n\nYes, indeed, I have 'observed that way' in you, and not once, and not\ntwice, and not twenty times, but oftener than any,--and almost every\ntime ... do you know, ... with an uncomfortable feeling from the\nreflection that _that_ is the way for making all sorts of mistakes\ndependent on and issuing in exaggeration. It is the very way!--the\nhighway.\n\nFor what you say in the letter here otherwise, I do not deny the\ntruth--as partial truth:--I was speaking generally quite. Admit that I\nam not apt to be extravagant in my _esprit de sexe_: the Martineau\ndoctrines of intellectual equality &c., I gave them up, you remember,\nlike a woman--most disgracefully, as Mrs. Jameson would tell me. But\nwe are not on that ground now--we are on ground worth holding a brief\nfor!--and when women fail _here_ ... it is not so much our fault.\nWhich was all I meant to say from the beginning.\n\nIt reminds me of the exquisite analysis in your 'Luria,' this third\nact, of the worth of a woman's sympathy,--indeed of the exquisite\ndouble-analysis of unlearned and learned sympathies. Nothing could be\nbetter, I think, than this:--\n\n    To the motive, the endeavour,--the heart's self--\n    Your quick sense looks; you crown and call aright\n    The soul of the purpose ere 'tis shaped as act,\n    Takes flesh i' the world, and clothes itself a king;\n\nexcept the characterizing of the 'learned praise,' which comes\nafterwards in its fine subtle truth. What would these critics do to\nyou, to what degree undo you, who would deprive you of the exercise of\nthe discriminative faculty of the metaphysicians? As if a poet could\nbe great without it! They might as well recommend a watchmaker to deal\nonly in faces, in dials, and not to meddle with the wheels inside!\nYou shall tell Mr. Forster so.\n\nAnd speaking of 'Luria,' which grows on me the more I read, ... how\nfine he is when the doubt breaks on him--I mean, when he begins ...\n'Why then, all is very well.' It is most affecting, I think, all that\nprocess of doubt ... and that reference to the friends at home (which\nat once proves him a stranger, and intimates, by just a stroke, that\nhe will not look home for comfort out of the new foreign treason) is\nmanaged by you with singular dramatic dexterity....\n\n               ... 'so slight, so slight,\n    And yet it tells you they are dead and gone'--\n\nAnd then, the direct approach....\n\n    You now, so kind here, all you Florentines,\n    What is it in your eyes?--\n\nDo you not feel it to be success, ... '_you_ now?' _I_ do, from my low\nground as reader. The whole breaking round him of the cloud, and the\nmanner in which he _stands_, facing it, ... I admire it all\nthoroughly. Braccio's vindication of Florence strikes me as almost too\n_poetically_ subtle for the man--but nobody could have the heart to\nwish a line of it away--_that_ would be too much for critical virtue!\n\nI had your letter yesterday morning early. The post-office people were\nso resolved on keeping their Christmas, that they would not let me\nkeep mine. No post all day, after that general post before noon, which\nnever brings me anything worth the breaking of a seal!\n\nAm I to see you on Monday? If there should be the least, least\ncrossing of that day, ... anything to do, anything to see, anything to\nlisten to,--remember how Tuesday stands close by, and that another\nMonday comes on the following week. Now I need not say _that_ every\ntime, and you will please to remember it--Eccellenza!--\n\n                                         May God bless you--\n\n                                              Your\n\n                                                   E.B.B.\n\nFrom the _New Monthly Magazine_. 'The admirers of Robert Browning's\npoetry, and they are now very numerous, will be glad to hear of the\nissue by Mr. Moxon of a seventh series of the renowned \"Bells\" and\ndelicious \"Pomegranates,\" under the title of \"Dramatic Romances and\nLyrics.\"'",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                             [Post-mark, December 30, 1845.]\n\nWhen you are gone I find your flowers; and you never spoke of nor\nshowed them to me--so instead of yesterday I thank you to-day--thank\nyou. Count among the miracles that your flowers live with me--I accept\n_that_ for an omen, dear--dearest! Flowers in general, all other\nflowers, die of despair when they come into the same atmosphere ...\nused to do it so constantly and observably that it made me melancholy\nand I left off for the most part having them here. Now you see how\nthey put up with the close room, and condescend to me and the dust--it\nis true and no fancy! To be sure they know that I care for them and\nthat I stand up by the table myself to change their water and cut\ntheir stalk freshly at intervals--_that_ may make a difference\nperhaps. Only the great reason must be that they are yours, and that\nyou teach them to bear with me patiently.\n\nDo not pretend even to misunderstand what I meant to say yesterday of\ndear Mr. Kenyon. His blame would fall as my blame of myself has\nfallen: he would say--will say--'it is ungenerous of her to let such a\nrisk be run! I thought she would have been more generous.' There, is\nMr. Kenyon's opinion as I foresee it! Not that it would be spoken, you\nknow! he is too kind. And then, he said to me last summer, somewhere\n_à propos_ to the flies or butterflies, that he had 'long ceased to\nwonder at any extreme of foolishness produced by--_love_.' He will of\ncourse think you very very foolish, but not ungenerously foolish like\nother people.\n\nNever mind. I do not mind indeed. I mean, that, having said to myself\nworse than the worst perhaps of what can be said against me by any who\nregard me at all, and feeling it put to silence by the fact that you\n_do_ feel so and so for me; feeling that fact to be an answer to\nall,--I cannot mind much, in comparison, the railing at second remove.\nThere will be a nine days' railing of it and no more: and if on the\nninth day you should not exactly wish never to have known me, the\nbetter reason will be demonstrated to stand with us. On this one point\nthe wise man cannot judge for the fool his neighbour. If you _do_ love\nme, the inference is that you would be happier with than without\nme--and whether you do, you know better than another: so I think of\n_you_ and not of _them_--always of _you_! When I talked of being\nafraid of dear Mr. Kenyon, I just meant that he makes me nervous with\nhis all-scrutinizing spectacles, put on for great occasions, and his\nquestions which seem to belong to the spectacles, they go together\nso:--and then I have no presence of mind, as you may see without the\nspectacles. My only way of hiding (when people set themselves to look\nfor me) would be the old child's way of getting behind the window\ncurtains or under the sofa:--and even _that_ might not be effectual if\nI had recourse to it now. Do you think it would? Two or three times I\nfancied that Mr. Kenyon suspected something--but if he ever _did_, his\nonly reproof was a reduplicated praise of _you_--he praises you always\nand in relation to every sort of subject.\n\nWhat a _misomonsism_ you fell into yesterday, you who have much great\nwork to do which no one else can do except just yourself!--and you,\ntoo, who have courage and knowledge, and must know that every work,\nwith the principle of life in it, _will_ live, let it be trampled ever\nso under the heel of a faithless and unbelieving generation--yes, that\nit will live like one of your toads, for a thousand years in the heart\nof a rock. All men can teach at second or third hand, as you said ...\nby prompting the foremost rows ... by tradition and translation:--all,\n_except_ poets, who must preach their own doctrine and sing their own\nsong, to be the means of any wisdom or any music, and therefore have\nstricter duties thrust upon them, and may not lounge in the [Greek:\nstoa] like the conversation-teachers. So much I have to say to you,\ntill we are in the Siren's island--and _I_, jealous of the Siren!--\n\n    The Siren waits thee singing song for song,\n\nsays Mr. Landor. A prophecy which refuses to class you with the 'mute\nfishes,' precisely as I do.\n\nAnd are you not my 'good'--all my good now--my only good ever? The\nItalians would say it better without saying more.\n\nI had a letter from Miss Martineau this morning who accounts for her\nlong silence by the supposition,--put lately to an end by scarcely\ncredible information from Mr. Moxon, she says--that I was out of\nEngland; gone to the South from the 20th of September. She calls\nherself the strongest of women, and talks of 'walking fifteen miles\none day and writing fifteen pages another day without fatigue,'--also\nof mesmerizing and of being infinitely happy except in the continued\nalienation of two of her family who cannot forgive her for getting\nwell by such unlawful means. And she is to write again to tell me of\nWordsworth, and promises to send me her new work in the meanwhile--all\nvery kind.\n\nSo here is my letter to you, which you asked for so 'against the\nprinciples of universal justice.' Yes, very unjust--very unfair it\nwas--only, you make me do just as you like in everything. Now confess\nto your own conscience that even if I had not a lawful claim of a debt\nagainst you, I might come to ask charity with another sort of claim,\noh 'son of humanity.' Think how much more need of a letter _I_ have\nthan you can have; and that if you have a giant's power, ''tis\ntyrannous to use it like a giant.' Who would take tribute from the\ndesert? How I grumble. _Do_ let me have a letter directly! remember\nthat no other light comes to my windows, and that I wait 'as those who\nwatch for the morning'--'lux mea!'\n\nMay God bless you--and mind to say how you are _exactly_, and don't\nneglect the walking, _pray_ do not.\n\n                                                    Your own\n\nAnd after all, those women! A great deal of doctrine commends and\ndiscommends itself by the delivery: and an honest thing may be said so\nfoolishly as to disprove its very honesty. Now after all, what did she\nmean by that very silly expression about books, but that she did not\nfeel as she considered herself capable of feeling--and that else but\n_that_ was the meaning of the other woman? Perhaps it should have been\nspoken earlier--nay, clearly it should--but surely it was better\nspoken even in the last hour than not at all ... surely it is always\nand under all circumstances, better spoken at whatever cost--I have\nthought so steadily since I could think or feel at all. An entire\nopenness to the last moment of possible liberty, at whatever cost and\nconsequence, is the most honourable and most merciful way, both for\nmen and women! perhaps for men in an especial manner. But I shall send\nthis letter away, being in haste to get change for it.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday, December 31, 1845.\n\nI have been properly punished for so much treachery as went to that\nre-urging the prayer that _you_ would begin writing, when all the time\n(after the first of those words had been spoken which bade _me_ write)\nI was full of purpose to send my own note last evening; one which\nshould do its best to thank you: but see, the punishment! At home I\nfound a note from Mr. Horne--on the point of setting out for Ireland,\ntoo unwell to manage to come over to me; anxious, so he said, to see\nme before leaving London, and with only Tuesday or to-day to allow the\nopportunity of it, if I should choose to go and find him out. So I\nconsidered all things and determined to go--but not till so late did I\ndetermine on Tuesday, that there was barely time to get to\nHighgate--wherefore no letter reached you to beg pardon ... and now\nthis undeserved--beyond the usual undeservedness--this\nlast-day-of-the-Year's gift--do you think or not think my gratitude\nweighs on me? When I lay this with the others, and remember what you\nhave done for me--I do bless you--so as I cannot but believe must\nreach the all-beloved head all my hopes and fancies and cares fly\nstraight to. Dearest, whatever change the new year brings with it, we\nare together--I can give you no more of myself--indeed, you give me\nnow (back again if you choose, but changed and renewed by your\npossession) the powers that seemed most properly mine. I could only\nmean that, by the expressions to which you refer--only could mean that\nyou were my crown and palm branch, now and for ever, and so, that it\nwas a very indifferent matter to me if the world took notice of that\nfact or no. Yes, dearest, that _is_ the meaning of the prophecy, which\nI was stupidly blind not to have read and taken comfort from long ago.\nYou ARE the veritable Siren--and you 'wait me,' and will sing 'song\nfor song.' And this is my first song, my true song--this love I bear\nyou--I look into my heart and then let it go forth under that\nname--love. I am more than mistrustful of many other feelings in me:\nthey are not earnest enough; so far, not true enough--but this is all\nthe flower of my life which you call forth and which lies at your\nfeet.\n\nNow let me say it--what you are to remember. That if I had the\nslightest doubt, or fear, I would utter it to you on the\ninstant--secure in the incontested stability of the main _fact_, even\nthough the heights at the verge in the distance should tremble and\nprove vapour--and there would be a deep consolation in your\nforgiveness--indeed, yes; but I tell you, on solemn consideration, it\ndoes seem to me that--once take away the broad and general words that\nadmit in their nature of any freight they can be charged with,--put\naside love, and devotion, and trust--and _then_ I seem to have said\n_nothing_ of my feeling to you--nothing whatever.\n\nI will not write more now on this subject. Believe you are my blessing\nand infinite reward beyond possible desert in intention,--my life has\nbeen crowned by you, as I said!\n\nMay God bless you ever--through you I shall be blessed. May I kiss\nyour cheek and pray this, my own, all-beloved?\n\nI must add a word or two of other things. I am very well now, quite\nwell--am walking and about to walk. Horne, or rather his friends,\nreside in the very lane Keats loved so much--Millfield Lane. Hunt lent\nme once the little copy of the first Poems dedicated to him--and on\nthe title-page was recorded in Hunt's delicate characters that 'Keats\nmet him with this, the presentation-copy, or whatever was the odious\nname, in M---- Lane--called Poets' Lane by the gods--Keats came\nrunning, holding it up in his hand.' Coleridge had an affection for\nthe place, and Shelley '_knew_' it--and I can testify it is green and\nsilent, with pleasant openings on the grounds and ponds, through the\nold trees that line it. But the hills here are far more open and wild\nand hill-like; not with the eternal clump of evergreens and thatched\nsummer house--to say nothing of the 'invisible railing' miserably\nvisible everywhere.\n\nYou very well know _what_ a vision it is you give me--when you speak\nof _standing up by the table_ to care for my flowers--(which I will\nnever be ashamed of again, by the way--I will say for the future;\n'here are my best'--in this as in other things.) Now, do you remember,\nthat once I bade you not surprise me out of my good behaviour by\nstanding to meet me unawares, as visions do, some day--but now--_omne\nignotum_? No, dearest!\n\nOught I to say there will be two days more? till Saturday--and if one\nword comes, _one_ line--think! I am wholly yours--yours, beloved!\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "January 1, 1845 [1846].\n\nHow good you are--how best! it is a favourite play of my memory to\ntake up the thought of what you were to me (to my mind gazing!) years\nago, as the poet in an abstraction--then the thoughts of you, a little\nclearer, in concrete personality, as Mr. Kenyon's friend, who had\ndined with him on such a day, or met him at dinner on such another,\nand said some great memorable thing 'on Wednesday last,' and enquired\nkindly about _me_ perhaps on Thursday,--till I was proud! and so, the\nthoughts of you, nearer and nearer (yet still afar!) as the Mr.\nBrowning who meant to do me the honour of writing to me, and who did\nwrite; and who asked me once in a letter (does he remember?) 'not to\nlean out of the window while his foot was on the stair!'--to take up\nall those thoughts, and more than those, one after another, and tie\nthem together with all _these_, which cannot be named so easily--which\ncannot be classed in botany and Greek. It is a nosegay of mystical\nflowers, looking strangely and brightly, and keeping their May-dew\nthrough the Christmases--better than even _your_ flowers! And I am not\n'ashamed' of mine, ... be very sure! no!\n\nFor the siren, I never suggested to you any such thing--why you do not\npretend to have read such a suggestion in my letter certainly. _That_\nwould have been most exemplarily modest of me! would it not, O\nUlysses?\n\nAnd you meant to write, ... you _meant_! and went to walk in 'Poet's\nlane' instead, (in the 'Aonius of Highgate') which I remember to have\nread of--does not Hunt speak of it in his Memoirs?--and so now there\nis another track of light in the traditions of the place, and people\nmay talk of the pomegranate-smell between the hedges. So you really\nhave _hills_ at New Cross, and not hills by courtesy? I was at\nHampstead once--and there was something attractive to me in that\nfragment of heath with its wild smell, thrown down ... like a Sicilian\nrose from Proserpine's lap when the car drove away, ... into all that\narid civilization, 'laurel-clumps and invisible visible fences,' as\nyou say!--and the grand, eternal smoke rising up in the distance, with\nits witness against nature! People grew severely in jest about cockney\nlandscape--but is it not true that the trees and grass in the close\nneighbourhood of great cities must of necessity excite deeper emotion\nthan the woods and valleys will, a hundred miles off, where human\ncreatures ruminate stupidly as the cows do, the 'county families'\nes-_chewing_ all men who are not 'landed proprietors,' and the farmers\nnever looking higher than to the fly on the uppermost turnip-leaf! Do\nyou know at all what English country-life is, which the English praise\nso, and 'moralize upon into a thousand similes,' as that one greatest,\npurest, noblest thing in the world--the purely English and excellent\nthing? It is to my mind simply and purely abominable, and I would\nrather live in a street than be forced to live it out,--that English\ncountry-life; for I don't mean life in the country. The social\nexigencies--why, nothing _can_ be so bad--nothing! That is the way by\nwhich Englishmen grow up to top the world in their peculiar line of\nrespectable absurdities.\n\nThink of my talking so as if I could be vexed with any one of them!\n_I!_--On the contrary I wish them all a happy new year to abuse one\nanother, or visit each of them his nearest neighbour whom he hates,\nthree times a week, because 'the distance is so convenient,' and give\ngreat dinners in noble rivalship (venison from the Lord Lieutenant\nagainst turbot from London!), and talk popularity and game-law by\nturns to the tenantry, and beat down tithes to the rector. This\nglorious England of ours; with its peculiar glory of the rural\ndistricts! And _my_ glory of patriotic virtue, who am so happy in\nspite of it all, and make a pretence of talking--talking--while I\nthink the whole time of your letter. I think of your letter--I am no\nmore a patriot than _that_!\n\nMay God bless you, best and dearest! You say things to me which I am\nnot worthy to listen to for a moment, even if I was deaf dust the next\nmoment.... I confess it humbly and earnestly as before God.\n\nYet He knows,--if the entireness of a gift means anything,--that I\nhave not given with a reserve, that I am yours in my life and soul,\nfor this year and for other years. Let me be used _for_ you rather\nthan _against_ you! and that unspeakable, immeasurable grief of\nfeeling myself a stone in your path, a cloud in your sky, may I be\nsaved from it!--pray it for _me_ ... for _my_ sake rather than\n_yours_. For the rest, I thank you, I thank you. You will be always to\nme, what to-day you are--and that is all!--!\n\n                                             I am your own--",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Night.\n                               [Post-mark, January 5, 1846.]\n\nYesterday, nearly the last thing, I bade you 'think of me'--I wonder\nif you could misunderstand me in that?--As if my words or actions or\nany of my ineffectual outside-self _should_ be thought of, unless to\nbe forgiven! But I do, dearest, feel confident that while I am in your\nmind--cared for, rather than thought about--no great harm can happen\nto me; and as, for great harm to reach me, it must pass through you,\nyou will care for yourself; _my_self, best self!\n\nCome, let us talk. I found Horne's book at home, and have had time to\nsee that fresh beautiful things are there--I suppose 'Delora' will\nstand alone still--but I got pleasantly smothered with that odd shower\nof wood-spoils at the end, the dwarf-story; cup-masses and fern and\nspotty yellow leaves,--all that, I love heartily--and there is good\nsailor-speech in the 'Ben Capstan'--though he does knock a man down\nwith a 'crow-bar'--instead of a marling-spike or, even, a\nbelaying-pin! The first tale, though good, seems least new and\nindividual, but I must know more. At one thing I wonder--his not\nreprinting a quaint clever _real_ ballad, published before 'Delora,'\non the 'Merry Devil of Edmonton'--the first of his works I ever read.\nNo, the very first piece was a single stanza, if I remember, in which\nwas this line: 'When bason-crested Quixote, lean and bold,'--good, is\nit not? Oh, while it strikes me, good, too, _is_ that 'Swineshead\nMonk' ballad! Only I miss the old chronicler's touch on the method of\nconcocting the poison: 'Then stole this Monk into the Garden and under\na certain herb found out a Toad, which, squeezing into a cup,' &c.\nsomething to that effect. I suspect, _par parenthèse_, you have found\nout by this time my odd liking for 'vermin'--you once wrote '_your_\nsnails'--and certainly snails are old clients of mine--but efts! Horne\ntraced a line to me--in the rhymes of a ''prentice-hand' I used to\nlook over and correct occasionally--taxed me (last week) with having\naltered the wise line 'Cold as a _lizard_ in a _sunny_ stream' to\n'Cold as a newt hid in a shady brook'--for 'what do _you_ know about\nnewts?' he asked of the author--who thereupon confessed. But never try\nand catch a speckled gray lizard when we are in Italy, love, and you\nsee his tail hang out of the chink of a wall, his\nwinter-house--because the strange tail will snap off, drop from him\nand stay in your fingers--and though you afterwards learn that there\nis more desperation in it and glorious determination to be free, than\npositive pain (so people say who have no tails to be twisted off)--and\nthough, moreover, the tail grows again after a sort--_yet_ ... don't\ndo it, for it will give you a thrill! What a fine fellow our English\nwater-eft is; 'Triton paludis Linnaei'--_e come guizza_ (_that_ you\ncan't say in another language; cannot preserve the little in-and-out\nmotion along with the straightforwardness!)--I always loved all those\nwild creatures God '_sets up for themselves_' so independently of us,\nso successfully, with their strange happy minute inch of a candle, as\nit were, to light them; while we run about and against each other with\nour great cressets and fire-pots. I once saw a solitary bee nipping a\nleaf round till it exactly fitted the front of a hole; his nest, no\ndoubt; or tomb, perhaps--'Safe as Oedipus's grave-place, 'mid Colone's\nolives swart'--(Kiss me, my Siren!)--Well, it seemed awful to watch\nthat bee--he seemed so _instantly_ from the teaching of God! Ælian\nsays that ... a _frog_, does he say?--some animal, having to swim\nacross the Nile, never fails to provide himself with a bit of reed,\nwhich he bites off and holds in his mouth transversely and so puts\nfrom shore gallantly ... because when the water-serpent comes swimming\nto meet him, there is the reed, wider than his serpent's jaws, and no\nhopes of a swallow that time--now fancy the two meeting heads, the\nfrog's wide eyes and the vexation of the snake!\n\nNow, see! do I deceive you? Never say I began by letting down my\ndignity 'that with no middle flight intends to soar above the Aonian\nMount'!--\n\nMy best, dear, dear one,--may you be better, less _depressed_, ... I\ncan hardly imagine frost reaching you if I could be by you. Think what\nhappiness you mean to give me,--what a life; what a death! 'I may\nchange'--too true; yet, you see, as an eft was to me at the beginning\nso it continues--I _may_ take up stones and pelt the next I\nsee--but--do you much fear that?--Now, _walk_, move, _guizza, anima\nmia dolce_. Shall I not know one day how far your mouth will be from\nmine as we walk? May I let that stay ... dearest, (the _line_ stay,\nnot the mouth)?\n\nI am not very well to-day--or, rather, have not been so--_now_, I am\nwell and _with you_. I just say that, very needlessly, but for strict\nfrankness' sake. Now, you are to write to me soon, and tell me all\nabout your self, and to love me ever, as I love you ever, and bless\nyou, and leave you in the hands of God--My own love!--\n\nTell me if I do wrong to send _this_ by a morning post--so as to reach\nyou earlier than the evening--when you will ... write to me?\n\nDon't let me forget to say that I shall receive the _Review_\nto-morrow, and will send it directly.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                               [Post-mark, January 6, 1846.]\n\nWhen you get Mr. Horne's book you will understand how, after reading\njust the first and the last poems, I could not help speaking coldly a\nlittle of it--and in fact, estimating his power as much as you can do,\nI did think and do, that the last was unworthy of him, and that the\nfirst might have been written by a writer of one tenth of his faculty.\nBut last night I read the 'Monk of Swineshead Abbey' and the 'Three\nKnights of Camelott' and 'Bedd Gelert' and found them all of different\nstuff, better, stronger, more consistent, and read them with pleasure\nand admiration. Do you remember this application, among the countless\nones of shadow to the transiency of life? I give the first two lines\nfor clearness--\n\n    Like to the cloud upon the hill\n    We are a moment seen\n    Or the _shadow of the windmill-sail\n    Across yon sunny slope of green_.\n\nNew or not, and I don't remember it elsewhere, it is just and\nbeautiful I think. Think how the shadow of the windmill-sail just\ntouches the ground on a bright windy day! the shadow of a bird flying\nis not faster! Then the 'Three Knights' has beautiful things, with\nmore definite and distinct images than he is apt to show--for his\ncharacter is a vague grand massiveness,--like Stonehenge--or at least,\nif 'towers and battlements he sees' they are 'bosomed high' in dusky\nclouds ... it is a 'passion-created imagery' which has no clear\noutline. In this ballad of the 'Knights,' and in the Monk's too, we\nmay _look at_ things, as on the satyr who swears by his horns and\nmates not with his kind afterwards, 'While, _holding beards_, they\ndance in pairs--and that is all excellent and reminds one of those\nfine sylvan festivals, 'in Orion.' But now tell me if you like\naltogether 'Ben Capstan' and if you consider the sailor-idiom to be\nlawful in poetry, because I do not indeed. On the same principle we\nmay have Yorkshire and Somersetshire 'sweet Doric'; and do recollect\nwhat it ended in of old, in the Blowsibella heroines. Then for the Elf\nstory ... why should such things be written by men like Mr. Horne? I\nam vexed at it. Shakespeare and Fletcher did not write so about\nfairies:--Drayton did not. Look at the exquisite 'Nymphidia,' with its\nsubtle sylvan consistency, and then at the lumbering coarse ...\n'_machina intersit_' ... Grandmama Grey!--to say nothing of the 'small\ndog' that isn't the 'small boy.' Mr. Horne succeeds better on a larger\ncanvass, and with weightier material; with blank verse rather than\nlyrics. He cannot make a fine stroke. He wants subtlety and elasticity\nin the thought and expression. Remember, I admire him honestly and\nearnestly. No one has admired more than I the 'Death of Marlowe,'\nscenes in 'Cosmo,' and 'Orion' in much of it. But now tell me if you\ncan accept with the same stretched out hand all these lyrical poems? I\nam going to write to him as much homage as can come truly. Who\ncombines different faculties as you do, striking the whole octave? No\none, at present in the world.\n\nDearest, after you went away yesterday and I began to consider, I\nfound that there was nothing to be so over-glad about in the matter\nof the letters, for that, Sunday coming next to Saturday, the best now\nis only as good as the worst before, and I can't hear from you, until\nMonday ... Monday! Did you think of _that_--you who took the credit of\nacceding so meekly! I shall not praise you in return at any rate. I\nshall have to wait ... till what o'clock on Monday, tempted in the\nmeanwhile to fall into controversy against the 'new moons and sabbath\ndays' and the pausing of the post in consequence.\n\nYou never guessed perhaps, what I look back to at this moment in the\nphysiology of our intercourse, the curious double feeling I had about\nyou--you personally, and you as the writer of these letters, and the\ncrisis of the feeling, when I was positively vexed and jealous of\nmyself for not succeeding better in making a unity of the two. I could\nnot! And moreover I could not help but that the writer of the letters\nseemed nearer to me, long ... long ... and in spite of the postmark,\nthan did the personal visitor who confounded me, and left me\nconstantly under such an impression of its being all dream-work on his\nside, that I have stamped my feet on this floor with impatience to\nthink of having to wait so many hours before the 'candid' closing\nletter could come with its confessional of an illusion. 'People say,'\nI used to think, 'that women _always_ know, and certainly I do not\nknow, and therefore ... therefore.'--The logic crushed on like\nJuggernaut's car. But in the letters it was different--the dear\nletters took me on the side of my own ideal life where I was able to\nstand a little upright and look round. I could read such letters for\never and answer them after a fashion ... that, I felt from the\nbeginning. But _you_--!\n\n_Monday._--Never too early can the light come. Thank you for my\nletter! Yet you look askance at me over 'newt and toad,' and praise so\nthe Elf-story that I am ashamed to send you my ill humour on the same\nhead. And you really like _that_? admire it? Grandmama Grey and the\nnight cap and all? and 'shoetye and blue sky?' and is it really wrong\nof me to like certainly some touches and images, but not the whole,\n... not the poem as a whole? I can take delight in the fantastical,\nand in the grotesque--but here there is a want of life and\nconsistency, as it seems to me!--the elf is no elf and speaks no\nelf-tongue: it is not the right key to touch, ... this, ... for\nsupernatural music. So I fancy at least--but I will try the poem again\npresently. You must be right--unless it should be your over-goodness\nopposed to my over-badness--I will not be sure. Or you wrote perhaps\nin an accidental mood of most excellent critical smoothness, such as\nMr. Forster did his last _Examiner_ in, when he gave the all-hail to\nMr. Harness as one of the best dramatists of the age!! Ah no!--not\nsuch as Mr. Forster's. Your soul does not enter into his secret--There\ncan be nothing in common between you. For him to say such a word--he\nwho knows--or ought to know!--And now let us agree and admire the\nbowing of the old ministrel over Bedd Gelert's unfilled grave--\n\n    The _long_ beard _fell_ like _snow_ into the grave\n                 With solemn grace\n\nA poet, a friend, a generous man Mr. Horne is, even if no laureate for\nthe fairies.\n\nI have this moment a parcel of books via Mr. Moxon--Miss Martineau's\ntwo volumes--and Mr. Bailey sends his 'Festus,' very kindly, ... and\n'Woman in the Nineteenth Century' from America from a Mrs. or a Miss\nFuller--how I hate those 'Women of England,' 'Women and their Mission'\nand the rest. As if any possible good were to be done by such\nexpositions of rights and wrongs.\n\nYour letter would be worth them all, if _you_ were less _you_! I mean,\njust this letter, ... all alive as it is with crawling buzzing\nwriggling cold-blooded warm-blooded creatures ... as all alive as your\nown pedant's book in the tree. And do you know, I think I like frogs\ntoo--particularly the very little leaping frogs, which are so\nhigh-hearted as to emulate the birds. I remember being scolded by my\nnurses for taking them up in my hands and letting them leap from one\nhand to the other. But for the toad!--why, at the end of the row of\nnarrow beds which we called our gardens when we were children, grew an\nold thorn, and in the hollow of the root of the thorn, lived a toad, a\ngreat ancient toad, whom I, for one, never dared approach too nearly.\nThat he 'wore a jewel in his head' I doubted nothing at all. You must\nsee it glitter if you stooped and looked steadily into the hole. And\non days when he came out and sate swelling his black sides, I never\nlooked steadily; I would run a hundred yards round through the shrubs,\ndeeper than knee-deep in the long wet grass and nettles, rather than\ngo past him where he sate; being steadily of opinion, in the\nprofundity of my natural history-learning, that if he took it into his\ntoad's head to spit at me I should drop down dead in a moment,\npoisoned as by one of the Medici.\n\nOh--and I had a field-mouse for a pet once, and should have joined my\nsisters in a rat's nest if I had not been ill at the time (as it was,\nthe little rats were tenderly smothered by over-love!): and\nblue-bottle flies I used to feed, and hated your spiders for them; yet\nno, not much. My aversion proper ... call it horror rather ... was for\nthe silent, cold, clinging, gliding _bat_; and even now, I think, I\ncould not sleep in the room with that strange bird-mouse-creature, as\nit glides round the ceiling silently, silently as its shadow does on\nthe floor. If you listen or look, there is not a wave of the wing--the\nwing never waves! A bird without a feather! a beast that flies! and so\ncold! as cold as a fish! It is the most supernatural-seeming of\nnatural things. And then to see how when the windows are open at night\nthose bats come sailing ... without a sound--and go ... you cannot\nguess where!--fade with the night-blackness!\n\nYou have not been well--which is my first thought if not my first\nword. Do walk, and do not work; and think ... what I could be thinking\nof, if I did not think of _you_ ... dear--dearest! 'As the doves fly\nto the windows,' so I think of you! As the prisoners think of liberty,\nas the dying think of Heaven, so I think of you. When I look up\nstraight to God ... nothing, no one, used to intercept me--now there\nis _you_--only you under him! Do not use such words as those therefore\nany more, nor say that you are not to be thought of so and so. You are\nto be thought of every way. You must know what you are to me if you\nknow at all what _I_ am,--and what I should be but for you.\n\nSo ... love me a little, with the spiders and the toads and the\nlizards! love me as you love the efts--and I will believe in _you_ as\nyou believe ... in Ælian--Will _that_ do?\n\n                                                  Your own--\n\nSay how you are when you write--_and write_.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n\nI this minute receive the Review--a poor business, truly! Is there a\nreason for a man's wits dwindling the moment he gets into a critical\nHigh-place to hold forth?--I have only glanced over the article\nhowever. Well, one day _I_ am to write of you, dearest, and it must\ncome to something rather better than _that_!\n\nI am forced to send now what is to be sent at all. Bless you, dearest.\nI am trusting to hear from you--\n\n                                                   Your R.B.\n\nAnd I find by a note from a fairer friend and favourer of mine that in\nthe _New Quarterly_ 'Mr. Browning' figures pleasantly as 'one without\nany sympathy for a human being!'--Then, for newts and efts at all\nevents!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Night.\n                               [Post-mark, January 7, 1846.]\n\nBut, my sweet, there is safer going in letters than in visits, do you\nnot see? In the letter, one may go to the utmost limit of one's\nsupposed tether without danger--there is the distance so palpably\nbetween the most audacious step _there_, and the next ... which is\nnowhere, seeing it is not in the letter. Quite otherwise in personal\nintercourse, where any indication of turning to a certain path, even,\nmight possibly be checked not for its own fault but lest, the path\nonce reached and proceeded in, some other forbidden turning might come\ninto sight, we will say. In the letter, all ended _there_, just there\n... and you may think of that, and forgive; at all events, may avoid\nspeaking irrevocable words--and when, as to me, those words are\nintensely _true, doom-words_--think, dearest! Because, as I told you\nonce, what most characterizes my feeling for you is the perfect\n_respect_ in it, the full _belief_ ... (I shall get presently to poor\nRobert's very avowal of 'owing you all esteem'!). It is on that I\nbuild, and am secure--for how should I know, of myself, how to serve\nyou and be properly yours if it all was to be learnt by my own\ninterpreting, and what you professed to dislike you were to be\nconsidered as wishing for, and what liking, as it seemed, you were\nloathing at your heart, and if so many 'noes' made a 'yes,' and 'one\nrefusal no rebuff' and all that horrible bestiality which stout\ngentlemen turn up the whites of their eyes to, when they rise after\ndinner and pressing the right hand to the left side say, 'The toast be\ndear woman!' Now, love, with this feeling in me from the beginning,--I\ndo believe,--_now_, when I am utterly blest in this gift of your love,\nand least able to imagine what I should do without it,--I cannot but\nbelieve, I say, that had you given me once a 'refusal'--clearly\nderived from your own feelings, and quite apart from any fancied\nconsideration for my interests; had this come upon me, whether slowly\nbut inevitably in the course of events, or suddenly as precipitated by\nany step of mine; I should, _believing you_, have never again renewed\ndirectly or indirectly such solicitation; I should have begun to count\nhow many other ways were yet open to serve you and devote myself to\nyou ... but from _the outside_, now, and not in your livery! Now, if I\nshould have acted thus under _any_ circumstances, how could I but\nredouble my endeavours at precaution after my own foolish--you know,\nand forgave long since, and I, too, am forgiven in my own eyes, for\nthe cause, though not the manner--but could I do other than keep\n'farther from you' than in the letters, dearest? For your own part in\nthat matter, seeing it with all the light you have since given me (and\n_then_, not inadequately by my own light) I could, I do kiss your\nfeet, kiss every letter in your name, bless you with my whole heart\nand soul if I could pour them out, from me, before you, to stay and be\nyours; when I think on your motives and pure perfect generosity. It\nwas the plainness of _that_ which determined me to wait and be patient\nand grateful and your own for ever in any shape or capacity you might\nplease to accept. Do you think that because I am so rich now, I could\nnot have been most rich, too, _then_--in what would seem little only\nto _me_, only with this great happiness? I should have been proud\nbeyond measure--happy past all desert, to call and be allowed to see\nyou simply, speak with you and be spoken to--what am I more than\nothers? Don't think this mock humility--_it is not_--you take me in\nyour mantle, and we shine together, but I know my part in it! All this\nis written breathlessly on a sudden fancy that you _might_--if not\nnow, at some future time--give other than this, the true reason, for\nthat discrepancy you see, that nearness in the letters, that early\nfarness in the visits! And, love, all love is but a passionate\n_drawing closer_--I would be one with you, dearest; let my soul press\nclose to you, as my lips, dear life of my life.\n\n_Wednesday._--You are entirely right about those poems of Horne's--I\nspoke only of the effect of the first glance, and it is a principle\nwith me to begin by welcoming any strangeness, intention of\noriginality in men--the other way of safe copying precedents being\n_so_ safe! So I began by praising all that was at all questionable in\nthe form ... reserving the ground-work for after consideration. The\nElf-story turns out a pure mistake, I think--and a common mistake,\ntoo. Fairy stories, the good ones, were written for men and women,\nand, being true, pleased also children; now, people set about writing\nfor children and miss them and the others too,--with that detestable\nirreverence and plain mocking all the time at the very wonder they\nprofess to want to excite. All obvious bending down to the lower\ncapacity, determining not to be the great complete man one is, by\nhalf; any patronizing minute to be spent in the nursery over the books\nand work and healthful play, of a visitor who will presently bid\ngood-bye and betake himself to the Beefsteak Club--keep us from all\nthat! The Sailor Language is good in its way; but as wrongly used in\nArt as real clay and mud would be, if one plastered them in the\nforeground of a landscape in order to attain to so much truth, at all\nevents--the true thing to endeavour is the making a golden colour\nwhich shall do every good in the power of the dirty brown. Well, then,\nwhat a veering weathercock am I, to write so and now, _so_! Not\naltogether,--for first it was but the stranger's welcome I gave, the\nright of every new comer who must stand or fall by his behaviour once\nadmitted within the door. And then--when I know what Horne thinks\nof--you, dearest; how he knew you first, and from the soul admired\nyou; and how little he thinks of my good fortune ... I _could_ NOT\nbegin by giving you a bad impression of anything he sends--he has such\nvery few rewards for a great deal of hard excellent enduring work, and\n_none_, no reward, I do think, would he less willingly forego than\nyour praise and sympathy. But your opinion once expressed--truth\nremains the truth--so, at least, I excuse myself ... and quite as much\nfor what I say _now_ as for what was said _then_! 'King John' is very\nfine and full of purpose; 'The Noble Heart,' sadly faint and\nuncharacteristic. The chief incident, too, turns on that poor\nconventional fallacy about what constitutes a proper wrong to\nresist--a piece of morality, after a different standard, is introduced\nto complete another fashioned morality--a segment of a circle of\nlarger dimensions is fitted into a smaller one. Now, you may have your\nown standard of morality in this matter of resistance to wrong, how\nand when if at all. And you may quite understand and sympathize with\nquite different standards innumerable of other people; but go from one\nto the other abruptly, you cannot, I think. 'Bear patiently all\ninjuries--revenge in no case'--that is plain. 'Take what you conceive\nto be God's part, do his evident work, stand up for good and destroy\nevil, and co-operate with this whole scheme here'--_that_ is plain,\ntoo,--but, call Otto's act _no_ wrong, or being one, not such as\nshould be avenged--and then, call the remark of a stranger that one is\na 'recreant'--just what needs the slight punishment of instant death\nto the remarker--and ... where is the way? What _is_ clear?\n\n--Not my letter! which goes on and on--'dear letters'--sweetest?\nbecause they cost all the precious labour of making out? Well, I shall\nsee you to-morrow, I trust. Bless you, my own--I have not half said\nwhat was to say even in the letter I thought to write, and which\nproves only what you see! But at a thought I fly off with you, 'at a\ncock-crow from the Grange.'--Ever your own.\n\nLast night, I received a copy of the _New Quarterly_--now here is\npopular praise, a sprig of it! Instead of the attack I supposed it to\nbe, from my foolish friend's account, the notice is outrageously\neulogistical, a stupidly extravagant laudation from first to last--and\nin _three other_ articles, as my sister finds by diligent fishing,\nthey introduce my name with the same felicitous praise (except one\ninstance, though, in a good article by Chorley I am certain); and\n_with_ me I don't know how many poetical _crétins_ are praised as\nnoticeably--and, in the turning of a page, somebody is abused in the\nrichest style of scavengering--only Carlyle! And I love him enough not\nto envy him nor wish to change places, and giving him mine, mount into\nhis.\n\nAll which, let me forget in the thoughts of to-morrow! Bless you, my\nBa.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                               [Post-mark, January 7, 1846.]\n\nBut some things are indeed said very truly, and as I like to read\nthem--of _you_, I mean of course,--though I quite understand that it\nis doing no manner of good to go back so to 'Paracelsus,' heading the\narticle 'Paracelsus and other poems,' as if the other poems could not\nfront the reader broadly by a divine right of their own. 'Paracelsus'\nis a great work and will _live_, but the way to do you good with the\nstiffnecked public (such good as critics can do in their degree) would\nhave been to hold fast and conspicuously the gilded horn of the last\nliving crowned creature led by you to the altar, saying 'Look _here_.'\nWhat had he to do else, as a critic? Was he writing for the\n_Retrospective Review_? And then, no attempt at analytical\ncriticism--or a failure, at the least attempt! all slack and in\nsentences! Still these are right things to say, true things, worthy\nthings, said of you as a poet, though your poems do not find justice:\nand I like, for my own part, the issuing from my cathedral into your\ngreat world--the outermost temple of divinest consecration. I like\nthat figure and association, and none the worse for its being a\nsufficient refutation of what he dared to impute, of your poetical\nsectarianism, in another place--_yours_!\n\nFor me, it is all quite kind enough--only I object, on my own part\nalso, to being reviewed in the 'Seraphim,' when my better books are\nnearer: and also it always makes me a little savage when people talk\nof Tennysonianisms! I have faults enough as the Muses know,--but let\nthem be _my_ faults! When I wrote the 'Romaunt of Margret,' I had not\nread a line of Tennyson. I came from the country with my eyes only\nhalf open, and he had not penetrated where I had been living and\nsleeping: and in fact when I afterwards tried to reach him here in\nLondon, nothing could be found except one slim volume, so that, till\nthe collected works appeared ... _favente_ Moxon, ... I was ignorant\nof his best _early_ productions; and not even for the rhythmetical\nform of my 'Vision of the Poets,' was I indebted to the 'Two\nVoices,'--three pages of my 'Vision' having been written several years\nago--at the beginning of my illness--and thrown aside, and taken up\nagain in the spring of 1844. Ah, well! there's no use talking! In a\nsolitary review which noticed my 'Essay on Mind,' somebody wrote ...\n'this young lady imitates Darwin'--and I never could _read_ Darwin,\n... was stopped always on the second page of the 'Loves of the Plants'\nwhen I tried to read him to 'justify myself in having an opinion'--the\nrepulsion was too strong. Yet the 'young lady imitated Darwin' of\ncourse, as the infallible critic said so.\n\nAnd who are Mr. Helps and Miss Emma Fisher and the 'many others,'\nwhose company brings one down to the right plebeianism? The 'three\npoets in three distant ages born' may well stare amazed!\n\nAfter all you shall not by any means say that I upset the inkstand on\nyour review in a passion--because pray mark that the ink has over-run\nsome of your praises, and that if I had been angry to the overthrow of\nan inkstand, it would not have been precisely _there_. It is the\nsecond book spoilt by me within these two days--and my fingers were so\ndabbled in blackness yesterday that to wring my hands would only have\nmade matters worse. Holding them up to Mr. Kenyon they looked dirty\nenough to befit a poetess--as black 'as bard beseemed'--and he took\nthe review away with him to read and save it from more harm.\n\nHow could it be that you did not get my letter which would have\nreached you, I thought, on Monday evening, or on Tuesday at the very\nvery earliest?--and how is it that I did not hear from you last night\nagain when I was unreasonable enough to expect it? is it true that you\n_hate_ writing to me?\n\nAt that word, comes the review back from dear Mr. Kenyon, and the\nletter which I enclose to show you how it accounts reasonably for the\nink--I did it 'in a pet,' he thinks! And I ought to buy you a new\nbook--certainly I ought--only it is not worth doing justice for--and I\nshall therefore send it back to you spoilt as it is; and you must\nforgive me as magnanimously as you can.\n\n'Omne ignotum pro magnifico'--do you think _so_? I hope not indeed!\n_vo quietando_--and everything else that I ought to do--except of\ncourse, _that_ thinking of you which is so difficult.\n\nMay God bless you. Till to-morrow!\n\n                                            Your own always.\n\nMr. Kenyon refers to 'Festus'--of which I had said that the fine\nthings were worth looking for, in the design manqué.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                               [Post-mark, January 9, 1846.]\n\nYou never think, ever dearest, that I 'repent'--why what a word to\nuse! You never could _think_ such a word for a moment! If you were to\nleave me even,--to decide that it is best for you to do it, and do\nit,--I should accede at once of course, but never should I nor could I\n'repent' ... regret anything ... be sorry for having known you and\nloved you ... no! Which I say simply to prove that, in _no_ extreme\ncase, could I repent for my own sake. For yours, it might be\ndifferent.\n\n_Not_ out of 'generosity' certainly, but from the veriest selfishness,\nI choose here, before God, any possible present evil, rather than the\nfuture consciousness of feeling myself less to you, on the whole, than\nanother woman might have been.\n\nOh, these vain and most heathenish repetitions--do I not vex you by\nthem, _you_ whom I would always please, and never vex? Yet they force\ntheir way because you are the best noblest and dearest in the world,\nand because your happiness is so precious a thing.\n\n    Cloth of frieze, be not too bold,\n    Though thou'rt matched with cloth of gold!\n\n--_that_, beloved, was written for _me_. And you, if you would make me\nhappy, _always_ will look at yourself from my ground and by my light,\nas I see you, and consent to be selfish in all things. Observe, that\nif I were _vacillating_, I should not be so weak as to tease you with\nthe process of the vacillation: I should wait till my pendulum ceased\nswinging. It is precisely because I am your own, past any retraction\nor wish of retraction,--because I belong to you by gift and ownership,\nand am ready and willing to prove it before the world at a word of\nyours,--it is precisely for this, that I remind you too often of the\nnecessity of using this right of yours, not to your injury, of being\nwise and strong for both of us, and of guarding your happiness which\nis mine. I have said these things ninety and nine times over, and over\nand over have you replied to them,--as yesterday!--and now, do not\nspeak any more. It is only my preachment for general use, and not for\nparticular application,--only to be _ready_ for application. I love\nyou from the deepest of my nature--the whole world is nothing to me\nbeside you--and what is so precious, is not far from being terrible.\n'How _dreadful_ is this place.'\n\nTo hear you talk yesterday, is a gladness in the thought for\nto-day,--it was with such a full assent that I listened to every word.\nIt is true, I think, that we see things (things apart from ourselves)\nunder the same aspect and colour--and it is certainly true that I have\na sort of instinct by which I seem to know your views of such subjects\nas we have never looked at together. I know _you_ so well (yes, I\nboast to myself of that intimate knowledge), that I seem to know also\nthe _idola_ of all things as they are in your eyes--so that never,\nscarcely, I am curious,--never anxious, to learn what your opinions\nmay be. Now, _have_ I been curious or anxious? It was enough for me to\nknow _you_.