[
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                              [Post-mark, March 25, 1846.]\n\nYou were right to bid me never again wish my poor flowers were\n‘diamonds’—you could not, I think, speak so to my heart of any diamonds.\nGod knows my life is for you to take just as you take flowers:—these last\nplease you, serve you best when plucked—and ‘my life’s rose’ ... if I\ndared profane _that_ expression I would say, you have but to ‘stoop’ for\nit. Foolish, as all words are.\n\nYou _dwell_ on that notion of your being peculiarly isolated,—of\nany kindness to you, in your present state, seeming doubled and\nquadrupled—what do I, what could anyone infer from _that_ but, most\nobviously, that it was a very fortunate thing for such kindness, and that\nthe presumable bestower of it got all his distinction from the fact that\nno better ... however, I hate this and cannot go on. Dearest, believe\nthat under ordinary circumstances, with ordinary people, all operates\ndifferently—the _imaginary_ kindness-bestower with his ideal methods of\nshowing and proving his love,—_there_ would be the rival to fear!\n\nDo not let us talk of this—you always beat me, beside, turn my own\nillustrations into obscurations—as in the notable case of the _cards_ and\nstakes and risks—I suppose, (to save my vanity!) that if I knew anything\nabout cards, I might go on, a step at least, with my argument. I once\nheard a dispute in the street between the proprietor of an oyster-stall\nand one of his customers—_who_ was in the wrong ... that is, _who_ used\nthe clenching argument you shall hear presently, I don’t remember; but\n_one_ brought the other to this pass—‘_Are_ there three shells to an\noyster?’—Just that! If there _were not_—he would clearly be found in the\nwrong, that was all!—‘_Why_,’ ... began the other; and I regret I did\nnot catch the rest—there was such a clear possibility contained in that\n‘_Why_ ... an oyster _might_ have three shells!’\n\nNote the adroitness,—(calm heroic silence of the _act_ rather than\na merely attempted _word_,) the mastery with which, taking up Ba’s\nimplied challenge, I _do_ furnish her with both ‘amusement and\ninstruction’—moreover I will at Ba’s bidding amuse and instruct the world\nat large, and make them know all to be known—for my purposes—about ‘Bells\nand Pomegranates’—yes, it will be better.\n\nI said rather hastily that my head ‘ached’ yesterday: that meant, only\nthat it was more observable because, after walking, it is usually\nwell—and I had been walking. To-day it is much better; I sit reading\n‘Cromwell,’ and the newspaper, and presently I shall go out—all will be\nbetter now, I hope—it shall not be my fault, at least, depend on that.\nAll my work (work!)—well, such as it is, it is done—and I scarcely care\n_how_—I shall be prouder to begin one day—(may it be soon!—) with your\nhand in mine from the beginning—_that_ is a very different thing in\nits effect from the same hand touching mine _after_ I had begun, with\nno suspicion such a chance could befall! I repeat, both these things,\n‘Luria’ and the other, are _manqué_, failures—the life-incidents ought to\nhave been acted over again, experienced afresh; and I had no inclination\nnor ability. But one day, my siren!\n\nLet me make haste and correct a stupid error. I spoke to my father\nlast night about that tragedy of the _studs_—I was wholly _out_ in the\nstory—the sufferer was his _uncle_, and the scene should have been laid\non the Guinea coast. À propos of errors—the copyright matter is most\nlikely a case of copy-_wrong_ by reporters—I never heard of it before—to\nbe sure, I signed a petition of Miss Martineau’s superintending once on a\ntime—but long ago, ‘I, I, I’—how, dear, all important ‘I’ takes care of\nhimself, and issues bulletins, and corrects his wise mistakes, and all\nthis to ... just ‘one of his readers of the average intelligence.’ Are\nyou that, so much as that, Ba? I will tell you—if you do not write to\nme all about _your_ dear, dearest self, I shall sink with shame at the\nrecollection of what this letter and its like prove to be—_must_ prove to\nbe! Dear love, tell me—that you walk and are in good spirits, and I will\ntry and write better. May God bless my own beloved!—Ever her own\n\n                                                                        R.\n\nI think, am all but sure, there is a _Mrs._ Hornblower something!