\n\nMore than enough! You have 'left undone'--do you say? On the contrary,\nyou have done too much,--you _are_ too much. My cup,--which used to\nhold at the bottom of it just the drop of Heaven dew mingling with the\nabsinthus,--has overflowed all this wine: and _that_ makes me look out\nfor the vases, which would have held it better, had you stretched out\nyour hand for them.\n\nSay how you are--and do take care and exercise--and write to me,\ndearest!\n\n                                             Ever your own--\n\n                                                  BA.\n\nHow right you are about 'Ben Capstan,'--and the illustration by the\n_yellow clay_. That is precisely what I meant,--said with more\nprecision than I could say it. Art without an ideal is neither nature\nnor art. The question involves the whole difference between Madame\nTussaud and Phidias.\n\nI have just received Mr. Edgar Poe's book--and I see that the\ndeteriorating preface which was to have saved me from the vanity-fever\nproduceable by the dedication, is cut down and away--perhaps in this\nparticular copy only!\n\nTuesday is so near, as men count, that I caught myself just now being\nafraid lest the week should have no chance of appearing long to you!\nTry to let it be long to you--will you? My consistency is wonderful.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n\nAs if I could deny you anything! Here is the Review--indeed it was\nfoolish to mind your seeing it at all. But now, may I stipulate?--You\nshall not send it back--but on your table I shall find and take it\nnext Tuesday--_c'est convenu_! The other precious volume has not yet\ncome to hand (nor to foot) all through your being so sure that to\ncarry it home would have been the death of me last evening!\n\nI cannot write my feelings in this large writing, begun on such a\nscale for the Review's sake; and just now--there is no denying it, and\nspite of all I have been incredulous about--it does seem that the fact\n_is_ achieved and that I _do_ love you, plainly, surely, more than\never, more than any day in my life before. It is your secret, the why,\nthe how; the experience is mine. What are you doing to me?--in the\nheart's heart.\n\nRest--dearest--bless you--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                              [Post-mark, January 10, 1846.]\n\nKindest and dearest you are!--that is 'my secret' and for the others,\nI leave them to you!--only it is no secret that I should and must be\nglad to have the words you sent with the book,--which I should have\nseen at all events be sure, whether you had sent it or not. Should I\nnot, do you think? And considering what the present generation of\ncritics really is, the remarks on you may stand, although it is the\ndreariest impotency to complain of the want of flesh and blood and of\nhuman sympathy in general. Yet suffer them to say on--it is the stamp\non the critical knife. There must be something eminently stupid, or\nfarewell criticdom! And if anything more utterly untrue could be said\nthan another, it is precisely that saying, which Mr. Mackay stands up\nto catch the reversion of! Do you indeed suppose that Heraud could\nhave done this? I scarcely can believe it, though some things are said\nrightly as about the 'intellectuality,' and how you stand first by the\nbrain,--which is as true as truth can be. Then, I _shall have\n'Pauline' in a day or two_--yes, I shall and must, and _will_.\n\nThe 'Ballad Poems and Fancies,' the article calling itself by that\nname, seems indeed to be Mr. Chorley's, and is one of his very best\npapers, I think. There is to me a want of colour and thinness about\nhis writings in general, with a grace and _savoir faire_ nevertheless,\nand always a rightness and purity of intention. Observe what he says\nof 'many-sidedness' seeming to trench on opinion and principle. That,\nhe means for himself I know, for he has said to me that through having\nsuch largeness of sympathy he has been charged with want of\nprinciple--yet 'many-sidedness' is certainly no word for him. The\neffect of general sympathies may be evolved both from an elastic fancy\nand from breadth of mind, and it seems to me that he rather _bends_ to\na phase of humanity and literature than contains it--than comprehends\nit. Every part of a truth implies the whole; and to accept truth all\nround, does not mean the recognition of contradictory things:\nuniversal sympathies cannot make a man inconsistent, but, on the\ncontrary, sublimely consistent. A church tower may stand between the\nmountains and the sea, looking to either, and stand fast: but the\nwillow-tree at the gable-end, blown now toward the north and now\ntoward the south while its natural leaning is due east or west, is\ndifferent altogether ... _as_ different as a willow-tree from a church\ntower.\n\nAh, what nonsense! There is only one truth for me all this time, while\nI talk about truth and truth. And do you know, when you have told me\nto think of you, I have been feeling ashamed of thinking of you so\nmuch, of thinking of only you--which _is_ too much, perhaps. Shall I\ntell you? it seems to me, to myself, that no man was ever before to\nany woman what you are to me--the fulness must be in proportion, you\nknow, to the vacancy ... and only _I_ know what was behind--the long\nwilderness _without_ the blossoming rose ... and the capacity for\nhappiness, like a black gaping hole, before this silver flooding. Is\nit wonderful that I should stand as in a dream, and disbelieve--not\n_you_--but my own fate? Was ever any one taken suddenly from a\nlampless dungeon and placed upon the pinnacle of a mountain, without\nthe head turning round and the heart turning faint, as mine do? And\nyou love me _more_, you say?--Shall I thank you or God?\nBoth,--indeed--and there is no possible return from me to either of\nyou! I thank you as the unworthy may ... and as we all thank God. How\nshall I ever prove what my heart is to you? How will you ever see it\nas I feel it? I ask myself in vain.\n\nHave so much faith in me, my only beloved, as to use me simply for\nyour own advantage and happiness, and to your own ends without a\nthought of any others--_that_ is all I could ask you with any disquiet\nas to the granting of it--May God bless you!--\n\n                                                    Your\n\n                                                         BA.\n\nBut you have the review _now_--surely?\n\nThe _Morning Chronicle_ attributes the authorship of 'Modern Poets'\n(_our_ article) to Lord John Manners--so I hear this morning. I have\nnot yet looked at the paper myself. The _Athenæum_, still abominably\ndumb!--",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                              [Post-mark, January 10, 1846.]\n\nThis is _no_ letter--love,--I make haste to tell you--to-morrow I will\nwrite. For here has a friend been calling and consuming my very\ndestined time, and every minute seemed the last that was to be; and an\nold, old friend he is, beside--so--you must understand my defection,\nwhen only this scrap reaches you to-night! Ah, love,--you are my\nunutterable blessing,--I discover you, more of you, day by day,--hour\nby hour, I do think!--I am entirely yours,--one gratitude, all my soul\nbecomes when I see you over me as now--God bless my dear, dearest.\n\nMy 'Act Fourth' is done--but too roughly this time! I will tell you--\n\nOne kiss more, dearest!\n\nThanks for the Review.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                              [Post-mark, January 12, 1846.]\n\nI have no words for you, my dearest,--I shall never have.\n\nYou are mine, I am yours. Now, here is one sign of what I said ...\nthat I must love you more than at first ... a little sign, and to be\nlooked narrowly for or it escapes me, but then the increase it shows\n_can_ only be little, so very little now--and as the fine French\nChemical Analysts bring themselves to appreciate matter in its refined\nstages by _millionths_, so--! At first I only thought of being _happy_\nin you,--in your happiness: now I most think of you in the dark hours\nthat must come--I shall grow old with you, and die with you--as far as\nI can look into the night I see the light with me. And surely with\nthat provision of comfort one should turn with fresh joy and renewed\nsense of security to the sunny middle of the day. I am in the full\nsunshine now; and _after_, all seems cared for,--is it too homely an\nillustration if I say the day's visit is not crossed by uncertainties\nas to the return through the wild country at nightfall?--Now Keats\nspeaks of 'Beauty, that must _die_--and Joy whose hand is ever at his\nlips, bidding farewell!' And _who_ spoke of--looking up into the eyes\nand asking 'And _how long_ will you love us'?--There is a Beauty that\nwill not die, a Joy that bids no farewell, dear dearest eyes that will\nlove for ever!\n\nAnd _I_--am to love no longer than I can. Well, dear--and when I _can_\nno longer--you will not blame me? You will do only as ever, kindly and\njustly; hardly more. I do not pretend to say I have chosen to put my\nfancy to such an experiment, and consider how _that_ is to happen, and\nwhat measures ought to be taken in the emergency--because in the\n'universality of my sympathies' I certainly number a very lively one\nwith my own heart and soul, and cannot amuse myself by such a\nspectacle as their supposed extinction or paralysis. There is no doubt\nI should be an object for the deepest commiseration of you or any more\nfortunate human being. And I hope that because such a calamity does\nnot obtrude itself on me as a thing to be prayed against, it is no\nless duly implied with all the other visitations from which no\nhumanity can be altogether exempt--just as God bids us ask for the\ncontinuance of the 'daily bread'!--'battle, murder and sudden death'\nlie behind doubtless. I repeat, and perhaps in so doing only give one\nmore example of the instantaneous conversion of that indignation we\nbestow in another's case, into wonderful lenity when it becomes our\nown, ... that I only contemplate the _possibility_ you make me\nrecognize, with pity, and fear ... no anger at all; and imprecations\nof vengeance, _for what_? Observe, I only speak of cases _possible_;\nof sudden impotency of mind; that _is_ possible--there _are_ other\nways of '_changing_,' 'ceasing to love' &c. which it is safest not to\nthink of nor believe in. A man _may_ never leave his writing desk\nwithout seeing safe in one corner of it the folded slip which directs\nthe disposal of his papers in the event of his reason suddenly leaving\nhim--or he may never go out into the street without a card in his\npocket to signify his address to those who may have to pick him up in\nan apoplectic fit--but if he once begins to fear he is growing a glass\nbottle, and, _so_, liable to be smashed,--do you see? And now, love,\ndear heart of my heart, my own, only Ba--see no more--see what I _am_,\nwhat God in his constant mercy ordinarily grants to those who have, as\nI, received already so much; much, past expression! It is but--if you\nwill so please--at worst, forestalling the one or two years, for my\nsake; but you _will_ be as sure of me _one_ day as I can be now of\nmyself--and why not _now_ be sure? See, love--a year is gone by--we\nwere in one relation when you wrote at the end of a letter 'Do not say\nI do not tire you' (by writing)--'_I am sure I do_.' A year has gone\nby--_Did you tire me then?_ _Now_, you tell me what is told; for my\nsake, sweet, let the few years go by; we are married, and my arms are\nround you, and my face touches yours, and I am asking you, '_Were you\nnot_ to me, in that dim beginning of 1846, a joy behind all joys, a\nlife added to and transforming mine, the good I choose from all the\npossible gifts of God on this earth, for which I seemed to have lived;\nwhich accepting, I thankfully step aside and let the rest get what\nthey can; what, it is very likely, they esteem more--for why should my\neye be evil because God's is good; why should I grudge that, giving\nthem, I do believe, infinitely less, he gives them a content in the\ninferior good and belief in its worth? I should have wished _that_\nfurther concession, that illusion as I believe it, for their\nsakes--but I cannot undervalue my own treasure and so scant the only\ntribute of mere gratitude which is in my power to pay. Hear this said\n_now before_ the few years; and believe in it _now for then_, dearest!\n\n\nMust you see 'Pauline'? At least then let me wait a few days; to\ncorrect the misprints which affect the sense, and to write you the\nhistory of it; what is necessary you should know before you see it.\nThat article I suppose to be by Heraud--about two thirds--and the\nrest, or a little less, by that Mr. Powell--whose unimaginable,\nimpudent vulgar stupidity you get some inkling of in the 'Story from\nBoccaccio'--of which the _words_ quoted were _his_, I am sure--as sure\nas that he knows not whether Boccaccio lived before or after\nShakspeare, whether Florence or Rome be the more northern city,--one\nword of Italian in general, or letter of Boccaccio's in particular.\nWhen I took pity on him once on a time and helped his verses into a\nsort of grammar and sense, I did not think he was a _buyer_ of other\nmen's verses, to be printed as his own; thus he _bought_ two\nmodernisations of Chaucer--'Ugolino' and another story from Leigh\nHunt--and one, 'Sir Thopas' from Horne, and printed them as his own,\nas I learned only last week. He paid me extravagant court and, seeing\nno harm in the mere folly of the man, I was on good terms with him,\ntill ten months ago he grossly insulted a friend of mine who had\nwritten an article for the Review--(which is as good as _his_, he\nbeing a large proprietor of the delectable property, and influencing\nthe voices of his co-mates in council)--well, he insulted my friend,\nwho had written that article at my special solicitation, and did all\nhe could to avoid paying the price of it--Why?--Because the poor\ncreature had actually taken the article to the Editor _as one by his\nfriend Serjeant Talfourd contributed for pure love of him, Powell the\naforesaid_,--cutting, in consequence, no inglorious figure in the eyes\nof Printer and Publisher! Now I was away all this time in Italy or he\nwould never have ventured on such a piece of childish impertinence.\nAnd my friend being a true gentleman, and quite unused to this sort of\n'practice,' in the American sense, held his peace and went without his\n'honorarium.' But on my return, I enquired, and made him make a\nproper application, which Mr. Powell treated with all the insolence in\nthe world--because, as the event showed, the having to write a cheque\nfor 'the Author of _the_ Article'--that author's name _not_ being\nTalfourd's ... _there_ was certain disgrace! Since then (ten months\nago) I have never seen him--and he accuses _himself_, observe, of\n'sucking my plots while I drink his tea'--one as much as the other!\nAnd now why do I tell you this, all of it? Ah,--now you shall hear!\nBecause, it has often been in my mind to ask you what _you_ know of\nthis Mr. Powell, or ever knew. For he, (being profoundly versed in\nevery sort of untruth, as every fresh experience shows me, and the\nrest of his acquaintance) he told me long ago, 'he used to correspond\nwith you, and that he quarrelled with you'--which I supposed to mean\nthat he began by sending you his books (as with one and everybody) and\nthat, in return to your note of acknowledgment, he had chosen to write\nagain, and perhaps, again--is it so? Do not write one word in answer\nto me--the name of such a miserable nullity, and husk of a man, ought\nnot to have a place in your letters--and _that way_ he would get near\nto me again; near indeed this time!--So _tell_ me, in a word--or do\nnot tell me.\n\nHow I never say what I sit down to say! How saying the little makes me\nwant to say the more! How the least of little things, once taken up as\na thing to be imparted to you, seems to need explanations and\ncommentaries; all is of importance to me--every breath you breathe,\nevery little fact (like this) you are to know!\n\nI was out last night--to see the rest of Frank Talfourd's theatricals;\nand met Dickens and his set--so my evenings go away! If I do not bring\nthe _Act_ you must forgive me--yet I shall, I think; the roughness\nmatters little in this stage. Chorley says very truly that a tragedy\nimplies as much power _kept back_ as brought out--very true that is. I\ndo not, on the whole, feel dissatisfied--as was to be but\nexpected--with the effect of this last--the _shelve_ of the hill,\nwhence the end is seen, you continuing to go down to it, so that at\nthe very last you may pass off into a plain and so away--not come to a\nstop like your horse against a church wall. It is all in long\nspeeches--the _action, proper_, is in them--they are no descriptions,\nor amplifications--but here, in a drama of this kind, all the\n_events_, (and interest), take place in the _minds_ of the actors ...\nsomewhat like 'Paracelsus' in that respect. You know, or don't know,\nthat the general charge against me, of late, from the few quarters I\nthought it worth while to listen to, has been that of abrupt,\nspasmodic writing--they will find some fault with this, of course.\n\nHow you know Chorley! That is precisely the man, that willow blowing\nnow here now there--precisely! I wish he minded the _Athenæum_, its\nsilence or eloquence, no more nor less than I--but he goes on\npainfully plying me with invitation after invitation, only to show me,\nI feel confident, that _he_ has no part nor lot in the matter: I have\n_two_ kind little notes asking me to go on Thursday and Saturday. See\nthe absurd position of us both; he asks more of my presence than he\ncan want, just to show his own kind feeling, of which I do not doubt;\nand I must try and accept more hospitality than suits me, only to\nprove my belief in that same! For myself--if I have vanity which such\nJournals can raise; would the praise of them raise it, they who\npraised Mr. Mackay's own, own 'Dead Pan,' quite his own, the other\nday?--By the way, Miss Cushman informed me the other evening that the\ngentleman had written a certain 'Song of the Bell' ... 'singularly\nlike Schiller's; _considering that Mr. M. had never_ seen it!' I am\ntold he writes for the _Athenæum_, but don't know. Would that sort of\npraise be flattering, or his holding the tongue--which Forster, deep\nin the mysteries of the craft, corroborated my own notion about--as\npure willingness to hurt, and confessed impotence and little clever\nspite, and enforced sense of what may be safe at the last? You shall\nsee they will not notice--unless a fresh publication alters the\ncircumstances--until some seven or eight months--as before; and then\nthey _will_ notice, and _praise_, and tell anybody who cares to\nenquire, '_So_ we noticed the work.' So do not you go expecting\njustice or injustice till I tell you. It answers me to be found\nwriting so, so anxious to prove I understand the laws of the game,\nwhen that game is only 'Thimble-rig' and for prizes of\ngingerbread-nuts--Prize or no prize, Mr. Dilke _does_ shift the pea,\nand so did from the beginning--as Charles Lamb's pleasant _sobriquet_\n(Mr. _Bilk_, he would have it) testifies. Still he behaved kindly to\nthat poor Frances Brown--let us forget him.\n\nAnd now, my Audience, my crown-bearer, my path-preparer--I am with you\nagain and out of them all--there, _here_, in my arms, is my _proved\npalpable success_! My life, my poetry, gained nothing, oh no!--but\nthis found them, and blessed them. On Tuesday I shall see you,\ndearest--am much better; well to-day--are you well--or 'scarcely to be\ncalled an invalid'? Oh, when I _have_ you, am by you--\n\nBless you, dearest--And be very sure you have your wish about the\nlength of the week--still Tuesday must come! And with it your own,\nhappy, grateful\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Night.\n                              [Post-mark, January 14, 1846.]\n\nAh Mr. Kenyon!--how he vexed me to-day. To keep away all the ten days\nbefore, and to come just at the wrong time after all! It was better\nfor you, I suppose--believe--to go with him down-stairs--yes, it\ncertainly was better: it was disagreeable enough to be very wise! Yet\nI, being addicted to every sort of superstition turning to melancholy,\ndid hate so breaking off in the middle of that black thread ... (do\nyou remember what we were talking of when they opened the door?) that\nI was on the point of saying 'Stay one moment,' which I should have\nrepented afterwards for the best of good reasons. Oh, I _should_ have\nliked to have 'fastened off' that black thread, and taken one stitch\nwith a blue or a green one!\n\nYou do not remember what we were talking of? what _you_, rather, were\ntalking of? And what _I_ remember, at least, because it is exactly the\nmost unkind and hard thing you ever said to me--ever dearest, so I\nremember it by that sign! That you should say such a thing to me--!\nthink what it was, for indeed I will not write it down here--it would\nbe worse than Mr. Powell! Only the foolishness of it (I mean, the\nfoolishness of it alone) saves it, smooths it to a degree!--the\nfoolishness being the same as if you asked a man where he would walk\nwhen he lost his head. Why, if you had asked St. Denis _beforehand_,\nhe would have thought it a foolish question.\n\nAnd you!--you, who talk so finely of never, never doubting; of being\nsuch an example in the way of believing and trusting--it appears,\nafter all, that you have an imagination apprehensive (or\ncomprehensive) of 'glass bottles' like other sublunary creatures, and\nworse than some of them. For mark, that I never went any farther than\nto the stone-wall hypothesis of your forgetting me!--_I_ always\nstopped there--and never climbed, to the top of it over the\nbroken-bottle fortification, to see which way you meant to walk\nafterwards. And you, to ask me so coolly--think what you asked me.\nThat you should have the heart to ask such a question!\n\nAnd the reason--! and it could seem a reasonable matter of doubt to\nyou whether I would go to the south for my health's sake!--And I\nanswered quite a common 'no' I believe--for you bewildered me for the\nmoment--and I have had tears in my eyes two or three times since, just\nthrough thinking back of it all ... of your asking me such questions.\nNow did I not tell you when I first knew you, that I was leaning out\nof the window? True, _that_ was--I was tired of living ...\nunaffectedly tired. All I cared to live for was to do better some of\nthe work which, after all, was out of myself, and which I had to reach\nacross to do. But I told you. Then, last year, for duty's sake I would\nhave _consented_ to go to Italy! but if you really fancy that I would\nhave struggled in the face of all that difficulty--or struggled,\nindeed, anywise, to compass such an object as _that_--except for the\nmotive of your caring for it and me--why you know nothing of me after\nall--nothing! And now, take away the motive, and I am where I\nwas--leaning out of the window again. To put it in plainer words (as\nyou really require information), I should let them do what they liked\nto me till I was dead--only I _wouldn't go to Italy_--if anybody\nproposed Italy out of contradiction. In the meantime I do entreat you\nnever to talk of such a thing to me any more.\n\nYou know, if you were to leave me by your choice and for your\nhappiness, it would be another thing. It would be very lawful to talk\nof _that_.\n\nAnd observe! I perfectly understand that you did not think of\n_doubting me_--so to speak! But you thought, all the same, that if\nsuch a thing happened, I should be capable of doing so and so.\n\nWell--I am not quarrelling--I am uneasy about your head rather. That\npain in it--what can it mean? I do beseech you to think of me just so\nmuch as will lead you to take regular exercise every day, never\nmissing a day; since to walk till you are tired on Tuesday and then\nnot to walk at all until Friday is _not_ taking exercise, nor the\nthing required. Ah, if you knew how dreadfully natural every sort of\nevil seems to my mind, you would not laugh at me for being afraid. I\ndo beseech you, dearest! And then, Sir John Hanmer invited you,\nbesides Mr. Warburton, and suppose you went to _him_ for a very little\ntime--just for the change of air? or if you went to the coast\nsomewhere. Will you consider, and do what is right, _for me_? I do not\npropose that you should go to Italy, observe, nor any great thing at\nwhich you might reasonably hesitate. And--did you ever try smoking as\na remedy? If the nerves of the head chiefly are affected it might do\nyou good, I have been thinking. Or without the smoking, to breathe\nwhere tobacco is burnt,--_that_ calms the nervous system in a\nwonderful manner, as I experienced once myself when, recovering from\nan illness, I could not sleep, and tried in vain all sorts of\nnarcotics and forms of hop-pillow and inhalation, yet was\ntranquillized in one half hour by a _pinch_ of _tobacco_ being burnt\nin a shovel near me. Should you mind it very much? the trying I mean?\n\n_Wednesday._--For '_Pauline_'--when I had named it to you I was on the\npoint of sending for the book to the booksellers--then suddenly I\nthought to myself that I should wait and hear whether you very, very\nmuch would dislike my reading it. See now! Many readers have done\nvirtuously, but _I_, (in this virtue I tell you of) surpassed them\nall!--And now, because I may, I '_must_ read it':--and as there are\nmisprints to be corrected, will you do what is necessary, or what you\nthink is necessary, and bring me the book on Monday? Do not\nsend--bring it. In the meanwhile I send back the review which I forgot\nto give to you yesterday in the confusion. Perhaps you have not read\nit in your house, and in any case there is no use in my keeping it.\n\nShall I hear from you, I wonder! Oh my vain thoughts, that will not\nkeep you well! And, ever since you have known me, you have been\nworse--_that_, you confess!--and what if it should be the crossing of\nmy bad star? _You_ of the 'Crown' and the 'Lyre,' to seek influences\nfrom the 'chair of Cassiopeia'! I hope she will forgive me for using\nher name so! I might as well have compared her to a professorship of\npoetry in the university of Oxford, according to the latest election.\nYou know, the qualification, there, is,--_not to be a poet_.\n\nHow vexatious, yesterday! The stars (talking of _them_) were out of\nspherical tune, through the damp weather, perhaps, and that scarlet\nsun was a sign! First Mr. Chorley!--and last, dear Mr. Kenyon; who\n_will_ say tiresome things without any provocation. Did you walk with\nhim his way, or did he walk with you yours? or did you only walk\ndown-stairs together?\n\nWrite to me! Remember that it is a month to Monday. Think of your very\nown, who bids God bless you when she prays best for herself!--\n\n                                                      E.B.B.\n\nSay particularly how you are--now do not omit it. And will you have\nMiss Martineau's books when I can lend them to you? Just at this\nmoment I _dare_ not, because they are reading them here.\n\nLet Mr. Mackay have his full proprietary in his 'Dead Pan'--which is\nquite a different conception of the subject, and executed in blank\nverse too. I have no claims against him, I am sure!\n\nBut for the _man_!--To call him a poet! A prince and potentate of\nCommonplaces, such as he is!--I have seen his name in the _Athenæum_\nattached to a lyric or two ... poems, correctly called fugitive,--more\nthan usually fugitive--but I never heard before that his hand was in\nthe prose department.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                              [Post-mark, January 14, 1846.]\n\nWas I in the wrong, dearest, to go away with Mr. Kenyon? I _well knew\nand felt_ the price I was about to pay--but the thought _did_ occur\nthat he might have been informed my probable time of departure was\nthat of his own arrival--and that he would not know how very soon,\nalas, I should be _obliged_ to go--so ... to save you any least\nembarrassment in the world, I got--just that shake of the hand, just\nthat look--and no more! And was it all for nothing, all needless after\nall? So I said to myself all the way home.\n\nWhen I am away from you--a crowd of things press on me for\nutterance--'I will say them, not write them,' I think:--when I see\nyou--all to be said seems insignificant, irrelevant,--'they can be\nwritten, at all events'--I think _that_ too. So, feeling so much, I\nsay so little!\n\nI have just returned from Town and write for the Post--but _you_ mean\nto write, I trust.\n\n_That_ was not obtained, that promise, to be happy with, as last time!\n\nHow are you?--tell me, dearest; a long week is to be waited now!\n\n                             Bless you, my own, sweetest Ba.\n\n                                  I am wholly your\n\n                                       R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                              [Post-mark, January 15, 1846.]\n\nDearest, dearer to my heart minute by minute, I had no wish to give\nyou pain, God knows. No one can more readily consent to let a few\nyears more or less of life go out of account,--be lost--but as I sate\nby you, you so full of the truest life, for this world as for the\nnext,--and was struck by the possibility, all that might happen were I\naway, in the case of your continuing to acquiesce--dearest, it _is_\nhorrible--could not but speak. If in drawing you, all of you, closer\nto my heart, I hurt you whom I would--_outlive_ ... yes,--cannot speak\nhere--forgive me, Ba.\n\nMy Ba, you are to consider now for me. Your health, your strength, it\nis all wonderful; that is not my dream, you know--but what all see.\nNow, steadily care for us both--take time, take counsel if you choose;\nbut at the end tell me what you will do for your part--thinking of me\nas utterly devoted, soul and body, to you, living wholly in your life,\nseeing good and ill only as you see,--being yours as your hand is,--or\nas your Flush, rather. Then I will, on my side, prepare. When I say\n'take counsel'--I reserve my last right, the man's right of first\nspeech. _I_ stipulate, too, and require to say my own speech in my own\nwords or by letter--remember! But this living without you is too\ntormenting now. So begin thinking,--as for Spring, as for a New Year,\nas for a new life.\n\nI went no farther than the door with Mr. Kenyon. He must see the\ntruth; and--you heard the playful words which had a meaning all the\nsame.\n\nNo more of this; only, think of it for me, love!\n\nOne of these days I shall write a long letter--on the omitted matters,\nunanswered questions, in your past letters. The present joy still\nmakes me ungrateful to the previous one; but I remember. We are to\nlive together one day, love!\n\nWill you let Mr. Poe's book lie on the table on Monday, if you please,\nthat I may read what he _does_ say, with my own eyes? _That_ I meant\nto ask, too!\n\nHow too, too kind you are--how you care for so little that affects me!\nI am very much better--I went out yesterday, as you found: to-day I\nshall walk, beside seeing Chorley. And certainly, certainly I would go\naway for a week, if so I might escape being ill (and away from you) a\nfortnight; but I am _not_ ill--and will care, as you bid me, beloved!\nSo, you will send, and take all trouble; and all about that crazy\nReview! Now, you should not!--I will consider about your goodness. I\nhardly know if I care to read that kind of book just now.\n\nWill you, and must you have 'Pauline'? If I could pray you to revoke\nthat decision! For it is altogether foolish and _not_ boylike--and I\nshall, I confess, hate the notion of running over it--yet commented\nit must be; more than mere correction! I was unluckily\n_precocious_--but I had rather you _saw_ real infantine efforts\n(verses at six years old, and drawings still earlier) than this\nambiguous, feverish--Why not wait? When you speak of the\n'Bookseller'--I smile, in glorious security--having a whole bale of\nsheets at the house-top. He never knew my name even!--and I withdrew\nthese after a very little time.\n\nAnd now--here is a vexation. May I be with you (for this once) next\nMonday, at _two_ instead of _three_ o'clock? Forster's business with\nthe new Paper obliges him, he says, to restrict his choice of days to\n_Monday_ next--and give up _my_ part of Monday I will never for fifty\nForsters--now, sweet, mind that! Monday is no common day, but leads to\na _Saturday_--and if, as I ask, I get leave to call at 2--and to stay\ntill 3-1/2--though I then lose nearly half an hour--yet all will be\ncomparatively well. If there is any difficulty--one word and I\nre-appoint our party, his and mine, for the day the paper breaks\ndown--not so long to wait, it strikes me!\n\nNow, bless you, my precious Ba--I am your own--\n\n                                               --Your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n                              [Post-mark, January 17, 1846.]\n\nOur letters have crossed; and, mine being the longest, I have a right\nto expect another directly, I think. I have been calculating: and it\nseems to me--now what I am going to say may take its place among the\nparadoxes,--that I gain most by the short letters. Last week the only\nlong one came last, and I was quite contented that the 'old friend'\nshould come to see you on Saturday and make you send me two instead of\nthe single one I looked for: it was a clear gain, the little short\nnote, and the letter arrived all the same. I remember, when I was a\nchild, liking to have two shillings and sixpence better than half a\ncrown--and now it is the same with this fairy money, which will never\nturn all into pebbles, or beans, whatever the chronicles may say of\nprecedents.\n\nArabel did tell Mr. Kenyon (she told me) that 'Mr. Browning would soon\ngo away'--in reply to an observation of his, that 'he would not stay\nas I had company'; and altogether it was better,--the lamp made it\nlook late. But you do not appear in the least remorseful for being\ntempted of my black devil, my familiar, to ask such questions and\nleave me under such an impression--'mens conscia recti' too!!--\n\nAnd Mr. Kenyon will not come until next Monday perhaps. How am I? But\nI am too well to be asked about. Is it not a warm summer? The weather\nis as 'miraculous' as the rest, I think. It is you who are unwell and\nmake people uneasy, dearest. Say how you are, and promise me to do\nwhat is right and try to be better. The walking, the changing of the\nair, the leaving off Luria ... do what is right, I earnestly beseech\nyou. The other day, I heard of Tennyson being ill again, ... too ill\nto write a simple note to his friend Mr. Venables, who told George. A\nlittle more than a year ago, it would have been no worse a thing to me\nto hear of your being ill than to hear of his being ill!--How the\nworld has changed since then! To _me_, I mean.\n\nDid I say _that_ ever ... that 'I knew you must be tired?' And it was\nnot even so true as that the coming event threw its shadow before?\n\n_Thursday night._--I have begun on another sheet--I could not write\nhere what was in my heart--yet I send you this paper besides to show\nhow I was writing to you this morning. In the midst of it came a\nfemale friend of mine and broke the thread--the visible thread, that\nis.\n\nAnd now, even now, at this safe eight o'clock, I could not be safe\nfrom somebody, who, in her goodnature and my illfortune, must come and\nsit by me--and when my letter was come--'why wouldn't I read it? What\nwonderful politeness on my part.' She would not and could not consent\nto keep me from reading my letter. She would stand up by the fire\nrather.\n\nNo, no, three times no. Brummel got into the carriage before the\nRegent, ... (didn't he?) but I persisted in not reading my letter in\nthe presence of my friend. A notice on my punctiliousness may be put\ndown to-night in her 'private diary.' I kept the letter in my hand and\nonly read it with those sapient ends of the fingers which the\nmesmerists make so much ado about, and which really did seem to touch\na little of what was inside. Not _all_, however, happily for me! Or my\nfriend would have seen in my eyes what _they_ did not see.\n\nMay God bless you! Did I ever say that I had an objection to read the\nverses at six years old--or see the drawings either? I am reasonable,\nyou observe! Only, 'Pauline,' I must have _some day_--why not without\nthe emendations? But if you insist on them, I will agree to wait a\nlittle--if you promise _at last_ to let me see the book, which I will\nnot show. Some day, then! you shall not be vexed nor hurried for the\nday--some day. Am I not generous? And _I_ was 'precocious' too, and\nused to make rhymes over my bread and milk when I was nearly a baby\n... only really it was mere echo-verse, that of mine, and had nothing\nof mark or of indication, such as I do not doubt that yours had. I\nused to write of virtue with a large 'V,' and 'Oh Muse' with a harp,\nand things of that sort. At nine years old I wrote what I called 'an\nepic'--and at ten, various tragedies, French and English, which we\nused to act in the nursery. There was a French 'hexameter' tragedy on\nthe subject of Regulus--but I cannot even smile to think of it now,\nthere are so many grave memories--which time has made grave--hung\naround it. How I remember sitting in 'my house under the sideboard,'\nin the dining-room, concocting one of the soliloquies beginning\n\n    Que suis je? autrefois un général Remain:\n    Maintenant esclave de Carthage je souffre en vain.\n\nPoor Regulus!--Can't you conceive how fine it must have been\naltogether? And these were my 'maturer works,' you are to understand,\n... and 'the moon was bright at ten o'clock at night' years before. As\nto the gods and goddesses, I believed in them all quite seriously, and\nreconciled them to Christianity, which I believed in too after a\nfashion, as some greater philosophers have done--and went out one day\nwith my pinafore full of little sticks (and a match from the\nhousemaid's cupboard) to sacrifice to the blue-eyed Minerva who was my\nfavourite goddess on the whole because she cared for Athens. As soon\nas I began to doubt about my goddesses, I fell into a vague sort of\ngeneral scepticism, ... and though I went on saying 'the Lord's\nprayer' at nights and mornings, and the 'Bless all my kind friends'\nafterwards, by the childish custom ... yet I ended this liturgy with a\nsupplication which I found in 'King's Memoirs' and which took my fancy\nand met my general views exactly.... 'O God, if there be a God, save\nmy soul if I have a soul.' Perhaps the theology of many thoughtful\nchildren is scarcely more orthodox than this: but indeed it is\nwonderful to myself sometimes how I came to escape, on the whole, as\nwell as I have done, considering the commonplaces of education in\nwhich I was set, with strength and opportunity for breaking the bonds\nall round into liberty and license. Papa used to say ... 'Don't read\nGibbon's history--it's not a proper book. Don't read \"Tom Jones\"--and\nnone of the books on _this_ side, mind!' So I was very obedient and\nnever touched the books on _that_ side, and only read instead Tom\nPaine's 'Age of Reason,' and Voltaire's 'Philosophical Dictionary,'\nand Hume's 'Essays,' and Werther, and Rousseau, and Mary\nWollstonecraft ... books, which I was never suspected of looking\ntowards, and which were not 'on _that_ side' certainly, but which did\nas well.\n\nHow I am writing!--And what are the questions you did not answer? I\nshall remember them by the answers I suppose--but your letters always\nhave a fulness to me and I never seem to wish for what is not in them.\n\nBut this is the end _indeed_.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Night.\n           [In the same envelope with the preceding letter.]\n\nEver dearest--how you can write touching things to me; and how my\nwhole being vibrates, as a string, to these! How have I deserved from\nGod and you all that I thank you for? Too unworthy I am of all! Only,\nit was not, dearest beloved, what you feared, that was 'horrible,' it\nwas what you _supposed_, rather! It was a mistake of yours. And now we\nwill not talk of it any more.\n\n_Friday morning._--For the rest, I will think as you desire: but I\nhave thought a great deal, and there are certainties which I know; and\nI hope we _both_ are aware that nothing can be more hopeless than our\nposition in some relations and aspects, though you do not guess\nperhaps that the very approach to the subject is shut up by dangers,\nand that from the moment of a suspicion entering _one_ mind, we should\nbe able to meet never again in this room, nor to have intercourse by\nletter through the ordinary channel. I mean, that letters of yours,\naddressed to me here, would infallibly be stopped and destroyed--if\nnot opened. Therefore it is advisable to hurry on nothing--on these\ngrounds it is advisable. What should I do if I did not see you nor\nhear from you, without being able to feel that it was for your\nhappiness? What should I do for a month even? And then, I might be\nthrown out of the window or its equivalent--I look back shuddering to\nthe dreadful scenes in which poor Henrietta was involved who never\noffended as I have offended ... years ago which seem as present as\nto-day. She had forbidden the subject to be referred to until that\nconsent was obtained--and at a word she gave up all--at a word. In\nfact she had no true attachment, as I observed to Arabel at the\ntime--a child never submitted more meekly to a revoked holiday. Yet\nhow she was made to suffer. Oh, the dreadful scenes! and only because\nshe had seemed to feel a little. I told you, I think, that there was\nan obliquity--an eccentricity, or something beyond--on one class of\nsubjects. I hear how her knees were made to ring upon the floor, now!\nshe was carried out of the room in strong hysterics, and I, who rose\nup to follow her, though I was quite well at that time and suffered\nonly by sympathy, fell flat down upon my face in a fainting-fit.\nArabel thought I was dead.\n\nI have tried to forget it all--but now I must remember--and throughout\nour intercourse _I have remembered_. It is necessary to remember so\nmuch as to avoid such evils as are inevitable, and for this reason I\nwould conceal nothing from you. Do _you_ remember, besides, that there\ncan be no faltering on my 'part,' and that, if I should remain well,\nwhich is not proved yet, I will do for you what you please and as you\nplease to have it done. But there is time for considering!\n\nOnly ... as you speak of 'counsel,' I will take courage to tell you\nthat my _sisters know_, Arabel is in most of my confidences, and being\noften in the room with me, taxed me with the truth long ago--she saw\nthat I was affected from some cause--and I told her. We are as safe\nwith both of them as possible ... and they thoroughly understand that\n_if there should be any change it would not be your fault_.... I made\nthem understand that thoroughly. From themselves I have received\nnothing but the most smiling words of kindness and satisfaction (I\nthought I might tell you so much), they have too much tenderness for\nme to fail in it now. My brothers, it is quite necessary not to draw\ninto a dangerous responsibility. I have felt that from the beginning,\nand shall continue to feel it--though I hear and can observe that they\nare full of suspicions and conjectures, which are never unkindly\nexpressed. I told you once that we held hands the faster in this house\nfor the weight over our heads. But the absolute _knowledge_ would be\ndangerous for my brothers: with my sisters it is different, and I\ncould not continue to conceal from _them_ what they had under their\neyes; and then, Henrietta is in a like position. It was not wrong of\nme to let them know it?--no?\n\nYet of what consequence is all this to the other side of the question?\nWhat, if _you_ should give pain and disappointment where you owe such\npure gratitude. But we need not talk of these things now. Only you\nhave more to consider than _I_, I imagine, while the future comes on.\n\nDearest, let me have my way in one thing: let me see you on _Tuesday_\ninstead of on Monday--on Tuesday at the old hour. Be reasonable and\nconsider. Tuesday is almost as near as the day before it; and on\nMonday, I shall be hurried at first, lest Papa should be still in the\nhouse, (no harm, but an excuse for nervousness: and I can't quote a\nnoble Roman as you can, to the praise of my conscience!) and _you_\nwill be hurried at last, lest you should not be in time for Mr.\nForster. On the other hand, I will not let you be rude to the _Daily\nNews_, ... no, nor to the _Examiner_. Come on Tuesday, then, instead\nof Monday, and let us have the usual hours in a peaceable way,--and if\nthere is no obstacle,--that is, if Mr. Kenyon or some equivalent\nauthority should not take note of your being here on Tuesday, why you\ncan come again on the Saturday afterwards--I do not see the\ndifficulty. Are we agreed? On Tuesday, at three o'clock. Consider,\nbesides, that the Monday arrangement would hurry you in every manner,\nand leave you fagged for the evening--no, I will not hear of it. Not\non my account, not on yours!\n\nThink of me on Monday instead, and write before. Are not these two\nlawful letters? And do not they deserve an answer?\n\nMy life was ended when I knew you, and if I survive myself it is for\nyour sake:--_that_ resumes all my feelings and intentions in respect\nto you. No 'counsel' could make the difference of a grain of dust in\nthe balance. It _is so_, and not otherwise. If you changed towards me,\nit would be better for you I believe--and I should be only where I was\nbefore. While you do _not_ change, I look to you for my first\naffections and my first duty--and nothing but your bidding me, could\nmake me look away.\n\nIn the midst of this, Mr. Kenyon came and I felt as if I could not\ntalk to him. No--he does not 'see how it is.' He may have passing\nthoughts sometimes, but they do not stay long enough to produce--even\nan opinion. He asked if you had been here long.\n\nIt may be wrong and ungrateful, but I do wish sometimes that the world\nwere away--even the good Kenyon-aspect of the world.\n\nAnd so, once more--may God bless you!\n\n                                         I am wholly yours--\n\n_Tuesday_, remember! And say that you agree.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                              [Post-mark, January 17, 1846.]\n\nDid my own Ba, in the prosecution of her studies, get to a book on the\nforb--no, _un_forbidden shelf--wherein Voltaire pleases to say that\n'si Dieu n'existait pas, il faudrait l'inventer'? I feel, after\nreading these letters,--as ordinarily after seeing you, sweetest, or\nhearing from you,--that if _marriage_ did not exist, I should\ninfallibly _invent_ it. I should say, no words, no _feelings_ even,\ndo justice to the whole conviction and _religion_ of my soul--and\nthough they may be suffered to represent some one minute's phase of\nit, yet, in their very fulness and passion they do injustice to the\n_unrepresented, other minute's_, depth and breadth of love ... which\nlet my whole life (I would say) be devoted to telling and proving and\nexemplifying, if not in one, then in another way--let me have the\nplain palpable power of this; the assured time for this ... something\nof the satisfaction ... (but for the fantasticalness of the\nillustration) ... something like the earnestness of some suitor in\nChancery if he could once get Lord Lyndhurst into a room with him, and\nlock the door on them both, and know that his whole story _must_ be\nlistened to now, and the 'rights of it,'--dearest, the love unspoken\nnow you are to hear 'in all time of our tribulation, in all time of\nour wealth ... at the hour of death, and'--\n\nIf I did not _know_ this was so,--nothing would have been said, or\nsought for. Your friendship, the perfect pride in it, the wish for,\nand eager co-operation in, your welfare, all that is different, and,\nseen now, nothing.\n\nI will care for it no more, dearest--I am wedded to you now. I believe\nno human being could love you more--that thought consoles me for my\nown imperfection--for when _that_ does strike me, as so often it will,\nI turn round on my pursuing self, and ask 'What if it were a claim\nthen, what is in Her, demanded rationally, equitably, in return for\nwhat were in you--do you like _that_ way!'--And I do _not_, Ba--you,\neven, might not--when people everyday buy improveable ground, and\neligible sites for building, and don't want every inch filled up,\ncovered over, done to their hands! So take me, and make me what you\ncan and will--and though never to be _more_ yours, yet more _like_\nyou, I may and must be--Yes, indeed--best, only love!\n\nAnd am I not grateful to your sisters--entirely grateful for that\ncrowning comfort; it is 'miraculous,' too, if you please--for _you_\nshall know me by finger-tip intelligence or any art magic of old or\nnew times--but they do not see me, know me--and must moreover be\njealous of you, chary of you, as the daughters of Hesperus, of\nwonderers and wistful lookers up at the gold apple--yet instead of\n'rapidly levelling eager eyes'--they are indulgent? Then--shall I wish\ncapriciously they were _not_ your sisters, not so near you, that there\nmight be a kind of grace in loving them for it'--but what grace can\nthere be when ... yes, I will tell you--_no_, I will not--it is\nfoolish!--and it is _not_ foolish in me to love the table and chairs\nand vases in your room.\n\nLet me finish writing to-morrow; it would not become me to utter a\nword against the arrangement--and Saturday promised, too--but though\nall concludes against the early hour on Monday, yet--but this is\nwrong--on Tuesday it shall be, then,--thank you, dearest! you let me\nkeep up the old proper form, do you not?--I shall continue to thank,\nand be gratified &c. as if I had some untouched fund of thanks at my\ndisposal to cut a generous figure with on occasion! And so, now, for\nyour kind considerateness thank _you ... that I say_, which, God\nknows, _could_ not say, if I died ten deaths in one to do you good,\n'you are repaid'--\n\nTo-morrow I will write, and answer more. I am pretty well, and will go\nout to-day--to-night. My Act is done, and copied--I will bring it. Do\nyou see the _Athenæum_? By Chorley surely--and kind and satisfactory.\nI did not expect any notice for a long time--all that about the\n'mist,' 'unchanged manner' and the like is politic concession to the\nPowers that Be ... because he might tell me that and much more with\nhis own lips or unprofessional pen, and be thanked into the bargain,\nyet he does not. But I fancy he saves me from a rougher hand--the long\nextracts answer every purpose--\n\nThere is all to say yet--to-morrow!\n\nAnd ever, ever your own; God bless you!\n\n                                                          R.\n\nAdmire the clean paper.... I did not notice that I have been writing in\na desk where a candle fell! See the bottoms of the other pages!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Evening.\n                              [Post-mark, January 19, 1846.]\n\nYou may have seen, I put off all the weighty business part of the\nletter--but I shall do very little with it now. To be sure, a few\nwords will serve, because you understand me, and believe in _enough_\nof me. First, then, I am wholly satisfied, thoroughly made happy in\nyour assurance. I would build up an infinity of lives, if I could plan\nthem, one on the other, and all resting on you, on your word--I fully\nbelieve in it,--of my feeling, the gratitude, let there be no attempt\nto speak. And for 'waiting'; 'not hurrying',--I leave all with you\nhenceforth--all you say is most wise, most convincing.\n\nOn the saddest part of all,--silence. You understand, and I can\nunderstand through you. Do you know, that I never _used_ to dream\nunless indisposed, and rarely then--(of late I dream of you, but quite\nof late)--and _those_ nightmare dreams have invariably been of _one_\nsort. I stand by (powerless to interpose by a word even) and see the\ninfliction of tyranny on the unresisting man or beast (generally the\nlast)--and I wake just in time not to die: let no one try this kind of\nexperiment on me or mine! Though I have observed that by a felicitous\narrangement, the man with the whip puts it into use with an old horse\ncommonly. I once knew a fine specimen of the boilingly passionate,\ndesperately respectable on the Eastern principle that reverences a\nmadman--and this fellow, whom it was to be death to oppose, (some\nbloodvessel was to break)--he, once at a dinner party at which I was\npresent, insulted his wife (a young pretty simple believer in his\nawful immunities from the ordinary terms that keep men in\norder)--brought the tears into her eyes and sent her from the room ...