\n\nJust a minute to say your second note has come, and that I _do_ hate\n_hate_ having to write, not kiss my answer on your dearest mouth—kindest,\ndearest—to-morrow I will try—and meantime—though Ba by the fire will not\nbe cold at heart, cold _of_ heart, at least, and I will talk to _her_ and\nmore than talk—My dearest, dearest one!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Evening.\n                                              [Post-mark, March 26, 1846.]\n\nBut if people half say things,—intimate things, as when your disputant in\nthe street (you are felicitous, I think, in your street-_experiences_)\nsuggested the possible case of the ‘three oyster shells to an\noyster,’—why you must submit to be answered a little, and even confuted\nat need. Now just see—\n\n... ‘Got all his distinction from the fact that no better’ ... That is\nprecisely _the fact_ ... _so_ ... as you have stated it, and implied ...\n‘The fact that no better’ ... _is to be found in the world—no better_ ...\n_none_. There, is the peculiar combination. The isolation on one side,\nand the best in the whole world, coming in for company! And I ‘dwell’\nupon it, never being tired ... and if _you_ are tired already, you must\nbe tired of _me_, because the ‘dwelling’ has grown to be a part of me and\nI cannot put it away. It is my especial miracle _à moi_. ‘No better?’ No,\nindeed! not in the seven worlds! and just _there_, lies the miraculous\npoint.\n\nBut you mean it perhaps otherwise. You mean that it is a sort of _pis\naller_ on my part. A _pis aller_ along the Via lactea ... is _that_ what\nyou mean?\n\nShall I let you off the rest, dearest, dearest? though you deserve ever\nso much more, for implying such monstrous things, and treading down all\nmy violets, so and so. What did I say to set you writing so? I cannot\nremember at all? If I ‘dwell’ on anything, beloved, it is that I feel\nit strongly, be sure—and if I feel gratitude to you with the other\nfeelings, you should not grudge what is a happy feeling in itself, and\nnot dishonouring (I answer for _that_) to the object of it.\n\nNow I shall tell you. I had a visitor to-day—Mrs. Jameson; and when she\nwent away she left me ashamed of myself—I felt like a hypocrite—_I_, who\nwas not born for one, I think. She began to talk of you ... talked like\na wise woman, which she is ... led me on to say just what I might have\nsaid if I had not known you, (she, thoroughly impressed with the notion\nthat we two are strangers!) and made me quite leap in my chair with a\nsudden consciousness, by exclaiming at last ... ‘I am really glad to\nhear you speak so. Such appreciation’ &c. &c. ... imagine what she went\non to say. Dearest—I believe she rather gives me a sort of credit for\n_appreciating you_ without the jealousy ‘_de métier_.’ Good Heavens ...\nhow humiliating some conditions of praise are! She _approved_ me with\nher eye—indeed she did. And this, while we were agreeing that you were\nthe best ... ‘none better’ ... none so good ... of your country and age.\nDo you know, while we were talking, I felt inclined both to laugh and to\ncry, and if I had ‘given way’ the least, she would have been considerably\nastounded. As it was, my hands were so marble-cold when she took leave\nof me, that she observed it and began making apologies for exhausting\nme. Now here is a strip of the ‘world,’ ... see what colour it will turn\nto presently! We had better, I think, go farther than to your siren’s\nisland—into the desert ... shall we say? Such stories there will be! For\ncertain, ... I shall have seen you just once out of the window! Shall you\nnot be afraid? Well—and she talked of Italy too—it was before she talked\nof _you_—and she hoped I had not given up the thoughts of going there.\nTo which I said that ‘I had not ... but that it seemed like scheming\nto travel in the moon.’ She talked of a difference, and set down the\nmoon-travelling as simple lunacy. ‘And simply lunatical,’ ... I said, ...\n‘my thoughts, if chronicled, would be taken to be, perhaps’—‘No, no, no,!\n...’ she insisted ... ‘as long as I kept to the earth, everything was to\nbe permitted to me.’\n\nHow people talk at cross-purposes in this world ... and act so too! It’s\nthe very spirit of worldly communion. Souls are gregarious in a sense,\nbut no soul touches another, as a general rule. I like Mrs. Jameson\nnevertheless—I like her _more_. She appreciates you—and it is _my_ turn\nto praise for that, now. I am to see her again to-morrow morning, when\nshe has the goodness to promise to bring some etchings of her own, her\nillustrations of the new essays, for me to look at.\n\nAh—your ‘_failures_ in “Luria” and the “Tragedy”’—Proud, we should all\nbe, to fail exactly so.\n\nDearest, are you better indeed? Walk ... talk to the Ba in the chair ...\ngo on to be better, ever dearest. May God bless you! Ah ... the ‘I’s.’\nYou do not see that the ‘I’s’—as you make them, ... all turn to ‘yous’\nby the time they get to me. The ‘I’s’ indeed! How dare you talk against\nmy eyes? For me, I was going down-stairs to-day, but it was wet and\nwindy and I was warned not to go. If I am in bad or good spirits, judge\nfrom this foolish letter—foolish and wise, both!—but not melancholy,\n_anywise_. When one drops into a pun, one might as well come to an end\naltogether—it can’t be worse with one.\n\nNor can it be better than being\n\n                                 Your own\n\n                                                          ‘_No better_’!!.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n                                              [Post-mark, March 26, 1846.]\n\nSometimes I have a disposition to dispute with dearest Ba, to wrench her\nsimile-weapons out of the dexterous hand (that is, try and do so) and\nhave the truth of things my way and its own way, not hers, if she _be_\nBa—(observe, I say nothing about ever meeting with remarkable success in\nsuch undertakings, only, that they _are_ entered on sometimes). But at\nother times I seem as if I must lie down, like Flush, with all manner of\ncoral necklaces about my neck, and two sweet mysterious hands on my head,\nand so be forced to hear verses on me, Ba’s verses, in which I, that am\nbut Flush of the lower nature, am called loving friend and praised for\nnot preferring to go ‘coursing hares’—with ‘other dogs.’ So I will lie\nnow, as you will have it, and say in Flush-like tones (the looks that\nare dog’s tones)—I don’t _don’t_ know how it is, or why, or what it all\nwill end in, but I am very happy and what I hear must mean right, by the\nmusic,—though the meaning is above me,—and here _are_ the hands—which\nI may, and will, look up to, and kiss—determining not to insist any\nmore this time that at Miss Mitford’s were sundry dogs, brighter than\n‘brown’—See where, just where, Flush stops discreetly! ‘Eternity’ he\nwould have added, ‘but stern death’ &c. &c.\n\nI treat these things lightheartedly, as you see—instead of seriously,\nwhich would at first thought seem the wiser course—‘for after all, she\nwill find out one day’ &c. _No_, dearest,—I do not fear that! Why make\nuneasy words of saying simply I shall continue to give you my best\nflowers, all I can find—if I bring violets, or grass, when you expected\nto get roses,—you will know there were none in my garden—that is all.\n\nAnd for you—as I may have told you once,—as I tell myself always—you are\n_entirely_ what I love—not just a rose plucked off with an inch of stalk,\nbut presented as a rose should be, with a green world of boughs round:\nall about you is ‘to my heart’—(to my mind, as they phrase it)—and were\nit not that, of course, I know _when_ to have done with fancyings and\nmerely flitting permissible ‘inly-sayings with heart-playing,’ and when\nit is time to look at the plain ‘best’ through the lock of ‘good’ and\n‘better’ in circumstances and accident—I _do_ say—were the best blessing\nof all, the blessing I trust and believe God intends, of your perfect\nrestoration to health,—were _that_ not so palpably best,—I should catch\nmyself desirous that your present state of _unconfirmed_ health might\nnever pass away! Ba _understands_, I know! After all, it will always\nstay, that luxury,—if but through the memory of what has been, and _may_\nrecur, that deepest luxury that makes my very heartstrings tremble in the\nthought of—that I shall have a right, a duty—where in another case, they\nwould be uncalled for, superfluous, impertinent. Tapers ordinarily burn\nbest _let alone_, with all your light depending on the little flame, the\ndarkest night but for it—why, stand off—what good can you do, so long as\nthere is no extraordinary evil to avert, breaking down of the candlestick\nto prevent? But _here_—there will be reason as well as a delight beyond\ndelights in always learning to close over, all but holding the flame in\nthe hollow of one’s hand! I shall have a right to think it is not mere\npleasure, merely for myself, that I care and am close by—and that which\nthus is called ‘not for myself’ _is_, after all, in its essence, _most_\nfor myself,—why it is a luxury, a last delight!