\npurely to 'show off' in the eyes of his guests ... (all males,\nlaw-friends &c., he being a lawyer.) This feat accomplished, he, too,\nleft us with an affectation of compensating relentment, to 'just say a\nword and return'--and no sooner was his back to the door than the\nbiggest, stupidest of the company began to remark 'what a fortunate\nthing it was that Mr. So-and-so had such a submissive wife--not one of\nthe women who would resist--that is, attempt to resist--and so\nexasperate our gentleman into ... Heaven only knew what!' I said it\n_was_, in one sense, a fortunate thing; because one of these women,\nwithout necessarily being the lion-tressed Bellona, would richly give\nhim his desert, I thought--'Oh, indeed?' No--_this_ man was not to be\nopposed--wait, you might, till the fit was over, and then try what\nkind argument would do--and so forth to unspeakable nausea. Presently\nwe went up-stairs--there sate the wife with dried eyes, and a smile at\nthe tea-table--and by her, in all the pride of conquest, with her hand\nin his, our friend--disposed to be very good-natured of course. I\nlistened _arrectis auribus_, and in a minute he said he did not know\nsomebody I mentioned. I told him, _that_ I easily conceived--such a\nperson would never condescend to know _him_, &c., and treated him to\nevery consequence ingenuity could draw from that text--and at the end\nmarched out of the room; and the valorous man, who had sate like a\npost, got up, took a candle, followed me to the door, and only said in\nunfeigned wonder, 'What _can_ have possessed you, my _dear_ B?'--All\nwhich I as much expected beforehand, as that the above mentioned man\nof the whip keeps quiet in the presence of an ordinary-couraged dog.\nAll this is quite irrelevant to _the_ case--indeed, I write to get rid\nof the thought altogether. But I do hold it the most stringent duty of\nall who can, to stop a condition, a relation of one human being to\nanother which God never allowed to exist between Him and ourselves.\n_Trees_ live and die, if you please, and accept will for a law--but\nwith us, all commands surely refer to a previously-implanted\nconviction in ourselves of their rationality and justice. Or why\ndeclare that 'the Lord _is_ holy, just and good' unless there is\nrecognised and independent conception of holiness and goodness, to\nwhich the subsequent assertion is referable? 'You know what _holiness_\nis, what it is to be good? Then, He _is_ that'--not, '_that_ is\n_so_--because _he_ is that'; though, of course, when once the converse\nis demonstrated, this, too, follows, and may be urged for practical\npurposes. All God's urgency, so to speak, is on the _justice_ of his\njudgments, _rightness_ of his rule: yet why? one might ask--if one\ndoes believe that the rule _is_ his; why ask further?--Because, his is\na 'reasonable service,' once for all.\n\nUnderstand why I turn my thoughts in this direction. If it is indeed\nas you fear, and no endeavour, concession, on my part will avail,\nunder any circumstances--(and by endeavour, I mean all heart and soul\ncould bring the flesh to perform)--in that case, you will not come to\nme with a shadow past hope of chasing.\n\nThe likelihood is, I over frighten myself for you, by the involuntary\ncontrast with those here--you allude to them--if I went with this\nletter downstairs and said simply 'I want this taken to the direction\nto-night, and am unwell and unable to go, will you take it now?' my\nfather would not say a word, or rather would say a dozen cheerful\nabsurdities about his 'wanting a walk,' 'just having been wishing to\ngo out' &c. At night he sits studying my works--illustrating them (I\nwill bring you drawings to make you laugh)--and _yesterday_ I picked\nup a crumpled bit of paper ... 'his notion of what a criticism on this\nlast number ought to be,--none, that have appeared, satisfying\nhim!'--So judge of what he will say! And my mother loves me just as\nmuch more as must of necessity be.\n\nOnce more, understand all this ... for the clock scares me of a\nsudden--I meant to say more--far more.\n\nBut may God bless you ever--my own dearest, my Ba--\n\n                                         I am wholly your R.\n\n_(Tuesday)_",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                              [Post-mark, January 19, 1846.]\n\nYour letter came just after the hope of one had past--the latest\nSaturday post had gone, they said, and I was beginning to be as vexed\nas possible, looking into the long letterless Sunday. Then, suddenly\ncame the knock--the postman redivivus--just when it seemed so beyond\nhoping for--it was half past eight, observe, and there had been a post\nat nearly eight--suddenly came the knock, and your letter with it. Was\nI not glad, do you think?\n\nAnd you call the _Athenæum_ 'kind and satisfactory'? Well--I was angry\ninstead. To make us wait so long for an 'article' like _that_, was not\nover-kind certainly, nor was it 'satisfactory' to class your peculiar\nqualities with other contemporary ones, as if they were not peculiar.\nIt seemed to me cold and cautious, from the causes perhaps which you\nmention, but the extracts will work their own way with everybody who\nknows what poetry is, and for others, let the critic do his worst with\nthem. For what is said of 'mist' I have no patience because I who know\nwhen you are obscure and never think of denying it in some of your\nformer works, do hold that this last number is as clear and\nself-sufficing to a common understanding, as far as the expression and\nmedium goes, as any book in the world, and that Mr. Chorley was bound\nin verity to say so. If I except that one stanza, you know, it is to\nmake the general observation stronger. And then 'mist' is an infamous\nword for your kind of obscurity. You never _are_ misty, not even in\n'Sordello'--never vague. Your graver cuts deep sharp lines,\nalways--and there is an extra-distinctness in your images and\nthoughts, from the midst of which, crossing each other infinitely, the\ngeneral significance seems to escape. So that to talk of a 'mist,'\nwhen you are obscurest, is an impotent thing to do. Indeed it makes me\nangry.\n\nBut the suggested virtue of 'self-renunciation' only made me smile,\nbecause it is simply nonsense ... nonsense which proves itself to be\nnonsense at a glance. So genius is to renounce itself--_that_ is the\nnew critical doctrine, is it? Now is it not foolish? To recognize the\npoetical faculty of a man, and then to instruct him in\n'self-renunciation' in that very relation--or rather, to hint the\nvirtue of it, and hesitate the dislike of his doing otherwise? What\natheists these critics are after all--and how the old heathens\nunderstood the divinity of gifts better, beyond any comparison. We may\ntake shame to ourselves, looking back.\n\nNow, shall I tell you what I did yesterday? It was so warm, so warm,\nthe thermometer at 68 in this room, that I took it into my head to\ncall it April instead of January, and put on a cloak and walked\ndown-stairs into the drawing-room--walked, mind! Before, I was carried\nby one of my brothers,--even to the last autumn-day when I went out--I\nnever walked a step for fear of the cold in the passages. But\nyesterday it was so wonderfully warm, and I so strong besides--it was\na feat worthy of the day--and I surprised them all as much as if I had\nwalked out of the window instead. That kind dear Stormie, who with all\nhis shyness and awkwardness has the most loving of hearts in him, said\nthat he was '_so_ glad to see me'!\n\nWell!--setting aside the glory of it, it would have been as wise\nperhaps if I had abstained; our damp detestable climate reaches us\notherwise than by cold, and I am not quite as well as usual this\nmorning after an uncomfortable feverish night--not very unwell, mind,\nnor unwell at all in the least degree of consequence--and I tell you,\nonly to show how susceptible I really am still, though 'scarcely an\ninvalid,' say the complimenters.\n\nWhat a way I am from your letter--that letter--or seem to be\nrather--for one may think of one thing and yet go on writing\ndistrustedly of other things. So you are 'grateful' to my sisters ...\n_you_! Now I beseech you not to talk such extravagances; I mean such\nextravagances as words like these _imply_--and there are far worse\nwords than these, in the letter ... such as I need not put my finger\non; words which are sense on my lips, but no sense at all on yours,\nand which make me disquietedly sure that you are under an illusion.\nObserve!--_certainly_ I should not choose to have a '_claim_,' see!\nOnly, what I object to, in 'illusions,' 'miracles,' and things of that\nsort, is the want of continuity common to such. When Joshua caused the\nsun to stand still, it was not for a year even!--Ungrateful, I am!\n\nAnd 'pretty well' means 'not well' I am afraid--or I should be gladder\nstill of the new act. You will tell me on Tuesday what 'pretty well'\nmeans, and if your mother is better--or I may have a letter\nto-morrow--dearest! May God bless you!\n\nTo-morrow too, at half past three o'clock, how joyful I shall be that\nmy 'kind considerateness' decided not to receive you until Tuesday. My\nvery kind considerateness, which made me eat my dinner to-day!\n\n                                                    Your own\n\n                                                         BA.\n\nA hundred letters I have, by this last, ... to set against Napoleon's\nHundred Days--did you know _that_?\n\nSo much better I am to-night: it was nothing but a little chill from\nthe damp--the fog, you see!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                              [Post-mark, January 19, 1846.]\n\nLove, if you knew but how vexed I was, so very few minutes after my\nnote left last night; how angry with the unnecessary harshness into\nwhich some of the phrases might be construed--you would forgive me,\nindeed. But, when all is confessed and forgiven, the fact\nremains--that it would be the one trial I _know_ I should not be able\nto bear; the repetition of these 'scenes'--intolerable--not to be\nwritten of, even my mind _refuses_ to form a clear conception of them.\n\nMy own loved letter is come--and the news; of which the reassuring\npostscript lets the interrupted joy flow on again. Well, and I am not\nto be grateful for that; nor that you _do_ 'eat your dinner'? Indeed\nyou will be ingenious to prevent me! I fancy myself meeting you on\n'the stairs'--stairs and passages generally, and galleries (ah, thou\nindeed!) all, with their picturesque _accidents_, of landing-places,\nand spiral heights and depths, and sudden turns and visions of half\nopen doors into what Quarles calls 'mollitious chambers'--and above\nall, _landing-places_--they are my heart's delight--I would come upon\nyou unaware in a landing-place in my next dream! One day we may walk\non the galleries round and over the inner court of the Doges' Palace\nat Venice; and read, on tablets against the wall, how such an one was\nbanished for an 'enormous dig (intacco) into the public\ntreasure'--another for ... what you are not to know because his\nfriends have got chisels and chipped away the record of it--underneath\nthe 'giants' on their stands, and in the midst of the _cortile_ the\nbronze fountains whence the girls draw water.\n\nSo _you_ too wrote French verses?--Mine were of less lofty\nargument--one couplet makes me laugh now for the reason of its false\nquantity--I translated the Ode of Alcæus; and the last couplet ran\nthus....\n\n    Harmodius, et toi, cher Aristogiton!\n\n     *       *       *       *       *\n\n     *       *       *       *       *\n\n    Comme l'astre du jour, brillera votre nom!\n\nThe fact was, I could not bear to hurt my French Master's\nfeelings--who inveterately maltreated 'ai's and oi's' and in this\ninstance, an 'ei.' But 'Pauline' is altogether of a different sort of\nprecocity--you shall see it when I can master resolution to transcribe\nthe explanation which I know is on the fly-leaf of a copy here. Of\nthat work, the _Athenæum_ said [several words erased] now, what\noutrageous folly! I care, and you care, precisely nothing about its\nsayings and doings--yet here I talk!\n\nNow to you--Ba! When I go through sweetness to sweetness, at 'Ba' I\nstop last of all, and lie and rest. That is the quintessence of them\nall,--they all take colour and flavour from that. So, dear, dear Ba,\nbe glad as you can to see me to-morrow. God knows how I embalm every\nsuch day,--I do not believe that one of the _forty_ is confounded with\nanother in my memory. So, _that_ is gained and sure for ever. And of\nletters, this makes my 104th and, like Donne's Bride,\n\n              ... I take,\n    My jewels from their boxes; call\n    My Diamonds, Pearls, and Emeralds, and make\n    Myself a constellation of them all!\n\nBless you, my own Beloved!\n\nI am much better to-day--having been not so well yesterday--whence the\nnote to you, perhaps! I put that to your charity for construction. By\nthe way, let the foolish and needless story about my whilome friend be\nof this use, that it records one of the traits in that same generous\nlove, of me, I once mentioned, I remember--one of the points in his\ncharacter which, I told you, _would_ account, if you heard them, for\nmy parting company with a good deal of warmth of attachment to myself.\n\nWhat a day! But you do not so much care for rain, I think. My Mother\nis no worse, but still suffering sadly.\n\n                               Ever your own, dearest ever--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                              [Post-mark, January 22, 1846.]\n\nEver since I ceased to be with you--ever dearest,--have been with your\n'Luria,' if _that_ is ceasing to be with you--which it _is_, I feel at\nlast. Yet the new act is powerful and subtle, and very affecting, it\nseems to me, after a grave, suggested pathos; the reasoning is done on\nevery hand with admirable directness and adroitness, and poor Luria's\niron baptism under such a bright crossing of swords, most miserably\ncomplete. Still ... is he to die _so_? can you mean it? Oh--indeed I\nforesaw _that_--not a guess of mine ever touched such an end--and I\ncan scarcely resign myself to it as a necessity, even now ... I mean,\nto the act, as Luria's act, whether it is final or not--the act of\nsuicide being so unheroical. But you are a dramatic poet and right\nperhaps, where, as a didactic poet, you would have been wrong, ...\nand, after the first shock, I begin to see that your Luria is the man\nLuria and that his 'sun' lights him so far and not farther than so,\nand to understand the natural reaction of all that generous trust and\nhopefulness, what naturally it would be. Also, it is satisfactory that\nDomizia, having put her woman's part off to the last, should be too\nlate with it--it will be a righteous retribution. I had fancied that\nher object was to isolate him, ... to make his military glory and\nnational recompense ring hollowly to his ears, and so commend herself,\ndrawing back the veil.\n\nPuccio's scornful working out of the low work, is very finely given,\nI think, ... and you have 'a cunning right hand,' to lift up Luria\nhigher in the mind of your readers, by the very means used to pull\ndown his fortunes--you show what a man he is by the very talk of his\nrivals ... by his 'natural godship' over Puccio. Then Husain is nobly\ncharacteristic--I like those streaks of Moorish fire in his speeches.\n'Why 'twas all fighting' &c. ... _that_ passage perhaps is over-subtle\nfor a Husain--but too nobly right in the abstract to be altered, if it\nis so or not. Domizia talks philosophically besides, and how\neloquently;--and very noble she is where she proclaims\n\n    The angel in thee and rejects the sprites\n    That ineffectual crowd about his strength,\n    And mingle with his work and claim a share!--\n\nBut why not 'spirits' rather than 'sprites,' which has a different\nassociation by custom? 'Spirits' is quite short enough, it seems to\nme, for a last word--it sounds like a monosyllable that trembles--or\nthrills, rather. And, do you know, I agree with yourself a little when\nyou say (as did you _not_ say?) that some of the speeches--Domizia's\nfor instance--are too lengthy. I think I should like them to coil up\ntheir strength, here and there, in a few passages. Luria ... poor\nLuria ... is great and pathetic when he stands alone at last, and 'all\nhis waves have gone over him.' Poor Luria!--And now, I wonder where\nMr. Chorley will look, in this work,--along all the edges of the\nhills,--to find, or prove, his favourite 'mist!' On the glass of his\nown opera-lorgnon, perhaps:--shall we ask him to try _that_?\n\nBut first, I want to ask _you_ something--I have had it in my head a\nlong time, but it might as well have been in a box--and indeed if it\nhad been in the box with your letters, I should have remembered to\nspeak of it long ago. So now, at last, tell me--how do you write, O my\npoet? with steel pens, or Bramah pens, or goose-quills or\ncrow-quills?--Because I have a penholder which was given to me when I\nwas a child, and which I have used both then and since in the\nproduction of various great epics and immortal 'works,' until in these\nlatter years it has seemed to me too heavy, and I have taken into\nservice, instead of it, another two-inch-long instrument which makes\nMr. Kenyon laugh to look at--and so, my fancy has run upon your having\nthe heavier holder, which is not very heavy after all, and which will\nmake you think of me whether you choose it or not, besides being made\nof a splinter from the ivory gate of old, and therefore not unworthy\nof a true prophet. Will you have it, dearest? Yes--because you can't\nhelp it. When you come ... on Saturday!--\n\nAnd for 'Pauline,' ... I am satisfied with the promise to see it some\nday ... when we are in the isle of the sirens, or ready for wandering\nin the Doges' galleries. I seem to understand that you would really\nrather wish me not to see it now ... and as long as I _do_ see it! So\n_that shall_ be!--Am I not good now, and not a teazer? If there is any\npoetical justice in 'the seven worlds,' I shall have a letter\nto-night.\n\nBy the way, you owe me two letters by your confession. A hundred and\nfour of mine you have, and I, only a hundred and two of yours ...\nwhich is a 'deficit' scarcely creditable to me, (now is it?) when,\naccording to the law and ordinance, a woman's hundred and four letters\nwould take two hundred and eight at least, from the other side, to\njustify them. Well--I feel inclined to wring out the legal per centage\nto the uttermost farthing; but fall into a fit of gratitude,\nnotwithstanding, thinking of Monday, and how the second letter came\nbeyond hope. Always better, you are, than I guess you to be,--and it\nwas being _best_, to write, as you did, for me to hear twice on one\nday!--best and dearest!\n\nBut the first letter was not what you feared--I know you too well not\nto know how that letter was written and with what intention. _Do\nyou_, on the other hand, endeavour to comprehend how there may be an\neccentricity and obliquity in certain relations and on certain\nsubjects, while the general character stands up worthily of esteem and\nregard--even of yours. Mr. Kenyon says broadly that it is\nmonomania--neither more nor less. Then the principle of passive filial\nobedience is held--drawn (and quartered) from Scripture. He _sees_ the\nlaw and the gospel on his side. Only the other day, there was a\nsetting forth of the whole doctrine, I hear, down-stairs--'passive\nobedience, and particularly in respect to marriage.' One after the\nother, my brothers all walked out of the room, and there was left for\nsole auditor, Captain Surtees Cook, who had especial reasons for\nsitting it out against his will,--so he sate and asked 'if children\nwere to be considered slaves' as meekly as if he were asking for\ninformation. I could not help smiling when I heard of it. He is just\n_succeeding_ in obtaining what is called an 'adjutancy,' which, with\nthe half pay, will put an end to many anxieties.\n\nDearest--when, in the next dream, you meet me in the 'landing-place,'\ntell me why I am to stand up to be reviewed again. What a fancy,\n_that_ is of yours, for 'full-lengths'--and what bad policy, if a\nfancy, to talk of it so! because you would have had the glory and\nadvantage, and privilege, of seeing me on my feet twenty times before\nnow, if you had not impressed on me, in some ineffable manner, that to\nstand on my head would scarcely be stranger. Nevertheless you shall\nhave it your own way, as you have everything--which makes you so very,\nvery, exemplarily submissive, you know!\n\nMr. Kenyon does not come--puts it off to _Saturday_ perhaps.\n\nThe _Daily News_ I have had a glance at. A weak leading article, I\nthought ... and nothing stronger from Ireland:--but enough\nadvertisements to promise a long future. What do you think? or have\nyou not seen the paper? No broad principles laid down. A mere\nnewspaper-support of the 'League.'\n\nMay God bless you. Say how you are--and _do_ walk, and 'care' for\nyourself,\n\n                                       and, so, for your own\n\n                                            _Ba_.\n\nHave I expressed to you at all how 'Luria' impresses _me_ more and\nmore? You shall see the 'remarks' with the other papers--the details\nof what strikes me.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n                              [Post-mark, January 22, 1846.]\n\nBut you did _not_ get the letter last evening--no, for all my good\nintentions--because somebody came over in the morning and forced me to\ngo out ... and, perhaps, I _knew_ what was coming, and had all my\nthoughts _there_, that is, _here_ now, with my own letters from you. I\nthink so--for this punishment, I will tell you, came for some sin or\nother last night. I woke--late, or early--and, in one of those lucid\nmoments when all things are thoroughly _perceived_,--whether suggested\nby some forgotten passage in the past sleep itself, I don't know--but\nI seem to _apprehend_, comprehend entirely, for the first time, what\nwould happen if I lost you--the whole sense of that _closed door_ of\nCatarina's came on me at once, and it was _I_ who said--not as quoting\nor adapting another's words, but spontaneously, unavoidably, '_In that\ndoor, you will not enter, I have_'.... And, dearest, the\n\nUnwritten it must remain.\n\nWhat is on the other leaf, no ill-omen, after all,--because I\nstrengthened myself against a merely imaginary evil--as I do always;\nand _thus_--I know I never can lose you,--you surely are more mine,\nthere is less for the future to give or take away than in the\nordinary cases, where so much less is known, explained, possessed, as\nwith us. Understand for me, my dearest--\n\nAnd do you think, sweet, that there _is_ any free movement of my soul\nwhich your penholder is to secure? Well, try,--it will be yours by\nevery right of discovery--and I, for my part, will religiously report\nto you the first time I think of you 'which, but for your present I\nshould not have done'--or is it not a happy, most happy way of\nensuring a better fifth act to Luria than the foregoing? See the\nabsurdity I write--when it will be more probably the ruin of the\nwhole--for was it not observed in the case of a friend of mine once,\nwho wrote his own part in a piece for private theatricals, and had\nends of his own to serve in it,--that he set to work somewhat after\nthis fashion: 'Scene 1st. A breakfast chamber--Lord and Lady A. at\ntable--Lady A./ No more coffee my dear?--Lord A./ One more cup!\n(_Embracing her_). Lady A./ I was thinking of trying the ponies in the\nPark--are you engaged? Lord A./ Why, there's that bore of a Committee\nat the House till 2. (_Kissing her hand_).' And so forth, to the\nastonishment of the auditory, who did not exactly see the 'sequitur'\nin either instance. Well, dearest, whatever comes of it, the 'aside,'\nthe bye-play, the digression, will be the best, and only true business\nof the piece. And though I must smile at your notion of securing\n_that_ by any fresh appliance, mechanical or spiritual, yet I do thank\nyou, dearest, thank you from my heart indeed--(and I write with\nBramahs _always_--not being able to make a pen!)\n\nIf you have gone so far with 'Luria,' I fancy myself nearly or\naltogether safe. I must not tell you, but I wished just these feelings\nto be in your mind about Domizia, and the death of Luria: the last act\nthrows light back on all, I hope. Observe only, that Luria _would_\nstand, if I have plied him effectually with adverse influences, in\nsuch a position as to render any other end impossible without the hurt\nto Florence which his religion is, to avoid inflicting--passively\nawaiting, for instance, the sentence and punishment to come at night,\nwould as surely inflict it as taking part with her foes. His aim is to\nprevent the harm she will do herself by striking him, so he moves\naside from the blow. But I know there is very much to improve and\nheighten in this fourth act, as in the others--but the right aspect of\nthings seems obtained and the rest of the work is plain and easy.\n\nI am obliged to leave off--the rest to-morrow--and then dear,\nSaturday! I love you utterly, my own best, dearest--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Night.\n                              [Post-mark, January 23, 1846.]\n\nYes, I understand your 'Luria'--and there is to be more light; and I\nopen the window to the east and wait for it--a little less gladly than\nfor _you_ on Saturday, dearest. In the meanwhile you have 'lucid\nmoments,' and 'strengthen' yourself into the wisdom of learning to\nlove me--and, upon consideration, it does not seem to be so hard after\nall ... there is 'less for the future to take away' than you had\nsupposed--so _that_ is the way? Ah, 'these lucid moments, in which all\nthings are thoroughly _perceived_';--what harm they do me!--And I am\nto 'understand for you,' you say!--Am I?\n\nOn the other side, and to make the good omen complete, I remembered,\nafter I had sealed my last letter, having made a confusion between the\nivory and horn gates, the gates of false and true visions, as I am apt\nto do--and my penholder belongs to the ivory gate, ... as you will\nperceive in your lucid moments--poor holder! But, as you forget me on\nWednesdays, the post testifying, ... the sinecure may not be quite so\ncertain as the Thursday's letter says. And _I_ too, in the meanwhile,\ngrow wiser, ... having learnt something which you cannot do,--you of\nthe 'Bells and Pomegranates': _You cannot make a pen._ Yesterday I\nlooked round the world in vain for it.\n\nMr. Kenyon does not come--_will_ not perhaps until Saturday! Which\nreminds me--Mr. Kenyon told me about a year ago that he had been\npainfully employed that morning in _parting_ two--dearer than\nfriends--and he had done it he said, by proving to either, that he or\nshe was likely to mar the prospects of the other. 'If I had spoken to\neach, of himself or herself,' he said, 'I _never could have done it_.'\n\nWas not _that_ an ingenious cruelty? The remembrance rose up in me\nlike a ghost, and made me ask you once to promise what you promised\n... (you recollect?) because I could not bear to be stabbed with my\nown dagger by the hand of a third person ... _so_! When people have\nlucid moments themselves, you know, it is different.\n\nAnd _shall_ I indeed have a letter to-morrow? Or, not having the\npenholder yet, will you....\n\nGoodnight. May God bless you--\n\n                                        Ever and wholly your\n\n                                             BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, January 23, 1846.]\n\nNow, of all perverse interpretations that ever were and never ought to\nhave been, commend me to this of Ba's--after I bade her generosity\n'understand me,' too!--which meant, 'let her pick out of my disjointed\nsentences a general meaning, if she can,--which I very well know their\nimperfect utterance would not give to one unsupplied with the key of\nmy whole heart's-mystery'--and Ba, with the key in her hand, to\npretend and poke feathers and penholders into the key-hole, and\ncomplain that the wards are wrong! So--when the poor scholar, one has\nread of, uses not very dissimilar language and argument--who being\nthreatened with the deprivation of his Virgil learnt the Æneid by\nheart and then said 'Take what you can now'!--_that_ Ba calls\n'feeling the loss would not be so hard after all'!--_I_ do not, at\nleast. And if at any future moment I should again be visited--as I\nearnestly desire may never be the case--with a sudden consciousness of\nthe entire inutility of all earthly love (since of _my_ love) to hold\nits object back from the decree of God, if such should call it away;\none of those known facts which, for practical good, we treat as\nsupremely common-place, but which, like those of the uncertainty of\nlife--the very existence of God, I may say--if they were _not_\ncommon-place, and could they be thoroughly apprehended (except in the\nchance minutes which make one grow old, not the mere years)--the\nbusiness of the world would cease; but when you find Chaucer's graver\nat his work of 'graving smale seles' by the sun's light, you know that\nthe sun's self could not have been _created_ on that day--do you\n'understand' that, Ba? And when I am with you, or here or writing or\nwalking--and perfectly happy in the sunshine of you, I very well know\nI am no wiser than is good for me and that there seems no harm in\nfeeling it impossible this should change, or fail to go on increasing\ntill this world ends and we are safe, I with you, for ever. But\nwhen--if only _once_, as I told you, recording it for its very\nstrangeness, I _do_ feel--in a flash--that words are words, and could\nnot alter _that_ decree ... will you tell me how, after all, that\nconviction and the true woe of it are better met than by the as\nthorough conviction that, for one blessing, the extreme woe is\n_impossible_ now--that you _are_, and have been, _mine_, and _me_--one\nwith me, never to be parted--so that the complete separation not being\nto be thought of, such an incomplete one as is yet in Fate's power may\nbe the less likely to attract her notice? And, dearest, in all\nemergencies, see, I go to you for help; for your gift of better\ncomfort than is found in myself. Or ought I, if I could, to add one\nmore proof to the Greek proverb 'that the half is greater than the\nwhole'--and only love you for myself (it is absurd; but if I _could_\ndisentwine you from my soul in that sense), only see my own will, and\ngood (not in _your_ will and good, as I now see them and shall ever\nsee) ... should you say I _did_ love you then? Perhaps. And it would\nhave been better for me, I know--I should not have _written_ this or\nthe like--there being no post in the Siren's isle, as you will see.\n\nAnd the end of the whole matter is--what? Not by any means what my Ba\nexpects or ought to expect; that I say with a flounce 'Catch me\nblotting down on paper, again, the first vague impressions in the\nweakest words and being sure I have only to bid her\n\"understand\"!--when I can get \"Blair on Rhetoric,\" and the additional\nchapter on the proper conduct of a letter'! On the contrary I tell\nyou, Ba, my own heart's dearest, I will provoke you tenfold worse;\nwill tell you all that comes uppermost, and what frightens me or\nreassures me, in moments lucid or opaque--and when all the pen-stumps\nand holders refuse to open the lock, out will come the key perforce;\nand once put that knowledge--of the entire love and worship of my\nheart and soul--to its proper use, and all will be clear--tell me\nto-morrow that it will be clear when I call you to account and exact\nstrict payment for every word and phrase and full-stop and partial\nstop, and no stop at all, in this wicked little note which got so\ntreacherously the kisses and the thankfulness--written with no\npenholder that is to belong to me, I hope--but with the feather,\npossibly, which Sycorax wiped the dew from, as Caliban remembered when\nhe was angry! All but--(that is, all was wrong but)--to be just ...\nthe old, dear, so dear ending which makes my heart beat now as at\nfirst ... and so, pays for all! Wherefore, all is right again, is it\nnot? and you are my own priceless Ba, my very own--and I will have\nyou, if you like that style, and want you, and must have you every day\nand all day long--much less see you to-morrow _stand_--\n\n... Now, there breaks down my new spirit--and, shame or no, I must\npray you, in the old way, _not_ to _receive me standing_--I should not\nremain master of myself I do believe!\n\nYou have put out of my head all I intended to write--and now I slowly\nbegin to remember the matters they seem strangely unimportant--that\npoor impotency of a Newspaper! No--nothing of that for the present.\nTo-morrow my dearest! Ba's first comment--'_To-morrow?_ _To-day_ is\ntoo soon, it seems--yet it is wise, perhaps, to avoid the satiety &c.\n&c. &c. &c. &c.'\n\nDoes she feel how I kissed that comment back on her dear self as fit\npunishment?",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, January 26, 1846.]\n\nI must begin by invoking my own stupidity! To forget after all the\npenholder! I had put it close beside me too on the table, and never\nonce thought of it afterwards from first to last--just as I should do\nif I had a common-place book, the memoranda all turning to\nobliviscenda as by particular contact. So I shall send the holder with\nMiss Martineau's books which you can read or not as you like ... they\nhave beauty in passages ... but, trained up against the wall of a set\ndesign, want room for branching and blossoming, great as her skill is.\nI like her 'Playfellow' stories twice as well. Do you know _them_?\nWritten for children, and in such a fine heroic child-spirit as to be\ntoo young and too old for nobody. Oh, and I send you besides a most\nfrightful extract from an American magazine sent to me yesterday ...\nno, the day before ... on the subject of mesmerism--and you are to\nunderstand, if you please, that the Mr. Edgar Poe who stands committed\nin it, is my dedicator ... whose dedication I forgot, by the way, with\nthe rest--so, while I am sending, you shall have his poems with his\nmesmeric experience and decide whether the outrageous compliment to\nE.B.B. or the experiment on M. Vandeleur [Valdemar] goes furthest to\nprove him mad. There is poetry in the man, though, now and then, seen\nbetween the great gaps of bathos.... 'Politian' will make you\nlaugh--as the 'Raven' made _me_ laugh, though with something in it\nwhich accounts for the hold it took upon people such as Mr. N.P.\nWillis and his peers--it was sent to me from _four_ different quarters\nbesides the author himself, before its publication in this form, and\nwhen it had only a newspaper life. Some of the other lyrics have power\nof a less questionable sort. For the author, I do not know him at\nall--never heard from him nor wrote to him--and in my opinion, there\nis more faculty shown in the account of that horrible mesmeric\nexperience (mad or not mad) than in his poems. Now do read it from the\nbeginning to the end. That '_going out_' of the hectic, struck me very\nmuch ... and the writhing _away_ of the upper lip. Most\nhorrible!--Then I believe so much of mesmerism, as to give room for\nthe full acting of the story on me ... without absolutely giving full\ncredence to it, understand.\n\nEver dearest, you could not think me in earnest in that letter? It was\nbecause I understood you so perfectly that I felt at liberty for the\njesting a little--for had I not thought of _that_ before, myself, and\nwas I not reproved for speaking of it, when I said that I was content,\nfor my part, even _so_? Surely you remember--and I should not have\nsaid it if I had not felt with you, felt and known, that 'there is,\nwith us, less for the future to give or take away than in the ordinary\ncases.' So much less! All the happiness I have known has come to me\nthrough you, and it is enough to live for or die in--therefore living\nor dying I would thank God, and use that word '_enough_' ... being\nyours in life and death. And always understanding that if either of us\nshould go, you must let it be this one here who was nearly gone when\nshe knew you, since I could not bear--\n\nNow see if it is possible to write on this subject, unless one laughs\nto stop the tears. I was more wise on Friday.\n\nLet me tell you instead of my sister's affairs, which are so publicly\ntalked of in this house that there is no confidence to be broken in\nrespect to them--yet my brothers only see and hear, and are told\nnothing, to keep them as clear as possible from responsibility. I may\nsay of Henrietta that her only fault is, her virtues being written in\nwater--I know not of one other fault. She has too much softness to be\nable to say 'no' in the right place--and thus, without the slightest\nlevity ... perfectly blameless in that respect, ... she says half a\nyes or a quarter of a yes, or a yes in some sort of form, too\noften--but I will tell you. Two years ago, three men were loving her,\nas they called it. After a few months, and the proper quantity of\ninterpretations, one of them consoled himself by giving nick-names to\nhis rivals. Perseverance and Despair he called them, and so, went up\nto the boxes to see out the rest of the play. Despair ran to a crisis,\nwas rejected in so many words, but appealed against the judgment and\nhad his claim admitted--it was all silence and mildness on each side\n... a tacit gaining of ground,--Despair 'was at least a gentleman,'\nsaid my brothers. On which Perseverance came on with violent\nre-iterations,--insisted that she loved him without knowing it, or\n_should_--elbowed poor Despair into the open streets, who being a\ngentleman wouldn't elbow again--swore that 'if she married another he\nwould wait till she became a widow, trusting to Providence' ... _did_\nwait every morning till the head of the house was out, and sate day by\nday, in spite of the disinclination of my sisters and the rudeness of\nall my brothers, four hours in the drawing-room ... let himself be\nrefused once a week and sate all the longer ... allowed everybody in\nthe house (and a few visitors) to see and hear him in fits of\nhysterical sobbing, and sate on unabashed, the end being that he sits\nnow sole regnant, my poor sister saying softly, with a few tears of\nremorse for her own instability, that she is 'taken by storm and\ncannot help it.' I give you only the _résumé_ of this military\nmovement--and though I seem to smile, which it was impossible to avoid\nat some points of the evidence as I heard it from first one person and\nthen another, yet I am woman enough rather to be glad that the\ndecision is made _so_. He is sincerely attached to her, I believe; and\nthe want of refinement and sensibility (for he understood her\naffections to be engaged to another at one time) is covered in a\nmeasure by the earnestness,--and justified too by the event--everybody\nbeing quite happy and contented, even to Despair, who has a new horse\nand takes lessons in music.\n\nThat's love--is it not? And that's my answer (if you look for it) to\nthe question you asked me yesterday.\n\nYet do not think that I am turning it all to game. I could not do so\nwith any real earnest sentiment ... I never could ... and now least,\nand with my own sister whom I love so. One may smile to oneself and\nyet wish another well--and so I smile to _you_--and it is all safe\nwith you I know. He is a second or third cousin of ours and has golden\nopinions from all his friends and fellow-officers--and for the rest,\nmost of these men are like one another.... I never could see the\ndifference between fuller's earth and common clay, among them all.\n\nWhat do you think he has said since--to _her_ too?--'I always\npersevere about everything. Once I began to write a farce--which they\ntold me was as bad as could be. Well!--I persevered!--_I finished\nit_.' Perfectly unconscious, both he and she were of there being\nanything mal à propos in _that_--and no kind of harm was meant,--only\nit expresses the man.\n\nDearest--it had better be Thursday I think--_our_ day! I was showing\nto-day your father's drawings,--and my brothers, and Arabel besides,\nadmired them very much on the right grounds. Say how you are. You did\nnot seem to me to answer frankly this time, and I was more than half\nuneasy when you went away. Take exercise, dear, dearest ... think of\nme enough for it,--and do not hurry 'Luria.' May God bless you!\n\n                                                    Your own\n\n                                                         _Ba._",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Evening.\n                              [Post-mark, January 26, 1846.]\n\nI will not try and write much to-night, dearest, for my head gives a\nlittle warning--and I have so much to think of!--spite of my penholder\nbeing kept back from me after all! Now, ought I to have asked for it?\nOr did I not seem grateful enough at the promise? This last would be a\ncharacteristic reason, seeing that I reproached myself with feeling\n_too_ grateful for the 'special symbol'--the 'essential meaning' of\nwhich was already in my soul. Well then, I will--I do pray for\nit--next time; and I will keep it for that one yesterday and all its\nmemories--and it shall bear witness against me, if, on the Siren's\nisle, I grow forgetful of Wimpole Street. And when is 'next time' to\nbe--Wednesday or Thursday? When I look back on the strangely steady\nwidening of my horizon--how no least interruption has occurred to\nvisits or letters--oh, care _you_, sweet--care for us both!\n\nThat remark of your sister's delights me--you remember?--that the\nanger would not be so formidable. I have exactly the fear of\nencountering _that_, which the sense of having to deal with a ghost\nwould induce: there's no striking at it with one's partizan. Well, God\nis above all! It is not my fault if it so happens that by returning my\nlove you make me exquisitely blessed; I believe--more than hope, I am\n_sure_ I should do all I ever _now_ can do, if you were never to know\nit--that is, my love for you was in the first instance its own\nreward--if one must use such phrases--and if it were possible for\nthat ... not _anger_, which is of no good, but that _opposition_--that\nadverse will--to show that your good would be attained by the--\n\nBut it would need to be _shown_ to me. You have said thus to me--in\nthe very last letter, indeed. But with me, or any _man_, the instincts\nof happiness develop themselves too unmistakably where there is\nanything like a freedom of will. The man whose heart is set on being\nrich or influential after the worldly fashion, may be found far enough\nfrom the attainment of either riches or influence--but he will be in\nthe presumed way to them--pumping at the pump, if he is really anxious\nfor water, even though the pump be dry--but not sitting still by the\ndusty roadside.\n\nI believe--first of all, you--but when that is done, and I am allowed\nto call your heart _mine_,--I cannot think you would be happy if\nparted from me--and _that_ belief, coming to add to my own feeling in\n_that_ case. So, this will _be_--I trust in God.\n\nIn life, in death, I am your own, _my_ own! My head has got well\nalready! It is so slight a thing, that I make such an ado about! Do\nnot reply to these bodings--they are gone--they seem absurd! All steps\nsecured but the last, and that last the easiest! Yes--far easiest! For\nfirst you had to be created, only that; and then, in my time; and\nthen, not in Timbuctoo but Wimpole Street, and then ... the strange\nhedge round the sleeping Palace keeping the world off--and then ...\nall was to begin, all the difficulty only _begin_:--and now ... see\nwhere is reached! And I kiss you, and bless you, my dearest, in\nearnest of the end!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                              [Post-mark, January 27, 1846.]\n\nYou have had my letter and heard about the penholder. Your fancy of\n'not seeming grateful enough,' is not wise enough for _you_, dearest;\nwhen you know that _I_ know your common fault to be the undue\nmagnifying of everything that comes from me, and I am always\ncomplaining of it outwardly and inwardly. That suddenly I should set\nabout desiring you to be more grateful,--even for so great a boon as\nan old penholder,--would be a more astounding change than any to be\nsought or seen in a prime minister.\n\nAnother mistake you made concerning Henrietta and her opinion--and\nthere's no use nor comfort in leaving you in it. Henrietta says that\nthe 'anger would not be so formidable after all'! Poor dearest\nHenrietta, who trembles at the least bending of the brows ... who has\nless courage than I, and the same views of the future! What she\nreferred to, was simply the infrequency of the visits. 'Why was I\nafraid,' she said--'where was the danger? who would be the\n_informer_?'--Well! I will not say any more. It is just natural that\nyou, in your circumstances and associations, should be unable to see\nwhat I have seen from the beginning--only you will not hereafter\nreproach me, in the most secret of your thoughts, for not having told\nyou plainly. If I could have told you with greater plainness I should\nblame myself (and I do not) because it is not an opinion I have, but a\nperception. I see, I know. The result ... the end of all ... perhaps\nnow and then I see _that_ too ... in the 'lucid moments' which are not\nthe happiest for anybody. Remember, in all cases, that I shall not\nrepent of any part of our past intercourse; and that, therefore, when\nthe time for decision comes, you will be free to look at the question\nas if you saw it then for the first moment, without being hampered by\nconsiderations about 'all those yesterdays.'\n\nFor _him_ ... he would rather see me dead at his foot than yield the\npoint: and he will say so, and mean it, and persist in the meaning.\n\nDo you ever wonder at me ... that I should write such things, and have\nwritten others so different? _I have thought that in myself very\noften._ Insincerity and injustice may seem the two ends, while I\noccupy the straight betwixt two--and I should not like you to doubt\nhow this may be! Sometimes I have begun to show you the truth, and\ntorn the paper; I _could_ not. Yet now again I am borne on to tell\nyou, ... to save you from some thoughts which you cannot help perhaps.\n\nThere has been no insincerity--nor is there injustice. I believe, I am\ncertain, I have loved him better than the rest of his children. I have\nheard the fountain within the rock, and my heart has struggled in\ntowards him through the stones of the rock ... thrust off ... dropping\noff ... turning in again and clinging! Knowing what is excellent in\nhim well, loving him as my only parent left, and for himself dearly,\nnotwithstanding that hardness and the miserable 'system' which made\nhim appear harder still, I have loved him and been proud of him for\nhis high qualities, for his courage and fortitude when he bore up so\nbravely years ago under the worldly reverses which he yet felt\nacutely--more than you and I could feel them--but the fortitude was\nadmirable. Then came the trials of love--then, I was repulsed too\noften, ... made to suffer in the suffering of those by my side ...\ndepressed by petty daily sadnesses and terrors, from which it is\npossible however for an elastic affection to rise again as past. Yet\nmy friends used to say 'You look broken-spirited'--and it was true. In\nthe midst, came my illness,--and when I was ill he grew gentler and\nlet me draw nearer than ever I had done: and after that great stroke\n... you _know_ ... though _that_ fell in the middle of a storm of\nemotion and sympathy on my part, which drove clearly against him, God\nseemed to strike our hearts together by the shock; and I was grateful\nto him for not saying aloud what I said to myself in my agony, '_If it\nhad not been for you_'...! And comparing my self-reproach to what I\nimagined his self-reproach must certainly be (for if _I_ had loved\nselfishly, _he_ had not been kind), I felt as if I could love and\nforgive him for two ... (I knowing that serene generous departed\nspirit, and seeming left to represent it) ... and I did love him\nbetter than all those left to _me_ to love in the world here. I proved\na little my affection for him, by coming to London at the risk of my\nlife rather than diminish the comfort of his home by keeping a part of\nmy family away from him. And afterwards for long and long he spoke to\nme kindly and gently, and of me affectionately and with too much\npraise; and God knows that I had as much joy as I imagined myself\ncapable of again, in the sound of his footstep on the stairs, and of\nhis voice when he prayed in this room; my best hope, as I have told\nhim since, being, to die beneath his eyes. Love is so much to me\nnaturally--it is, to all women! and it was so much to _me_ to feel\nsure at last that _he_ loved me--to forget all blame--to pull the\nweeds up from that last illusion of life:--and this, till the\nPisa-business, which threw me off, far as ever, again--farther than\never--when George said 'he could not flatter me' and I dared not\nflatter myself. But do _you_ believe that I never wrote what I did not\nfeel: I never did. And I ask one kindness more ... do not notice what\nI have written here. Let it pass. We can alter nothing by ever so many\nwords. After all, he is the victim. He isolates himself--and now and\nthen he feels it ... the cold dead silence all round, which is the\neffect of an incredible system. If he were not stronger than most men,\nhe could not bear it as he does. With such high qualities too!--so\nupright and honourable--you would esteem him, you would like him, I\nthink. And so ... dearest ... let _that_ be the last word.\n\nI dare say you have asked yourself sometimes, why it was that I never\nmanaged to draw you into the house here, so that you might make your\nown way. Now _that_ is one of the things impossible to me. I have not\ninfluence enough for _that_. George can never invite a friend of his\neven. Do you see? The people who do come here, come by particular\nlicense and association ... Capt. Surtees Cook being one of them.\nOnce ... when I was in high favour too ... I asked for Mr. Kenyon to\nbe invited to dinner--he an old college friend, and living close by\nand so affectionate to me always--I felt that he must be hurt by the\nneglect, and asked. _It was in vain._ Now, you see--\n\nMay God bless you always! I wrote all my spirits away in this letter\nyesterday, and kept it to finish to-day ... being yours every day,\nglad or sad, ever beloved!--\n\n                                                    Your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                              [Post-mark, January 27, 1846.]\n\nWhy will you give me such unnecessary proofs of your goodness? Why not\nleave the books for me to take away, at all events? No--you must fold\nup, and tie round, and seal over, and be at all the pains in the world\nwith those hands I see now. But you only threaten; say you 'shall\nsend'--as yet, and nothing having come, I do pray you, if not too\nlate, to save me the shame--add to the gratitude you never can now, I\nthink ... only _think_, for you are a siren, and I don't know\ncertainly to what your magic may not extend. Thus, in not so important\na matter, I should have said, the day before yesterday, that no letter\nfrom you could make my heart rise within me, more than of old ...\nunless it should happen to be of twice the ordinary thickness ... and\n_then_ there's a fear at first lest the over-running of my dealt-out\nmeasure should be just a note of Mr. Kenyon's, for instance! But\nyesterday the very seal began with 'Ba'--Now, always seal with that\nseal my letters, dearest! Do you recollect Donne's pretty lines about\nseals?\n\n    Quondam fessus Amor loquens Amato,\n    Tot et tanta loquens amica, scripsit:\n    Tandem et fessa manus dedit Sigillum.\n\nAnd in his own English,\n\n    When love, being weary, made an end\n    Of kind expressions to his friend,\n    He writ; when hand could write no more,\n    He gave the seal--and so left o'er.\n\n(By the way, what a mercy that he never noticed the jingle _in posse_\nof ending 'expressions' and beginning 'impressions.')\n\nHow your account of the actors in the 'Love's Labour Lost' amused me!\nI rather like, though, the notion of that steady, business-like\npursuit of love under difficulties; and the _sobbing_ proves something\nsurely! Serjt. Talfourd says--is it not he who says it?--'All tears\nare not for sorrow.' I should incline to say, from my own feeling,\nthat no tears were. They only express joy in me, or sympathy with\njoy--and so is it with you too, I should think.\n\nUnderstand that I do _not_ disbelieve in Mesmerism--I only object to\ninsufficient evidence being put forward as quite irrefragable. I keep\nan open sense on the subject--ready to be instructed; and should have\nrefused such testimony as Miss Martineau's if it had been adduced in\nsupport of something I firmly believed--'non _tali_ auxilio'--indeed,\nso has truth been harmed, and only so, from the beginning. So, I shall\nread what you bid me, and learn all I can.\n\nI am not quite so well this week--yesterday some friends came early\nand kept me at home--for which I seem to suffer a little; less,\nalready, than in the morning--so I will go out and walk away the\nwhirring ... which is all the mighty ailment. As for 'Luria' I have\nnot looked at it since I saw you--which means, saw you in the body,\nbecause last night I saw you; as I wonder if you know!\n\nThursday, and again I am with you--and you will forget nothing ... how\nthe farewell is to be returned? Ah, my dearest, sweetest Ba; how\nentirely I love you!\n\n                                    May God bless you ever--\n\n                                         R.\n\n2. p.m. Your parcel arrives ... the penholder; now what shall I say?\nHow am I to use so fine a thing even in writing to you? I will give it\nyou again in our Isle, and meantime keep it where my other treasures\nare--my letters and my dear ringlet.\n\nThank you--all I can thank.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                              [Post-mark, January 28, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest--I will say, as you desire, nothing on that subject--but\nthis strictly for myself: you engaged me to consult my own good in the\nkeeping or breaking our engagement; not _your_ good as it might even\nseem to me; much less seem to another. My only good in this\nworld--that against which all the world goes for nothing--is to spend\nmy life with you, and be yours. You know that when I _claim_ anything,\nit is really yourself in me--you _give_ me a right and bid me use it,\nand I, in fact, am most obeying you when I appear most exacting on my\nown account--so, in that feeling, I dare claim, once for all, and in\nall possible cases (except that dreadful one of your becoming worse\nagain ... in which case I wait till life ends with both of us), I\nclaim your promise's fulfilment--say, at the summer's end: it cannot\nbe for your good that this state of things should continue. We can go\nto Italy for a year or two and be happy as day and night are long. For\nme, I adore you. This is all unnecessary, I feel as I write: but you\nwill think of the main fact as _ordained_, granted by God, will you\nnot, dearest?--so, not to be put in doubt _ever again_--then, we can\ngo quietly thinking of after matters. Till to-morrow, and ever after,\nGod bless my heart's own, own Ba. All my soul follows you,\nlove--encircles you--and I live in being yours.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                              [Post-mark, January 31, 1846.]\n\nLet it be this way, ever dearest. If in the time of fine weather, I am\nnot ill, ... _then_ ... _not now_ ... you shall decide, and your\ndecision shall be duty and desire to me, both--I will make no\ndifficulties. Remember, in the meanwhile, that I _have_ decided to let\nit be as you shall choose ... _shall_ choose. That I love you enough\nto give you up 'for your good,' is proof (to myself at least) that I\nlove you enough for any other end:--but you thought _too much of me in\nthe last letter_. Do not mistake me. I believe and trust in all your\nwords--only you are generous unawares, as other men are selfish.\n\nMore, I meant to say of this; but you moved me as usual yesterday into\nthe sunshine, and then I am dazzled and cannot see clearly. Still I\nsee that you love me and that I am bound to you:--and 'what more need\nI see,' you may ask; while I cannot help looking out to the future, to\nthe blue ridges of the hills, to the _chances_ of your being happy\nwith me. Well! I am yours as _you_ see ... and not yours to teaze you.\nYou shall decide everything when the time comes for doing anything ...\nand from this to then, I do not, dearest, expect you to use 'the\nliberty of leaping out of the window,' unless you are sure of the\nhouse being on fire! Nobody shall push you out of the window--least of\nall, _I_.\n\nFor Italy ... you are right. We should be nearer the sun, as you say,\nand further from the world, as I think--out of hearing of the great\nstorm of gossiping, when 'scirocco is loose.' Even if you liked to\nlive altogether abroad, coming to England at intervals, it would be no\nsacrifice for me--and whether in Italy or England, we should have\nsufficient or more than sufficient means of living, without modifying\nby a line that 'good free life' of yours which you reasonably\npraise--which, if it had been necessary to modify, _we must have\nparted_, ... because I could not have borne to see you do it; though,\nthat you once offered it for my sake, I never shall forget.\n\nMr. Kenyon stayed half an hour, and asked, after you went, if you had\nbeen here long. I reproached him with what they had been doing at his\nclub (the Athenæum) in blackballing Douglas Jerrold, for want of\nsomething better to say--and he had not heard of it. There were more\nblack than white balls, and Dickens was so enraged at the repulse of\nhis friend that he gave in his own resignation like a privy\ncouncillor.\n\nBut the really bad news is of poor Tennyson--I forgot to tell you--I\nforget everything. He is seriously ill with an internal complaint and\nconfined to his bed, as George heard from a common friend. Which does\nnot prevent his writing a new poem--he has finished the second book of\nit--and it is in blank verse and a fairy tale, and called the\n'University,' the university-members being all females. If George has\nnot diluted the scheme of it with some law from the Inner Temple, I\ndon't know what to think--it makes me open my eyes. Now isn't the\nworld too old and fond of steam, for blank verse poems, in ever so\nmany books, to be written on the fairies? I hope they may cure him,\nfor the best deed they can do. He is not precisely in danger,\nunderstand--but the complaint may _run_ into danger--so the account\nwent.\n\nAnd you? how are you? Mind to tell me. May God bless you. Is Monday or\nTuesday to be _our_ day? If it were not for Mr. Kenyon I should take\ncourage and say Monday--but Tuesday and Saturday would do as\nwell--would they not?\n\n                                                    Your own\n\n                                                         BA.\n\nShall I have a letter?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                              [Post-mark, January 31, 1846.]\n\nIt is a relief to me this time to obey your wish, and reserve further\nremark on _that_ subject till by and bye. And, whereas some people, I\nsuppose, have to lash themselves up to the due point of passion, and\nchoose the happy minutes to be as loving in as they possibly can ...\n(that is, in _expression_; the just correspondency of word to fact and\nfeeling: for _it_--the love--may be very truly _there_, at the bottom,\nwhen it is got at, and spoken out)--quite otherwise, I do really have\nto guard my tongue and set a watch on my pen ... that so I may say as\nlittle as can well be likely to be excepted to by your generosity.\nDearest, _love_ means _love_, certainly, and adoration carries its\nsense with it--and _so_, you may have received my feeling in that\nshape--but when I begin to hint at the merest putting into practice\none or the other profession, you 'fly out'--instead of keeping your\nthrone. So let this letter lie awhile, till my heart is more used to\nit, and after some days or weeks I will find as cold and quiet a\nmoment as I can, and by standing as far off you as I shall be able,\nsee more--'si _minus propè_ stes, te capiet magis.' Meanwhile, silent\nor speaking, I am yours to dispose of as that _glove_--not that hand.\n\nI must think that Mr. Kenyon sees, and knows, and ... in his goodness\n... hardly disapproves--he knows I could not avoid--escape you--for he\nknows, in a manner, what you are ... like your American; and, early in\nour intercourse, he asked me (did I tell you?) 'what I thought of his\nyoung relative'--and I considered half a second to this effect--'if he\nasked me what I thought of the Queen-diamond they showed me in the\ncrown of the Czar--and I answered truly--he would not return; \"then of\ncourse you mean to try and get it to keep.\"' So I _did_ tell the truth\nin a very few words. Well, it is no matter.\n\nI am sorry to hear of poor Tennyson's condition. The projected\nbook--title, scheme, all of it,--_that_ is astounding;--and fairies?\nIf 'Thorpes and barnes, sheep-pens and dairies--_this_ maketh that\nthere ben no fairies'--locomotives and the broad or narrow gauge must\nkeep the very ghosts of them away. But how the fashion of this world\npasses; the forms its beauty and truth take; if _we_ have the making\nof such! I went last night, out of pure shame at a broken promise, to\nhear Miss Cushman and her sister in 'Romeo and Juliet.' The whole play\ngoes ... horribly; 'speak' bids the Poet, and so M. Walladmir\n[Valdemar] moves his tongue and dispenses with his jaws. Whatever is\nslightly touched in, indicated, to give relief to something actually\ninsisted upon and drawn boldly ... _here_, you have it gone over with\nan unremitting burnt-stick, till it stares black forever! Romeo goes\nwhining about Verona by broad daylight. Yet when a schoolfellow of\nmine, I remember, began translating in class Virgil after this mode,\n'Sic fatur--so said Æneas; lachrymans--_a-crying_' ... our pedagogue\nturned on him furiously--'D'ye think Æneas made such a noise--as _you_\nshall, presently?' How easy to conceive a boyish half-melancholy,\nsmiling at itself.\n\nThen _Tuesday_, and not Monday ... and Saturday will be the nearer\nafterward. I am singularly well to-day--head quite quiet--and\nyesterday your penholder began its influence and I wrote about half my\nlast act. Writing is nothing, nor praise, nor blame, nor living, nor\ndying, but you are all my true life; May God bless you ever--\n\n                                                          R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Evening.\n                              [Post-mark, February 2, 1846.]\n\nSomething, you said yesterday, made me happy--'that your liking for me\ndid not come and go'--do you remember? Because there was a letter,\nwritten at a crisis long since, in which you showed yourself awfully,\nas a burning mountain, and talked of 'making the most of your\nfire-eyes,' and of having at intervals 'deep black pits of cold\nwater'!--and the lava of that letter has kept running down into my\nthoughts of you too much, until quite of late--while even yesterday I\nwas not too well instructed to be 'happy,' you see! Do not reproach\nme! I would not have 'heard your enemy say so'--it was your own word!\nAnd the other long word _idiosyncrasy_ seemed long enough to cover it;\nand it might have been a matter of temperament, I fancied, that a man\nof genius, in the mystery of his nature, should find his feelings\nsometimes like dumb notes in a piano ... should care for people at\nhalf past eleven on Tuesday, and on Wednesday at noon prefer a black\nbeetle. How you frightened me with your 'fire-eyes'! 'making the most\nof them' too! and the 'black pits,' which gaped ... _where_ did they\ngape? who could tell? Oh--but lately I have not been crossed so, of\ncourse, with those fabulous terrors--lately that horror of the burning\nmountain has grown more like a superstition than a rational fear!--and\nif I was glad ... happy ... yesterday, it was but as a tolerably\nsensible nervous man might be glad of a clearer moonlight, showing him\nthat what he had half shuddered at for a sheeted ghoule, was only a\nwhite horse on the moor. Such a great white horse!--call it the\n'mammoth horse'--the '_real_ mammoth,' this time!\n\nDearest, did I write you a cold letter the last time? Almost it seems\nso to me! the reason being that my feelings were near to overflow, and\nthat I had to hold the cup straight to prevent the possible dropping\non your purple underneath. _Your_ letter, the letter I answered, was\nin my heart ... _is_ in my heart--and all the yeses in the world would\nnot be too many for such a letter, as I felt and feel. Also, perhaps,\nI gave you, at last, a merely formal distinction--and it comes to the\nsame thing practically without any doubt! but I shrank, with a sort of\ninstinct, from appearing (to myself, mind) to take a security from\nyour words now (said too on an obvious impulse) for what should,\nwould, _must_, depend on your deliberate wishes hereafter. You\nunderstand--you will not accuse me of over-cautiousness and the like.\nOn the contrary, you are all things to me, ... instead of all and\nbetter than all! You have fallen like a great luminous blot on the\nwhole leaf of the world ... of life and time ... and I can see nothing\nbeyond you, nor wish to see it. As to all that was evil and sadness to\nme, I do not feel it any longer--it may be raining still, but I am in\nthe shelter and can scarcely tell. If you _could_ be _too dear_ to me\nyou would be now--but you could not--I do not believe in those\nsupposed excesses of pure affections--God cannot be too great.\n\nTherefore it is a conditional engagement still--all the conditions\nbeing in your hands, except the necessary one, of my health. And shall\nI tell you what is 'not to be put in doubt _ever_'?--your goodness,\n_that_ is ... and every tie that binds me to you. 'Ordained, granted\nby God' it is, that I should owe the only happiness in my life to you,\nand be contented and grateful (if it were necessary) to stop with it\nat this present point. Still I _do not_--there seems no necessity yet.\n\nMay God bless you, ever dearest:--\n\n                                                Your own BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n           [In the same envelope with the preceding letter.]\n\nWell I have your letter--and I send you the postscript to my last one,\nwritten yesterday you observe ... and being simply a postscript in\nsome parts of it, _so_ far it is not for an answer. Only I deny the\n'flying out'--perhaps you may do it a little more ... in your moments\nof starry centrifugal motion.\n\nSo you think that dear Mr. Kenyon's opinion of his 'young\nrelative'--(neither young nor his relative--not very much of either!)\nis to the effect that you couldn't possibly 'escape' her--? It looks\nlike the sign of the Red Dragon, put _so_ ... and your burning\nmountain is not too awful for the scenery.\n\nSeriously ... gravely ... if it makes me three times happy that you\nshould love me, yet I grow uneasy and even saddened when you say\ninfatuated things such as this and this ... unless after all you mean\na philosophical sarcasm on the worth of Czar diamonds. No--do not say\nsuch things! If you do, I shall end by being jealous of some ideal\nCzarina who must stand between you and me.... I shall think that it is\nnot _I_ whom you look at ... and _pour cause_. 'Flying out,' _that_\nwould be!\n\nAnd for Mr. Kenyon, I only know that I have grown the most ungrateful\nof human beings lately, and find myself almost glad when he does not\ncome, certainly uncomfortable when he does--yes, _really_ I would\nrather not see him at all, and when you are not here. The sense of\nwhich and the sorrow for which, turn me to a hypocrite, and make me\nask why he does not come &c. ... questions which never came to my lips\nbefore ... till I am more and more ashamed and sorry. Will it end, I\nwonder, by my ceasing to care for any one in the world, except,\nexcept...? or is it not rather that I feel trodden down by either his\ntoo great penetration or too great unconsciousness, both being\noverwhelming things from him to me. From a similar cause I hate\nwriting letters to any of my old friends--I feel as if it were the\nmerest swindling to attempt to give the least account of myself to\nanybody, and when their letters come and I know that nothing very\nfatal has happened to them, scarcely I can read to an end afterwards\nthrough the besetting care of having to answer it all. Then I am\nignoble enough to revenge myself on people for their stupidities ...\nwhich never in my life I did before nor felt the temptation to do ...\nand when they have a distaste for your poetry through want of\nunderstanding, I have a distaste for _them_ ... cannot help it--and\nyou need not say it is wrong, because I know the whole iniquity of it,\npersisting nevertheless. As for dear Mr. Kenyon--with whom we began,\nand who thinks of you as appreciatingly and admiringly as one man can\nthink of another,--do not imagine that, if he _should_ see anything,\nhe can 'approve' of either your wisdom or my generosity, ... _he_,\nwith his large organs of caution, and his habit of looking right and\nleft, and round the corner a little way. Because, you know, ... if I\nshould be ill _before_ ... why there, is a conclusion!--but if\n_afterward_ ... what? You who talk wildly of my generosity, whereas I\nonly and most impotently tried to be generous, must see how both\nsuppositions have their possibility. Nevertheless you are the master\nto run the latter risk. You have overcome ... to your loss\nperhaps--unless the judgment is revised. As to taking the half of my\nprison ... I could not even smile at _that_ if it seemed probable ...\nI should recoil from your affection even under a shape so fatal to you\n... dearest! No! There is a better probability before us I hope and\nbelieve--in spite of the _possibility_ which it is impossible to deny.\nAnd now we leave this subject for the present.\n\n_Sunday._--You are 'singularly well.' You are very seldom quite well,\nI am afraid--yet 'Luria' seems to have done no harm this time, as you\nare singularly well the day _after_ so much writing. Yet do not hurry\nthat last act.... I won't have it for a long while yet.\n\nHere I have been reading Carlyle upon Cromwell and he is very fine,\nvery much himself, it seems to me, everywhere. Did Mr. Kenyon make you\nunderstand that I had said there was nothing in him but _manner_ ... I\nthought he said so--and I am confident that he never heard such an\nopinion from me, for good or for evil, ever at all. I may have\nobserved upon those vulgar attacks on account of the so-called\n_mannerism_, the obvious fact, that an individuality, carried into the\nmedium, the expression, is a feature in all men of genius, as Buffon\nteaches ... 'Le style, c'est _l'homme_.' But if the _whole man_ were\nstyle, if all Carlyleism were manner--why there would be no man, no\nCarlyle worth talking of. I wonder that Mr. Kenyon should misrepresent\nme so. Euphuisms there may be to the end of the world--affected\nparlances--just as a fop at heart may go without shoestrings to mimic\nthe distractions of some great wandering soul--although _that_ is a\nbad comparison, seeing that what is called Carlyle's mannerism, is not\nhis dress, but his physiognomy--or more than _that_ even.\n\nBut I do not forgive him for talking here against the 'ideals of\npoets' ... opposing their ideal by a mis-called _reality_, which is\nanother sort, a baser sort, of ideal after all. He sees things in\nbroad blazing lights--but he does not analyse them like a\nphilosopher--do you think so? Then his praise for dumb heroic action\nas opposed to speech and singing, what is _that_--when all earnest\nthought, passion, belief, and their utterances, are as much actions\nsurely as the cutting off of fifty heads by one right hand. As if\nShakespeare's actions were not greater than Cromwell's!--\n\nBut I shall write no more. Once more, may God bless you.\n\n                                             Wholly and only\n\n                                                  Your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n                              [Post-mark, February 4, 1846.]\n\nYou ought hardly,--ought you, my Ba?--to refer to _that_ letter or any\nexpression in it; I had--and _have_, I trust--your forgiveness for\nwhat I wrote, meaning to be generous or at least just, God knows.\nThat, and the other like exaggerations were there to serve the purpose\nof what you properly call a _crisis_. I _did_ believe,--taking an\nexpression, in the note that occasioned mine, in connection with an\nexcuse which came in the postscript for not seeing me on the day\npreviously appointed, I did fully believe that you were about to deny\nme admittance again unless I blotted out--not merely softened\ndown--the past avowal. All was wrong, foolish, but from a good notion,\nI dare to say. And then, that particular exaggeration you bring most\npainfully to my mind--_that_ does not, after all, disagree with what I\nsaid and you repeat--does it, if you will think? I said my other\n'_likings_' (as you rightly set it down) _used_ to 'come and go,' and\nthat my love for you _did not_, and that is true; the first clause as\nthe last of the sentence, for my sympathies are very wide and\ngeneral,--always have been--and the natural problem has been the\ngiving unity to their object, concentrating them instead of\ndispersing. I seem to have foretold, _foreknown_ you in other likings\nof mine--now here ... when the liking '_came_' ... and now elsewhere\n... when as surely the liking '_went_': and if they had stayed before\nthe time would that have been a comfort to refer to? On the contrary,\nI am as little likely to be led by delusions as can be,--for Romeo\n_thinks_ he loves Rosaline, and is excused on all hands--whereas I saw\nthe plain truth without one mistake, and 'looked to like, if looking\nliking moved--and no more deep _did_ I endart mine eye'--about which,\nfirst I was very sorry, and after rather proud--all which I seem to\nhave told you before.--And now, when my whole heart and soul find you,\nand fall on you, and fix forever, I am to be dreadfully afraid the joy\ncannot last, seeing that\n\n--it is so baseless a fear that no illustration will serve! Is it gone\nnow, dearest, ever-dearest?\n\nAnd as you amuse me sometimes, as now, by seeming surprised at some\nchance expression of a truth which is grown a veriest commonplace to\n_me_--like Charles Lamb's 'letter to an elderly man whose education\nhad been neglected'--when he finds himself involuntarily communicating\ntruths above the capacity and acquirements of his friend, and stops\nhimself after this fashion--'If you look round the world, my dear\nSir--for it _is_ round!--so I will make you laugh at me, if you will,\nfor _my_ inordinate delight at hearing the success of your experiment\nwith the opium. I never dared, nor shall dare inquire into your use of\nthat--for, knowing you utterly as I do, I know you only bend to the\nmost absolute necessity in taking more or less of it--so that increase\nof the quantity must mean simply increased weakness, illness--and\ndiminution, diminished illness. And now there _is_ diminution! Dear,\ndear Ba--you speak of my silly head and its ailments ... well, and\nwhat brings on the irritation? A wet day or two spent at home; and\nwhat ends it all directly?--just an hour's walk! So with _me_:\nnow,--fancy me shut in a room for seven years ... it is--no, _don't_\nsee, even in fancy, what is left of me then! But _you_, at the end;\nthis is _all_ the harm: I wonder ... I confirm my soul in its belief\nin perpetual miraculousness ... I bless God with my whole heart that\nit is thus with you! And so, I will not even venture to say--so\nsuperfluous it were, though with my most earnest, most loving breath\n(I who _do_ love you more at every breath I draw; indeed, yes\ndearest,)--I _will not_ bid you--that is, pray you--to persevere! You\nhave all my life bound to yours--save me from _my 'seven years'_--and\nGod reward you!\n\n                                                 Your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, February 5, 1846.]\n\nBut I did not--dear, dearest--no indeed, I did not mean any harm about\nthe letter. I wanted to show you how you had given me pleasure--and\nso,--did I give you pain? was _that_ my ingenuity? Forgive my\nunhappiness in it, and let it be as if it had not been. Only I will\njust say that what made me talk about 'the thorn in the flesh' from\nthat letter so long, was a sort of conviction of your having put into\nit as much of the truth, _your_ truth, as admitted of the ultimate\npurpose of it, and not the least, slightest doubt of the key you gave\nme to the purpose in question. And so forgive me. Why did you set\nabout explaining, as if I were doubting you? When you said once that\nit 'did not come and go,'--was it not enough? enough to make me feel\nhappy as I told you? Did I require you to write a letter like this?\nNow think for a moment, and know once for all, how from the beginning\nto these latter days and through all possible degrees of crisis, you\nhave been to my apprehension and gratitude, the best, most consistent,\nmost noble ... the words falter that would speak of it all. In nothing\nand at no moment have you--I will not say--failed to _me_, but spoken\nor acted unworthily of yourself at the highest. What have you ever\nbeen to me except too generous? Ah--if I had been only half as\ngenerous, it is true that I never could have seen you again after that\nfirst meeting--it was the straight path perhaps. But I had not\ncourage--I shrank from the thought of it--and then ... besides ... I\ncould not believe that your mistake was likely to last,--I concluded\nthat I might keep my friend.\n\nWhy should any remembrance be painful to _you_? I do not understand.\nUnless indeed I should grow painful to you ... I myself!--seeing that\nevery remembered separate thing has brought me nearer to you, and made\nme yours with a deeper trust and love.\n\nAnd for that letter ... do you fancy that in _my_ memory the sting is\nnot gone from it?--and that I do not carry the thought of it, as the\nRoman maidens, you speak of, their cool harmless snakes, at my heart\nalways? So let the poor letter be forgiven, for the sake of the dear\nletter that was burnt, forgiven by _you_--until you grow angry with me\ninstead--just till then.\n\nAnd that you should care so much about the opium! Then _I_ must care,\nand get to do with less--at least. On the other side of your goodness\nand indulgence (a very little way on the other side) it might strike\nyou as strange that I who have had no pain--no acute suffering to keep\ndown from its angles--should need opium in any shape. But I have had\nrestlessness till it made me almost mad: at one time I lost the power\nof sleeping quite--and even in the day, the continual aching sense of\nweakness has been intolerable--besides palpitation--as if one's life,\ninstead of giving movement to the body, were imprisoned undiminished\nwithin it, and beating and fluttering impotently to get out, at all\nthe doors and windows. So the medical people gave me opium--a\npreparation of it, called morphine, and ether--and ever since I have\nbeen calling it my amreeta draught, my elixir,--because the\ntranquillizing power has been wonderful. Such a nervous system I\nhave--so irritable naturally, and so shattered by various causes, that\nthe need has continued in a degree until now, and it would be\ndangerous to leave off the calming remedy, Mr. Jago says, except very\nslowly and gradually. But slowly and gradually something may be\ndone--and you are to understand that I never _increased_ upon the\nprescribed quantity ... prescribed in the first instance--no! Now\nthink of my writing all this to you!--\n\nAnd after all the lotus-eaters are blessed beyond the opium-eaters;\nand the best of lotuses are such thoughts as I know.\n\nDear Miss Mitford comes to-morrow, and I am not glad enough. Shall I\nhave a letter to make me glad? She will talk, talk, talk ... and I\nshall be hoping all day that not a word may be talked of ... _you_:--a\nforlorn hope indeed! There's a hope for a day like Thursday which is\njust in the middle between a Tuesday and a Saturday!\n\nYour head ... is it ... _how_ is it? tell me. And consider again if it\ncould be possible that I could ever desire to reproach _you_ ... in\nwhat I said about the letter.\n\nMay God bless you, best and dearest. If you are the _compensation_\nblessed is the evil that fell upon me: and _that_, I can say before\nGod.\n\n                                                    Your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                              [Post-mark, February 6, 1846.]\n\nIf I said you 'gave me pain' in anything, it was in the only way ever\npossible for you, my dearest--by giving _yourself_, in me, pain--being\nunjust to your own right and power as I feel them at my heart: and in\nthat way, I see you will go on to the end, I getting called--in this\nvery letter--'generous' &c. Well, let me fancy you see very, very deep\ninto future chances and how I should behave on occasion. I shall\nhardly imitate you, I whose sense of the present and its claims of\ngratitude already is beyond expression.\n\nAll the kind explaining about the opium makes me happier. 'Slowly and\ngradually' what may _not_ be done? Then see the bright weather while I\nwrite--lilacs, hawthorn, plum-trees all in bud; elders in leaf,\nrose-bushes with great red shoots; thrushes, whitethroats, hedge\nsparrows in full song--there can, let us hope, be nothing worse in\nstore than a sharp wind, a week of it perhaps--and then comes what\nshall come--\n\nAnd Miss Mitford yesterday--and has she fresh fears for you of my evil\ninfluence and Origenic power of 'raying out darkness' like a swart\nstar? Why, the common sense of the world teaches that there is nothing\npeople at fault in any faculty of expression are so intolerant of as\nthe like infirmity in others--whether they are unconscious of, or\nindulgent to their own obscurity and fettered organ, the hindrance\nfrom the fettering of their neighbours' is redoubled. A man may think\nhe is not deaf, or, at least, that you need not be so much annoyed by\nhis deafness as you profess--but he will be quite aware, to say the\nleast of it, when another man can't hear _him_; he will certainly not\nencourage him to stop his ears. And so with the converse; a writer who\nfails to make himself understood, as presumably in my case, may either\nbelieve in his heart that it is _not_ so ... that only as much\nattention and previous instructedness as the case calls for, would\nquite avail to understand him; or he may open his eyes to the fact and\nbe trying hard to overcome it: but on which supposition is he led to\nconfirm another in his unintelligibility? By the proverbial tenderness\nof the eye with the mote for the eye with the beam? If that beam were\njust such another mote--_then_ one might sympathize and feel no such\ninconvenience--but, because I have written a 'Sordello,' do I turn to\njust its _double_, Sordello the second, in your books, and so perforce\nsee nothing wrong? 'No'--it is supposed--'but something _as_ obscure\nin its way.' Then down goes the bond of union at once, and I stand no\nnearer to view your work than the veriest proprietor of one thought\nand the two words that express it without obscurity at all--'bricks\nand mortar.' Of course an artist's whole problem must be, as Carlyle\nwrote to me, 'the expressing with articulate clearness the thought in\nhim'--I am almost inclined to say that _clear expression_ should be\nhis only work and care--for he is born, ordained, such as he is--and\nnot born learned in putting what was born in him into words--what ever\n_can_ be clearly spoken, ought to be. But 'bricks and mortar' is very\neasily said--and some of the thoughts in 'Sordello' not so readily\neven if Miss Mitford were to try her hand on them.\n\nI look forward to a real life's work for us both. _I_ shall do\nall,--under your eyes and with your hand in mine,--all I was intended\nto do: may but _you_ as surely go perfecting--by continuing--the work\nbegun so wonderfully--'a rose-tree that beareth seven-times seven'--\n\nI am forced to dine in town to-day with an old friend--'to-morrow'\nalways begins half the day before, like a Jewish sabbath. Did your\nsister tell you that I met her on the stairs last time? She did _not_\ntell you that I had almost passed by her--the eyes being still\nelsewhere and occupied. Now let me write out that--no--I will send the\nold ballad I told you of, for the strange coincidence--and it is very\ncharming beside, is it not? Now goodbye, my sweetest, dearest--and\ntell me good news of yourself to-morrow, and be but half a quarter as\nglad to see me as I shall be blessed in seeing you. God bless you\never.\n\n                                                    Your own\n\n                                                         R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Morning.\n                              [Post-mark, February 7, 1846.]\n\nDearest, to my sorrow I must, I fear, give up the delight of seeing\nyou this morning. I went out unwell yesterday, and a long noisy dinner\nwith speech-making, with a long tiresome walk at the end of it--these\nhave given me such a bewildering headache that I really see some\nreason in what they say here about keeping the house. Will you forgive\nme--and let me forget it all on Monday? On _Monday_--unless I am told\notherwise by the early post--And God bless you ever\n\n                                                  Your own--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                              [Post-mark, February 7, 1846.]\n\nI felt it must be so ... that something must be the matter, ... and I\nhad been so really unhappy for half an hour, that your letter which\ncomes now at four, seems a little better, with all its bad news, than\nmy fancies took upon themselves to be, without instruction. Now _was_\nit right to go out yesterday when you were unwell, and to a great\ndinner?--but I shall not reproach you, dearest, dearest--I have no\nheart for it at this moment. As to Monday, of course it is as you like\n... if you are well enough on Monday ... if it should be thought wise\nof you to come to London through the noise ... if ... you understand\nall the _ifs_ ... and among them the greatest if of all, ... for if\nyou do love me ... _care_ for me even, you will not do yourself harm\nor run any risk of harm by going out _anywhere too soon_. On Monday,\nin case you are _considered well enough_, and otherwise Tuesday,\nWednesday--I leave it to you. Still I _will_ ask one thing, whether\nyou come on Monday or not. _Let_ me have a single line by the nearest\npost to say how you are. Perhaps for to-night it is not possible--oh\nno, it is nearly five now! but a word written on Sunday would be with\nme early on Monday morning, and I know you will let me have it, to\nsave some of the anxious thoughts ... to break them in their course\nwith some sort of certainty! May God bless you dearest of all!--I\nthought of you on Thursday, but did not speak of you, not even when\nMiss Mitford called Hood the greatest poet of the age ... she had been\ndepreciating Carlyle, so I let you lie and wait on the same level, ...\nthat shelf of the rock which is above tide mark! I was glad even, that\nshe did not speak of you; and, under cover of her speech of others, I\nhad my thoughts of you deeply and safely. When she had gone at half\npast six, moreover, I grew over-hopeful, and made up my fancy to have\na letter at eight! The branch she had pulled down, sprang upward\nskyward ... to that high possibility of a letter! Which did not come\nthat day ... no!--and I revenged myself by writing a letter to _you_,\nwhich was burnt afterwards because I would not torment you for\nletters. Last night, came a real one--dearest! So we could not keep\nour sabbath to-day! It is a fast day instead, ... on my part. How\nshould I feel (I have been thinking to myself), if I did not see you\non Saturday, and could not hope to see you on Monday, nor on Tuesday,\nnor on Wednesday, nor Thursday nor Friday, nor Saturday again--if all\nthe sabbaths were gone out of the world for me! May God bless you!--it\nhas grown to be enough prayer!--as _you_ are enough (and all, besides)\nfor\n\n                                                    Your own\n\n                                                         BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, February 7, 1846.]\n\nThe clock strikes--_three_; and I am here, not with you--and my\n'fractious' headache at the very worst got suddenly better just now,\nand is leaving me every minute--as if to make me aware, with an\nundivided attention, that at this present you are waiting for me, and\nsoon will be wondering--and it would be so easy now to dress myself\nand walk or run or ride--do anything that led to you ... but by no\nhaste in the world could I reach you, I am forced to see, before a\nquarter to five--by which time I think my letter must arrive. Dear,\ndearest Ba, did you but know how vexed I am--with myself, with--this\nis absurd, of course. The cause of it all was my going out last\nnight--yet that, neither, was to be helped, the party having been\ntwice put off before--once solely on my account. And the sun shines,\nand you would shine--\n\nMonday is to make all the amends in its power, is it not? Still, still\nI have lost my day.\n\n                                 Bless you, my ever-dearest.\n\n                                      Your R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Morning.\n                              [Post-mark, February 9, 1846.]\n\nMy dearest--there are no words,--nor will be to-morrow, nor even in\nthe Island--I know that! But I do love you.\n\nMy arms have been round you for many minutes since the last word--\n\nI am quite well now--my other note will have told you when the change\nbegan--I think I took too violent a shower bath, with a notion of\ngetting better in as little time as possible,--and the stimulus turned\nmere feverishness to headache. However, it was no sooner gone, in a\ndegree, than a worse plague came. I sate thinking of you--but I knew\nmy note would arrive at about four o'clock or a little later--and I\nthought the visit for the quarter of an hour would as effectually\nprevent to-morrow's meeting as if the whole two hours' blessing had\nbeen laid to heart--to-morrow I shall see you, Ba--my sweetest. But\nthere are cold winds blowing to-day--how do you bear them, my Ba?\n'_Care_' you, pray, pray, care for all _I_ care about--and be well, if\nGod shall please, and bless me as no man ever was blessed! Now I kiss\nyou, and will begin a new thinking of you--and end, and begin, going\nround and round in my circle of discovery,--_My_ lotos-blossom!\nbecause they _loved_ the lotos, were lotos-lovers,--[Greek: lôtou t'\nerôtes], as Euripides writes in the [Greek: Trôades].\n\n                                                    Your own\n\nP.S. See those lines in the _Athenæum_ on Pulci with Hunt's\ntranslation--all wrong--'_che non si sente_,' being--'that one does\nnot _hear_ him' i.e. the ordinarily noisy fellow--and the rest, male,\npessime! Sic verte, meo periculo, mî ocelle!\n\n    Where's Luigi Pulci, that one don't the man see?\n    He just now yonder in the copse has '_gone it_' (_n_'andò)\n    Because across his mind there came a fancy;\n    He'll wish to fancify, perhaps, a sonnet!\n\nNow Ba thinks nothing can be worse than that? Then read _this_ which I\nreally told Hunt and got his praise for. Poor dear wonderful\npersecuted Pietro d'Abano wrote this quatrain on the people's plaguing\nhim about his mathematical studies and wanting to burn him--he helped\nto build Padua Cathedral, wrote a Treatise on Magic still extant, and\npasses for a conjuror in his country to this day--when there is a\nstorm the mothers tell the children that he is in the air; his pact\nwith the evil one obliged him to drink no _milk_; no natural human\nfood! You know Tieck's novel about him? Well, this quatrain is said, I\nbelieve truly, to have been discovered in a well near Padua some fifty\nyears ago.\n\n    Studiando le mie cifre, col compasso\n    Rilevo, che presto sarò sotterra--\n    Perchè del mio saper si fa gran chiasso,\n    E gl'ignoranti m'hanno mosso guerra.\n\nAffecting, is it not, in its simple, child like plaining? Now so, if I\nremember, I turned it--word for word--\n\n    Studying my ciphers, with the compass\n    I reckon--who soon shall be below ground,\n    Because of my lore they make great 'rumpus,'\n    And against me war makes each dull rogue round.\n\nSay that you forgive me to-morrow!\n\n[The following is in E.B.B.'s handwriting.]\n\n    With my compass I take up my ciphers, poor scholar;\n    Who myself shall be taken down soon under the ground ...\n    Since the world at my learning roars out in its choler,\n    And the blockheads have fought me all round.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                             [Post-mark, February 10, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest, I have been possessed by your 'Luria' just as you would\nhave me, and I should like you to understand, not simply how fine a\nconception the whole work seems to me, so developed, but how it has\nmoved and affected me, without the ordinary means and dialect of\npathos, by that calm attitude of moral grandeur which it has--it is\nvery fine. For the execution, _that_ too is worthily done--although I\nagree with you, that a little quickening and drawing in closer here\nand there, especially towards the close where there is no time to\nlose, the reader feels, would make the effect stronger--but you will\nlook to it yourself--and such a conception _must_ come in thunder and\nlightning, as a chief god would--_must_ make its own way ... and will\nnot let its poet go until he speaks it out to the ultimate syllable.\nDomizia disappoints me rather. You might throw a flash more of light\non her face--might you not? But what am I talking? I think it a\nmagnificent work--a noble exposition of the ingratitude of men against\ntheir 'heroes,' and (what is peculiar) an _humane_ exposition ... not\nmisanthropical, after the usual fashion of such things: for the\nreturn, the remorse, saves it--and the 'Too late' of the repentance\nand compensation covers with its solemn toll the fate of persecutors\nand victim. We feel that Husain himself could only say afterward ...\n'_That is done._' And now--surely you think well of the work as a\nwhole? You cannot doubt, I fancy, of the grandeur of it--and of the\n_subtilty_ too, for it is subtle--too subtle perhaps for stage\npurposes, though as clear, ... as to expression ... as to medium ...\nas 'bricks and mortar' ... shall I say?\n\n    'A people is but the attempt of many\n    To rise to the completer life of one.'\n\nThere is one of the fine thoughts. And how fine _he_ is, your Luria,\nwhen he looks back to his East, through the half-pardon and\nhalf-disdain of Domizia. Ah--Domizia! would it hurt her to make her\nmore a woman ... a little ... I wonder!\n\nSo I shall begin from the beginning, from the first act, and read\n_through_ ... since I have read the fifth twice over. And remember,\nplease, that I am to read, besides, the 'Soul's Tragedy,' and that I\nshall dun you for it presently. Because you told me it was finished,\notherwise I would not speak a word, feeling that you want rest, and\nthat I, who am anxious about you, would be crossing my own purposes\nby driving you into work. It is the overwork, the overwear of mind and\nheart (for the feelings come as much into use as the thoughts in these\nproductions), that makes you so pale, dearest, that distracts your\nhead, and does all the harm on Saturdays and so many other days\nbesides.\n\nTo-day--how are you? It _was_ right and just for me to write this\ntime, after the two dear notes ... the one on Saturday night which\nmade me praise you to myself and think you kinder than kindest, and\nthe other on Monday morning which took me unaware--such a note, _that_\nwas! Oh it _was_ right and just that I should not teaze you to send me\nanother after those two others,--yet I was very near doing it--yet I\nshould like infinitely to hear to-day how you\nare--unreasonable!--Well! you will write now--you will answer what I\nam writing, and mention yourself particularly and sincerely--Remember!\nAbove all, you will care for your head. I have been thinking since\nyesterday that, coming out of the cold, you might not have refused as\nusual to take something ... hot wine and water, or coffee? Will you\nhave coffee with me on Saturday? 'Shunning the salt,' will you have\nthe sugar? And do tell me, for I have been thinking, are you careful\nas to diet--and will such sublunary things as coffee and tea and cocoa\naffect your head--_for_ or _against_! Then you do not touch wine--and\nperhaps you ought. Surely something may be found or done to do you\ngood. If it had not been for me, you would be travelling in Italy by\nthis time and quite well perhaps.\n\nThis morning I had a letter from Miss Martineau and really read it to\nthe end without thinking it too long, which is extraordinary for me\njust now, and scarcely ordinary in the letter, and indeed it is a\ndelightful letter, as letters go, which are not yours! You shall take\nit with you on Saturday to read, and you shall see that it is worth\nreading, and interesting for Wordsworth's sake and her own. Mr.\nKenyon has it now, because he presses on to have her letters, and I\nshould not like to tell him that you had it first from me.... Also\nSaturday will be time enough.\n\nOh--poor Mr. Horne! shall I tell you some of his offences? That he\ndesires to be called at four in the morning, and does not get up till\neight. That he pours libations on his bare head out of the\nwater-glasses at great dinners. That being in the midst of\nsportsmen--rural aristocrats--lords of soil--and all talking learnedly\nof pointers' noses and spaniels' ears; he has exclaimed aloud in a\nmocking paraphrase--'If I were to hold up a horse by the tail.' The\nwit is certainly doubtful!--That being asked to dinner on Tuesday, he\nwill go on Wednesday instead.--That he throws himself at full length\nwith a gesture approaching to a 'summerset' on satin sofas. That he\ngiggles. That he only _thinks_ he can talk. That his ignorance on all\nsubjects is astounding. That he never read the old ballads, nor saw\nPercy's collection. That he asked _who_ wrote 'Drink to me only with\nthine eyes.' That after making himself ridiculous in attempting to\nspeak at a public meeting, he said to a compassionate friend 'I got\nvery well out of _that_.' That, in writing his work on Napoleon, he\nemployed a man to study the subject for him. That he cares for\nnobody's poetry or fame except his own, and considers Tennyson chiefly\nillustrious as being his contemporary. That, as to politics, he\ndoesn't care '_which_ side.' That he is always talking of 'my shares,'\n'my income,' as if he were a Kilmansegg. Lastly (and understand, this\nis _my_ 'lastly' and not Miss Mitford's, who is far from being out of\nbreath so soon) that he has a mania for heiresses--that he has gone\nout at half past five and 'proposed' to Miss M or N with fifty\nthousand pounds, and being rejected (as the lady thought fit to report\nherself) came back to tea and the same evening 'fell in love' with\nMiss O or P ... with forty thousand--went away for a few months, and\nupon his next visit, did as much to a Miss Q or W, on the promise of\nfour blood horses--has a prospect now of a Miss R or S--with hounds,\nperhaps.\n\nToo, too bad--isn't it? I would repeat none of it except to you--and\nas to the worst part, the last, why some may be coincidence, and some,\nexaggeration, for I have not the least doubt that every now and then a\nfine poetical compliment was turned into a serious thing by the\nlistener, and then the poor poet had critics as well as listeners all\nround him. Also, he rather 'wears his heart on his sleeve,' there is\nno denying--and in other respects he is not much better, perhaps, than\nother men. But for the base traffic of the affair--I do not believe a\nword. He is too generous--has too much real sensibility. I fought his\nbattle, poor Orion. 'And so,' she said 'you believe it possible for a\ndisinterested man to become really attached to two women, heiresses,\non the same day?' I doubted the _fact_. And then she showed me a note,\nan autograph note from the poet, confessing the M or N part of the\nbusiness--while Miss O or P confessed herself, said Miss Mitford. But\nI persisted in doubting, notwithstanding the lady's confessions, or\nconvictions, as they might be. And just think of Mr. Horne not having\ntact enough to keep out of these multitudinous scrapes, for those few\ndays which on three separate occasions he paid Miss Mitford in a\nneighbourhood where all were strangers to him,--and never outstaying\nhis week! He must have been _foolish_, read it all how we may.\n\nAnd so am _I_, to write this 'personal talk' to you when you will not\ncare for it--yet you asked me, and it may make you smile, though\nWordsworth's tea-kettle outsings it all.\n\nWhen your Monday letter came, I was reading the criticism on Hunt and\nhis Italian poets, in the _Examiner_. How I liked to be pulled by the\nsleeve to your translations!--How I liked everything!--Pulci, Pietro\n... and you, best!\n\nYet here's a naiveté which I found in your letter! I will write it out\nthat you may read it--\n\n'However it' (the headache) 'was no sooner gone in a degree, than a\nworse plague came--_I sate thinking of you_.'\n\nVery satisfactory _that_ is, and very clear.\n\nMay God bless you dearest, dearest! Be careful of yourself. The cold\nmakes me _languid_, as heat is apt to make everybody; but I am not\nunwell, and keep up the fire and the thoughts of you.\n\n                                 Your worse ... worst plague\n\n                                      Your own\n\n                                           BA.\n\nI shall hear? yes! And admire my obedience in having written 'a long\nletter' _to_ the letter!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                             [Post-mark, February 11, 1846.]\n\nMy sweetest 'plague,' _did_ I really write that sentence so, without\ngloss or comment in close vicinity? I can hardly think it--but you\nknow well, well where the real plague lay,--that I thought of you as\nthinking, in your infinite goodness, of untoward chances which had\nkept me from you--and if I did not dwell more particularly on that\nthinking of _yours_, which became as I say, in the knowledge of it, a\nplague when brought before me _with_ the thought of you,--if I passed\nthis slightly over it was for pure unaffected shame that I should take\nup the care and stop the 'reverie serene' of--ah, the rhyme _lets_ me\nsay--'sweetest eyes were ever seen'--were _ever_ seen! And yourself\nconfess, in the Saturday's note, to having been 'unhappy for half an\nhour till' &c. &c.--and do not I feel _that_ here, and am not I\nplagued by it?\n\nWell, having begun at the end of your letter, dearest, I will go back\ngently (that is backwards) and tell you I 'sate thinking' too, and\nwith no greater comfort, on the cold yesterday. The pond before the\nwindow was frozen ('so as to bear sparrows' somebody said) and I knew\nyou would feel it--'but you are not unwell'--really? thank God--and\nthe month wears on. Beside I have got a reassurance--you asked me once\nif I were superstitious, I remember (as what do I forget that you\nsay?). However that may be, yesterday morning as I turned to look for\na book, an old fancy seized me to try the 'sortes' and dip into the\nfirst page of the first I chanced upon, for my fortune; I said 'what\nwill be the event of my love for Her'--in so many words--and my book\nturned out to be--'Cerutti's Italian Grammar!'--a propitious source of\ninformation ... the best to be hoped, what could it prove but some\nassurance that you were in the Dative Case, or I, not in the ablative\nabsolute? I do protest that, with the knowledge of so many horrible\npitfalls, or rather spring guns with wires on every bush ... such\ndreadful possibilities of stumbling on 'conditional moods,' 'imperfect\ntenses,' 'singular numbers,'--I should have been too glad to put up\nwith the safe spot for the sole of my foot though no larger than\nafforded by such a word as 'Conjunction,' 'possessive pronoun--,'\nsecure so far from poor Tippet's catastrophe. Well, I ventured, and\nwhat did I find? _This_--which I copy from the book now--'_If we love\nin the other world as we do in this, I shall love thee to\neternity_'--from 'Promiscuous Exercises,' to be translated into\nItalian, at the end.\n\nAnd now I reach Horne and his characteristics--of which I can tell you\nwith confidence that they are grossly misrepresented where not\naltogether false--whether it proceed from inability to see what one\nmay see, or disinclination, I cannot say. I know very little of Horne,\nbut my one visit to him a few weeks ago would show the uncandidness of\nthose charges: for instance, he talked a good deal about horses,\nmeaning to ride in Ireland, and described very cleverly an old hunter\nhe had hired once,--how it galloped and could not walk; also he\npropounded a theory of the true method of behaving in the saddle when\na horse rears, which I besought him only to practise in fancy on the\nsofa, where he lay telling it. So much for professing his ignorance in\nthat matter! On a sofa he does throw himself--but when thrown there,\nhe can talk, with Miss Mitford's leave, admirably,--I never heard\nbetter stories than Horne's--some Spanish-American incidents of travel\nwant printing--or have been printed, for aught I know. That he cares\nfor nobody's poetry is _false_, he praises more unregardingly of his\nown retreat, more unprovidingly for his own fortune,--(do I speak\nclearly?)--less like a man who himself has written somewhat in the\n'line' of the other man he is praising--which 'somewhat' has to be\nguarded in its interests, &c., less like the poor professional praise\nof the 'craft' than any other I ever met--instance after instance\nstarting into my mind as I write. To his income I never heard him\nallude--unless one should so interpret a remark to me this last time\nwe met, that he had been on some occasion put to inconvenience by\nsomebody's withholding ten or twelve pounds due to him for an article,\nand promised in the confidence of getting them to a tradesman, which\ndoes not look like 'boasting of his income'! As for the heiresses--I\ndon't believe one word of it, of the succession and transition and\ntrafficking. Altogether, what miserable 'set-offs' to the achievement\nof an 'Orion,' a 'Marlowe,' a 'Delora'! Miss Martineau understands him\nbetter.\n\nNow I come to myself and my health. I am quite well now--at all\nevents, much better, just a little turning in the head--since you\nappeal to my sincerity. For the coffee--thank you, indeed thank you,\nbut nothing after the '_oenomel_' and before half past six. _I_ know\nall about that song and its Greek original if Horne does not--and can\ntell you--, how truly...!\n\n    The thirst that from the soul doth rise\n      Doth ask a drink divine--\n    But might I of Jove's nectar sup\n      I would not change for thine! _No, no, no!_\n\n\nAnd by the bye, I have misled you as my wont is, on the subject of\nwine, 'that I do not touch it'--not habitually, nor so as to feel the\nloss of it, that on a principle; but every now and then of course.\n\nAnd now, 'Luria', so long as the parts cohere and the whole is\ndiscernible, all will be well yet. I shall not look at it, nor think\nof it, for a week or two, and then see what I have forgotten. Domizia\nis all wrong; I told you I knew that her special colour had faded,--it\nwas but a bright line, and the more distinctly deep that it was so\nnarrow. One of my half dozen words on my scrap of paper 'pro memoria'\nwas, under the 'Act V.' '_she loves_'--to which I could not bring it,\nyou see! Yet the play requires it still,--something may yet be\neffected, though.... I meant that she should propose to go to Pisa\nwith him, and begin a new life. But there is no hurry--I suppose it is\nno use publishing much before Easter--I will try and remember what my\nwhole character _did_ mean--it was, in two words, understood at the\ntime by 'panther's-beauty'--on which hint I ought to have spoken! But\nthe work grew cold, and you came between, and the sun put out the fire\non the hearth _nec vult panthera domari_!\n\nFor the 'Soul's Tragedy'--_that_ will surprise you, I think. There is\nno trace of you there,--you have not put out the black face of\n_it_--it is all sneering and _disillusion_--and shall not be printed\nbut burned if you say the word--now wait and see and then say! I will\nbring the first of the two parts next Saturday.\n\nAnd now, dearest, I am with you--and the other matters are forgotten\nalready. God bless you, I am ever your own R. You will write to me I\ntrust? And tell me how to bear the cold.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, February 12, 1846.]\n\nAh, the 'sortes'! Is it a double oracle--'swan and shadow'--do you\nthink? or do my eyes see double, dazzled by the light of it? 'I shall\nlove thee to eternity'--I _shall_.\n\nAnd as for the wine, I did not indeed misunderstand you 'as my wont\nis,' because I understood simply that 'habitually' you abstained from\nwine, and I meant exactly that perhaps it would be better for your\nhealth to take it habitually. It _might_, you know--not that I pretend\nto advise. Only when you look so much too pale sometimes, it comes\ninto one's thoughts that you ought not to live on cresses and cold\nwater. Strong coffee, which is the nearest to a stimulant that I dare\nto take, as far as ordinary diet goes, will almost always deliver _me_\nfrom the worst of headaches, but there is no likeness, no comparison.\nAnd your 'quite well' means that dreadful 'turning' still ... still!\nNow do not think any more of the Domizias, nor 'try to remember,'\nwhich is the most wearing way of thinking. The more I read and read\nyour 'Luria,' the grander it looks, and it will make its own road with\nall understanding men, you need not doubt, and still less need you try\nto make me uneasy about the harm I have done in 'coming between,' and\nall the rest of it. I wish never to do you greater harm than just\n_that_, and then with a white conscience 'I shall love thee to\neternity!... dearest! You have made a golden work out of your\n'golden-hearted Luria'--as once you called him to me, and I hold it in\nthe highest admiration--_should_, if you were precisely nothing to me.\nAnd still, the fifth act _rises_! That is certain. Nevertheless I seem\nto agree with you that your hand has vacillated in your Domizia. We do\nnot know her with as full a light on her face, as the other\npersons--we do not see the _panther_,--no, certainly we do not--but\nyou will do a very little for her which will be everything, after a\ntime ... and I assure you that if you were to ask for the manuscript\nbefore, you should not have a page of it--_now_, you are only to rest.\nWhat a work to rest upon! Do consider what a triumph it is! The more I\nread, the more I think of it, the greater it grows--and as to 'faded\nlines,' you never cut a pomegranate that was redder in the deep of it.\nAlso, no one can say 'This is not clearly written.' The people who are\nat 'words of one syllable' may be puzzled by you and Wordsworth\ntogether this time ... as far as the expression goes. Subtle thoughts\nyou always must have, in and out of 'Sordello'--and the objectors\nwould find even Plato (though his medium is as lucid as the water that\nran beside the beautiful plane-tree!) a little difficult perhaps.\n\nTo-day Mr. Kenyon came, and do you know, he has made a beatific\nconfusion between last Saturday and next Saturday, and said to me he\nhad told Miss Thomson to mind to come on Friday if she wished to see\nme ... 'remembering' (he added) 'that Mr. Browning took _Saturday_!!'\nSo I let him mistake the one week for the other--'Mr. Browning took\nSaturday,' it was true, both ways. Well--and then he went on to tell\nme that he had heard from Mrs. Jameson who was at Brighton and unwell,\nand had written to say this and that to him, and to enquire\nbesides--now, what do you think, she enquired besides? 'how you and\n... Browning were' said Mr. Kenyon--I write his words. He is coming,\nperhaps to-morrow, or perhaps Sunday--Saturday is to have a twofold\nsafety. That is, if you are not ill again. Dearest, you will not think\nof coming if you are ill ... unwell even. I shall not be frightened\nnext time, as I told you--I shall have the precedent. Before, I had to\nthink! 'It has never happened _so_--there must be a cause--and if it\nis a very, very, bad cause, why no one will tell _me_ ... it will not\nseem _my_ concern'--_that_ was my thought on Saturday. But another\ntime ... only, if it is possible to keep well, do keep well, beloved,\nand think of me instead of Domizia, and let there be no other time for\nyour suffering ... my waiting is nothing. I shall remember for the\nfuture that you may have the headache--and do you remember it too!\n\nFor Mr. Horne I take your testimony gladly and believingly. _She\nblots_ with her _eyes_ sometimes. She hates ... and loves, in extreme\ndegrees. We have, once or twice or thrice, been on the border of\nmutual displeasure, on this very subject, for I grew really vexed to\nobserve the trust on one side and the _dyspathy_ on the other--using\nthe mildest of words. You see, he found himself, down in Berkshire, in\nquite a strange element of society,--he, an artist in his good and his\nevil,--and the people there, 'county families,' smoothly plumed in\ntheir conventions, and classing the ringlets and the aboriginal way of\nusing water-glasses among offences against the Moral Law. Then,\nmeaning to be agreeable, or fascinating perhaps, made it twenty times\nworse. Writing in albums about the graces, discoursing meditated\nimpromptus at picnics, playing on the guitar in fancy dresses,--all\nthese things which seemed to poor Orion as natural as his own stars I\ndare say, and just the things suited to the _genus_ poet, and to\nhimself specifically,--were understood by the natives and their 'rural\ndeities' to signify, that he intended to marry one half the county,\nand to run away with the other. But Miss Mitford should have known\nbetter--_she_ should. And she _would_ have known better, if she had\nliked him--for the liking could have been unmade by no such offences.\nShe is too fervent a friend--she can be. Generous too, she can be\nwithout an effort; and I have had much affection from her--and accuse\nmyself for seeming to have less--but--\n\nMay God bless you!--I end in haste after this long lingering.\n\n                                                     Your\n\n                                                         BA.\n\nNot unwell--_I_ am not! I forgot it, which proves how I am not.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                             [Post-mark, February 13, 1846.]\n\nTwo nights ago I read the 'Soul's Tragedy' once more, and though there\nwere not a few points which still struck me as successful in design\nand execution, yet on the whole I came to a decided opinion, that it\nwill be better to postpone the publication of it for the present. It\nis not a good ending, an auspicious wind-up of this series;\nsubject-matter and style are alike unpopular even for the literary\n_grex_ that stands aloof from the purer _plebs_, and uses that\nprivilege to display and parade an ignorance which the other is\naltogether unconscious of--so that, if 'Luria' is _clearish_, the\n'Tragedy' would be an unnecessary troubling the waters. Whereas, if I\nprinted it first in order, my readers, according to custom, would make\nthe (comparatively) little they did not see into, a full excuse for\nshutting their eyes at the rest, and we may as well part friends, so\nas not to meet enemies. But, at bottom, I believe the proper objection\nis to the immediate, _first_ effect of the whole--its moral\neffect--which is dependent on the contrary supposition of its being\nreally understood, in the main drift of it. Yet I don't know; for I\nwrote it with the intention of producing the best of all\neffects--perhaps the truth is, that I am tired, rather, and desirous\nof getting done, and 'Luria' will answer my purpose so far. Will not\nthe best way be to reserve this unlucky play and in the event of a\nsecond edition--as Moxon seems to think such an apparition\npossible--might not this be quietly inserted?--in its place, too, for\nit was written two or three years ago. I have lost, of late, interest\nin dramatic writing, as you know, and, perhaps, occasion. And,\ndearest, I mean to take your advice and be quiet awhile and let my\nmind get used to its new medium of sight; seeing all things, as it\ndoes, through you: and then, let all I have done be the prelude and\nthe real work begin. I felt it would be so before, and told you at the\nvery beginning--do you remember? And you spoke of Io 'in the proem.'\nHow much more should follow now!\n\nAnd if nothing follows, I have _you_.\n\nI shall see you to-morrow and be happy. To-day--is it the weather or\nwhat?--something depresses me a little--to-morrow brings the remedy\nfor it all. I don't know why I mention such a matter; except that I\ntell you everything without a notion of after-consequence; and because\nyour dearest, dearest presence seems under any circumstances as if\ncreated just to help me _there_; if my spirits rise they fly to you;\nif they fall, they hold by you and cease falling--as now. Bless you,\nBa--my own best blessing that you are! But a few hours and I am with\nyou, beloved!\n\n                                                    Your own",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Evening.\n                             [Post-mark, February 16, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest, though you wanted to make me say one thing displeasing\nto you to-day, I had not courage to say two instead ... which I might\nhave done indeed and indeed! For I am capable of thinking both\nthoughts of 'next year,' as you suggested them:--because while you are\nwith me I see only _you_, and you being you, I cannot doubt a power of\nyours nor measure the deep loving nature which I feel to be so\ndeep--so that there may be ever so many 'mores,' and no 'more' wonder\nof mine!--but afterwards, when the door is shut and there is no 'more'\nlight nor speaking until Thursday, why _then_, that I do not see _you_\nbut _me_,--_then_ comes the reaction,--the natural lengthening of the\nshadows at sunset,--and _then_, the 'less, less, less' grows to seem\nas natural to my fate, as the 'more' seemed to your nature--I being I!\n\n_Sunday._--Well!--you are to try to forgive it all! And the truth,\nover and under all, is, that I scarcely ever do think of the future,\nscarcely ever further than to your next visit, and almost never\nbeyond, except for your sake and in reference to that view of the\nquestion which I have vexed you with so often, in fearing for your\nhappiness. Once it was a habit of mind with me to live altogether in\nwhat I called the future--but the tops of the trees that looked\ntowards Troy were broken off in the great winds, and falling down into\nthe river beneath, where now after all this time they grow green\nagain, I let them float along the current gently and pleasantly. Can\nit be better I wonder! And if it becomes worse, can I help it? Also\nthe future never seemed to belong to me so little--never! It might\nappear wonderful to most persons, it is startling even to myself\nsometimes, to observe how free from anxiety I am--from the sort of\nanxiety which might be well connected with my own position _here_, and\nwhich is personal to myself. _That_ is all thrown behind--into the\nbushes--long ago it was, and I think I told you of it before.\nAgitation comes from indecision--and _I_ was decided from the first\nhour when I admitted the possibility of your loving me really.\nNow,--as the Euphuists used to say,--I am 'more thine than my own' ...\nit is a literal truth--and my future belongs to you; if it was mine,\nit was mine to give, and if it was mine to give, it was given, and if\nit was given ... beloved....\n\nSo you see!\n\nThen I will confess to you that all my life long I have had a rather\nstrange sympathy and dyspathy--the sympathy having concerned the genus\n_jilt_ (as vulgarly called) male and female--and the dyspathy--the\nwhole class of heroically virtuous persons who make sacrifices of what\nthey call 'love' to what they call 'duty.' There are exceptional cases\nof course, but, for the most part, I listen incredulously or else with\na little contempt to those latter proofs of strength--or weakness, as\nit may be:--people are not usually praised for giving up their\nreligion, for unsaying their oaths, for desecrating their 'holy\nthings'--while believing them still to be religious and sacramental!\nOn the other side I have always and shall always understand how it is\npossible for the most earnest and faithful of men and even of women\nperhaps, to err in the convictions of the heart as well as of the\nmind, to profess an affection which is an illusion, and to recant and\nretreat loyally at the eleventh hour, on becoming aware of the truth\nwhich is in them. Such men are the truest of men, and the most\ncourageous for the truth's sake, and instead of blaming them I hold\nthem in honour, for me, and always did and shall.\n\nAnd while I write, you are 'very ill'--very ill!--how it looks,\nwritten down _so_! When you were gone yesterday and my thoughts had\ntossed about restlessly for ever so long, I was wise enough to ask\nWilson how _she_ thought you were looking, ... and she 'did not know'\n... she 'had not observed' ... 'only certainly Mr. Browning ran\nup-stairs instead of walking as he did the time before.'\n\nNow promise me dearest, dearest--not to trifle with your health. Not\nto neglect yourself ... not to tire yourself ... and besides to take\nthe advice of your medical friend as to diet and general\ntreatment:--because there must be a wrong and a right in everything,\nand the right is very important under your circumstances ... if you\nhave a tendency to illness. It may be right for you to have wine for\ninstance. Did you ever try the putting your feet into hot water at\nnight, to prevent the recurrence of the morning headache--for the\naffection of the head comes on early in the morning, does it not? just\nas if the sleeping did you harm. Now I have heard of such a remedy\ndoing good--and could it _increase_ the evil?--mustard mixed with the\nwater, remember. Everything approaching to _congestion_ is full of\nfear--I tremble to think of it--and I bring no remedy by this teazing\nneither! But you will not be 'wicked' nor 'unkind,' nor provoke the\nevil consciously--you will keep quiet and forswear the going out at\nnights, the excitement and noise of parties, and the worse excitement\nof composition--you promise. If you knew how I keep thinking of you,\nand at intervals grow so frightened! Think _you_, that you are three\ntimes as much to me as I can be to you at best and greatest,--because\nyou are more than three times the larger planet--and because too, you\nhave known other sources of light and happiness ... but I need not say\nthis--and I shall hear on Monday, and may trust to you every day ...\nmay I not? Yet I would trust my soul to you sooner than your own\nhealth.\n\nMay God bless you, dear, dearest. If the first part of the 'Soul's\nTragedy' should be written out, I can read _that_ perhaps, without\ndrawing you in to think of the second. Still it may be safer to keep\noff altogether for the present--and let it be as you incline. I do not\nspeak of 'Luria.'\n\n                                                    Your own\n\n                                                         BA.\n\nIf it were not for Mr. Kenyon, I should say, almost, Wednesday,\ninstead of Thursday--I want to see you so much, and to see for myself\nabout the looks and spirits, only it would not do if he found you here\non Wednesday. Let him come to-morrow or on Tuesday, and Wednesday will\nbe safe--shall we consider? what do you think?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Afternoon.\n                             [Post-mark, February 16, 1846.]\n\nHere is the letter again, dearest: I suppose it gives me the same\npleasure, in reading, as you--and Mr. K. as me, and anybody else as\nhim; if all the correspondence which was claimed again and burnt on\nsome principle or other some years ago be at all of the nature of this\nsample, the measure seems questionable. Burn anybody's _real_\nletters, well and good: they move and live--the thoughts, feelings,\nand expressions even,--in a self-imposed circle limiting the\nexperience of two persons only--_there_ is the standard, and to _that_\nthe appeal--how should a third person know? His presence breaks the\nline, so to speak, and lets in a whole tract of country on the\noriginally inclosed spot--so that its trees, which were from side to\nside there, seem left alone and wondering at their sudden unimportance\nin the broad land; while its 'ferns such as I never saw before' and\nwhich have been petted proportionably, look extravagant enough amid\nthe new spread of good honest grey grass that is now the earth's\ngeneral wear. So that the significance is lost at once, and whole\nvalue of such letters--the cypher changed, the vowel-points removed:\nbut how can that affect clever writing like this? What do you, to whom\nit is addressed, see in it more than the world that wants to see it\nand shan't have it? One understands shutting an unprivileged eye to\nthe ineffable mysteries of those 'upper-rooms,' now that the broom and\ndust pan, stocking-mending and gingerbread-making are invested with\nsuch unforeseen reverence ... but the carriage-sweep and quarry,\ntogether with Jane and our baskets, and a pleasant shadow of\nWordsworth's Sunday hat preceding his own rapid strides in the\ndirection of Miss Fenwick's house--surely, 'men's eyes were made to\nsee, so let them gaze' at all _this_! And so I, gazing with a clear\nconscience, am very glad to hear so much good of a very good person\nand so well told. She plainly sees the proper use and advantage of a\ncountry-life; and _that_ knowledge gets to seem a high point of\nattainment doubtless by the side of the Wordsworth she speaks of--for\n_mine_ he shall not be as long as I am able! Was ever such a '_great_'\npoet before? Put one trait with the other--the theory of rural\ninnocence--alternation of 'vulgar trifles' with dissertating with\nstyle of 'the utmost grandeur that _even you_ can conceive' (speak for\nyourself, Miss M.!)--and that amiable transition from two o'clock's\ngrief at the death of one's brother to three o'clock's happiness in\nthe 'extraordinary mesmeric discourse' of one's friend. All this, and\nthe rest of the serene and happy inspired daily life which a piece of\n'unpunctuality' can ruin, and to which the guardian 'angel' brings as\ncrowning qualification the knack of poking the fire adroitly--of\nthis--what can one say but that--no, best hold one's tongue and read\nthe 'Lyrical Ballads' with finger in ear. Did not Shelley say long ago\n'He had no more _imagination_ than a pint-pot'--though in those days\nhe used to walk about France and Flanders like a man? _Now_, he is\n'most comfortable in his worldly affairs' and just this comes of it!\nHe lives the best twenty years of his life after the way of his own\nheart--and when one presses in to see the result of the rare\nexperiment ... what the _one_ alchemist whom fortune has allowed to\nget all his coveted materials and set to work at last in earnest with\nfire and melting-pot--what _he_ produces after all the talk of him and\nthe like of him; why, you get _pulvis et cinis_--a man at the mercy of\nthe tongs and shovel!\n\nWell! Let us despair at nothing, but, wishing success to the newer\naspirant, expect better things from Miss M. when the 'knoll,' and\n'paradise,' and their facilities, operate properly; and that she will\nmake a truer estimate of the importance and responsibilities of\n'authorship' than she does at present, if I understand rightly the\nsense in which she describes her own life as it means to be; for in\none sense it is all good and well, and quite natural that she should\nlike 'that sort of strenuous handwork' better than book-making; like\nthe play better than the labour, as we are apt to do. If she realises\na very ordinary scheme of literary life, planned under the eye of God\nnot 'the public,' and prosecuted under the constant sense of the\nnight's coming which ends it good or bad--then, she will be sure to\n'like' the rest and sport--teaching her maids and sewing her gloves\nand making delicate visitors comfortable--so much more rational a\nresource is the worst of them than gin-and-water, for instance. But\nif, as I rather suspect, these latter are to figure as a virtual\n_half_ duty of the whole Man--as of equal importance (on the ground of\nthe innocence and utility of such occupations) with the book-making\naforesaid--always supposing _that_ to be of the right kind--_then_ I\nrespect Miss M. just as I should an Archbishop of Canterbury whose\nbusiness was the teaching A.B.C. at an infant-school--he who might set\non the Tens to instruct the Hundreds how to convince the Thousands of\nthe propriety of doing that and many other things. Of course one will\nrespect him only the more if when _that_ matter is off his mind he\nrelaxes at such a school instead of over a chess-board; as it will\nincrease our love for Miss M. to find that making 'my good Jane (from\nTyne-mouth)'--'happier and--I hope--wiser' is an amusement, or more,\nafter the day's progress towards the 'novel for next year' which is to\ninspire thousands, beyond computation, with the ardour of making\ninnumerable other Janes and delicate relatives happier and wiser--who\nknows but as many as Burns did, and does, so make happier and wiser?\nOnly, _his quarry_ and after-solace was that 'marble bowl often\nreplenished with whiskey' on which Dr. Curry discourses mournfully,\n'Oh, be wiser Thou!'--and remember it was only _after_ Lord Bacon had\nwritten to an end _his_ Book--given us for ever the Art of\nInventing--whether steam-engine or improved dust-pan--that he took on\nhimself to do a little exemplary 'hand work'; got out on that cold St.\nAlban's road to stuff a fowl with snow and so keep it fresh, and got\ninto his bed and died of the cold in his hands ('strenuous _hand_\nwork'--) before the snow had time to melt. He did not begin in his\nyouth by saying--'I have a horror of merely writing 'Novum Organums'\nand shall give half my energies to the stuffing fowls'!\n\nAll this it is _my_ amusement, of an indifferent kind, to put down\nsolely on the pleasant assurance contained in that postscript, of the\none way of never quarrelling with Miss M.--'by joining in her plan\nand practice of plain speaking'--could she but 'get people to do it!'\nWell, she gets me for a beginner: the funny thing would be to know\nwhat Chorley's desperate utterance amounted to! Did you ever hear of\nthe plain speaking of some of the continental lottery-projectors? An\nestate on the Rhine, for instance, is to be disposed of, and the\nholder of the lucky ticket will find himself suddenly owner of a\nmediæval castle with an unlimited number of dependencies--vineyards,\nwoods, pastures, and so forth--all only waiting the new master's\narrival--while inside, all is swept and garnished (not to say,\nvarnished)--the tables are spread, the wines on the board, all is\nready for the reception _but_ ... here 'plain speaking' becomes\nnecessary--it prevents quarrels, and, could the projector get people\nto practise it as he does all would be well; so he, at least, will\nspeak plainly--you hear what _is_ provided but, he cannot, dares not\nwithhold what is _not_--there is then, to speak plainly,--no night\ncap! You _will_ have to bring your own night cap. The projector\nfurnishes somewhat, as you hear, but not _all_--and now--the worst is\nheard,--will you quarrel with him? Will my own dear, dearest Ba please\nand help me here, and fancy Chorley's concessions, and tributes, and\nrecognitions, and then, at the very end, the 'plain words,' to\ncounterbalance all, that have been to overlook and pardon?\n\nOh, my own Ba, hear _my_ plain speech--and how this is _not_ an\nattempt to frighten you out of your dear wish to '_hear_ from me'--no,\nindeed--but a whim, a caprice,--and now it is out! over, done with!\nAnd now I am with you again--it is to _you_ I shall write next. Bless\nyou, ever--my beloved. I am much better, indeed--and mean to be well.\nAnd you! But I will write--this goes for nothing--or only _this_, that\nI am your very own--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                             [Post-mark, February 16, 1846.]\n\nMy long letter is with you, dearest, to show how serious my illness\nwas 'while you wrote': unless you find that letter too foolish, as I\ndo on twice thinking--or at all events a most superfluous bestowment\nof handwork while the heart was elsewhere, and with you--never more\nso! Dear, dear Ba, your adorable goodness sinks into me till it nearly\npains,--so exquisite and strange is the pleasure: _so_ you care for\nme, and think of me, and write to me!--I shall never die for you, and\nif it could be so, what would death prove? But I can live on, your own\nas now,--utterly your own.\n\nDear Ba, do you suppose we differ on so plain a point as that of the\nsuperior wisdom, and generosity, too, of announcing such a change &c.\nat the eleventh hour? There can be no doubt of it,--and now, what of\nit to me?\n\nBut I am not going to write to-day--only this--that I am better,\nhaving not been quite so well last night--so I shut up books (that is,\nof my own) and mean to think about nothing but you, and you, and still\nyou, for a whole week--so all will come right, I hope! _May_ I take\nWednesday? And do you say that,--hint at the possibility of that,\nbecause you have been reached by my own remorse at feeling that if I\nhad kept my appointment _last_ Saturday (but one)--Thursday would have\nbeen my day this past week, and this very Monday had been gained?\nShall I not lose a day for ever unless I get Wednesday and\nSaturday?--yet ... care ... dearest--let nothing horrible happen.\n\nIf I do not hear to the contrary to-morrow--or on Wednesday early--\n\nBut write and bless me dearest, most dear Ba. God bless you ever--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                             [Post-mark, February 17, 1846.]\n\n_Méchant comme quatre!_ you are, and not deserving to be let see the\nfamous letter--is there any grammar in _that_ concatenation, can you\ntell me, now that you are in an arch-critical humour? And remember\n(turning back to the subject) that personally she and I are strangers\nand that therefore what she writes for me is naturally scene-painting\nto be looked at from a distance, done with a masterly hand and most\namiable intention, but quite a different thing of course from the\nintimate revelations of heart and mind which make a living thing of a\nletter. If she had sent such to me, I should not have sent it to Mr.\nKenyon, but then, she would not have sent it to me in any case. What\nshe _has_ sent me might be a chapter in a book and has the life proper\nto itself, and I shall not let you try it by another standard, even if\nyou wished, but you don't--for I am not so _bête_ as not to understand\nhow the jest crosses the serious all the way you write. Well--and Mr.\nKenyon wants the letter the second time, not for himself, but for Mr.\nCrabb Robinson who promises to let me have a new sonnet of\nWordsworth's in exchange for the loan, and whom I cannot refuse\nbecause he is an intimate friend of Miss Martineau's and once allowed\nme to read a whole packet of letters from her to him. She does not\nobject (as I have read under her hand) to her letters being shown\nabout in MS., notwithstanding the anathema against all printers of the\nsame (which completes the extravagance of the unreason, I think) and\npeople are more anxious to see them from their presumed nearness to\nannihilation. I, for my part, value letters (to talk literature) as\nthe most vital part of biography, and for any rational human being to\nput his foot on the traditions of his kind in this particular class,\ndoes seem to me as wonderful as possible. Who would put away one of\nthose multitudinous volumes, even, which stereotype Voltaire's\nwrinkles of wit--even Voltaire? I can read book after book of such\nreading--or could! And if her principle were carried out, there would\nbe an end! Death would be deader from henceforth. Also it is a wrong\nselfish principle and unworthy of her whole life and profession,\nbecause we should all be ready to say that if the secrets of our daily\nlives and inner souls may instruct other surviving souls, let them be\nopen to men hereafter, even as they are to God now. Dust to dust, and\nsoul-secrets to humanity--there are natural heirs to all these things.\nNot that I do not intimately understand the shrinking back from the\nidea of publicity on any terms--not that I would not myself destroy\npapers of mine which were sacred to _me_ for personal reasons--but\nthen I never would call this natural weakness, virtue--nor would I, as\na teacher of the public, announce it and attempt to justify it as an\nexample to other minds and acts, I hope.\n\nHow hard you are on the mending of stockings and the rest of it! Why\nnot agree with me and like that sort of homeliness and simplicity in\ncombination with such large faculty as we must admit _there_? Lord\nBacon did a great deal of trifling besides the stuffing of the fowl\nyou mention--which I did not remember: and in fact, all the great work\ndone in the world, is done just by the people who know how to\ntrifle--do you not think so? When a man makes a principle of 'never\nlosing a moment,' he is a lost man. Great men are eager to find an\nhour, and not to avoid losing a moment. 'What are you doing' said\nsomebody once (as I heard the tradition) to the beautiful Lady Oxford\nas she sate in her open carriage on the race-ground--'Only a little\nalgebra,' said she. People who do a little algebra on the race-ground\nare not likely to do much of anything with ever so many hours for\nmeditation. Why, you must agree with me in all this, so I shall not be\nsententious any longer. Mending stockings is not exactly the sort of\npastime _I_ should choose--who do things quite as trifling without the\nutility--and even your Seigneurie peradventure.... I stop there for\nfear of growing impertinent. The _argumentum ad hominem_ is apt to\nbring down the _argumentum ad baculum_, it is as well to remember in\ntime.\n\nFor Wordsworth ... you are right in a measure and by a standard--but I\nhave heard such really desecrating things of him, of his selfishness,\nhis love of money, his worldly _cunning_ (rather than prudence) that I\nfelt a relief and gladness in the new chronicle;--and you can\nunderstand how _that_ was. Miss Mitford's doctrine is that everything\nput into the poetry, is taken out of the man and lost utterly by him.\nHer general doctrine about poets, quite amounts to that--I do not say\nit too strongly. And knowing that such opinions are held by minds not\nfeeble, it is very painful (as it would be indeed in any case) to see\nthem apparently justified by royal poets like Wordsworth. Ah, but I\nknow an answer--I see one in my mind!\n\nSo again for the letters. Now ought I not to know about letters, I who\nhave had so many ... from chief minds too, as society goes in England\nand America? And _your_ letters began by being first to my intellect,\nbefore they were first to my heart. All the letters in the world are\nnot like yours ... and I would trust them for that verdict with any\njury in Europe, if they were not so far too dear! Mr. Kenyon wanted to\nmake me show him your letters--I did show him the first, and resisted\ngallantly afterwards, which made him say what vexed me at the moment,\n... 'oh--you let me see only _women's_ letters,'--till I observed that\nit was a breach of confidence, except in some cases, ... and that _I_\nshould complain very much, if anyone, man or woman, acted so by\nmyself. But nobody in the world writes like you--not so _vitally_--and\nI have a right, if you please, to praise my letters, besides the\nreason of it which is as good.\n\nAh--you made me laugh about Mr. Chorley's free speaking--and, without\nthe personal knowledge, I can comprehend how it could be nothing very\nferocious ... some 'pardonnez moi, vous êtes un ange.' The amusing\npart is that by the same post which brought me the Ambleside document,\nI heard from Miss Mitford 'that it was an admirable thing of Chorley\nto have persisted in not allowing Harriet Martineau to quarrel with\nhim' ... so that there are laurels on both sides, it appears.\n\nAnd I am delighted to hear from you to-day just _so_, though I\nreproach you in turn just _so_ ... because you were not 'depressed' in\nwriting all this and this and this which has made me laugh--you were\nnot, dearest--and you call yourself better, 'much better,' which means\na very little perhaps, but is a golden word, let me take it as I may.\nMay God bless you. Wednesday seems too near (now that this is Monday\nand you are better) to be _our_ day ... perhaps it does,--and Thursday\n_is_ close beside it at the worst.\n\n                                       Dearest I am your own\n\n                                            BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Evening.\n           [In the same envelope with the preceding letter.]\n\nNow forgive me, dearest of all, but I must teaze you just a little,\nand entreat you, if only for the love of me, to have medical advice\nand follow it _without further delay_. I like to have recourse to\nthese medical people quite as little as you can--but I am persuaded\nthat it is necessary--that it is at least _wise_, for you to do so\nnow, and, you see, you were 'not quite so well' again last night! So\nwill you, for me? Would _I_ not, if you wished it? And on Wednesday,\nyes, on Wednesday, come--that is, if coming on Wednesday should really\nbe not bad for you, for you _must_ do what is right and kind, and I\ndoubt whether the omnibus-driving and the noises of every sort betwixt\nus, should not keep you away for a little while--I trust you to do\nwhat is best for both of us.\n\nAnd it is not best ... it is not good even, to talk about 'dying for\nme' ... oh, I do beseech you never to use such words. You make me feel\nas if I were choking. Also it is nonsense--because nobody puts out a\ncandle for the light's sake.\n\nWrite _one line_ to me to-morrow--literally so little--just to say how\nyou are. I know by the writing here, what _is_. Let me have the one\nline by the eight o'clock post to-morrow, Tuesday.\n\nFor the rest it may be my 'goodness' or my badness, but the world\nseems to have sunk away beneath my feet and to have left only you to\nlook to and hold by. Am I not to _feel_, then, any trembling of the\nhand? the least trembling?\n\nMay God bless both of us--which is a double blessing for me\nnotwithstanding my badness.\n\n_I trust you about Wednesday_--and if it should be wise and kind not\nto come quite so soon, we will take it out of other days and lose not\none of them. And as for anything 'horrible' being likely to happen, do\nnot think of that either,--there can be nothing horrible while you are\nnot ill. So be well--try to be well--use the means and, well or ill,\nlet me have the one line to-morrow ... Tuesday. I send you the foolish\nletter I wrote to-day in answer to your too long one--too long, was it\nnot, as you felt? And I, the writer of the foolish one, am\ntwice-foolish, and push poor 'Luria' out of sight, and refuse to\nfinish my notes on him till the harm he has done shall have passed\naway. In my badness I bring false accusation, perhaps, against poor\nLuria.\n\nSo till Wednesday--or as you shall fix otherwise.\n\n                                                    Your\n\n                                                         BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "6-1/2 Tuesday Evening.\n\nMy dearest, your note reaches me only _now_, with an excuse from the\npostman. The answer you expect, you shall have the only way possible.\nI must make up a parcel so as to be able to knock and give it. I shall\nbe with you to-morrow, God willing--being quite well.\n\n                                            Bless you ever--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n                             [Post-mark, February 19, 1846.]\n\nMy sweetest, best, dearest Ba I _do_ love you less, much less already,\nand adore you more, more by so much more as I see of you, think of\nyou--I am yours just as much as those flowers; and you may pluck those\nflowers to pieces or put them in your breast; it is not because you so\nbless me now that you may not if you please one day--you will stop me\nhere; but it is the truth and I live in it.\n\nI am quite well; indeed, this morning, _noticeably_ well, they tell\nme, and well I mean to keep if I can.\n\nWhen I got home last evening I found this note--and I have _accepted_,\nthat I might say I could also keep an engagement, if so minded, at\nHarley Street--thereby insinuating that other reasons _may_ bring me\ninto the neighbourhood than _the_ reason--but I shall either not go\nthere, or only for an hour at most. I also found a note headed\n'Strictly private and confidential'--so here it goes from my mouth to\nmy heart--pleasantly proposing that I should start in a few days for\nSt. Petersburg, as secretary to somebody going there on a 'mission of\nhumanity'--_grazie tante_!\n\nDid you hear of my meeting someone at the door whom I take to have\nbeen one of your brothers?\n\nOne thing vexed me in your letter--I will tell you, the praise of\n_my_ letters. Now, one merit they have--in language mystical--that of\nhaving _no_ merit. If I caught myself trying to write finely,\ngraphically &c. &c., nay, if I found myself conscious of having in my\nown opinion, so written, all would be over! yes, over! I should be\nrespecting you inordinately, paying a proper tribute to your genius,\nsummoning the necessary collectedness,--plenty of all that! But the\nfeeling with which I write to you, not knowing that it is\nwriting,--with _you_, face and mouth and hair and eyes opposite me,\ntouching me, knowing that all _is_ as I say, and helping out the\nimperfect phrases from your own intuition--_that_ would be gone--and\n_what_ in its place? 'Let us eat and drink for to-morrow we write to\nAmbleside.' No, no, love, nor can it ever be so, nor should it ever be\nso if--even if, preserving all that intimate relation, with the\ncarelessness, _still_, somehow, was obtained with no effort in the\nworld, graphic writing and philosophic and what you please--for I\n_will_ be--_would_ be, better than my works and words with an infinite\nstock beyond what I put into convenient circulation whether in fine\nspeeches fit to remember, or fine passages to quote. For the rest, I\nhad meant to tell you before now, that you often put me 'in a maze'\nwhen you particularize letters of mine--'such an one was kind' &c. I\nknow, sometimes I seem to give the matter up in despair, I take out\npaper and fall thinking on you, and bless you with my whole heart and\nthen begin: 'What a fine day this is?' I distinctly remember having\ndone that repeatedly--but the converse is not true by any means, that\n(when the expression may happen to fall more consentaneously to the\nmind's motion) that less is felt, oh no! But the particular thought at\nthe time has not been of the _insufficiency_ of expression, as in the\nother instance.\n\nNow I will leave off--to begin elsewhere--for I am always with you,\nbeloved, best beloved! Now you will write? And walk much, and sleep\nmore? Bless you, dearest--ever--\n\n                                                   Your own,",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-marks, Mis-sent to Mitcham. February 19 and 20, 1846.]\n\nBest and kindest of all that ever were to be loved in dreams, and\nwondered at and loved out of them, you are indeed! I cannot make you\nfeel how I felt that night when I knew that to save me an anxious\nthought you had come so far so late--it was almost too much to feel,\nand _is_ too much to speak. So let it pass. You will never act so\nagain, ever dearest--you shall not. If the post sins, why leave the\nsin to the post; and I will remember for the future, will be ready to\nremember, how postmen are fallible and how you live at the end of a\nlane--and not be uneasy about a silence if there should be one\nunaccounted for. For the Tuesday coming, I shall remember that\ntoo--who could forget it?... I put it in the niche of the wall, one\ngolden lamp more of your giving, to throw light purely down to the end\nof my life--I do thank you. And the truth is, I _should_ have been in\na panic, had there been no letter that evening--I was frightened the\nday before, then reasoned the fears back and waited: and if there had\nbeen no letter after all--. But you are supernaturally good and kind.\nHow can I ever 'return' as people say (as they might say in their\nledgers) ... any of it all? How indeed can I who have not even a heart\nleft of my own, to love you with?\n\nI quite trust to your promise in respect to the medical advice, if\nwalking and rest from work do not prevent at once the recurrence of\nthose sensations--it was a promise, remember. And you will tell me the\nvery truth of how you are--and you will try the music, and not be\nnervous, dearest. Would not _riding_ be good for you--consider. And\nwhy should you be 'alone' when your sister is in the house? How I keep\nthinking of you all day--you cannot really be alone with so many\nthoughts ... such swarms of thoughts, if you could but see them,\ndrones and bees together!\n\nGeorge came in from Westminster Hall after we parted yesterday and\nsaid that he had talked with the junior counsel of the wretched\nplaintiffs in the Ferrers case, and that the belief was in the mother\nbeing implicated, although not from the beginning. It was believed too\nthat the miserable girl had herself taken step after step into the\nmire, involved herself gradually, the first guilt being an\nextravagance in personal expenses, which she lied and lied to account\nfor in the face of her family. 'Such a respectable family,' said\nGeorge, 'the grandfather in court looking venerable, and everyone\nindignant upon being so disgraced by her!' But for the respectability\nin the best sense, I do not quite see. That all those people should\nacquiesce in the indecency (according to every standard of English\nmanners in any class of society) of thrusting the personal expenses of\na member of their family on Lord Ferrers, she still bearing their\nname--and in those peculiar circumstances of her supposed position\ntoo--where is the respectability? And they are furious with her, which\nis not to be wondered at after all. Her counsel had an interview with\nher previous to the trial, to satisfy themselves of her good faith,\nand she was quite resolute and earnest, persisting in every statement.\nOn the coming out of the anonymous letters, Fitzroy Kelly said to the\njuniors that if anyone could suggest a means of explanation, he would\nbe eager to carry forward the case, ... but for him he saw no way of\nescaping from the fact of the guilt of their client. Not a voice could\nspeak for her. So George was told. There is no ground for a\nprosecution for a conspiracy, he says, but she is open to the charge\nfor _forgery_, of course, and to the dreadful consequences, though it\nis not considered at all likely that Lord Ferrers could wish to\ndisturb her beyond the ruin she has brought on her own life.\n\nThink of Miss Mitford's growing quite cold about Mr. Chorley who has\nspent two days with her lately, and of her saying in a letter to me\nthis morning that he is very much changed and grown to be 'a\npresumptuous coxcomb.' He has displeased her in some way--that is\nclear. What changes there are in the world.\n\nShould I ever change to _you_, do you think, ... even if you came to\n'love me less'--not that I meant to reproach you with that\npossibility. May God bless you, dear dearest. It is another miracle\n(beside the many) that I get nearer to the mountains yet still they\nseem more blue. Is not _that_ strange?\n\n                                             Ever and wholly\n\n                                                  Your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                             [Post-mark, February 20, 1846.]\n\nAnd I offended you by praising your letters--or rather _mine_, if you\nplease--as if I had not the right! Still, you shall not, shall not\nfancy that I meant to praise them in the way you seem to think--by\ncalling them 'graphic,' 'philosophic,'--why, did I ever use such\nwords? I agree with you that if I could play critic upon your letters,\nit would be an end!--but no, no ... I did not, for a moment. In what I\nsaid I went back to my first impressions--and they were _vital_\nletters, I said--which was the résumé of my thoughts upon the early\nones you sent me, because I felt your letters to be _you_ from the\nvery first, and I began, from the beginning, to read every one several\ntimes over. Nobody, I felt, nobody of all these writers, did write as\nyou did. Well!--and had I not a right to say _that_ now at last, and\nwas it not natural to say just _that_, when I was talking of other\npeople's letters and how it had grown almost impossible for me to read\nthem; and do I deserve to be scolded? No indeed.\n\nAnd if I had the misfortune to think now, when you say it is a fine\nday, that _that_ is said in more music than it could be said in by\nanother--where is the sin against _you_, I should like to ask. It is\nyourself who is the critic, I think, after all. But over all the\nbrine, I hold my letters--just as Camoens did his poem. They are _best\nto me_--and they are _best_. I knew what _they_ were, before I knew\nwhat _you_ were--all of you. And I like to think that I never fancied\nanyone on a level with you, even in a letter.\n\nWhat makes you take them to be so bad, I suppose, is just feeling in\nthem how near we are. _You say that!_--not I.\n\nBad or good, you _are_ better--yes, 'better than the works and\nwords'!--though it was very shameful of you to insinuate that I talked\nof fine speeches and passages and graphical and philosophical\nsentences, as if I had proposed a publication of 'Elegant Extracts'\nfrom your letters. See what blasphemy one falls into through a\nbeginning of light speech! It is wiser to talk of St. Petersburg; for\nall Voltaire's ... '_ne disons pas de mal de Nicolas_.'\n\nWiser--because you will not go. If you were going ... well!--but there\nis no danger--it would not do you good to go, I am so happy this time\nas to be able to think--and your 'mission of humanity' lies\nnearer--'strictly private and confidential'? but not in Harley\nStreet--so if you go _there_, dearest, keep to the 'one hour' and do\nnot suffer yourself to be tired and stunned in those hot rooms and\nmade unwell again--it is plain that you cannot bear that sort of\nexcitement. For Mr. Kenyon's note, ... it was a great temptation to\nmake a day of Friday--but I resist both for Monday's sake and for\nyours, because it seems to me safer not to hurry you from one house to\nanother till you are tired completely. I shall think of you so much\nthe nearer for Mr. Kenyon's note--which is something gained. In the\nmeanwhile you are better, which is everything, or seems so. Ever\ndearest, do you remember what it is to me that you should be better,\nand keep from being worse again--I mean, of course, _try_ to keep from\nbeing worse--be wise ... and do not stay long in those hot Harley\nStreet rooms. Ah--now you will think that I am afraid of the\nunicorns!--\n\nThrough your being ill the other day I forgot, and afterwards went on\nforgetting, to speak of and to return the ballad--which is delightful;\nI have an unspeakable delight in those suggestive ballads, which seem\nto make you touch with the end of your finger the full warm life of\nother times ... so near they bring you, yet so suddenly all passes in\nthem. Certainly there is a likeness to your Duchess--it is a curious\ncrossing. And does it not strike you that a verse or two must be\nwanting in the ballad--there is a gap, I fancy.\n\nTell Mr. Kenyon (if he enquires) that you come here on Monday instead\nof Saturday--and if you can help it, do not mention Wednesday--it will\nbe as well, not. You met Alfred at the door--he came up to me\nafterwards and observed that 'at last he had seen you!' 'Virgilium\ntantum vidi!'\n\nAs to the thing which you try to say in the first page of this letter,\nand which you 'stop' yourself in saying ... _I_ need not stop you in\nit....\n\nAnd now there is no time, if I am to sleep to-night. May God bless\nyou, dearest, dearest.\n\nI must be your own while He blesses _me_.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Afternoon.\n                             [Post-mark, February 20, 1846.]\n\nHere is my Ba's dearest _first_ letter come four hours after the\nsecond, with '_Mis-sent to Mitcham_' written on its face as a\nreason,--one more proof of the negligence of somebody! But I _do_ have\nit at last--what should I say? what do you expect me to say? And the\nfirst note seemed quite as much too kind as usual!\n\nLet me write to-morrow, sweet? I am quite well and sure to mind all\nyou bid me. I shall do no more than look in at that place (they are\nthe cousins of a really good friend of mine, Dr. White--I go for\n_him_) if even that--for to-morrow night I must go out again, I\nfear--to pay the ordinary compliment for an invitation to the R.S.'s\n_soirée_ at Lord Northampton's. And then comes Monday--and to-night\nany unicorn I may see I will not find myself at liberty to catch.\n(N.B.--should you meditate really an addition to the 'Elegant\nExtracts'--mind this last joke is none of mine but my father's; when\nwalking with me when a child, I remember, he bade a little urchin we\nfound fishing with a stick and a string for sticklebacks in a\nditch--'to mind that he brought any sturgeon he might catch to the\nking'--he having a claim on such a prize, by courtesy if not right).\n\nAs for Chorley, he is neither the one nor the other of those ugly\nthings. One remembers Regan's 'Oh Heaven--so you will rail at _me_,\nwhen you are in the mood.' But what a want of self-respect such\njudgments argue, or rather, want of knowledge what true self-respect\nis: 'So I believed yesterday, and _so_ now--and yet am neither hasty,\nnor inapprehensive, nor malevolent'--what then?\n\n--But I will say more of my mind--(not of that)--to-morrow, for time\npresses a little--so bless you my ever ever dearest--I love you\nwholly.\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                             [Post-mark, February 21, 1846.]\n\nAs my sisters did not dine at home yesterday and I see nobody else in\nthe evening, I never heard till just now and _from Papa himself_, that\n'George was invited to meet Mr. Browning and Mr. Procter.' How\nsurprised you will be. It must have been a sudden thought of Mr.\nKenyon's.\n\nAnd I have been thinking, thinking since last night that I wrote you\nthen a letter all but ... insolent ... which, do you know, I feel half\nashamed to look back upon this morning--particularly what I wrote\nabout 'missions of humanity'--now was it not insolent of me to write\nso? If I could take my letter again I would dip it into Lethe between\nthe lilies, instead of the post office:--but I can't--so if you\nwondered, you must forget as far as possible, and understand how it\nwas, and that I was in brimming spirits when I wrote, from two causes\n... first, because I had your letter which was a pure goodness of\nyours, and secondly because you were 'noticeably' better you said, or\n'noticeably well' rather, to mind my quotations. So I wrote what I\nwrote, and gave it to Arabel when she came in at midnight, to give it\nto Henrietta who goes out before eight in the morning and often takes\ncharge of my letters, and it was too late, at the earliest this\nmorning, to feel a little ashamed. Miss Thomson told me that she had\ndetermined to change the type of the few pages of her letterpress\nwhich had been touched, and that therefore Mr. Burges's revisions of\nmy translations should be revised back again. She appears to be a very\nacute person, full of quick perceptions--naturally quick, and\ncarefully trained--a little over anxious perhaps about mental lights,\nand opening her eyes still more than she sees, which is a common fault\nof clever people, if one must call it a fault. I like her, and she is\nkind and cordial. Will she ask you to help her book with a translation\nor two, I wonder. Perhaps--if the courage should come. Dearest, how I\nshall think of you this evening, and how near you will seem, not to be\nhere. I had a letter from Mr. Mathews the other day, and smiled to\nread in it just what I had expected, that he immediately sent Landor's\nverses on you to a _few editors_, friends of his, in order to their\ncommunication to the public. He received my apology for myself with\nthe utmost graciousness. A kind good man he is.\n\nAfter all, do you know, I am a little vexed that I should have even\n_seemed_ to do wrong in my speech about the letters. It must have been\nwrong, if it seemed so to you, I fancy now. Only I really did no more\nmean to try your letters ... mine ... such as they are to me now, by\nthe common critical measure, than the shepherds praised the pure tenor\nof the angels who sang 'Peace upon earth' to them. It was enough that\nthey knew it for angels' singing. So do _you_ forgive me, beloved, and\nput away from you the thought that I have let in between us any\nmiserable stuff 'de métier,' which I hate as you hate. And I will not\nsay any more about it, not to run into more imprudences of mischief.\n\nOn the other hand I warn you against saying again what you began to\nsay yesterday and stopped. Do not try it again. What may be quite good\nsense from me, is from _you_ very much the reverse, and pray observe\nthat difference. Or did you think that I was making my own road clear\nin the the thing I said about--'jilts'? No, you did not. Yet I am\nready to repeat of myself as of others, that if I ceased to love you,\nI certainly would act out the whole consequence--but _that_ is an\nimpossible 'if' to my nature, supposing the conditions of it otherwise\nto be probable. I never loved anyone much and ceased to love that\nperson. Ask every friend of mine, if I am given to change even in\nfriendship! _And to you...!_ Ah, but you never think of such a thing\nseriously--and you are conscious that you did not say it very sagely.\nYou and I are in different positions. Now let me tell you an apologue\nin exchange for your Wednesday's stories which I liked so, and mine\nperhaps may make you 'a little wiser'--who knows?\n\nIt befell that there stood in hall a bold baron, and out he spake to\none of his serfs ... 'Come thou; and take this baton of my baronie,\nand give me instead thereof that sprig of hawthorn thou holdest in\nthine hand.' Now the hawthorn-bough was no larger a thing than might\nbe carried by a wood-pigeon to the nest, when she flieth low, and the\nbaronial baton was covered with fine gold, and the serf, turning it\nin his hands, marvelled greatly.\n\nAnd he answered and said, 'Let not my lord be in haste, nor jest with\nhis servant. Is it verily his will that I should keep his golden\nbaton? Let him speak again--lest it repent him of his gift.'\n\nAnd the baron spake again that it was his will. 'And I'--he said once\nagain--'shall it be lawful for me to keep this sprig of hawthorn, and\nwill it not repent thee of thy gift?'\n\nThen all the servants who stood in hall, laughed, and the serf's hands\ntrembled till they dropped the baton into the rushes, knowing that his\nlord did but jest....\n\nWhich mine did not. Only, _de te fabula narratur_ up to a point.\n\nAnd I have your letter. 'What did I expect?' Why I expected just\n_that_, a letter in turn. Also I am graciously pleased (yes, and very\nmuch pleased!) to '_let_ you write to-morrow.' How you spoil me with\ngoodness, which makes one 'insolent' as I was saying, now and then.\n\nThe worst is, that I write 'too kind' letters--I!--and what does that\ncriticism mean, pray? It reminds me, at least, of ... now I will tell\nyou what it reminds me of.\n\nA few days ago Henrietta said to me that she was quite uncomfortable.\nShe had written to somebody a not kind enough letter, she thought, and\nit might be taken ill. 'Are _you_ ever uncomfortable, Ba, after you\nhave sent letters to the post?' she asked me.\n\n'Yes,' I said, 'sometimes, but from a reason just the very reverse of\nyour reason, _my_ letters, when they get into the post, seem too\nkind,--rather.' And my sisters laughed ... laughed.\n\nBut if _you_ think so beside, I must seriously set to work, you see,\nto correct that flagrant fault, and shall do better in time _dis\nfaventibus_, though it will be difficult.\n\nMr. Kenyon's dinner is a riddle which I cannot read. _You_ are\ninvited to meet Miss Thomson and Mr. Bayley and '_no one else_.'\nGeorge is invited to meet Mr. Browning and Mr. Procter and '_no one\nelse_'--just those words. The '_absolu_' (do you remember Balzac's\nbeautiful story?) is just _you_ and 'no one else,' the other elements\nbeing mere uncertainties, shifting while one looks for them.\n\nAm I not writing nonsense to-night? I am not 'too _wise_' in any case,\nwhich is some comfort. It puts one in spirits to hear of your being\n'well,' ever and ever dearest. Keep so for _me_. May God bless you\nhour by hour. In every one of mine I am your own\n\n                                                         BA.\n\nFor Miss Mitford ...\n\n    But people are not angels quite ...\n\nand she sees the whole world in stripes of black and white, it is her\nway. I feel very affectionately towards her, love her sincerely. She\nis affectionate to _me_ beyond measure. Still, always I feel that if I\nwere to vex her, the lower deep below the lowest deep would not be low\nenough for _me_. I always feel _that_. She would advertise me directly\nfor a wretch proper.\n\nThen, for all I said about never changing, I have ice enough over me\njust now to hold the sparrows!--in respect to a great crowd of people,\nand she is among them--for reasons--for reasons.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Morning.\n                             [Post-mark, February 23, 1846.]\n\nSo all was altered, my love--and, instead of Miss T. and the other\nfriend, I had your brother and Procter--to my great pleasure. After, I\nwent to that place, and soon got away, and am very well this morning\nin the sunshine; which I feel with you, do I not? Yesterday after\ndinner we spoke of Mrs. Jameson, and, as my wont is--(Here your letter\nreaches me--let me finish this sentence now I have finished kissing\nyou, dearest beyond all dearness--My own heart's Ba!)--oh, as I am\nused, I left the talking to go on by itself, with the thought busied\nelsewhere, till at last my own voice startled me for I heard my tongue\nutter 'Miss Barrett ... that is, Mrs. Jameson says' ... or 'does ...\nor does not.' I forget which! And if anybody noticed the _gaucherie_\nit must have been just your brother!\n\nNow to these letters! I do solemnly, unaffectedly wonder how you can\nput so much pure felicity into an envelope so as that I shall get it\nas from the fount head. This to-day, those yesterday--there is, I see,\nand know, thus much goodness in line after line, goodness to be\nscientifically appreciated, _proved there_--but over and above, is it\nin the writing, the dots and traces, the seal, the paper--here does\nthe subtle charm lie beyond all rational accounting for? The other day\nI stumbled on a quotation from J. Baptista Porta--wherein he avers\nthat any musical instrument made out of wood possessed of medicinal\nproperties retains, being put to use, such virtues undiminished,--and\nthat, for instance, a sick man to whom you should pipe on a pipe of\nelder-tree would so receive all the advantage derivable from a\ndecoction of its berries. From whence, by a parity of reasoning, I may\ndiscover, I think, that the very ink and paper were--ah, what were\nthey? Curious thinking won't do for me and the wise head which is\nmine, so I will lie and rest in my ignorance of content and understand\nthat without any magic at all you simply wish to make one\nperson--which of your free goodness proves to be your R.B.--to make me\nsupremely happy, and that you have your wish--you _do_ bless me! More\nand more, for the old treasure is piled undiminished and still the new\ncomes glittering in. Dear, dear heart of my heart, life of my life,\n_will this last_, let _me_ begin to ask? Can it be meant I shall live\nthis to the end? Then, dearest, care also for the life beyond, and put\nin my mind how to testify here that I have felt, if I could not\ndeserve that a gift beyond all gifts! I hope to work hard, to prove I\ndo feel, as I say--it would be terrible to accomplish nothing now.\n\nWith which conviction--renewed conviction time by time, of your\nextravagance of kindness to me unworthy,--will it seem\ncharacteristically consistent when I pray you not to begin frightening\nme, all the same, with threats of writing _less_ kindly? That must not\nbe, love, for _your_ sake now--if you had not thrown open those\nwindows of heaven I should have no more imagined than that Syrian lord\non whom the King leaned 'how such things might be'--but, once their\ninfluence showered, I should know, too soon and easily, if they shut\nup again! You have committed your dear, dearest self to that course of\nblessing, and blessing on, on, for ever--so let all be as it is, pray,\n_pray_!\n\nNo--not _all_. No more, ever, of that strange\nsuspicion--'insolent'--oh, what a word!--nor suppose I shall\nparticularly wonder at its being fancied applicable to _that_, of all\nother passages of your letter! It is quite as reasonable to suspect\nthe existence of such a quality _there_ as elsewhere: how _can_ such a\nthing, _could_ such a thing come from you to me? But, dear Ba, _do_\nyou know me better! _Do_ feel that I know you, I am bold to believe,\nand that if you were to run at me with a pointed spear I should be\nsure it was a golden sanative, Machaon's touch, for my entire good,\nthat I was opening my heart to receive! As for words, written or\nspoken--I, who sin forty times in a day by light words, and untrue to\nthe thought, I am certainly not used to be easily offended by other\npeoples' words, people in the world. But _your_ words! And about the\n'mission'; if it had not been a thing to jest at, I should not have\nbegun, as I did--as you felt I did. I know now, what I only suspected\nthen, and will tell you all the matter on Monday if you care to hear.\nThe 'humanity' however, would have been unquestionable if I had chosen\nto exercise it towards the poor weak incapable creature that wants\n_somebody_, and urgently, I can well believe.\n\nAs for your apologue, it is naught--as you felt, and so broke off--for\nthe baron knew well enough it was a spray of the magical tree which\nonce planted in his domain would shoot up, and out, and all round, and\nbe glorious with leaves and musical with birds' nests, and a fairy\nsafeguard and blessing thenceforward and for ever, when the foolish\nbaton had been broken into ounces of gold, even if gold it _were_, and\nspent and vanished: for, he said, such gold lies in the highway, men\npick it up, more of it or less; but this one slip of the flowering\ntree is all of it on this side Paradise. Whereon he laid it to his\nheart and was happy--in spite of his disastrous chase the night\nbefore, when so far from catching an unicorn, he saw not even a\nrespectable prize-heifer, worth the oil-cake and rape-seed it had\ndoubtless cost to rear her--'insolence!'\n\nI found no opportunity of speaking to Mr. K. about Monday, but nothing\nwas said of last Wednesday, and he must know I did not go yesterday.\nSo, Monday is laughing in sunshine surely! Bless you, my sweetest. I\nlove you with my whole heart; ever shall love you.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, February 24, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest, it is only when you go away, when you are quite gone,\nout of the house and the street, that I get up and think properly, and\nwith the right gratitude of your flowers. Such beautiful flowers you\nbrought me this time too! looking like summer itself, and smelling!\nDoing the 'honour due' to the flowers, makes your presence a little\nlonger with me, the sun shines back over the hill just by that time,\nand then drops, till the next letter.\n\nIf I had had the letter on Saturday as ought to have been, no, I could\n_not_ have answered it so that you should have my answer on\nSunday--no, I should still have had to write first.\n\nNow you understand that I do not object to the writing first, but only\nto the hearing second. I would rather write than not--I! But to be\nwritten to is the chief gladness of course; and with all you say of\nliking to have my letters (which I like to hear quite enough indeed)\nyou cannot pretend to think that _yours_ are not more to _me_, most to\n_me_! Ask my guardian-angel and hear what he says! Yours will look\nanother way for shame of measuring joys with him! Because as I have\nsaid before, and as he says now, you are all to me, all the light, all\nthe life; I am living for you now. And before I knew you, what was I\nand where? What was the world to me, do you think? and the meaning of\nlife? And now, when you come and go, and write and do not write, all\nthe hours are chequered accordingly in so many squares of white and\nblack, as if for playing at fox and goose ... only there is no fox,\nand I will not agree to be goose for one ... _that_ is _you_ perhaps,\nfor being 'too easily' satisfied.\n\nSo my claim is that you are more to me than I can be to you at any\nrate. Mr. Fox said on Sunday that I was a 'religious hermit' who wrote\n'poems which ought to be read in a Gothic alcove'; and religious\nhermits, when they care to see visions, do it better, they all say,\nthrough fasting and flagellation and seclusion in dark places. St.\nTheresa, for instance, saw a clearer glory by such means, than your\nSir Moses Montefiore through his hundred-guinea telescope. Think then,\nhow every shadow of my life has helped to throw out into brighter,\nfuller significance, the light which comes to me from you ... think\nhow it is the one light, seen without distractions.\n\n_I_ was thinking the other day that certainly and after all (or rather\nbefore all) I had loved you all my life unawares, that is, the idea of\nyou. Women begin for the most part, (if ever so very little given to\nreverie) by meaning, in an aside to themselves, to love such and such\nan ideal, seen sometimes in a dream and sometimes in a book, and\nforswearing their ancient faith as the years creep on. I say a book,\nbecause I remember a friend of mine who looked everywhere for the\noriginal of Mr. Ward's 'Tremaine,' because nothing would do for _her_,\nshe insisted, except just _that_ excess of so-called refinement, with\nthe book-knowledge and the conventional manners, (_loue qui peut_,\nTremaine), and ended by marrying a lieutenant in the Navy who could\nnot spell. Such things happen every day, and cannot be otherwise, say\nthe wise:--and _this_ being otherwise with _me_ is miraculous\ncompensation for the trials of many years, though such abundant,\noverabundant compensation, that I cannot help fearing it is too much,\nas I know that you are too good and too high for me, and that by the\ndegree in which I am raised up you are let down, for us two to find a\nlevel to meet on. One's ideal must be above one, as a matter of\ncourse, you know. It is as far as one can reach with one's eyes\n(soul-eyes), not reach to touch. And here is mine ... shall I tell\nyou? ... even to the visible outward sign of the black hair and the\ncomplexion (why you might ask my sisters!) yet I would not tell you,\nif I could not tell you afterwards that, if it had been red hair\nquite, it had been the same thing, only I prove the coincidence out\nfully and make you smile half.\n\nYet indeed I did not fancy that I was to love _you_ when you came to\nsee me--no indeed ... any more than I did your caring on your side. My\nambition when we began our correspondence, was simply that you should\nforget I was a woman (being weary and _blasée_ of the empty written\ngallantries, of which I have had my share and all the more perhaps\nfrom my peculiar position which made them so without consequence),\nthat you should forget _that_ and let us be friends, and consent to\nteach me what you knew better than I, in art and human nature, and\ngive me your sympathy in the meanwhile. I am a great hero-worshipper\nand had admired your poetry for years, and to feel that you liked to\nwrite to me and be written to was a pleasure and a pride, as I used\nto tell you I am sure, and then your letters were not like other\nletters, as I must not tell you again. Also you _influenced_ me, in a\nway in which no one else did. For instance, by two or three half words\nyou made me see you, and other people had delivered orations on the\nsame subject quite without effect. I surprised everybody in this house\nby consenting to see you. Then, when you came, you never went away. I\nmean I had a sense of your presence constantly. Yes ... and to prove\nhow free that feeling was from the remotest presentiment of what has\noccurred, I said to Papa in my unconsciousness the next morning ...\n'it is most extraordinary how the idea of Mr. Browning does beset\nme--I suppose it is not being used to see strangers, in some\ndegree--but it haunts me ... it is a persecution.' On which he smiled\nand said that 'it was not grateful to my friend to use such a word.'\nWhen the letter came....\n\nDo you know that all that time I was frightened of you? frightened in\nthis way. I felt as if you had a power over me and meant to use it,\nand that I could not breathe or speak very differently from what you\nchose to make me. As to my thoughts, I had it in my head somehow that\nyou read _them_ as you read the newspaper--examined them, and fastened\nthem down writhing under your long entomological pins--ah, do you\nremember the entomology of it all?\n\nBut the power was used upon _me_--and I never doubted that you had\nmistaken your own mind, the strongest of us having some exceptional\nweakness. Turning the wonder round in all lights, I came to what you\nadmitted yesterday ... yes, I saw _that_ very early ... that you had\ncome here with the intention of trying to love whomever you should\nfind, ... and also that what I had said about exaggerating the amount\nof what I could be to you, had just operated in making you more\ndetermined to justify your own presentiment in the face of mine.\nWell--and if that last clause was true a little, too ... why should I\nbe sorry now ... and why should you have fancied for a moment, that\nthe first could make me sorry. At first and when I did not believe\nthat you really loved me, when I thought you deceived yourself,\n_then_, it was different. But now ... now ... when I see and believe\nyour attachment for me, do you think that any cause in the world\n(except what diminished it) could render it less a source of joy to\nme? I mean as far as I myself am considered. Now if you ever fancy\nthat I am _vain_ of your love for me, you will be unjust, remember. If\nit were less dear, and less above me, I might be vain perhaps. But I\nmay say _before_ God and you, that of all the events of my life,\ninclusive of its afflictions, nothing has humbled me so much as your\nlove. Right or wrong it may be, but true it _is_, and I tell you. Your\nlove has been to me like God's own love, which makes the receivers of\nit kneelers.\n\nWhy all this should be written, I do not know--but you set me thinking\nyesterday in that backward line, which I lean back to very often, and\nfor once, as you made me write directly, why I wrote, as my thoughts\nwent, that way.\n\nSay how you are, beloved--and do not brood over that 'Soul's Tragedy,'\nwhich I wish I had here with 'Luria,' because, so, you should not see\nit for a month at least. And take exercise and keep well--and remember\nhow many letters I must have before Saturday. May God bless you. Do\nyou want to hear me say\n\n     I cannot love you less...?\n\n_That_ is a doubtful phrase. And\n\n     I cannot love you more\n\nis doubtful too, for reasons I could give. More or less, I really love\nyou, but it does not sound right, even _so_, does it? I know what it\nought to be, and will put it into the 'seal' and the 'paper' with the\nineffable other things.\n\nDearest, do not go to St. Petersburg. Do not think of going, for fear\nit should come true and you should go, and while you were helping the\nJews and teaching Nicholas, what (in that case) would become of your\n\n                                                         BA?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                             [Post-mark, February 24, 1846.]\n\nAh, sweetest, in spite of our agreement, here is the note that sought\nnot to go, but must--because, if there is no speaking of Mrs. Jamesons\nand such like without bringing in your dear name (not _dearest_ name,\nmy Ba!) what is the good of not writing it down, now, when I, though\npossessed with the love of it no more than usual, yet _may_ speak, and\nto a hearer? And I have to thank you with all my heart for the good\nnews of the increasing strength and less need for the opium--how I do\nthank you, my dearest--and desire to thank God through whose goodness\nit all is! This I could not but say now, to-morrow I will write at\nlength, having been working a little this morning, with whatever\neffect. So now I will go out and see your elm-trees and gate, and\nthink the thoughts over again, and coming home I shall perhaps find a\nletter.\n\n              Dearest, dearest--my perfect blessing you are!\n\n                   May God continue his care for us. R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                             [Post-mark, February 25, 1846.]\n\nOnce you were pleased to say, my own Ba, that 'I made you do as I\nwould.' I am quite sure, you make me _speak_ as you would, and not at\nall as I mean--and for one instance, I never surely spoke anything\nhalf so untrue as that 'I came with the intention of loving whomever I\nshould find'--No! wreathed shells and hollows in ruins, and roofs of\ncaves may transform a voice wonderfully, make more of it or less, or\nso change it as to almost alter, but turn a 'no' into a 'yes' can no\necho (except the Irish one), and I said 'no' to such a charge, and\nstill say 'no.' I _did_ have a presentiment--and though it is hardly\npossible for me to look back on it now without lending it the true\ncolours given to it by the event, yet I _can_ put them aside, if I\nplease, and remember that I not merely hoped it would not be so (_not_\nthat the effect I expected to be produced would be _less_ than in\nanticipation, certainly I did not hope _that_, but that it would range\nitself with the old feelings of simple reverence and sympathy and\nfriendship, that I should love you as much as I supposed I _could_\nlove, and no more) but in the confidence that nothing could occur to\ndivert me from my intended way of life, I made--went on making\narrangements to return to Italy. You know--did I not tell you--I\nwished to see you before I returned? And I had heard of you just so\nmuch as seemed to make it impossible such a relation could ever exist.\nI know very well, if you choose to refer to my letters you may easily\nbring them to bear a sense in parts, more agreeable to your own theory\nthan to mine, the true one--but that was instinct,\nProvidence--anything rather than foresight. Now I will convince you!\nyourself have noticed the difference between the _letters_ and the\n_writer_; the greater 'distance of the latter from you,' why was that?\nWhy, if not because the conduct _began_ with _him_, with one who had\nnow seen you--was no continuation of the conduct, as influenced by the\nfeeling, of the letters--else, they, if _near_, should have enabled\nhim, if but in the natural course of time and with increase of\nfamiliarity, to become _nearer_--but it was not so! The letters began\nby loving you after their way--but what a world-wide difference\nbetween _that_ love and the true, the love from seeing and hearing and\nfeeling, since you make me resolve, what now lies blended so\nharmoniously, into its component parts. Oh, I know what is old from\nwhat is new, and how chrystals may surround and glorify other vessels\nmeant for ordinary service than Lord N's! But I _don't_ know that\nhandling may not snap them off, some of the more delicate ones; and if\nyou let me, love, I will not again, ever again, consider how it came\nand whence, and when, so curiously, so pryingly, but believe that it\nwas always so, and that it all came at once, all the same; the more\nunlikelinesses the better, for they set off the better the truth of\ntruths that here, ('how begot? how nourished?')--here is the whole\nwondrous Ba filling my whole heart and soul; and over-filling it,\nbecause she is in all the world, too, where I look, where I fancy. At\nthe same time, because all is so wondrous and so sweet, do you think\nthat it would be _so_ difficult for me to analyse it, and give causes\nto the effects in sufficiently numerous instances, even to 'justify my\npresentiment?' Ah, dear, dearest Ba, I could, could indeed, could\naccount for all, or enough! But you are unconscious, I do believe, of\nyour power, and the knowledge of it would be no added grace, perhaps!\nSo let us go on--taking a lesson out of the world's book in a\ndifferent sense. You shall think I love you for--(tell me, you must,\nwhat for) while in my secret heart I know what my 'mission of\nhumanity' means, and what telescopic and microscopic views it procures\nme. Enough--Wait, one word about the 'too kind letters'--could not the\nsame Montefiore understand that though he deserved not one of his\nthousand guineas, yet that he is in disgrace if they bate him of his\nnext gift by merely _ten_? It _is_ all too kind--but I shall feel the\ndiminishing of the kindness, be very sure! Of that there is, however,\nnot too alarming a sign in this dearest, because last of all--dearest\nletter of all--till the next! I looked yesterday over the 'Tragedy,'\nand think it will do after all. I will bring one part at least next\ntime, and 'Luria' take away, if you let me, so all will be off my\nmind, and April and May be the welcomer? Don't think I am going to\ntake any extraordinary pains. There are some things in the 'Tragedy' I\nshould like to preserve and print now, leaving the future to spring\nas it likes, in any direction, and these half-dead, half-alive works\nfetter it, if left behind.\n\nYet one thing will fetter it worse, only one thing--if _you_, in any\nrespect, stay behind? You that in all else help me and will help me,\nbeyond words--beyond dreams--if, because I find you, your own works\n_stop_--'then comes the Selah and the voice is hushed.' Oh, no, no,\ndearest, _so_ would the help cease to be help--the joy to be joy, Ba\nherself to be _quite_ Ba, and my own Siren singing song for song. Dear\nlove, will that be kind, and right, and like the rest? Write and\npromise that all shall be resumed, the romance-poem chiefly, and I\nwill try and feel more yours than ever now. Am I not with you in the\nworld, proud of you--and _vain_, too, very likely, which is all the\nsweeter if it is a sin as you teach me. Indeed dearest, I have set my\nheart on your fulfilling your mission--my heart is on it! Bless you,\nmy Ba--\n\n                                                   Your R.B.\n\nI am so well as to have resumed the shower-bath (this morning)--and I\nwalk, especially near the elms and stile--and mean to walk, and be\nvery well--and you, dearest?",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, February 26, 1846.]\n\nI confess that while I was writing those words I had a thought that\nthey were not quite yours as you said them. Still it comes to\nsomething in their likeness, but we will not talk of it and break off\nthe chrystals--they _are_ so brittle, then? do you know _that_ by an\n'instinct.' But I agree that it is best not to talk--I 'gave it up' as\na riddle long ago. Let there be 'analysis' even, and it will not be\nsolution. I have my own thoughts of course, and you have yours, and\nthe worst is that a third person looking down on us from some\nsnow-capped height, and free from personal influences, would have\n_his_ thoughts too, and _he_ would think that if you had been\nreasonable as usual you would have gone to Italy. I have by heart (or\nby head at least) what the third person would think. The third person\nthundered to me in an abstraction for ever so long, and at intervals I\nhear him still, only you shall not to-day, because he talks 'damnable\niterations' and teazes you. Nay, the first person is teazing you now\nperhaps, without going any further, and yet I must go a little\nfurther, just to say (after accepting all possible unlikelinesses and\nmiracles, because everything was miraculous and impossible) that it\nwas agreed between us long since that you did not love me for\nanything--your having no reason for it is the only way of your not\nseeming unreasonable. Also _for my own sake_. I like it to be so--I\ncannot have peace with the least change from it. Dearest, take the\nbaron's hawthorn bough which, in spite of his fine dream of it is dead\nsince the other day, and so much the worse than when I despised it\nlast--take that dead stick and push it upright into the sand as the\ntide rises, and the whole blue sea draws up its glittering breadth and\nlength towards and around it. But what then? What does _that prove_?\n... as the philosopher said of the poem. So we ought not to talk of\nsuch things; and we get warned off even in the accidental\nillustrations taken up to light us. Still, the stick certainly did not\ndraw the sea.\n\nDearest and best you were yesterday, to write me the little note! You\nare better than the imaginations of my heart, and _they_, as far as\nthey relate to you (not further) are _not_ desperately wicked, I\nthink. I always expect the kindest things from you, and you always are\ndoing some kindness beyond what is expected, and this is a miracle\ntoo, like the rest, now isn't it? When the knock came last night, I\nknew it was your letter, and not another's. Just another little leaf\nof my Koran! How I thank you ... thank you! If I write too kind\nletters, as you say, why they may be too kind for me to send, but not\nfor you to receive; and I suppose I think more of you than of me,\nwhich accounts for my writing them, accounts and justifies. And _that_\nis my reflection not now for the first time. For we break rules very\noften--as that exegetical third person might expound to you clearly\nout of the ninety-sixth volume of the 'Code of Conventions,' only you\nare not like another, nor have you been to me like another--you began\nwith most improvident and (will you let me say?) _unmasculine_\ngenerosity, and Queen Victoria does not sit upon a mat after the\nfashion of Queen Pomare, nor should.\n\nBut ... but ... you know very fully that you are breaking faith in the\nmatter of the 'Tragedy' and 'Luria'--you promised to rest--and _you\nrest for three days_. Is it _so_ that people get well? or keep well?\nIndeed I do not think I shall let you have 'Luria.' Ah--be careful, I\ndo beseech you--be careful. There is time for a pause, and the works\nwill profit by it themselves. And _you_! And I ... if you are ill!--\n\nFor the rest I will let you walk in my field, and see my elms as much\nas you please ... though I hear about the shower bath with a little\nsuspicion. Why, if it did you harm before, should it not again? and\nwhy should you use it, if it threatens harm? Now tell me if it hasn't\nmade you rather unwell since the new trial!--tell me, dear, dearest.\n\nAs for myself, I believe that you set about exhorting me to be busy,\njust that I might not reproach _you_ for the over-business. Confess\nthat _that_ was the only meaning of the exhortation. But no, you are\nquite serious, you say. You even threaten me in a sort of underground\nmurmur, which sounds like a nascent earthquake; and if I do not write\nso much a day directly, your stipendiary magistrateship will take away\nmy license to be loved ... I am not to be Ba to you any longer ... you\nsay! And is _this_ right? now I ask you. Ever so many chrystals fell\noff by that stroke of the baton, I do assure you. Only you did not\nmean quite what you said so too articulately, and you will unsay it,\nif you please, and unthink it near the elms.\n\nAs for the writing, I will write ... I have written ... I am writing.\nYou do not fancy that I have given up writing?--No. Only I have\ncertainly been more loitering and distracted than usual in what I have\ndone, which is not my fault--nor yours directly--and I feel an\nindisposition to setting about the romance, the hand of the soul\nshakes. I am too happy and not calm enough, I suppose, to have the\nright inclination. Well--it will come. But all in blots and fragments\nthere are verses enough, to fill a volume done in the last year.\n\nAnd if there were not ... if there were none ... I hold that I should\nbe Ba, and also _your_ Ba ... which is 'insolence' ... will you say?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                             [Post-mark, February 26, 1846.]\n\nAs for the 'third person,' my sweet Ba, he was a wise speaker from the\nbeginning; and in our case he will say, turning to me--'the late\nRobert Hall--when a friend admired that one with so high an estimate\nof the value of intellectuality in woman should yet marry some kind of\ncook-maid animal, as did the said Robert; wisely answered, \"you can't\nkiss Mind\"! May _you_ not discover eventually,' (this is to me) 'that\nmere intellectual endowments--though incontestably of the loftiest\ncharacter--mere Mind, though that Mind be Miss B's--cannot be\n_kissed_--nor, repent too late the absence of those humbler qualities,\nthose softer affections which, like flowerets at the mountain's foot,\nif not so proudly soaring as, as, as!...' and so on, till one of us\ndied, with laughing or being laughed at! So judges the third person!\nand if, to help him, we let him into your room at Wimpole Street,\nsuffered him to see with Flush's eyes, he would say with just as wise\nan air 'True, mere personal affections may be warm enough, but does it\naugur well for the durability of an attachment that it should be\n_wholly, exclusively_ based on such perishable attractions as the\nsweetness of a mouth, the beauty of an eye? I could wish, rather, to\nknow that there was something of less transitory nature co-existent\nwith this--some congeniality of Mental pursuit, some--' Would he not\nsay that? But I can't do his platitudes justice because here is our\npost going out and I have been all the morning walking in the perfect\njoy of my heart, with your letter, and under its blessing--dearest,\ndearest Ba--let me say more to-morrow--only this now, that you--ah,\nwhat are you not to me! My dearest love, bless you--till to-morrow\nwhen I will strengthen the prayer; (no, _lengthen_ it!)\n\n                                              Ever your own.\n\n'Hawthorn'[1]--to show how Spring gets on!\n\n[Footnote 1: Sprig of Hawthorn enclosed with letter.]",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                             [Post-mark, February 27, 1846.]\n\nIf all third persons were as foolish as this third person of yours,\never dearest, first and second persons might follow their own devices\nwithout losing much in the way of good counsel. But you are unlucky in\nyour third person as far as the wits go, he talks a great deal of\nnonsense, and Flush, who is sensible, will have nothing to do with\nhim, he says, any more than you will with Sir Moses:--he is quite a\nthird person _singular_ for the nonsense he talks!\n\nSo, instead of him, you shall hear what I have been doing to-day. The\nsun, which drew out you and the hawthorns, persuaded me that it was\nwarm enough to go down-stairs--and I put on my cloak as if I were\ngoing into the snow, and went into the drawing-room and took\nHenrietta by surprise as she sate at the piano singing. Well, I meant\nto stay half an hour and come back again, for I am upon 'Tinkler's\nground' in the drawing-room and liable to whole droves of morning\nvisitors--and Henrietta kept me, kept me, because she wanted me,\nbesought me, to stay and see the great sight of Capt. Surtees\nCook--_plus_ his regimentals--fresh from the royal presence at St.\nJames's, and I never saw him in my life, though he is a sort of\ncousin. So, though I hated it as you may think, ... not liking to be\nunkind to my sister, I stayed and stayed one ten minutes after\nanother, till it seemed plain that he wasn't coming at all (as I told\nher) and that Victoria had kept him to dinner, enchanted with the\nregimentals. And half laughing and half quarrelling, still she kept me\nby force, until a knock came most significantly ... and '_There_ is\nSurtees' said she ... 'now you must and shall stay! So foolish,' (I\nhad my hand on the door-handle to go out) 'he, your own cousin too!\nwho always calls you Ba, except before Papa.' Which might have\nencouraged me perhaps, but I can't be sure of it, as the very next\nmoment apprized us both that no less a person than Mrs. Jameson was\nstanding out in the passage. The whole 36th. regiment could scarcely\nhave been more astounding to me. As to staying to see her in that\nroom, with the prospect of the military descent in combination, I\ncouldn't have done it for the world! so I made Henrietta, who had\ndrawn me into the scrape, take her up-stairs, and followed myself in a\nminute or two--and the corollary of this interesting history is, that\nbeing able to talk at all after all that 'fuss,' and after walking\n'up-stairs and down-stairs' like the ancestor of your spider, proves\nmy gigantic strength--now doesn't it?\n\nFor the rest, 'here be proofs' that the first person can be as foolish\nas any third person in the world. What do you think?\n\nAnd Mrs. Jameson was kind beyond speaking of, and talked of taking me\nto Italy. What do you say? It is somewhere about the fifth or sixth\nproposition of the sort which has come to me. I shall be embarrassed,\nit seems to me, by the multitude of escorts to Italy. But the\nkindness, one cannot laugh at so much kindness.\n\nI wanted to hear her speak of you, and was afraid. I _could not_ name\nyou. Yet I _did_ want to hear the last 'Bell' praised.\n\nShe goes to Ireland for two months soon, but prints a book first, a\ncollection of essays. I have not seen Mr. Kenyon, with whom she dined\nyesterday. The Macreadys were to be there, and he told me a week ago\nthat he very nearly committed himself in a 'social mistake' by\ninviting you to meet them.\n\nAh my hawthorn spray! Do you know, I caught myself pitying it for\nbeing gathered, with that green promise of leaves on it! There is room\ntoo on it for the feet of a bird! Still I shall keep it longer than it\nwould have stayed in the hedge, _that_ is certain!\n\nThe first you ever gave me was a yellow rose sent in a letter, and\nshall I tell you what _that_ means--the yellow rose? '_Infidelity_,'\nsays the dictionary of flowers. You see what an omen, ... to begin\nwith!\n\nAlso you see that I am not tired with the great avatar to-day--the\n'fell swoop' rather--mine, into the drawing-room, and Mrs. Jameson's\non _me_.\n\nAnd I shall hear to-morrow again, really? I '_let_' you. And you are\nbest, kindest, dearest, every day. Did I ever tell you that you made\nme do what you choose? I fancied that I only _thought_ so. May God\nbless you. I am your own.\n\nShall I have the 'Soul's Tragedy' on Saturday?--any of it? But _do not\nwork_--I beseech you to take care.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, February 27, 1846.]\n\nTo be sure my 'first person' was nonsensical, and, in that respect\nmade speak properly, I hope, only he was cut short in the middle of\nhis performance by the exigencies of the post. So, never mind what\nsuch persons say, my sweetest, because they know nothing at all--_quod\nerat demonstrandum_. But you, love, you speak roses, and\nhawthorn-blossoms when you tell me of the cloak put on, and the\ndescent, and the entry, and staying and delaying. I will have had a\nhand in all that; I know what I wished all the morning, and now this\nmuch came true! But you should have seen the regimentals, if I could\nhave so contrived it, for I confess to a Chinese love for bright\nred--the very names 'vermilion' 'scarlet' warm me, yet in this cold\nclimate nobody wears red to comfort one's eye save soldiers and fox\nhunters, and old women fresh from a Parish Christmas Distribution of\ncloaks. To dress in floating loose crimson silk, I almost understand\nbeing a Cardinal! Do you know anything of Nat Lee's Tragedies? In one\nof them a man angry with a Cardinal cries--\n\n    Stand back, and let me mow this poppy down,\n    This rank red weed that spoils the Churches' corn.\n\nIs not that good? and presently, when the same worthy is poisoned\n(that is the Cardinal)--they bid him--'now, Cardinal, lie down and\nroar!'\n\n    Think of thy scarlet sins!\n\nOf the justice of all which, you will judge with no Mrs. Jameson for\nguide when we see the Sistina together, I trust! By the way, yesterday\nI went to Dulwich to see some pictures, by old Teniers, Murillo,\nGainsborough, Raphael!--then twenty names about, and last but one, as\nif just thought of, 'Correggio.' The whole collection, including 'a\n_divine_ picture by Murillo,' and Titian's Daughter (hitherto supposed\nto be in the Louvre)--the whole I would, I think, have cheerfully\ngiven a pound or two for the privilege of not possessing--so execrable\nas sign-paintings even! 'Are there worse poets in their way than\npainters?' Yet the melancholy business is here--that the bad poet goes\nout of his way, writes his verses in the language he learned in order\nto do a hundred other things with it, all of which he can go on and do\nafterwards--but the painter has spent the best of his life in learning\neven how to produce such monstrosities as these, and to what other\ngood do his acquisitions go? This short minute of life our one chance,\nan eternity on either side! and a man does not walk whistling and\nruddy by the side of hawthorn hedges in spring, but shuts himself up\nand conies out after a dozen years with 'Titian's Daughter' and,\nthere, gone is his life, let somebody else try!\n\nI have tried--my trial is made too!\n\nTo-morrow you shall tell me, dearest, that Mrs. Jameson wondered to\nsee you so well--did she not wonder? Ah, to-morrow! There is a lesson\nfrom all this writing and mistaking and correcting and being\ncorrected; and what, but that a word goes safely only from lip to lip,\ndearest? See how the cup slipped from the lip and snapped the\nchrystals, you say! But the writing is but for a time--'a time and\ntimes and half a time!'--would I knew when the prophetic weeks end!\nStill, one day, as I say, no more writing, (and great scandalization\nof the third person, peeping through the fringes of Flush's ears!)\nmeanwhile, I wonder whether if I meet Mrs. Jameson I may practise\ndiplomacy and say carelessly 'I should be glad to know what Miss B. is\nlike--' No, that I must not do, something tells me, 'for reasons, for\nreasons'--\n\nI do not know--you may perhaps have to wait a little longer for my\n'divine Murillo' of a Tragedy. My sister is copying it as I give the\npages, but--in fact my wise head does ache a little--it is\ninconceivable! As if it took a great storm to topple over some stone,\nand once the stone pushed from its right place, any bird's foot, which\nwould hardly bend the hawthorn spray, may set it trembling! The aching\nbegins with reading the presentation-list at the Drawing-room quite\nnaturally, and with no shame at all! But it is gentle, well-behaved\naching now, so I _do_ care, as you bid me, Ba, my Ba, whom I call Ba\nto my heart but could not, I really believe, call so before another,\neven your sister, if--if--\n\nBut Ba, I call you boldly here, and I dare kiss your dear, dear eyes,\ntill to-morrow--Bless you, my own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                 [Post-mark, March 2, 1846.]\n\nYou never could think that I meant any insinuation against you by a\nword of what was said yesterday, or that I sought or am likely to seek\na 'security'! do you know it was not right of you to use such an\nexpression--indeed no. You were angry with me for just one minute, or\nyou would not have used it--and why? Now what did I say that was wrong\nor unkind even by construction? If I did say anything, it was three\ntimes wrong, and unjust as well as unkind, and wronged my own heart\nand consciousness of all that you are to me, more than it could _you_.\nBut you began speaking of yourself just as a woman might speak under\nthe same circumstances (you remember what you said), and then _I_,\nremembering that all the men in the world would laugh such an idea to\nscorn, said something to that effect, you _know_. I once was in\ncompany with a man, however, who valued himself very much on his\nconstancy to a woman who was so deeply affected by it that she became\nhis wife at last ... and the whole neighbourhood came out to stare at\nhim on that ground as a sort of monster. And can you guess what the\nconstancy meant? Seven years before, he loved that woman, he said, and\nshe repulsed him. 'And in the meantime, _how many_?' I had the\nimpertinence to ask a female friend who told me the tale. 'Why,' she\nanswered with the utmost simplicity, 'I understand that Miss A. and\nMiss B. and Mrs. C. would not listen to him, but he took Miss D.'s\nrejection most to heart.' That was the head and front of his\n'constancy' to Miss E., who had been loved, she boasted, for seven\nyears ... that is, once at the beginning and once at the end. It was\njust a coincidence of the 'premier pas' and the 'pis aller.'\n\nBeloved, I could not mean this for you; you are not made of such\nstuff, as we both know.\n\nAnd for myself, it was my compromise with my own scruples, that you\nshould not be 'chained' to me, not in the merest metaphor, that you\nshould not seem to be bound, in honour or otherwise, so that if you\nstayed with me it should be your free choice to stay, not the\n_consequence_ of a choice so many months before. That was my\ncompromise with my scruples, and not my doubt of your affection--and\nleast of all, was it an intention of trifling with you sooner or later\nthat made me wish to suspend all _decisions_ as long as possible. I\nhave decided (for me) to let it be as you shall please--now I told you\nthat before. Either we will live on as we are, until an obstacle\narises,--for indeed I do not look for a 'security' where you suppose,\nand the very appearance of it _there_, is what most rebuts me--or I\nwill be yours in the obvious way, to go out of England the next\nhalf-hour if possible. As to the steps to be taken (or not taken)\nbefore the last step, we must think of those. The worst is that the\nonly question is about a _form_. Virtually the evil is the same all\nround, whatever we do. Dearest, it was plain to see yesterday evening\nwhen he came into this room for a moment at seven o'clock, before\ngoing to his own to dress for dinner ... plain to see, that he was not\naltogether pleased at finding you here in the morning. There was no\npretext for objecting gravely--but it was plain that he was not\npleased. Do not let this make you uncomfortable, he will forget all\nabout it, and I was not _scolded_, do you understand. It was more\nmanner, but my sisters thought as I did of the significance:--and it\nwas enough to prove to me (if I had not known) what a desperate game\nwe should be playing if we depended on a yielding nerve _there_.\n\nAnd to-day I went down-stairs (to prove how my promises stand) though\nI could find at least ten good excuses for remaining in my own room,\nfor our cousin, Sam Barrett, who brought the interruption yesterday\nand put me out of humour (it wasn't the fault of the dear little\ncousin, Lizzie ... my 'portrait' ... who was '_so_ sorry,' she said,\ndear child, to have missed Papa somewhere on the stairs!) the cousin\nwho should have been in Brittany yesterday instead of here, sate in\nthe drawing-room all this morning, and had visitors there, and so I\nhad excellent excuses for never moving from my chair. Yet, the field\nbeing clear at _half-past two_! I went for half an hour, just--just\nfor _you_. Did you think of me, I wonder? It was to meet your thoughts\nthat I went, dear dearest.\n\nHow clever these sketches are. The expression produced by such\napparently inadequate means is quite striking; and I have been making\nmy brothers admire them, and they 'wonder you don't think of employing\nthem in an illustrated edition of your works.' Which might be, really!\nAh, you did not ask for 'Luria'! Not that I should have let you have\nit!--I think I should not indeed. Dearest, you take care of the head\n... and don't make that tragedy of the soul one for mine, by letting\nit make you ill. Beware too of the shower-bath--it plainly does not\nanswer for you at this season. And walk, and think of me for _your_\ngood, if such a combination should be possible.\n\nAnd _I_ think of _you_ ... if I do not of Italy. Yet I forget to speak\nto you of the Dulwich Gallery. I never saw those pictures, but am\nastonished that the whole world should be wrong in praising them.\n'Divine' is a bad word for Murillo in any case--because he is\nintensely human in his most supernatural subjects. His beautiful\nTrinity in the National Gallery, which I saw the last time I went out\nto look at pictures, has no deity in it--and I seem to see it now. And\ndo you remember the visitation of the angels to Abraham (the Duke of\nSutherland's picture--is it not?) where the mystic visitors look like\nshepherds who had not even dreamt of God? But I always understood that\nthat Dulwich Gallery was famous for great works--you surprise me! And\nfor painters ... their badness is more ostentatious than that of\npoets--they stare idiocy out of the walls, and set the eyes of\nsensitive men on edge. For the rest, however, I very much doubt\nwhether they wear their lives more to rags, than writers who mistake\ntheir vocation in poetry do. There is a mechanism in poetry as in the\nother art--and, to men not native to the way of it, it runs hard and\nheavily. The 'cudgelling of the brain' is as good labour as the\ngrinding of the colours, ... do you not think?\n\nIf ever I am in the Sistine Chapel, it will not be with Mrs.\nJameson--no. If ever I should be there, what teaching I shall want,\n_I_ who have seen so few pictures, and love them only as children do,\nwith an unlearned love, just for the sake of the thoughts they bring.\nWonderfully ignorant I am, to have had eyes and ears so long! There is\nmusic, now, which lifts the hair on my head, I feel it so much, ...\nyet all I know of it as art, all I have heard of the works of the\nmasters in it, has been the mere sign and suggestion, such as the\nprivate piano may give. I never heard an oratorio, for instance, in my\nlife--judge by _that_! It is a guess, I make, at all the greatness and\ndivinity ... feeling in it, though, distinctly and certainly, that a\ncomposer like Beethoven _must_ stand above the divinest painter in\nsoul-godhead, and nearest to the true poet, of all artists. And this\nI felt in my guess, long before I knew you. But observe how, if I had\ndied in this illness, I should have left a sealed world behind me!\n_you_, unknown too--unguessed at, _you_, ... in many respects,\nwonderfully unguessed at! Lately I have learnt to despise my own\ninstincts. And apart from those--and _you_, ... it was right for me to\nbe melancholy, in the consciousness of passing blindfolded under all\nthe world-stars, and of going out into another side of the creation,\nwith a blank for the experience of this ... the last revelation,\nunread! How the thought of it used to depress me sometimes!\n\nTalking of music, I had a proposition the other day from certain of\nMr. Russell's (the singer's) friends, about his setting to music my\n'Cry of the Children.' His programme exhibits all the horrors of the\nworld, I see! Lifeboats ... madhouses ... gamblers' wives ... all done\nto the right sort of moaning. His audiences must go home delightfully\nmiserable, I should fancy. He has set the 'Song of the Shirt' ... and\nmy 'Cry of the Children' will be acceptable, it is supposed, as a\nclimax of agony. Do you know this Mr. Russell, and what sort of music\nhe suits to his melancholy? But to turn my 'Cry' to a 'Song,' a\nburden, it is said, is required--he can't sing it without a burden!\nand behold what has been sent 'for my approval'.... I shall copy it\n_verbatim_ for you....\n\n    And the threads twirl, twirl, twirl,\n        Before each boy and girl;\n    And the wheels, big and little, still whirl, whirl, whirl.\n\n... accompaniment _agitato_, imitating the roar of the machinery!\n\nThis is not endurable ... ought not to be ... should it now? Do tell\nme.\n\nMay God bless you, very dearest! Let me hear how you are--and think\nhow I am\n\n                                                Your own....",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, March 2, 1846.]\n\nDearest, I have been kept in town and just return in time to say why\nyou have _no_ note ... to-morrow I will write ... so much there is to\nsay on the subject of this letter I find.\n\n                                    Bless you, all beloved--\n\n                                         R.B.\n\nOh, do not sleep another night on that horrible error I have led you\ninto! The 'Dulwich Gallery'!--!!!--oh, no. Only some pictures to be\nsold at the Greyhound Inn, Dulwich--'the genuine property of a\ngentleman deceased.'",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Evening.\n                                 [Post-mark, March 2, 1846.]\n\nOne or two words, if no more, I must write to dearest Ba, the night\nwould go down in double blackness if I had neither written nor been\nwritten to! So here is another piece of 'kindness' on my part, such as\nI have received praise for of late! My own sweetest, there is just\nthis good in such praise, that by it one comes to something pleasantly\ndefinite amid the hazy uncertainties of mere wishes and\npossibilities--while my whole heart does, _does_ so yearn, love, to do\nsomething to prove its devotion for you; and, now and then, amuses\nitself with foolish imaginings of real substantial services to which\nit should be found equal if fortune so granted; suddenly you interpose\nwith thanks, in such terms as would all too much reward the highest of\neven those services which are never to be; and for what?--for a note,\na going to Town, a ----! Well, there are definite beginnings\ncertainly, if you will recognise them--I mean, that since you _do_\naccept, far from 'despising this day of small things,' then I may\ntake heart, and be sure that even though none of the great\nachievements should fall to my happy chance, still the barrenest,\nflattest life will--_must_ of needs produce in its season better\nfruits than these poor ones--I keep it, value it, now, that it may\nproduce such.\n\nAlso I determine never again to 'analyse,' nor let you analyse if the\nsweet mouth can be anyway stopped: the love shall be one and\nindivisible--and the Loves we used to know from\n\n    One another huddled lie ...\n    Close beside Her tenderly--\n\n(which is surely the next line). Now am I not anxious to know what\nyour father said? And if anybody else said or wondered ... how should\nI know? Of all fighting--the warfare with shadows--what a work is\n_there_. But tell me,--and, with you for me--\n\nBless me dearest ever, as the face above mine blesses me--\n\n                                                    Your own\n\nSir Moses set off this morning, I hear--somebody yesterday called the\ntelescope an 'optical delusion,' anticipating many more of the kind!\nSo much for this 'wandering Jew.'",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Evening.\n                                 [Post-mark, March 3, 1846.]\n\nUpon the whole, I think, I am glad when you are kept in town and\nprevented from writing what you call 'much' to me. Because in the\nfirst place, the little from _you_, is always much to _me_--and then,\nbesides, _the letter comes_, and with it the promise of another! Two\nletters have I had from you to-day, ever dearest! How I thank\nyou!--yes, _indeed_! It was like yourself to write yesterday ... to\nremember what a great gap there would have been otherwise, as it\nlooked on this side--here. The worst of Saturday is (when you come on\nit) that Sunday follows--Saturday night bringing no letter. Well, it\nwas very good of you, best of you!\n\nFor the 'analyzing' I give it up willingly, only that I must say what\naltogether I forgot to say in my last letter, that it was not _I_, if\nyou please, who spoke of the chrystals breaking away! And you, to\nquote me with that certainty! \"The chrystals are broken off,\" _you\nsay_.' _I_ say!! When it was in your letter, and not at all in mine!!\n\nThe truth is that I was stupid, rather, about the Dulwich\ncollection--it was my fault. I caught up the idea of the gallery out\nof a heap of other thoughts, and really might have known better if I\nhad given myself a chance, by considering.\n\nMr. Kenyon came to-day, and has taken out a licence, it seems to me,\nfor praising you, for he praised and praised. Somebody has told him\n(who had spent several days with you in a house with a large library)\nthat he came away 'quite astounded by the versatility of your\nlearning'--and that, to complete the circle, you discoursed as\nscientifically on the training of greyhounds and breeding of ducks as\nif you had never done anything else all your life. Then dear Mr.\nKenyon talked of the poems; and hoped, very earnestly I am sure, that\nyou would finish 'Saul'--which you ought to do, must do--_only not\nnow_. By the way Mrs. Coleridge had written to him to enquire whether\nyou had authority for the 'blue lilies,' rather than white. Then he\nasked about 'Luria' and 'whether it was obscure'; and I said, not\nunless the people, who considered it, began by blindfolding\nthemselves.\n\nAnd where do you think Mr. Kenyon talks of going next February--a long\nwhile off to be sure? To Italy of course. Everybody I ever heard of\nseems to be going to Italy next winter. He visits his brother at\nVienna, and 'may cross the Alps and get to Pisa'--it is the shadow of\na scheme--nothing certain, so far.\n\nI did not go down-stairs to-day because the wind blew and the\nthermometer fell. To-morrow, perhaps I may. And _you_, dearest\ndearest, might have put into the letters how you were when you wrote\nthem. You might--but you did not feel well and would not say so.\nConfess that that was the reason. Reason or no reason, mention\nyourself to-morrow, and for the rest, do not write a long letter so as\nto increase the evil. There was nothing which I can remember as\nrequiring an answer in what I wrote to you, and though I _will_ have\nmy letter of course, it shall be as brief as possible, if briefness is\ngood for you--_now always remember that_. Why if I, who talk against\n'Luria,' should work the mischief myself, what should I deserve? I\nshould be my own jury directly and not recommend to mercy ... not to\nmine. Do take care--care for _me_ just so much.\n\nAnd, except that taking care of your health, what would you do for me\nthat you have not done? You have given me the best of the possible\ngifts of one human soul to another, you have made my life new, and am\nI to count these things as small and insufficient? Ah, you _know_, you\n_know_ that I cannot, ought not, will not.\n\nMay God bless you. He blesses me in letting me be grateful to you as\nyour Ba.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                 [Post-mark, March 3, 1846.]\n\nFirst and most important of all,--dearest, 'angry'--with you, and for\n_that_! It is just as if I had spoken contemptuously of that Gallery I\nso love and so am grateful to--having been used to go there when a\nchild, far under the age allowed by the regulations--those two Guidos,\nthe wonderful Rembrandt of Jacob's vision, such a Watteau, the\ntriumphant three Murillo pictures, a Giorgione music-lesson group,\nall the Poussins with the 'Armida' and 'Jupiter's nursing'--and--no\nend to 'ands'--I have sate before one, some _one_ of those pictures I\nhad predetermined to see, a good hour and then gone away ... it used\nto be a green half-hour's walk over the fields. So much for one error,\nnow for the second like unto it; what I meant by charging you with\n_seeing_, (not, _not_ '_looking_ for')--_seeing_ undue 'security' in\n_that_, in the form,--I meant to say 'you talk about me being 'free'\nnow, free till _then_, and I am rather jealous of the potency\nattributed to the _form_, with all its solemnity, because it _is_ a\nform, and no more--yet you frankly agree with me that _that_ form\ncomplied with, there is no redemption; yours I am _then_ sure enough,\nto repent at leisure &c. &c.' So I meant to ask, 'then, all _now_\nsaid, all short of that particular form of saying it, all goes for\ncomparatively nothing'? Here it is written down--you 'wish to\n_suspend_ all decisions as long as possible'--_that_ form effects the\ndecision, then,--till then, 'where am I'? Which is just what Lord\nChesterfield cautions people against asking when they tell stories.\nLove, Ba, my own heart's dearest, if all is _not_ decided\n_now_--why--hear a story, à propos of storytelling, and deduce what is\ndeducible. A very old Unitarian minister met a still older evangelical\nbrother--John Clayton (from whose son's mouth I heard what you shall\nhear)--the two fell to argument about the true faith to be held--after\nwords enough, 'Well,' said the Unitarian, as winding up the\ncontroversy with an amicable smile--'at least let us hope we are both\nengaged in the _pursuit_ of Truth!'--'_Pursuit_ do you say?' cried the\nother, 'here am I with my years eighty and odd--if I haven't _found_\nTruth by this time where is my chance, pray?' My own Ba, if I have not\nalready _decided_, alas for me and the solemn words that are to help!\nThough in another point of view there would be some luxurious feeling,\nbeyond the ordinary, in knowing one was kept safe to one's heart's\ngood by yet another wall than the hitherto recognised ones. Is there\nany parallel in the notion I once heard a man deliver himself of in\nthe street--a labourer talking with his friends about '_wishes_'--and\nthis one wished, if he might get his wish, 'to have a nine gallon cask\nof strong ale set running that minute and his own mouth to be _tied_\nunder it'--the exquisiteness of the delight was to be in the security\nupon security,--the being 'tied.' Now, Ba says I shall not be\n'chained' if she can help!\n\nBut now--here all the jesting goes. You tell me what was observed in\nthe 'moment's' visit; by you, and (after, I suppose) by your sisters.\nFirst, I _will_ always see with your eyes _there_--next, what I see I\nwill _never_ speak, if it pain you; but just this much truth I ought\nto say, I think. I always give myself to you for the worst I am,--full\nof faults as you will find, if you have not found them. But I _will_\nnot affect to be so bad, so wicked, as I count wickedness, as to call\nthat conduct other than intolerable--_there_, in my conviction of\n_that_, is your real 'security' and mine for the future as the\npresent. That a father choosing to give out of his whole day some five\nminutes to a daughter, supposed to be prevented from participating in\nwhat he, probably, in common with the whole world of sensible men, as\ndistinguished from poets and dreamers, consider _every_ pleasure of\nlife, by a complete foregoing of society--that he, after the Pisa\nbusiness and the enforced continuance, and as he must believe,\npermanence of this state in which any other human being would go\nmad--I do dare say, for the justification of God, who gave the mind to\nbe _used_ in this world,--where it saves us, we are taught, or\ndestroys us,--and not to be sunk quietly, overlooked, and forgotten;\nthat, under these circumstances, finding ... what, you say, unless he\nthinks he _does_ find, he would close the door of his house instantly;\na mere sympathizing man, of the same literary tastes, who comes\ngood-naturedly, on a proper and unexceptionable introduction, to chat\nwith and amuse a little that invalid daughter, once a month, so far as\nis known, for an hour perhaps,--that such a father should show\nhimself '_not pleased_ plainly,' at such a circumstance ... my Ba, it\nis SHOCKING! See, I go _wholly_ on the supposition that the real\nrelation is not imagined to exist between us. I so completely could\nunderstand a repugnance to trust you to me were the truth known, that,\nI will confess, I have several times been afraid the very reverse of\nthis occurrence would befall; that your father would have at some time\nor other thought himself obliged, by the usual feeling of people in\nsuch cases, to see me for a few minutes and express some commonplace\nthanks after the customary mode (just as Capt. Domett sent a heap of\nunnecessary thanks to me not long ago for sending now a letter now a\nbook to his son in New Zealand--keeping up the spirits of poor dear\nAlfred now he is cut off from the world at large)--and if _this_ had\nbeen done, I shall not deny that my heart would have accused\nme--unreasonably I _know_ but still, suppression, and reserve, and\napprehension--the whole of _that is_ horrible always! But this way of\nlooking on the endeavour of anybody, however humble, to just preserve\nyour life, remedy in some degree the first, if it _was_ the first,\nunjustifiable measure,--this being 'displeased'--is exactly what I did\n_not_ calculate upon. Observe, that in this _only_ instance I am able\nto do as I shall be done by; to take up the arms furnished by the\nworld, the usages of society--this is monstrous on the _world's_\nshowing! I say this now that I may never need recur to it--that you\nmay understand why I keep _such_ entire silence henceforth.\n\nGet but well, keep but _as_ well, and all is easy now. This wonderful\nwinter--the spring--the summer--you will take exercise, go up and down\nstairs, get strong. _I pray you, at your feet, to do this, dearest!_\nThen comes Autumn, with the natural expectations, as after _rouge_ one\nexpects _noir_: the _likelihood_ of a _severe_ winter after this mild\none, which to prevent, you reiterate your demand to go and save your\nlife in Italy, ought you not to do that? And the matters brought to\nissue, (with even, if possible, less shadow of ground for a refusal\nthan before, if you are _well_, plainly well enough to bear the\nvoyage) _there_ I _will_ bid you 'be mine in the obvious way'--if you\nshall preserve your belief in me--and you _may_ in much, in all\nimportant to you. Mr. Kenyon's praise is undeserved enough, but\nyesterday Milnes said I was the only literary man he ever knew, _tenax\npropositi_, able to make out a life for himself and abide in\nit--'for,' he went on, 'you really do live without any of this\n_titillation_ and fussy dependence upon adventitious excitement of all\nkinds, they all say they can do without.' That is _more_ true--and I\n_intend_ by God's help to live wholly for you; to spend my whole\nenergies in reducing to practice the feeling which occupies me, and in\nthe practical operation of which, the other work I had proposed to do\nwill be found included, facilitated--I shall be able--but of this\nthere is plenty time to speak hereafter--I shall, I believe, be able\nto do this without even allowing the world to _very much_\nmisinterpret--against pure lying there is no defence, but all up to\nthat I hope to hinder or render unimportant--as you shall know in time\nand place.\n\nI have written myself grave, but write to _me_, dear, dearest, and I\nwill answer in a lighter mood--even now I can say how it was\nyesterday's hurry happened. I called on Milnes--who told me Hanmer had\nbroken a bone in his leg and was laid up, so I called on him too--on\nMoxon, by the way, (his brother telling me strangely cheering news,\nfrom the grimmest of faces, about my books selling and likely to sell\n... your wishes, Ba!)--then in Bond Street about some business with\nsomebody, then on Mrs. Montagu who was out walking all the time, and\nhome too. I found a letter from Mr. Kenyon, perfectly kind, asking me\nto go on Monday to meet friends, and with yours to-day comes another\nconfirming the choice of the day. How entirely kind he is!\n\nI am very well, much better, indeed--taking that bath with sensibly\ngood effect, to-night I go to Montagu's again; for shame, having kept\naway too long.\n\nAnd the rest shall answer _yours_--dear! Not 'much to answer?' And\nBeethoven, and Painting and--what _is_ the rest and shall be answered!\nBless you, now, my darling--I love you, ever shall love you, ever be\nyour own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                 [Post-mark, March 4, 1846.]\n\nYes, but, dearest, you mistake me, or you mistake yourself. I am sure\nI do not over-care for forms--it is not my way to do it--and in this\ncase ... no. Still you must see that here is a fact as well as a form,\nand involving a frightful quantity of social inconvenience (to use the\nmildest word) if too hastily entered on. I deny altogether looking\nfor, or 'seeing' any 'security' in it for myself--it is a mere form\nfor the heart and the happiness: illusions may pass after as before.\nStill the truth is that if they were to pass with you now, you stand\nfree to act according to the wide-awakeness of your eyes, and to\nreform your choice ... see! whereas afterward you could not carry out\nsuch a reformation while I was alive, even if I helped you. All I\ncould do for you would be to walk away. And you pretend not to see\nthis broad distinction?--ah. For me I have seen just this and no more,\nand have felt averse to forestall, to seem to forestall even by an\nhour, or a word, that stringency of the legal obligation from which\nthere _is_ in a certain sense no redemption. Tie up your drinker under\nthe pour of his nine gallons, and in two minutes he will moan and\nwrithe (as you perfectly know) like a Brinvilliers under the\nwater-torture. That he _asked_ to be tied up, was unwise on his own\nprinciple of loving ale. And _you_ sha'n't be 'chained' up, if you\nwere to ask twenty times: if you have found truth or not in the\nwater-well.\n\nYou do not see aright what I meant to tell you on another subject. If\nhe was displeased, (and it was expressed by a shadow a mere negation\nof pleasure) it was not with you as a visitor and my friend. You must\nnot fancy such a thing. It was a sort of instinctive indisposition\ntowards seeing you here--unexplained to himself, I have no doubt--of\ncourse unexplained, or he would have desired me to receive you never\nagain, _that_ would have been done at once and unscrupulously. But\nwithout defining his own feeling, he rather disliked seeing you\nhere--it just touched one of his vibratory wires, brushed by and\ntouched it--oh, we understand in this house. He is not a nice\nobserver, but, at intervals very wide, he is subject to\nlightnings--call them fancies, sometimes right, sometimes wrong.\nCertainly it was not in the character of a 'sympathising friend' that\nyou made him a very little cross on Monday. And yet you never were nor\nwill be in danger of being _thanked_, he would not think of it. For\nthe reserve, the apprehension--dreadful those things are, and\ndesecrating to one's own nature--but we did not make this position, we\nonly endure it. The root of the evil is the miserable misconception of\nthe limits and character of parental rights--it is a mistake of the\nintellect rather than of the heart. Then, after using one's children\nas one's chattels for a time, the children drop lower and lower toward\nthe level of the chattels, and the duties of human sympathy to them\nbecome difficult in proportion. And (it seems strange to say it, yet\nit is true) _love_, he does not conceive of at all. He has feeling, he\ncan be moved deeply, he is capable of affection in a peculiar way, but\n_that_, he does not understand, any more than he understands Chaldee,\nrespecting it less of course.\n\nAnd you fancy that I could propose Italy again? after saying too that\nI never would? Oh no, no--yet there is time to think of this, a\nsuperfluity of time, ... 'time, times and half a time' and to make\none's head swim with leaning over a precipice is not wise. The roar\nof the world comes up too, as you hear and as I heard from the\nbeginning. There will be no lack of 'lying,' be sure--'pure lying'\ntoo--and nothing you can do, dearest dearest, shall hinder my being\ntorn to pieces by most of the particularly affectionate friends I have\nin the world. Which I do not think of much, any more than of Italy.\nYou will be mad, and I shall be bad ... and _that_ will be the effect\nof being poets! 'Till when, where are you?'--why in the very deepest\nof my soul--wherever in it is the fountain head of loving! beloved,\n_there_ you are!\n\nSome day I shall ask you 'in form,'--as I care so much for forms, it\nseems,--what your 'faults' are, these immense multitudinous faults of\nyours, which I hear such talk of, and never, never, can get to see.\nWill you give me a catalogue raisonnée of your faults? I should like\nit, I think. In the meantime they seem to be faults of obscurity, that\nis, invisible faults, like those in the poetry which do not keep it\nfrom selling as I am _so, so_ glad to understand. I am glad too that\nMr. Milnes knows you a little.\n\nNow I must end, there is no more time to-night. God bless you, very\ndearest! Keep better ... try to be well--as _I_ do for you since you\nask me. Did I ever think that _you_ would think it worth while to ask\nme _that_? What a dream! reaching out into the morning! To-day however\nI did not go down-stairs, because it was colder and the wind blew its\nway into the passages:--if I can to-morrow without risk, I will, ...\nbe sure ... be sure. Till Thursday then!--till eternity!\n\n'Till when, where am I,' but with you? and what, but yours\n\n                                                     Your\n\n                                                         BA.\n\nI have been writing 'autographs' (save my _mark_) for the North and\nthe South to-day ... the Fens, and Golden Square. Somebody asked for\na verse, ... from either 'Catarina' or 'Flush' ... 'those poems' &c.\n&c.! Such a concatenation of criticisms. So I preferred Flush of\ncourse--i.e. gave him the preferment.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                 [Post-mark, March 4, 1846.]\n\nAh, sweetest, don't mind people and their lies any more than I shall;\nif the toad _does_ 'take it into his toad's head to spit at you'--you\nwill not 'drop dead,' I warrant. All the same, if one may make a\ncircuit through a flower-bed and see the less of his toad-habits and\ngeneral ugliness, so much the better--no words can express my entire\nindifference (far below _contempt_) for what can be said or done. But\none thing, only one, I choose to hinder being said, if I can--the\nothers I would not if I could--why prevent the toad's puffing himself\nout thrice his black bigness if it amuses him among those wet stones?\nWe shall be in the sun.\n\nI dare say I am unjust--hasty certainly, in the other matter--but all\nfaults are such inasmuch as they are 'mistakes of the\nintellect'--toads may spit or leave it alone,--but if I ever see it\nright, exercising my intellect, to treat any human beings like my\n'chattels'--I shall pay for that mistake one day or another, I am\nconvinced--and I very much fear that you would soon discover what one\nfault of mine is, if you were to hear anyone assert such a right in my\npresence.\n\nWell, I shall see you to-morrow--had I better come a little later, I\nwonder?--half-past three, for instance, staying, as last time, till\n... ah, it is ill policy to count my treasure aloud! Or shall I come\nat the usual time to-morrow? If I do _not_ hear, at the usual\ntime!--because, I think you would--am sure you would have considered\nand suggested it, were it necessary.\n\nBless you, dearest--ever your own.\n\nI said nothing about that Mr. Russell and his proposition--by all\nmeans, yes--let him do more good with that noble, pathetic 'lay'--and\ndo not mind the 'burthen,' if he is peremptory--so that he duly\nspecify '_by the singer_'--with _that_ precaution nothing but good can\ncome of his using it.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                 [Post-mark, March 6, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest I lose no time in writing, you see, so as to be written\nto at the soonest--and there is another reason which makes me hasten\nto write ... it is not all mercantile calculation. I want you to\nunderstand me.\n\nNow listen! I seem to understand myself: it seems to me that every\nword I ever said to you on one subject, is plainly referable to a\nclass of feelings of which you could not complain ... could not. But\nthis is _my_ impression; and yours is different:--you do not\nunderstand, you do not see by my light, and perhaps it is natural that\nyou should not, as we stand on different steps of the argument. Still\nI, who said what I did, _for you_, and from an absorbing consideration\nof what was best _for you_, cannot consent, even out of anxiety for\nyour futurity, to torment you now, to vex you by a form of speech\nwhich you persist in translating into a want of trust in you ... (_I_,\nwant trust in you!!) into a need of more evidence about you from\nothers ... (_could_ you say so?) and even into an indisposition on my\npart to fulfil my engagement--no, dearest dearest, it is not right of\nyou. And therefore, as you have these thoughts reasonably or\nunreasonably, I shall punish you for them at once, and 'chain' you ...\n(as you wish to be chained), chain you, rivet you--do you feel how the\nlittle fine chain twists round and round you? do you hear the stroke\nof the riveting? and you may _feel that_ too. Now, it is done--now,\nyou are chained--_Bia_ has finished the work--I, _Ba_! (observe the\nanagram!) and not a word do you say, of Prometheus, though you have\nthe conscience of it all, I dare say. Well! you must be pleased, ...\nas it was 'the weight of too much liberty' which offended you: and now\nyou believe, perhaps, that I trust you, love you, and look to you over\nthe heads of the whole living world, without any one head needing to\nstoop; you _must_, if you please, because you belong to me now and\nshall believe as I choose. There's a ukase for you! Cry out ... repent\n... and I will loose the links, and let you go again--_shall_ it be\n'_My dear Miss Barrett_?'\n\nSeriously, you shall not think of me such things as you half said, if\nnot whole said, to-day. If all men were to speak evil of you, my heart\nwould speak of you the more good--_that_ would be the one result with\n_me_. Do I not know you, soul to soul? should I believe that any of\nthem could know you as I know you? Then for the rest, I am not afraid\nof 'toads' now, not being a child any longer. I am not inclined to\nmind, if _you_ do not mind, what may be said about us by the\nbenevolent world, nor will other reasons of a graver kind affect me\notherwise than by the necessary pain. Therefore the whole rests with\nyou--unless illness should intervene--and you will be kind and good\n(will you not?) and not think hard thoughts of me ever again--no. It\nwasn't the sense of being less than you had a right to pretend to,\nwhich made me speak what you disliked--for it is _I_ who am\n'unworthy,' and not another--not certainly that other!\n\nI meant to write more to-night of subjects farther off us, but my\nsisters have come up-stairs and I must close my letter quickly.\nBeloved, take care of your head! Ah, do not write poems, nor read, nor\nneglect the walking, nor take that shower-bath. _Will_ you, instead,\ntry the warm bathing? Surely the experiment is worth making for a\nlittle while. Dearest beloved, do it for your own\n\n                                                         BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                                 [Post-mark, March 6, 1846.]\n\nI am altogether your own, dearest--the words were only words and the\nplayful feelings were play--while the _fact_ has always been so\nirresistibly obvious as to make them _break_ on and off it,\nfantastically like water turning to spray and spurts of foam on a\ngreat solid rock. _Now_ you call the rock, a rock, but you must have\nknown what chance you had of pushing it down when you sent all those\nlight fancies and free-leaves, and refusals-to-hold-responsible, to do\nwhat they could. It _is_ a rock; and may be quite barren of good to\nyou,--not large enough to build houses on, not small enough to make a\nmantelpiece of, much less a pedestal for a statue, but it is real\nrock, that is all.\n\nIt is always _I_ who 'torment' _you_--instead of taking the present\nand blessing you, and leaving the future to its own cares. I certainly\nam not apt to look curiously into what next week is to bring, much\nless next month or six months, but you, the having you, my own,\ndearest beloved, _that_ is as different in kind as in degree from any\nother happiness or semblance of it that even seemed possible of\nrealization. Then, now, the health is all to stay, or retard us--oh,\nbe well, my Ba!\n\nLet me speak of that letter--I am ashamed at having mentioned those\ncircumstances, and should not have done so, but for their\ninsignificance--for I knew that if you ever _did_ hear of them, all\nany body _would_ say would not amount to enough to be repeated to me\nand so get explained at once. Now that the purpose is gained, it seems\nlittle worth gaining. You bade me not send the letter: I will not.\n\nAs for 'what people say'--ah--Here lies a book, Bartoli's 'Simboli'\nand this morning I dipped into his Chapter XIX. His 'Symbol' is\n'Socrate fatto ritrar su' Boccali' and the theme of his dissertating,\n'L'indegnità del mettere in disprezzo i più degni filosofi\ndell'antichità.' He sets out by enlarging on the horror of it--then\ndescribes the character of Socrates, then tells the story of the\nrepresentation of the 'Clouds,'and thus gets to his 'symbol'--'le\npazzie fatte spacciare a Socrate in quella commedia ... il misero in\ntanto scherno e derisione del pubblico, che perfino i vasai\ndipingevano il suo ritratto sopra gli orci, i fiaschi, i boccali, e\nogni vasellamento da più vile servigio. Così quel sommo filosofo ...\nfu condotto a far di se par le case d'Atene una continua commedia, con\nsolamente vederlo comparir così scontraffatto e ridicolo, come i vasai\nsel formavano d'invenzione'--\n\nThere you have what a very clever man can say in choice Tuscan on a\npassage in Ælian which he takes care not to quote nor allude to, but\nwhich is the sole authority for the fact. Ælian, speaking of Socrates'\nmagnanimity, says that on the first representation, a good many\nforeigners being present who were at a loss to know 'who could be this\nSocrates'--the sage himself stood up that he might be pointed out to\nthem by the auditory at large ... 'which' says Ælian--'was no\ndifficulty for them, to whom his features were most familiar,--_the\nvery potters being in the habit of decorating their vessels with his\nlikeness_'--no doubt out of a pleasant and affectionate admiration.\nYet see how 'people' can turn this out of its sense,--'say' their say\non the simplest, plainest word or deed, and change it to its opposite!\n'God's great gift of speech abused' indeed!\n\nBut what shall we hear of it _there_, my Siren?\n\nOn Monday--is it not? _Who_ was it looked into the room just at our\nleave-taking?\n\nBless you, my ever dearest,--remember to walk, to go down-stairs--and\nbe sure that I will endeavour to get well for my part. To-day I am\nvery well--with this letter!\n\n                                                   Your own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Evening.\n                                 [Post-mark, March 7, 1846.]\n\nAlways _you_, is it, who torments me? always _you_? Well! I agree to\nbear the torments as Socrates his persecution by the potters:--and by\nthe way he liked those potters, as Plato shows, and was fain to go to\nthem for his illustrations ... as I to you for all my light. Also,\nwhile we are on the subject, I will tell you another fault of your\nBartoli ... his 'choice Tuscan' filled one of my pages, in the place\nof my English better than Tuscan.\n\nFor the letter you mentioned, I meant to have said in mine yesterday,\nthat I was grateful to you for telling me of it--_that_ was one of the\nprodigalities of your goodness to me ... not thrown away, in one\nsense, however superfluous. Do you ever think how I must feel when you\novercome me with all this generous tenderness, only beloved! I cannot\nsay it.\n\nBecause it is colder to-day I have not been down-stairs but let\nto-morrow be warm enough--_facilis descensus_. There's something\ninfernal to me really, in the going down, and now too that our cousin\nis here! Think of his beginning to attack Henrietta the other day....\n'_So_ Mr. C. has retired and left the field to Surtees Cook. Oh ...\nyou needn't deny ... it's the news of all the world except your\nfather. And as to _him_, I don't blame you--he never will consent to\nthe marriage of son or daughter. Only you should consider, you know,\nbecause he won't leave you a shilling, &c. &c....' You hear the sort\nof man. And then in a minute after ... 'And what is this about Ba?'\n'About Ba' said my sisters, 'why who has been persuading you of such\nnonsense?' 'Oh, my authority is very good,--perfectly unnecessary for\nyou to tell any stories, Arabel,--a literary friendship, is it?' ...\nand so on ... after that fashion! This comes from my brothers of\ncourse, but we need not be afraid of its passing _beyond_, I think,\nthough I was a good deal vexed when I heard first of it last night and\nhave been in cousinly anxiety ever since to get our Orestes safe away\nfrom those Furies his creditors, into Brittany again. He is an\nintimate friend of my brothers besides the relationship, and they talk\nto him as to each other, only they oughtn't to have talked _that_, and\nwithout knowledge too.\n\nI forgot to tell you that Mr. Kenyon was in an immoderate joy the day\nI saw him last, about Mr. Poe's 'Raven' as seen in the _Athenæum_\nextracts, and came to ask what I knew of the poet and his poetry, and\ntook away the book. It's the rhythm which has taken him with 'glamour'\nI fancy. Now you will stay on Monday till the last moment, and go to\nhim for dinner at six.\n\nWho 'looked in at the door?' Nobody. But Arabel a little way opened\nit, and hearing your voice, went back. There was no harm--_is_ no fear\nof harm. Nobody in the house would find his or her pleasure in running\nthe risk of giving me pain. I mean my brothers and sisters would not.\n\nAre you trying the music to charm the brain to stillness? Tell me. And\nkeep from that 'Soul's Tragedy' which did so much harm--oh, that I had\nbound you by some Stygian oath not to touch it.\n\nSo my rock ... may the birds drop into your crevices the seeds of all\nthe flowers of the world--only it is not for _those_, that I cling to\nyou as the single rock in the salt sea.\n\n                                              Ever I am\n\n                                                   Your own.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Morning.\n                                 [Post-mark, March 7, 1846.]\n\nYou call me 'kind'; and by this time I have no heart to call you such\nnames--I told you, did I not once? that 'Ba' had got to convey\ninfinitely more of you to my sense than 'dearest,' 'sweetest,' all or\nany epithets that break down with their load of honey like bees--to\nsay you are 'kind,' you that so entirely and unintermittingly bless\nme,--it will never do now, 'Ba.' All the same, one way there is to\nmake even 'Ba' dearer,--'_my_ Ba,' I say to myself!\n\nAbout my _fears_--whether of opening doors or entering people--one\nthing is observable and prevents the possibility of any\nmisconception--I desire, have been in the habit of desiring, to\n_increase_ them, far from diminishing--they relate, of course,\nentirely to _you_--and only through _you_ affect me the least in the\nworld. Put your well-being out of the question, so far as I can\nunderstand it to be involved,--and the pleasure and pride I should\nimmediately choose would be that the whole world knew our position.\nWhat pleasure, what pride! But I endeavour to remember on all\noccasions--and perhaps succeed in too few--that it is very easy for me\nto go away and leave you who cannot go. I only allude to this because\nsome people are 'naturally nervous' and all that--and I am quite of\nanother kind.\n\nLast evening I went out--having been kept at home in the afternoon to\nsee somebody ... went walking for hours. I am quite well to-day and,\nnow your letter comes, my Ba, most happy. And, as the sun shines, you\nare perhaps making the perilous descent now, while I write--oh, to\nmeet you on the stairs! And I shall really see you on Monday, dearest?\nSo soon, it ought to feel, considering the dreary weeks that now get\nto go between our days! For music, I made myself melancholy just now\nwith some 'Concertos for the Harpsichord by Mr. Handel'--brought home\nby my father the day before yesterday;--what were light, modern things\nonce! Now I read not very long ago a French memoir of 'Claude le\nJeune' called in his time the Prince of Musicians,--no,\n'_Phoenix_'--the unapproachable wonder to all time--that is, twenty\nyears after his death about--and to this pamphlet was prefixed as\nmotto this startling axiom--'In Music, the Beau Ideal changes every\nthirty years'--well, is not that _true_? The _Idea_, mind,\nchanges--the general standard ... so that it is no answer that a\nsingle air, such as many one knows, may strike as freshly as\never--they were _not_ according to the Ideal of their own time--just\nnow, they drop into the ready ear,--next hundred years, who will be\nthe Rossini? who is no longer the Rossini even I remember--his early\novertures are as purely Rococo as Cimarosa's or more. The sounds\nremain, keep their character perhaps--the scale's proportioned notes\naffect the same, that is,--the major third, or minor seventh--but the\narrangement of these, the sequence the law--for them, if it _should_\nchange every thirty years! To Corelli nothing seemed so conclusive in\nHeaven or earth as this\n\n[Illustration: Music]\n\nI don't believe there is one of his sonatas wherein that formula does\nnot do duty. In these things of Handel that seems replaced by\n\n[Illustration: Music]\n\n--that was the only true consummation! Then,--to go over the hundred\nyears,--came Rossini's unanswerable coda:\n\n[Illustration: Music]\n\nwhich serves as base to the infinity of songs, gone, gone--_so_ gone\nby! From all of which Ba draws _this_ 'conclusion' that these may be\nworse things than Bartoli's Tuscan to cover a page with!--yet, yet the\npity of it! Le Jeune, the Phoenix, and Rossini who directed his\nletters to his mother as 'mother of the famous composer'--and Henry\nLawes, and Dowland's Lute, ah me!\n\nWell, my conclusion is the best, the everlasting, here and I trust\nelsewhere--I am your own, my Ba, ever your\n\n                                                          R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n                                [Post-mark, March 10, 1846.]\n\nNow I shall know what to believe when you talk of very bad and very\nindifferent doings of yours. Dearest, I read your 'Soul's Tragedy'\nlast night and was quite possessed with it, and fell finally into a\nmute wonder how you could for a moment doubt about publishing it. It\nis very vivid, I think, and vital, and impressed me more than the\nfirst act of 'Luria' did, though I do not mean to compare such\ndissimilar things, and for pure nobleness 'Luria' is\nunapproachable--will prove so, it seems to me. But this 'Tragedy'\nshows more heat from the first, and then, the words beat down more\nclosely ... well! I am struck by it all as you see. If you keep it up\nto this passion, if you justify this high key-note, it is a great\nwork, and worthy of a place next 'Luria.' Also do observe how\nexcellently balanced the two will be, and how the tongue of this next\nsilver Bell will swing from side to side. And _you_ to frighten me\nabout it. Yes, and the worst is (because it was stupid in me) the\nworst is that I half believed you and took the manuscript to be\nsomething inferior--for _you_--and the adviseableness of its\npublication, a doubtful case. And yet, after all, the really worst is,\nthat you should prove yourself such an adept at deceiving! For can it\nbe possible that the same\n\n     'Robert Browning'\n\nwho (I heard the other day) said once that he could 'wait three\nhundred years,' should not feel the life of centuries in this work\ntoo--can it be? Why all the pulses of the life of it are beating in\neven _my_ ears!\n\nTell me, beloved, how you are--I shall hear it to-night--shall I not?\nTo think of your being unwell, and forced to go here and go there to\nvisit people to whom your being unwell falls in at best among the\nsecondary evils!--makes me discontented--which is one shade more to\nthe uneasiness I feel. Will you take care, and not give away your life\nto these people? Because I have a better claim than they ... and shall\nput it in, if provoked ... _shall_. Then you will not use the\nshower-bath again--you promise? I dare say Mr. Kenyon observed\nyesterday how unwell you were looking--tell me if he didn't! Now do\nnot work, dearest! Do not think of Chiappino, leave him behind ... he\nhas a good strong life of his own, and can wait for you. Oh--but let\nme remember to say of him, that he and the other personages appear to\nme to articulate with perfect distinctness and clearness ... you need\nnot be afraid of having been obscure in this first part. It is all as\nlucid as noon.\n\nShall I go down-stairs to-day? 'No' say the privy-councillors,\n'because it is cold,' but I _shall_ go peradventure, because the sun\nbrightens and brightens, and the wind has gone round to the west.\n\nGeorge had come home yesterday before you left me, but the stars were\nfavourable to us and kept him out of this room. Now he is at\nWorcester--went this morning, on those never ending 'rounds,' poor\nfellow, which weary him I am sure.\n\nAnd why should music and the philosophy of it make you 'melancholy,'\never dearest, more than the other arts, which each has the seal of the\nage, modifying itself after a fashion and _to_ one? Because it changes\nmore, perhaps. Yet all the Arts are mediators between the soul and the\nInfinite, ... shifting always like a mist, between the Breath on this\nside, and the Light on that side ... shifted and coloured; mediators,\nmessengers, projected from the Soul, to go and feel, for Her, _out\nthere_!\n\nYou don't call me 'kind' I confess--but then you call me 'too kind'\nwhich is nearly as bad, you must allow on your part. Only you were not\nin earnest when you said _that_, as it appeared afterward. _Were_ you,\nyesterday, in pretending to think that I owed you nothing ... _I_?\n\nMay God bless you. He knows that to give myself to you, is not to pay\nyou. Such debts are not so paid.\n\n                                               Yet I am your\n\n                                                    BA.\n\n_People's Journal_ for March 7th.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n                                [Post-mark, March 10, 1846.]\n\nDear, dear Ba, if you were here I should not much _speak_ to you, not\nat first--nor, indeed, at last,--but as it is, sitting alone, only\nwords can be spoken, or (worse) written, and, oh how different to look\ninto the eyes and imagine what _might_ be said, what ought to be said,\nthough it never can be--and to sit and say and write, and only imagine\nwho looks above me, looks down, understanding and pardoning all! My\nlove, my Ba, the fault you found once with some expressions of mine\nabout the amount of imperishable pleasures already hoarded in my mind,\nthe indestructible memories of you; that fault, which I refused to\nacquiesce under the imputation of, at first, you remember--well,\n_what_ a fault it was, by this better light! If all stopped here and\nnow; horrible! complete oblivion were the thing to be prayed for,\nrather! As it is, _now_, I must go on, must live the life out, and die\nyours. And you are doing your utmost to advance the event of\nevents,--the exercise, and consequently (is it not?) necessarily\nimproved sleep, and the projects for the fine days, the walking ... a\npure bliss to think of! Well, now--I think I shall show seamanship of\na sort, and 'try another tack'--do not be over bold, my sweetest; the\ncold _is_ considerable,--taken into account the previous mildness. One\nill-advised (I, the _adviser_, I should remember!) too early, or too\nlate descent to the drawing-room, and all might be ruined,--thrown\nback so far ... seeing that our flight is to be prayed for 'not in the\nwinter'--and one would be called on to wait, wait--in this world where\nnothing waits, rests, as can be counted on. Now think of this, too,\ndearest, and never mind the slowness, for the sureness' sake! How\nperfectly happy I am as you stand by me, as yesterday you stood, as\nyou seem to stand now!\n\nI will write to-morrow more: I came home last night with a head rather\nworse; which in the event was the better, for I took a little medicine\nand all is very much improved to-day. I shall go out presently, and\nreturn very early and take as much care as is proper--for I thought of\nBa, and the sublimities of Duty, and that gave myself airs of\nimportance, in short, as I looked at my mother's inevitable arrow-root\nthis morning. So now I am well; so now, is dearest Ba well? I shall\nhear to-night ... which will have its due effect, that circumstance,\nin quickening my retreat from Forster's Rooms. All was very pleasant\nlast evening--and your letter &c. went _à qui de droit_, and Mr. W.\n_Junior_ had to smile good-naturedly when Mr. Burges began laying down\nthis general law, that the sons of all men of genius were poor\ncreatures--and Chorley and I exchanged glances after the fashion of\ntwo Augurs meeting at some street-corner in Cicero's time, as he says.\nAnd Mr. Kenyon was kind, kinder, kindest, as ever, 'and thus ends a\nwooing'!--no, a dinner--my wooing ends never, never; and so prepare\nto be asked to give, and give, and give till all is given in Heaven!\nAnd all I give _you_ is just my heart's blessing; God bless you, my\ndearest, dearest Ba!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                [Post-mark, March 11, 1846.]\n\nYou find my letter I trust, for it was written this morning in time;\nand if these two lines should not be flattery ... oh, rank flattery!\n... why happy letter is it, to help to bring you home ten minutes\nearlier, when you never ought to have left home--no, indeed! I knew\nhow it would be yesterday, and how you would be worse and not better.\nYou are not fit to go out, dear dearest, to sit in the glare of lights\nand talk and listen, and have the knives and forks to rattle all the\nwhile and remind you of the chains of necessity. Oh--should I bear it,\ndo you think? I was thinking, when you went away--_after_ you had\nquite gone. You would laugh to see me at my dinner--Flush and\nme--Flush placing in me such an heroic confidence, that, after he has\ncast one discriminating glance on the plate, and, in the case of\n'chicken,' wagged his tail with an emphasis, ... he goes off to the\nsofa, shuts his eyes and allows a full quarter of an hour to pass\nbefore he returns to take his share. Did you ever hear of a dog before\nwho did not persecute one with beseeching eyes at mealtimes? And\nremember, this is not the effect of _discipline_. Also if another than\nmyself happens to take coffee or break bread in the room here, he\nteazes straightway with eyes and paws, ... teazes like a common dog\nand is put out of the door before he can be quieted by scolding. But\nwith _me_ he is sublime! Moreover he has been a very useful dog in his\ntime (in the point of capacity), causing to disappear supererogatory\ndinners and impossible breakfasts which, to do him justice, is a feat\naccomplished without an objection on his side, always.\n\nSo, when you write me such a letter, I write back to you about Flush.\nDearest beloved, but I have read the letter and felt it in my heart,\nthrough and through! and it is as wise to talk of Flush foolishly, as\nto fancy that I _could say how_ it is felt ... this letter! Only when\nyou spoke last of breaking off with such and such recollections, it\nwas the melancholy of the breaking off which I protested against, was\nit not? and _not_ the insufficiency of the recollections. There might\nhave been something besides in jest. Ah, but _you_ remember, if you\nplease, that _I_ was the first to wish (wishing for my own part, if I\ncould wish exclusively) to break off in the middle the silken thread,\nand you told me, not--you forbade me--do you remember? For, as\nhappiness goes, the recollections were enough, ... _are_ enough for\n_me_! I mean that I should acknowledge them to be full compensation\nfor the bitter gift of life, _such as it was_, to me! if that\nsubject-matter were broken off here! 'Bona verba' let me speak\nnevertheless. You mean, you say, to run all risks with me, and I don't\nmean to draw back from my particular risk of ... what am I to do to\nyou hereafter to make you vexed with me? What is there in marriage to\nmake all these people on every side of us, (who all began, I suppose,\nby talking of love,) look askance at one another from under the silken\nmask ... and virtually hate one another through the tyranny of the\nstronger and the hypocrisy of the weaker party. It never could be so\nwith _us_--_I know that_. But you grow awful to me sometimes with the\nvery excess of your goodness and tenderness, and still, I think to\nmyself, if you do not keep lifting me up quite off the ground by the\nstrong faculty of love in you, I shall not help falling short of the\nhope you have placed in me--it must be 'supernatural' of you, to the\nend! or I fall short and disappoint you. Consider this, beloved. Now\nif I could put my soul out of my body, just to stand up before you\nand make it clear.\n\nI did go to the drawing-room to-day ... would ... should ... did. The\nsun came out, the wind changed ... where was the obstacle? I spent a\nquarter of an hour in a fearful solitude, listening for knocks at the\ndoor, as a ghost-fearer might at midnight, and 'came home' none the\nworse in any way. Be sure that I shall 'take care' better than you do,\nand there, is the worst of it all--for _you_ let people make you ill,\nand do it yourself upon occasion.\n\nYou know from my letter how I found you out in the matter of the\n'Soul's Tragedy.' Oh! so bad ... so weak, so unworthy of your name! If\nsome other people were half a quarter as much the contrary!\n\nAnd so, good-night, dear dearest. In spite of my fine speeches about\n'recollections,' I should be unhappy enough to please you, with _only\nthose_ ... without you beside! I could not take myself back from being\n\n                                                  Your own--",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, March 11, 1846.]\n\nDear, dear Ba, but indeed I _did_ return home earlier by two or three\ngood hours than the night before--and to find _no_ letter,--none of\nyours! _That_ was reserved for this morning early, and then a rest\ncame, a silence, over the thoughts of you--and now again, comes this\nlast note! Oh, my love--why--what is it you think to do, or become\n'afterward,' that you may fail in and so disappoint me? It is not very\nunfit that you should thus punish yourself, and that, sinning by your\nown ambition of growing something beyond my Ba even, you should 'fear'\nas you say! For, sweet, why wish, why think to alter ever by a line,\nchange by a shade, turn better if that were possible, and so only rise\nthe higher above me, get further from instead of nearer to my heart?\nWhat I expect, what I build my future on, am quite, quite prepared to\n'risk' everything for,--is that one belief that you _will not alter_,\nwill just remain as you are--meaning by '_you_,' the love in you, the\nqualities I have _known_ (for you will stop me, if I do not stop\nmyself) what I have evidence of in every letter, in every word, every\nlook. Keeping these, if it be God's will that the body passes,--what\nis that? Write no new letters, speak no new words, look no new\nlooks,--only tell me, years hence that the present is alive, that what\nwas once, still is--and I am, must needs be, blessed as ever! You\nspeak of my feeling as if it were a pure speculation--as if because I\n_see somewhat_ in you I make a calculation that there must be more to\nsee somewhere or other--where bdellium is found, the onyx-stone may be\nlooked for in the mystic land of the four rivers! And perhaps ... ah,\npoor human nature!--perhaps I _do_ think at times on what _may_ be to\nfind! But what is that to you? I _offer_ for the _bdellium_--the other\nmay be found or not found ... what I see glitter on the ground, _that_\nwill suffice to make me rich as--rich as--\n\nSo bless you my own Ba! I would not wait for paper, and you must\nforgive half-sheets, instead of a whole celestial quire to my love and\npraise. Are you so well? So adventurous? Thank you from my heart of\nhearts. And I am quite well to-day (and have received a note from\nProcter _just_ this _minute_ putting off his dinner on account of the\ndeath of his wife's sister's husband abroad). Observe _this_ sheet I\ntake as I find--I mean, that the tear tells of no improper speech\nrepented of--what English, what sense, what a soul's tragedy! but\nthen, what real, realest love and more than love for my ever dearest\nBa possesses her own--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, March 12, 1846.]\n\nWhen my Orpheus writes '[Greek: Peri lithôn]' he makes a great mistake\nabout onyxes--there is more true onyx in this letter of his that I\nhave just read, than he will ever find in the desert land he goes to.\nAnd for what 'glitters on the ground,' it reminds me of the yellow\nmetal sparks found in the Malvern Hills, and how we used to laugh\nyears ago at one of our geological acquaintances, who looked\nmole-hills up that mountain-range in the scorn of his eyes, saying ...\n'Nothing but mica!!' Is anybody to be rich through 'mica', I wonder?\nthrough 'Nothing but mica?' 'As rich as--as rich as' ... _Walter the\nPennyless_?\n\nDearest, best you are nevertheless, and it is a sorry jest which I can\nbreak upon your poverty, with that golden heart of yours so\napprehended of mine! Why if I am 'ambitious'--is it not because you\nlove me as if I were worthier of your love, and that, _so_, I get\nfrightened of the opening of your eyelids to the _un_worthiness? 'A\nlittle sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to\nsleep'--_there_, is my 'ambition for afterward.' Oh--you do not\nunderstand how with an unspeakable wonder, an astonishment which keeps\nme from drawing breath, I look to this Dream, and 'see your face as\nthe face of an angel,' and fear for the vanishing, ... because dreams\nand angels _do_ pass away in this world. But _you_, _I_ understand\n_you_, and all your goodness past expression, past belief of mine, if\nI had not known you ... just _you_. If it will satisfy you that I\nshould know you, love you, love you--why then indeed--because I never\nbowed down to any of the false gods I know the gold from the mica, ...\nI! 'My own beloved'--you should have my soul to stand on if it could\nmake you stand higher. Yet you shall not call me 'ambitious.'\n\nTo-day I went down-stairs again, and wished to know whether you were\nwalking in your proportion--and your letter does call you 'better,'\nwhether you walked enough or not, and it bears the Deptford post-mark.\nOn Saturday I shall see how you are looking. So pale you were last\ntime! I know Mr. Kenyon must have observed it, (dear Mr. Kenyon ...\nfor being 'kinder and kindest') and that one of the 'augurs'\nmarvelled at the other! By the way I forgot yesterday to tell you how\nMr. Burges's 'apt remark' did amuse me. And Mr. Kenyon who said much\nthe same words to me last week in relation to this very Wordsworth\njunior, writhed, I am sure, and wished the ingenious observer with the\nlost plays of Æschylus--oh, I seem to see Mr. Kenyon's face! He was to\nhave come to tell me how you all behaved at dinner that day, but he\nkeeps away ... you have given him too much to think of perhaps.\n\nI heard from Miss Mitford to-day that Mr. Chorley's hope is at an end\nin respect to the theatre, and (I must tell you) she praises him\nwarmly for his philosophy and fortitude under the disappointment. How\nmuch philosophy does it take,--please to instruct me,--in order to the\ndecent bearing of such disasters? Can I fancy one, shorter than you by\na whole head of the soul, condescending to '_bear_' such things? No,\nindeed.\n\nBe good and kind, and do not work at the 'Tragedy' ... do not.\n\nSo you and I have written out all the paper in London! At least, I\nsend and send in vain to have more envelopes 'after my kind,' and the\nlast answer is, that a 'fresh supply will arrive in eight days from\nParis, and that in the meanwhile they are quite _out_ in the article.'\nAn awful sign of the times, is this famine of envelopes ... not to\nspeak of the scarcity of little sheets:--and the augurs look to it all\nof course.\n\nFor _my_ part I think more of Chiappino--Chiappino holds me fast.\n\nBut I must let _you_ go--it is too late. This dearest letter, which\nyou sent me! I thank you for it with ever so much dumbness. May God\nbless you and keep you, and make you happy for me.\n\n                                                    Your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, March 12, 1846.]\n\nHow I get to understand this much of Law--that prior possession is\nnine points of it! Just because your infinite adroitness got first\nhold of the point of view whence our connection looks like 'a dream'\n... I find myself shut out of my very own, unable to say what is\noftenest in my thought; whereas the dear, miraculous dream _you_ were,\nand are, my Ba! Only, _vanish_--_that_ you will never! My own, and for\never!\n\nYesterday I read the poor, inconceivably inadequate notice in the\n_People's Journal_. How curiously wrong, too, in the personal guesses!\nSad work truly. For my old friend Mrs. Adams--no, I must be silent:\nthe lyrics seem doggerel in its utter purity. And so the people are to\nbe instructed in the new age of gold! I _heard_ two days ago precisely\nwhat I told you--that there was a quarrel, &c. which this service was\nto smooth over, no doubt. Chorley told me, in a hasty word only, that\nall was over, Mr. Webster would not have anything to do with his play.\nThe said W. is one of the poorest of poor creatures, and as Chorley\nwas certainly forewarned, forearmed I will hope him to have been\nlikewise--still it is very disappointing--he was apparently nearer\nthan most aspirants to the prize,--having the best will of the\nactresses on whose shoulder the burthen was to lie. I hope they have\nbeen quite honest with him--knowing as I do the easy process of\ntransferring all sorts of burthens, in that theatrical world, from\nresponsible to irresponsible members of it, actors to manager, manager\nto actors, as the case requires. And it is a 'hope deferred' with\nChorley; not for the second or third time. I am very glad that he\ncares no more than you tell me.\n\nStill you go down-stairs, and still return safely, and every step\nleads us nearer to _my_ 'hope.' How unremittingly you bless me--a\nvisit promises a letter, a letter brings such news, crowns me with\nsuch words, and speaks of another visit--and so the golden links\nextend. Dearest words, dearest letters--as I add each to my heap, I\nsay--I _do_ say--'I was _poor_, it now seems, a minute ago, when I had\nnot _this_!' Bless you, dear, dear Ba. On Saturday I shall be with\nyou, I trust--may God bless you! Ever your own",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                [Post-mark, March 16, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest I am going to say one word first of all lest I should\nforget it afterward, of the two or three words which you said\nyesterday and so passingly that you probably forget to-day having said\nthem at all. We were speaking of Mr. Chorley and his house, and you\nsaid that you did not care for such and such things for yourself, but\nthat for others--now you remember the rest. And I just want to say\nwhat it would have been simpler to have said at the time--only not so\neasy--(I _couldn't_ say it at the time) that you are not if you please\nto fancy that because I am a woman I have not the pretension to do\nwith as little in any way as you yourself ... no, it is not _that_ I\nmean to say.... I mean that you are not, if you please, to fancy that,\nbecause I am a woman, I look to be cared for in those outside things,\nor should have the slightest pleasure in any of them. So never wish\nnor regret in your thoughts to be able or not to be able to care this\nand this for _me_; for while you are thinking so, our thoughts go\ndifferent ways, which is wrong. Mr. Fox did me a great deal too much\nhonour in calling me 'a religious hermit'; he was 'curiously' in\nfault, as you saw. It is not my vocation to sit on a stone in a\ncave--I was always too fond of lolling upon sofas or in chairs nearly\nas large,--and this, which I sit in, was given to me when I was a\nchild by my uncle, the uncle I spoke of to you once, and has been\nlolled in nearly ever since ... when I was well enough. Well--_that_\nis a sort of luxury, of course--but it is more idle than expensive, as\na habit, and I do believe that it is the 'head and foot of my\noffending' in that matter. Yes--'confiteor tibi' besides, that I do\nhate white dimity curtains, which is highly improper for a religious\nhermit of course, but excusable in _me_ who would accept brown serge\nas a substitute with ever so much indifference. It is the white light\nwhich comes in the dimity which is so hateful to me. To 'go mad in\nwhite dimity' seems perfectly natural, and consequential even. Set\naside these foibles, and one thing is as good as another with me, and\nthe more simplicity in the way of living, the better. If I saw Mr.\nChorley's satin sofas and gilded ceilings I should call them very\npretty I dare say, but never covet the possession of the like--it\nwould never enter my mind to do so. Then Papa has not kept a carriage\nsince I have been grown up (they grumble about it here in the house,\nbut when people have once had great reverses they get nervous about\nspending money) so I shall not miss the Clarence and greys ... and I\ndo entreat you _not_ to put those two ideas together again of _me_ and\nthe finery which has nothing to do with me. I have talked a great deal\ntoo much of all this, you will think, but I want you, once for all, to\napply it broadly to the whole of the future both in the general view\nand the details, so that we need not return to the subject. Judge for\nme as for yourself--_what is good for you is good for me_. Otherwise I\nshall be humiliated, you know; just as far as I know your thoughts.\n\nMr. Kenyon has been here to-day--and I have been down-stairs--two\ngreat events! He was in brilliant spirits and sate talking ever so\nlong, and named you as he always does. Something he asked, and then\nsaid suddenly ... 'But I don't see why I should ask _you_, when I\nought to know him better than you can.' On which I was wise enough to\nchange colour, as I felt, to the roots of my hair. There is the\neffect of a bad conscience! and it has happened to me before, with Mr.\nKenyon, three times--once particularly, when I could have cried with\nvexation (to complete the effects!), he looked at me with such\ninfinite surprise in a dead pause of any speaking. _That_ was in the\nsummer; and all to be said for it now, is, that it couldn't be helped:\ncouldn't!\n\nMr. Kenyon asked of 'Saul.' (By the way, you never answered about the\nblue lilies.) He asked of 'Saul' and whether it would be finished in\nthe new number. He hangs on the music of your David. Did you read in\nthe _Athenæum_ how Jules Janin--no, how the critic on Jules Janin (was\nit the critic? was it Jules Janin? the glorious confusion is gaining\non me I think) has magnificently confounded places and persons in\nRobert Southey's urn by the Adriatic and devoted friendship for Lord\nByron? And immediately the English observer of the phenomenon, after\nmoralizing a little on the crass ignorance of Frenchmen in respect to\nour literature, goes on to write like an ignoramus himself, on Mme.\nCharles Reybaud, encouraging that pure budding novelist, who is in\nfact a hack writer of romances third and fourth rate, of questionable\npurity enough, too. It does certainly appear wonderful that we should\nnot sufficiently stand abreast here in Europe, to justify and\nnecessitate the establishment of an European review--journal\nrather--(the 'Foreign Review,' so called, touching only the summits of\nthe hills) a journal which might be on a level with the intelligent\nreaders of all the countries of Europe, and take all the rising\nreputations of each, with the national light on them as they rise,\ninto observation and judgment. If nobody can do this, it is a pity I\nthink to do so much less--both in France and England--to snatch up a\nFrench book from over the Channel as ever and anon they do in the\n_Athenæum_, and say something prodigiously absurd of it, till people\ncry out 'oh oh' as in the House of Commons.\n\nOh--oh--and how wise I am to-day, as if I were a critic myself!\nYesterday I was foolish instead--for I couldn't get out of my head all\nthe evening how you said that you would come 'to see a candle held up\nat the window.' Well! but I do not mean to love you any more just\nnow--so I tell you plainly. Certainly I will not. I love you already\ntoo much perhaps. I feel like the turning Dervishes turning in the sun\nwhen you say such words to me--and I _never shall_ love you any\n'less,' because it is too much to be made less of.\n\nAnd you write to-morrow? and will tell me how you are? honestly will\ntell me? May God bless you, most dear!\n\n                                  I am yours--'Tota tua est'\n\n                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                [Post-mark, March 16, 1846.]\n\nHow will the love my heart is full of for you, let me be silent?\nInsufficient speech is better than no speech, in one regard--the\nspeaker had _tried_ words, and if they fail, hereafter he needs not\nreflect that he did not even try--so with me now, that loving you, Ba,\nwith all my heart and soul, all my senses being lost in one wide\nwondering gratitude and veneration, I press close to you to say so, in\nthis imperfect way, my dear dearest beloved! Why do you not help me,\nrather than take my words, my proper word, from me and call them\nyours, when yours they are not? You said lately love of you 'made you\nhumble'--just as if to hinder _me_ from saying that earnest\ntruth!--entirely true it is, as I feel ever more convincingly. You do\nnot choose to understand it should be so, nor do I much care, for the\none thing you must believe, must resolve to believe in its length and\nbreadth, is that I do love you and live only in the love of you.\n\nI will rest on the confidence that you do so believe! You _know_ by\nthis that it is no shadowy image of you and _not_ you, which having\nattached myself to in the first instance, I afterward compelled my\nfancy to see reproduced, so to speak, with tolerable exactness to the\noriginal idea, in you, the dearest real _you_ I am blessed with--you\n_know_ what the eyes are to me, and the lips and the hair. And I, for\nmy part, know _now_, while fresh from seeing you, certainly _know_,\nwhatever I may have said a short time since, that _you_ will go on to\nthe end, that the arm round me will not let me go,--over such a blind\nabyss--I refuse to think, to fancy, _towards_ what it would be to\nloose you now! So I give my life, my soul into your hand--the giving\nis a mere form too, it is yours, ever yours from the first--but ever\nas I see you, sit with you, and come away to think over it all, I find\nmore that seems mine to give; you give me more life and it goes back\nto you.\n\nI shall hear from you to-morrow--then, I will go out early and get\ndone with some calls, in the joy and consciousness of what waits me,\nand when I return I will write a few words. Are these letters, these\nmerest attempts at getting to talk with you through the distance--yet\nalways with the consolation of feeling that you will know all,\ninterpret all and forgive it and put it right--can such things be\ncared for, expected, as you say? Then, Ba, my life _must_ be better\n... with the closeness to help, and the 'finding out the way' for\nwhich love was always noted. If you begin making in fancy a lover to\nyour mind, I am lost at once--but the one quality of _affection_ for\nyou, which would sooner or later have to be placed on his list of\ncomponent graces; _that_ I will dare start supply--the entire love you\ncould dream of _is_ here. You think you see some of the other\nadornments, and only too many; and you will see plainer one day, but\nwith that I do not concern myself--you shall admire the true\nheroes--but me you shall love for the love's sake. Let me kiss you,\nyou, my dearest, dearest--God bless you ever--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, March 16, 1846.]\n\nIndeed I would, dearest Ba, go with entire gladness and pride to see a\nlight that came from your room--why should that surprise you? Well,\nyou will _know_ one day.\n\nWe understand each other too about the sofas and gilding--oh, I know\nyou, my own sweetest! For me, if I had set those matters to heart, I\nshould have turned into the obvious way of getting them--not _out_ of\nit, as I did resolutely from the beginning. All I meant was, to\nexpress a very natural feeling--if one could give you diamonds for\nflowers, and if you liked diamonds,--then, indeed! As it is, wherever\nwe are found shall be, if you please, 'For the love's sake found\ntherein--sweetest _house_ was ever seen!'\n\nMr. Kenyon must be merciful. Lilies are of all colours in\nPalestine--one sort is particularized as _white_ with a dark blue spot\nand streak--the water lily, lotos, which I think I meant, is _blue_\naltogether.\n\nI have walked this morning to town and back--I feel much better,\n'honestly'! The head better--the spirits rising--as how should they\nnot, when _you_ think all will go well in the end, when you write to\nme that you go down-stairs and are stronger--and when the rest is\nwritten?\n\nNot more now, dearest, for time is pressing, but you will answer\nthis,--the love that is not here,--not the idle words, and I will\nreply to-morrow. Thursday is so far away yet!\n\nBless you, my very own, only dearest!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Evening.\n                                [Post-mark, March 17, 1846.]\n\nDearest, you are dearest always! Talk of Sirens, ... there must be\nsome masculine ones 'rari nantes,' I fancy, (though we may not find\nthem in unquestionable authorities like your Ælian!) to justify this\nvoice I hear. Ah, how you speak, with that pretension, too, to\ndumbness! What should people be made of, in order to bear such words,\ndo you think? Will all the wax from all the altar-candles in the\nSistine Chapel, keep the piercing danger from their ears? Being tied\nup a good deal tighter than Ulysses did not save _me_. Dearest\ndearest: I laugh, you see, as usual, not to cry! But deep down, deeper\nthan the Sirens go, deep underneath the tides, _there_, I bless and\nlove you with the voice that makes no sound.\n\nOther human creatures (how often I do think it to myself!) have their\ngood things scattered over their lives, sown here and sown there, down\nthe slopes, and by the waysides. But with me ... I have mine all\npoured down on one spot in the midst of the sands!--if you knew what I\nfeel at moments, and at half-hours, when I give myself up to the\nfeeling freely and take no thought of red eyes. A woman once was\nkilled with gifts, crushed with the weight of golden bracelets thrown\nat her: and, knowing myself, I have wondered more than a little, how\nit was that I could _bear_ this strange and unused gladness, without\nsinking as the emotion rose. Only I was incredulous at first, and the\nday broke slowly ... and the gifts fell like the rain ... softly; and\nGod gives strength, by His providence, for sustaining blessings as\nwell as stripes. Dearest--\n\nFor the rest I understand you perfectly--perfectly. It was simply to\nyour _thoughts_, that I replied ... and that you need not say to\nyourself any more, as you did once to me when you brought me flowers,\nthat you wished they were diamonds. It was simply to prevent the\naccident of such a _thought_, that I spoke out mine. You would not\nwish accidentally that you had a double-barrelled gun to give me, or a\ncardinal's hat, or a snuff box, and I meant to say that you _might as\nwell_--as diamonds and satin sofas à la Chorley. Thoughts are\nsomething, and _your_ thoughts are something more. To be sure they\nare!\n\nYou are better you say, which makes me happy of course. And you will\nnot make the 'better' worse again by doing wrong things--_that_ is my\npetition. It was the excess of goodness to write those two letters for\nme in one day, and I thank you, thank you. Beloved, when you write,\n_let_ it be, if you choose, ever so few lines. Do not suffer me (for\nmy own sake) to tire you, because two lines or three bring _you_ to me\n... remember ... just as a longer letter would.\n\nBut where, pray, did I say, and when, that 'everything would end\nwell?' Was _that_ in the dream, when we two met on the stairs? I did\nnot really say so I think. And 'well' is how you understand it. If you\njump out of the window you succeed in getting to the ground, somehow,\ndead or alive ... but whether _that_ means 'ending well,' depends on\nyour way of considering matters. I am seriously of opinion\nnevertheless, that if 'the arm,' you talk of, _drops_, it will not be\nfor weariness nor even for weakness, but because it is cut off at the\nshoulder. _I_ will not fail to you,--may God so deal with me, so bless\nme, so leave me, as I live only for you and _shall_. Do you doubt\n_that_, my only beloved! Ah, you know well--_too well_, people would\nsay ... but I do not think it 'too well' myself, ... knowing _you_.\n\n                                                    Your\n\n                                                         BA.\n\nHere is a gossip which Mr. Kenyon brought me on Sunday--disbelieving\nit himself, he asseverated, though Lady Chantrey said it 'with\nauthority,'--that Mr. Harness had offered his hand heart and\necclesiastical dignities to Miss Burdett Coutts. It is Lady Chantrey's\nand Mr. Kenyon's _secret_, remember.\n\nAnd ... will you tell me? How can a man spend four or five successive\nmonths on the sea, most cheaply--at the least pecuniary expense, I\nmean? Because Miss Mitford's friend Mr. Buckingham is ordered by his\nmedical adviser to complete his cure by these means; and he is not\nrich. Could he go with sufficient comfort by a merchant's vessel to\nthe Mediterranean ... and might he drift about among the Greek\nislands?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n\n'Out of window' would be well, as I see the leap, if it ended (_so far\nas I am concerned_) in the worst way imaginable--I would I 'run the\nrisk' (Ba's other word) rationally, deliberately,--knowing what the\nordinary law of chances in this world justifies in such a case; and if\nthe result after all _was_ unfortunate, it would be far easier to\nundergo the extremest penalty with so little to reproach myself\nfor,--than to put aside the adventure,--waive the wondrous probability\nof such best fortune, in a fear of the barest possibility of an\nadverse event, and so go to my grave, Walter the Penniless, with an\neternal recollection that Miss Burdett Coutts once offered to wager\nsundry millions with me that she could throw double-sixes a dozen\ntimes running--which wager I wisely refused to accept because it was\nnot written in the stars that such a sequence might never be. I had\nrather, rather a thousand-fold lose my paltry stake, and be the one\nrecorded victim to such an unexampled unluckiness that half a dozen\nmad comets, suns gone wrong, and lunatic moons must have come\nlaboriously into conjunction for my special sake to bring it to pass,\nwhich were no slight honour, properly considered!--And this is _my_\nway of laughing, dearest Ba, when the excess of belief in you, and\nhappiness with you, runs over and froths if it don't\nsparkle--underneath is a deep, a sea not to be moved. But chance,\nchance! there is _no_ chance here! I _have_ gained enough for my life,\nI can only put in peril the gaining more than enough. You shall change\naltogether my dear, dearest love, and I will be happy to the last\nminute on what I can remember of this past year--I _could_ do that.\n_Now_, jump with me out, Ba! If you feared for yourself--all would be\ndifferent, sadly different--But saying what you do say, promising 'the\nstrength of arm'--do not wonder that I call it an assurance of all\nbeing 'well'! All is _best_, as you promise--dear, darling Ba!--and I\nsay, in my degree, with all the energy of my nature, _as you say_,\npromise as you promise--only meaning a worship of you that is solely\nfit for me, fit by position--are not you my 'mistress?' Come, some\ngood out of those old conventions, in which you lost faith after the\nBower's disappearance, (it was carried by the singing angels, like the\nhouse at Loretto, to the Siren's isle where we shall find it preserved\nin a beauty 'very rare and absolute')--is it not right you should be\nmy Lady, my Queen? and you are, and ever must be, dear Ba. Because I\nam suffered to kiss the lips, shall I ever refuse to embrace the feet?\nand kiss lips, and embrace feet, love you _wholly_, my Ba! May God\nbless you--\n\n                                              Ever your own,\n\n                                                   R.\n\nIt would be easy for Mr. Buckingham to find a Merchant-ship bound for\nsome Mediterranean port, after a week or two in harbour, to another\nand perhaps a third--Naples, Palermo, Syra, Constantinople, and so on.\nThe expense would be very trifling, but the want of comfort _enormous_\nfor an invalid--the one advantage is the solitariness of the _one_\npassenger among all those rough new creatures. _I_ like it much, and\nsoon get deep into their friendship, but another has other ways of\nviewing matters. No one article provided by the ship in the way of\nprovisions can anybody touch. Mr. B. must lay in his own stock, and\nthe horrors of dirt and men's ministry are portentous, yet by a little\narrangement beforehand much might be done. Still, I only know my own\npowers of endurance, and counsel nobody to gain my experience. On the\nother hand, were all to do again, I had rather have seen Venice _so_,\nwith the five or six weeks' absolute rest of the mind's eyes, than any\nother imaginable way,--except Balloon-travelling.\n\nDo you think they meant Landor's 'Count Julian'--the 'subject of his\ntragedy' sure enough,--and that _he_ was the friend of Southey? So it\nstruck me--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                [Post-mark, March 18, 1846.]\n\nAh well--we shall see. Only remember that it is not my fault if I\nthrow the double sixes, and if you, on [_some sun-shiny_ day, (a day\ntoo late to help yourself) stand face to face with a milkwhite\nunicorn.][1] Ah--do not be angry. It is ungrateful of me to write\nso--I put a line through it to prove I have a conscience after all. I\nknow that you love me, and I know it so well that I was reproaching\nmyself severely not long ago, for seeming to love your love more than\nyou. Let me tell you how I proved _that_, or seemed. For ever so long,\nyou remember, I have been talking finely about giving you up for your\ngood and so on. Which was sincere as far as the words went--but oh,\nthe hypocrisy of our souls!--of mine, for instance! 'I would give you\nup for your good'--_but_ when I pressed upon myself the question\nwhether (if I had the power) I would consent to make you willing to be\ngiven up, by throwing away your love into the river, in a ring like\nCharlemagne's, ... why I found directly that I would throw myself\nthere sooner. I could not do it in fact--I shrank from the test. A\nvery pitiful virtue of generosity, is your Ba's! Still, it is not\npossible, I think, that she should '_love your love more than you_.'\nThere must be a mistake in the calculation somewhere--a figure dropt.\nIt would be too bad for her!\n\nYour account of your merchantmen, though with Venice in the distance,\nwill scarcely be attractive to a confirmed invalid, I fear--and yet\nthe steamers will be found expensive beyond his means. The\nsugar-vessels, which I hear most about, give out an insufferable smell\nand steam--let us talk of it a little on Thursday. On Monday I forgot.\n\nFor Landor's 'Julian,' oh no, I cannot fancy it to be probable that\nthose Parisians should know anything of Landor, even by a mistake. Do\nyou not suppose that the play is founded (confounded) on Shelley's\npoem, as the French use materials ... by distraction, into confusion?\nThe 'urn by the Adriatic' (which all the French know how to turn\nupside down) fixes the reference to Shelley--does it not?\n\nNot a word of the head--what does _that_ mean, I wonder. I have not\nbeen down-stairs to-day--the wind is too cold--but you have walked?\n... there was no excuse for you. God bless you, ever dearest. It is my\nlast word till Thursday's first. A fine queen you have, by the way!--a\nqueen Log, whom you had better leave in the bushes! Witness our\nhand....\n\n                                                 BA--REGINA.\n\n[Footnote 1: The words in brackets are struck out.]",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, March 18, 1846.]\n\nIndeed, dearest, you shall not have _last word_ as you think,--all the\n'risk' shall not be mine, neither; how can I, in the event, throw\nambs-ace (is not that the old word?) and not peril _your_ stakes too,\nwhen once we have common stock and are partners? When I see the\nunicorn and grieve proportionately, do you mean to say you are not\ngoing to grieve too, for my sake? And if so--why, _you_ clearly run\nexactly the same risk,--_must_,--unless you mean to rejoice in my\nsorrow! So your chance is my chance; my success your success, you say,\nand my failure, your failure, will you not say? You see, you see, Ba,\nmy own--own! What do you think frightened me in your letter for a\nsecond or two? You write 'Let us talk on Thursday ... Monday I\nforgot'--which I read,--'no, not on Thursday--I had forgotten! It is\nto be _Monday_ when we meet next'!--whereat\n\n              ... as a goose\n    In death contracts his talons close,\n\nas Hudibras sings--I clutched the letter convulsively--till relief\ncame.\n\nSo till to-morrow--my all-beloved! Bless you. I am rather hazy in the\nhead as Archer Gurney will find in due season--(he comes, I told\nyou)--but all the morning I have been going for once and for ever\nthrough the 'Tragedy,' and it is _done_--(done _for_). Perhaps I may\nbring it to-morrow--if my sister can copy all; I cut out a huge kind\nof sermon from the middle and reserve it for a better time--still it\nis very long; so long! So, if I ask, may I have 'Luria' back to\nmorrow? So shall printing begin, and headache end--and 'no more for\nthe present from your loving'\n\n                                                        R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                [Post-mark, March 20, 1846.]\n\nI shall be late with my letter this morning because my sisters have\nbeen here talking, talking ... and I did not like to say exactly 'Go\naway that I may write.' Mr. Kenyon shortened our time yesterday too by\na whole half-hour or three quarters--the stars are against us. He is\ncoming on Sunday, however, he says, and if so, Monday will be safe and\nclear--and not a word was said after you went, about you: he was in a\ngood joyous humour, as you saw, and the letter he brought was, oh! so\ncomplimentary to me--I will tell you. The writer doesn't see anything\n'in Browning and Turner,' she confesses--'_may_ perhaps with time and\nstudy,' but for the present sees nothing,--only has wide-open eyes of\nadmiration for E.B.B. ... now isn't it satisfactory to _me_? Do you\nunderstand the full satisfaction of just that sort of thing ... to be\npraised by somebody who sees nothing in Shakespeare?--to be found on\nthe level of somebody so flat? Better the bad-word of the Britannia,\nten times over! And best, to take no thought of bad or good words! ...\nexcept such as I shall have to-night, perhaps! Shall I?\n\nWill you be pleased to understand in the meanwhile a little about the\n'risks' I am supposed to run, and not hold to such a godlike\nsimplicity ('gods and bulls,' dearest!) as you made show of yesterday?\nIf we two went to the gaming-table, and you gave me a purse of gold to\nplay with, should I have a right to talk proudly of 'my stakes?' and\nwould any reasonable person say of both of us playing together as\npartners, that we ran 'equal risks'? I trow not--and so do _you_ ...\nwhen you have not predetermined to be stupid, and mix up the rouge and\nnoir into 'one red' of glorious confusion. What had I to lose on the\npoint of happiness when you knew me first?--and if now I lose (as I\ncertainly may according to your calculation) the happiness you have\ngiven me, why still I am your debtor for _the gift_ ... now see! Yet\nto bring you down into my ashes ... _that_ has been so intolerable a\npossibility to me from the first. Well, perhaps I run _more_ risk than\nyou, under that one aspect. Certainly I never should forgive myself\nagain if you were unhappy. 'What had _I_ to do,' I should think, 'with\ntouching your life?' And if ever I am to think so, I would rather that\nI never had known you, seen your face, heard your voice--which is the\nuttermost sacrifice and abnegation. I could not say or sacrifice any\nmore--not even for _you_! _You_, for _you_ ... is all I can!\n\nSince you left me I have been making up my mind to your having the\nheadache worse than ever, through the agreement with Moxon. I do, do\nbeseech you to spare yourself, and let 'Luria' go as he is, and above\nall things not to care for my infinite foolishnesses as you see them\nin those notes. Remember that if you are ill, it is not so easy to\nsay, 'Now I will be well again.' Ever dearest, care for me in\nyourself--say how you are.... I am not unwell to-day, but feel flagged\nand weak rather with the cold ... and look at your flowers for courage\nand an assurance that the summer is within hearing. May God bless you\n... blessing _us_, beloved!\n\n                                                    Your own\n\n                                                         BA.\n\nMr. Poe has sent me his poems and tales--so now I must write to thank\nhim for his dedication. Just now I have the book. As to Mr.\nBuckingham, he will go, Constantinople and back, before we talk of\nhim.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Morning.\n                                [Post-mark, March 21, 1846.]\n\nDearest,--it just strikes me that I _might_ by some chance be kept in\ntown this morning--(having to go to Milnes' breakfast there)--so as\nnot to find the note I venture to expect, in time for an answer by our\nlast post to-night. But I will try--this only is a precaution against\nthe possibility. Dear, dear Ba! I cannot thank you, know not how to\nthank you for the notes! I adopt every one, of course, not as Ba's\nnotes but as Miss Barrett's, not as Miss Barrett's but as anybody's,\neverybody's--such incontestable improvements they suggest. When shall\nI tell you more ... on Monday or Tuesday? _That_ I _must_\nknow--because you appointed Monday, 'if nothing happened--' and Mr. K.\nhappened--can you let me hear by our early post to-morrow--as on\nMonday I am to be with Moxon early, you know--and no letters arrive\nbefore 11-1/2 or 12. I was not very well yesterday, but to-day am much\nbetter--and you,--I say how _I_ am precisely to have a double right to\nknow _all_ about you, dearest, in this snow and cold! How do you bear\nit? And Mr. K. spoke of '_that_ being your worst day.' Oh, dear\ndearest Ba, remember how I live in you--on the hopes, with the memory\nof you. Bless you ever!\n\n                                                          R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, March 21, 1846.]\n\nI do not understand how my letters limp so instead of flying as they\nought with the feathers I give them, and how you did not receive last\nnight, nor even early this morning, what left me at two o'clock\nyesterday. But I understand _now_ the not hearing from you--you were\nnot well. Not well, not well ... _that_ is always 'happening' at\nleast. And Mr. Moxon, who is to have his first sheet, whether you are\nwell or ill! It is wrong ... yes, very wrong--and if one point of\nwrongness is touched, we shall not easily get right again--as I think\nmournfully, feeling confident (call me Cassandra, but I cannot jest\nabout it) feeling certain that it will end (the means being so\npersisted in) by some serious illness--serious sorrow,--on yours and\nmy part.\n\nAs to Monday, Mr. Kenyon said he would come again on Sunday--in which\ncase, Monday will be clear. If he should not come on Sunday, he will\nor may on Monday,--yet--oh, in every case, perhaps you can come on\nMonday--there will be no time to let you know of Mr. Kenyon--and\n_probably_ we shall be safe, and your being in town seems to fix the\nday. For myself I am well enough, and the wind has changed, which will\nmake me better--this cold weather oppresses and weakens me, but it is\nclose to April and can't last and won't last--it is warmer already.\nBeware of the notes! They are not Ba's--except for the insolence, nor\nEBB's--because of the carelessness. If I had known, moreover, that you\nwere going to Moxon's on Monday, they should have gone to the fire\nrather than provoked you into superfluous work for the short interval.\nJust so much are they despised of both EBB and Ba.\n\nI am glad I did not hear from you yesterday because you were not\nwell, and you _must never_ write when you are not well. But if you had\nbeen quite well, should I have heard?--_I doubt it_. You meant me to\nhear from you only once, from Thursday to Monday. Is it not the truth\nnow that you hate writing to me?\n\nThe _Athenæum_ takes up the 'Tales from Boccaccio' as if they were\nworth it, and imputes in an underground way the authorship to the\nmembers of the 'coterie' so called--do you observe _that_? There is an\nimplication that persons named in the poem wrote the poem themselves.\nAnd upon _whom_ does the critic mean to fix the song of 'Constancy'\n... the song which is 'not to puzzle anybody' who knows the tunes of\nthe song-writers! The perfection of commonplace it seems to me. It\nmight have been written by the 'poet Bunn.' Don't you think so?\n\nWhile I write this you are in town, but you will not read it till\nSunday unless I am more fortunate than usual. On Monday then! And no\nword before? No--I shall be sure not to hear to-night. Now do try not\nto suffer through 'Luria.' Let Mr. Moxon wait a week rather. There is\ntime enough.\n\n                                                   Ever your\n\n                                                        BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                [Post-mark, March 23, 1846.]\n\nOh, my Ba--how you shall hear of this to-morrow--that is all: _I_ hate\nwriting? See when presently I _only_ write to you daily, hourly if you\nlet me? Just this _now_--I will be with you to-morrow in any case--I\ncan go away _at once_, if need be, or stay--if you like you can stop\nme by sending a note for me _to Moxon's before_ 10 o'clock--if\nanything calls for such a measure.\n\nNow briefly,--I am unwell and entirely irritated with this sad\n'Luria'--I thought it a failure at first, I find it infinitely worse\nthan I thought--it is a pure exercise of _cleverness_, even where most\nsuccessful; clever attempted reproduction of what was conceived by\nanother faculty, and foolishly let pass away. If I go on, even hurry\nthe more to get on, with the printing,--it is to throw out and away\nfrom me the irritating obstruction once and forever. I have corrected\nit, cut it down, and it may stand and pledge me to doing better\nhereafter. I say, too, in excuse to myself, _unlike_ the woman at her\nspinning-wheel, 'He thought of his _flax_ on the whole far more than\nof his singing'--more of his life's sustainment, of dear, dear Ba he\nhates writing to, than of these wooden figures--no wonder all is as it\nis?\n\nHere is a pure piece of the old Chorley leaven for you, just as it\nreappears ever and anon and throws one back on the mistrust all but\nabandoned! Chorley _knows_ I have not seen that Powell for nearly\nfifteen months--that I never heard of the book till it reached me in a\nblank cover--that I never contributed a line or word to it directly or\nindirectly--and I should think he _also knows_ that all the sham\nlearning, notes &c., all that saves the book from the deepest deep of\ncontempt, was contributed by Heraud (_a regular critic in the\n'Athenæum'_), who received his pay for the same: he knows I never\nspoke in my life to 'Jones or Stephens'--that there is no 'coterie' of\nwhich I can, by any extension of the word, form a part--that I am in\nthis case at the mercy of a wretched creature who to get into my\nfavour again (to speak the plain truth) put in the gross, disgusting\nflattery in the notes--yet Chorley, knowing this, none so well, and\nwhat the writer's end is--(to have it supposed I, and the others\nnamed--Talfourd, for instance--ARE his friends and helpers)--he\ncondescends to _further_ it by such a notice, written with that\nobservable and characteristic duplicity, that to poor gross stupid\nPowell it shall look like an admiring 'Oh, fie--_so_ clever but _so_\nwicked'!--a kind of _D'Orsay's_ praise--while to the rest of his\nreaders, a few depreciatory epithets--slight sneers convey his real\nsentiments, he trusts! And this he does, just because Powell buys an\narticle of him once a quarter and would _expect_ notice. I think I\nhear Chorley--'You know, I _cannot_ praise such a book--it _is_ too\nbad'--as if, as if--oh, it makes one sicker than having written\n'Luria,' there's one comfort! I shall call on Chorley and ask for\n_his_ account of the matter. Meantime nobody will read his foolish\nnotice without believing as he and Powell desire! Bless you, my own\nBa--to-morrow makes amends to R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                [Post-mark, March 24, 1846.]\n\nHow ungrateful I was to your flowers yesterday, never looking at them\nnor praising them till they were put away, and yourself gone away--and\n_that_ was _your_ fault, be it remembered, because you began to tell\nme of the good news from Moxon's, and, in the joy of it, I missed the\nflowers ... for the nonce, you know. Afterward they had their due, and\nall the more that you were not there. My first business when you are\nout of the room and the house, and the street perhaps, is to arrange\nthe flowers and to gather out of them all the thoughts you leave\nbetween the leaves and at the end of the stalks. And shall I tell you\nwhat happened, not yesterday, but the Thursday before? no, it was the\nFriday morning, when I found, or rather Wilson found and held up from\nmy chair, a bunch of dead blue violets. Quite dead they seemed! You\nhad dropped them and I had sate on them, and where we murdered them\nthey had lain, poor things, all the night through. And Wilson thought\nit the vainest of labours when she saw me set about reviving them,\ncutting the stalks afresh, and dipping them head and ears into\nwater--but then she did not know how you, and I, and ours, live under\na miraculous dispensation, and could only simply be astonished when\nthey took to blowing again as if they never had wanted the dew of the\ngarden, ... yes, and when at last they outlived all the prosperity of\nthe contemporary white violets which flourished in water from the\nbeginning, and were free from the disadvantage of having been sate\nupon. Now you shall thank me for this letter, it is at once so amusing\nand instructive. After all, too, it teaches you what the great events\nof my life are, not that the resuscitation of your violets would not\nreally be a great event to me, even if I led the life of a pirate,\nbetween fire and sea, otherwise. But take _you_ away ... out of my\nlife!--and what remains? The only greenness I used to have (before you\nbrought your flowers) was as the grass growing in deserted streets,\n... which brings a proof, in every increase, of the extending\ndesolation.\n\nDearest, I persist in thinking that you ought not to be too disdainful\nto explain your meaning in the Pomegranates. Surely you might say in a\nword or two that, your title having been doubted about (to your\nsurprise, you _might_ say!), you refer the doubters to the Jewish\npriest's robe, and the Rabbinical gloss ... for I suppose it is a\ngloss on the robe ... do you not think so? Consider that Mr. Kenyon\nand I may fairly represent the average intelligence of your\nreaders,--and that _he_ was altogether in the clouds as to your\nmeaning ... had not the most distant notion of it,--while I, taking\nhold of the priest's garment, missed the Rabbins and the distinctive\nsignificance, as completely as he did. Then for Vasari, it is not the\nhandbook of the whole world, however it may be Mrs. Jameson's. Now why\nshould you be too proud to teach such persons as only desire to be\ntaught? I persist--I shall teaze you.\n\nThis morning my brothers have been saying ... 'Ah you had Mr. Browning\nwith you yesterday, I see by the flowers,' ... just as if they said 'I\nsee queen Mab has been with you.' Then Stormie took the opportunity of\nswearing to me by all his gods that your name was mentioned lately in\nthe House of Commons--_is_ that true? or untrue? He forgot to tell me\nat the time, he says,--and you were named with others and in relation\nto copyright matters. _Is_ it true?\n\nMr. Hornblower Gill is the author of a Hymn to Passion week, and wrote\nto me as the 'glorifier of pain!' to remind me that the best glory of\na soul is shown in the joy of it, and that all chief poets except\nDante have seen, felt, and written it so. Thus and therefore was\nmatured his purpose of writing an 'ode to joy,' as I told you. The man\nseems to have very good thoughts, ... but he writes like a colder\nCowley still ... no impulse, no heat for fusing ... no inspiration, in\nfact. Though I have scarcely done more than glance at his 'Passion\nweek,' and have little right to give an opinion.\n\nIf you have killed Luria as you helped to kill my violets, what shall\nI say, do you fancy? Well--we shall see! Do not kill yourself,\nbeloved, in any case! The [Greek: iostephanoi Mousai] had better die\nthemselves first! Ah--what am I writing? What nonsense? I mean, in\ndeep earnest, the deepest, that you should take care and exercise, and\nnot be vexed for Luria's sake--Luria will have his triumph presently!\nMay God bless you--prays your own\n\n                                                         BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Afternoon.\n                                [Post-mark, March 24, 1846.]\n\nMy own dearest, if you _do_--(for I confess to nothing of the kind),\nbut if you _should_ detect an unwillingness to write at certain times,\nwhat would that prove,--I mean, what that one need shrink from\navowing? If I never had you before me except when writing letters to\nyou--then! Why, we do not even _talk_ much now! witness Mr. Buckingham\nand his voyage that ought to have been discussed!--Oh, how coldly I\nshould write,--how the bleak-looking paper would seem unpropitious to\ncarry my feeling--if all had to begin and try to find words _this_\nway!\n\nNow, this morning I have been out--to town and back--and for all the\nwalking my head aches--and I have the conviction that presently when I\nresign myself to think of you wholly, with only the pretext,--the\nmake-believe of occupation, in the shape of some book to turn over the\nleaves of,--I shall see you and soon be well; so soon! You must know,\nthere is a chair (one of the kind called gond_ó_la-chairs by\nupholsterers--with an emphasized o)--which occupies the precise place,\nstands just in the same relation to this chair I sit on now, that\nyours stands in and occupies--to the left of the fire: and, how often,\nhow _always_ I turn in the dusk and _see_ the dearest real Ba with me.\n\nHow entirely kind to take that trouble, give those sittings for me! Do\nyou think the kindness has missed its due effect? _No, no_, I am\nglad,--(_knowing what I_ now _know_,--what you meant _should be_, and\ndid all in your power to prevent) that I have _not_ received the\npicture, if anything short of an adequate likeness. 'Nil nisi--te!'\nBut I have set my heart on _seeing_ it--will you remember next time,\nnext Saturday?\n\nI will leave off now. To-morrow, dearest, only dearest Ba, I will\nwrite a longer letter--the clock stops it this afternoon--it is later\nthan I thought, and our poor crazy post! This morning, hoping against\nhope, I ran to meet our postman coming meditatively up the lane--with\n_a_ letter, indeed!--but Ba's will come to-night--and I will be happy,\nalready _am_ happy, expecting it. Bless you, my own love,\n\n                                                 Ever your--",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                [Post-mark, March 25, 1846.]\n\nAh; if I '_do_' ... if I '_should_' ... if I _shall_ ... if I _will_\n... if I _must_ ... what can all the 'ifs' prove, but a most\nhypothetical state of the conscience? And in brief, I beg you to\nstand convinced of one thing, that whenever the 'certain time' comes\nfor to 'hate writing to me' confessedly, 'avowedly,' (oh what words!)\n_I shall not like it at all_--not for all the explanations ... and the\nsights in gondola chairs, which the person seen is none the better\nfor! The [Greek: eidôlon] sits by the fire--the real Ba is cold at\nheart through wanting her letter. And that's the doctrine to be\npreached now, ... is it? I 'shrink,' shrink from it. That's your\nword!--and mine! Dearest, I began by half a jest and end by\nhalf-gravity, which is the fault of your doctrine and not of me I\nthink. Yet it is ungrateful to be grave, when practically you are good\nand just about the letters, and generous too sometimes, and I could\nnot bear the idea of obliging you to write to me, even once ...\nwhen.... Now do not fancy that I do not understand. I understand\nperfectly, on the contrary. Only do _you_ try not to dislike writing\nwhen you write, or not to write when you dislike it ... _that_, I ask\nof you, dear dearest--and forgive me for all this over-writing and\nteazing and vexing which is foolish and womanish in the bad sense. It\nis a way of meeting, ... the meeting in letters, ... and next to\nreceiving a letter from you, I like to write one to you ... and, so,\nrevolt from thinking it lawful for you to dislike.... Well! the\nGoddess of Dulness herself couldn't have written _this_ better,\nanyway, nor more characteristically.\n\nI will tell you how it is. You have spoilt me just as I have spoilt\nFlush. Flush looks at me sometimes with reproachful eyes 'a fendre le\ncoeur,' because I refuse to give him my fur cuffs to tear to pieces.\nAnd as for myself, I confess to being more than half jealous of the\n[Greek: eidôlon] in the gondola chair, who isn't the real Ba after\nall, and yet is set up there to do away with the necessity 'at certain\ntimes' of writing to her. Which is worse than Flush. For Flush, though\nhe began by shivering with rage and barking and howling and gnashing\nhis teeth at the brown dog in the glass, has learnt by experience what\nthat image means, ... and now contemplates it, serene in natural\nphilosophy. Most excellent sense, all this is!--and dauntlessly\n'delivered!'\n\nYour head aches, dearest. Mr. Moxon will have done his worst, however,\npresently, and then you will be a little better I do hope and\ntrust--and the proofs, in the meanwhile, will do somewhat less harm\nthan the manuscript. You will take heart again about 'Luria' ... which\nI agree with you, is more diffuse ... that is, less close, than any of\nyour works, not diffuse in any bad sense, but round, copious, and\nanother proof of that wonderful variety of faculty which is so\nstriking in you, and which signalizes itself both in the thought and\nin the medium of the thought. You will appreciate 'Luria' in time--or\nothers will do it for you. It is a noble work under every aspect. Dear\n'Luria'! Do you remember how you told me of 'Luria' last year, in one\nof your early letters? Little I thought that ever, ever, I should feel\nso, while 'Luria' went to be printed! A long trail of thoughts, like\nthe rack in the sky, follows his going. Can it be the same 'Luria,' I\nthink, that 'golden-hearted Luria,' whom you talked of to me, when you\ncomplained of keeping 'wild company,' in the old dear letter? And I\nhave learnt since, that '_golden-hearted_' is not a word for him only,\nor for him most. May God bless you, best and dearest! I am your own to\nlive and to die--\n\n                                                         BA.\n\n_Say how you are._ I shall be down-stairs to-morrow if it keeps warm.\n\nMiss Thomson wants me to translate the Hector and Andromache scene\nfrom the 'Iliad' for her book; and I am going to try it.\n\n\nEND OF THE FIRST VOLUME\n\n\n_Spottiswoode & Co. Printers, New-street Square, London_",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 1",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  }
]