—\n\nIn the procurement of which there will be this obstacle, or grave matter\nto be first taken into consideration,—that the world will ‘change\ncolour’ about it, will have its own thoughts on the subject I have my\nown thoughts, on _its_ subject, the affairs of the world and pieces of\nperfect good fortune it approves of, and stamps for enviable—and on the\nwhole the world has quite a right to treat me unceremoniously,—I having\nbegun it. As for the ‘seeing out of the window once’—those who knew\nnothing about us but our names had better think _that_ was the way, than\nmost others; and the half-dozen who knew a little more, may hear the true\naccount if they please, when they hear anything—those who know _all_, all\nnecessary to know, will understand my 137 letters here and my 54 visits\n... see, I write as if this were to be pleaded to-night—would it were! As\nif you had to write the _meeting_ between Hector and Andromache, not the\nparting! By the way, dearest, what enchanted poetry all your translations\nfor Miss Thomson are—as Carlyle says! ‘Nobody can touch them, get at\nthem!’ How am I the better for Nonnus, and Apuleius? Now, do you serve me\nwell _there_?\n\nI shall hear to-morrow of Mrs. Jameson’s etchings and discourses? and\nmore good news of you, darling? I am _quite_ well to-day—going out with\nmy sister to dine next door—then, over to-morrow, and the letter, will\ncome Saturday, my day.\n\nBless you, my own best, dearest—I am your own.\n\n                                                                        R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                              [Post-mark, March 27, 1846.]\n\nNot the ‘dexterous hand’—say rather the good cause. For the rest, when\nyou turn into a dog and lie down, are you not afraid that a sorcerer\nshould go by and dash the water and speak the formula of the old tales.\n‘If thou wert born a dog, remain a dog, but if not’.... If not ... _what_\nis to happen? Aminè whipped her enchanted hounds ever so often in the day\n... ah, what nonsense happens!\n\nDear, dearest, how you ‘take me with guile,’ or with stronger than guile,\n... with that divine right you have, of talking absurdities! You make it\nclear at last that I am so much the better for being bad ... and _I_ ...\nshall I laugh? _can_ I? is it possible? The words go too deep ... as deep\nas death which cannot laugh! And I am forbidden to ‘dwell’ on the meaning\nof them—I! There are ‘_I’s_’ to match yours!\n\nI shall have the right of doing one thing, ... (passing to _my_ rights).\nI shall hold to the right of remembering to my last hour, that _you_, who\nmight well have passed by on the other side if we two had met on the road\nwhen I was riding at ease, ... _did not_ when I was in the dust. I choose\nto remember _that_ to the end of feeling. As for _men_, you are not to\ntake me to be quite ignorant of what they are worth in the gross. The\nmost blindfolded women may see a little under the folds ... and I have\nseen quite enough to be glad to shut my eyes. Did I not tell you that I\nnever thought that any man whom _I_ could love, would stoop to love _me_,\neven if I attained so far as the sight of such. Which I _never attained_\n... until ... until! Then, that _you_ should care for me.!! Oh—I hold\nto my rights, though you overcome me in most other things. And it is my\nright to love you better than I could do if I were more worthy to be\nloved by you.\n\nMrs. Jameson came late to-day, ... at five—and was hurried and could\nnot stay ten minutes, ... but showed me her etchings and very kindly\nleft a ‘Dead St. Cecilia’ which I admired most, for its beautiful\nlifelessness. She is not to be in town again, she said, till a month\nhas gone—a month, at least. Oh—and ‘quite uneasy’ she was, about my\n‘cold hands’—yesterday—she thought she had put me to death with\nover-talking!—which made me smile a little ... ‘subridens.’ But she\nis very kind and affectionate; and you were right to teach me to like\nher—and now, do you know, I look in vain for the ‘steely eyes’ I fancied\nI saw once, and see nothing but two good and true ones.\n\nWell—here is an end till Saturday. It is too late ... or I could go on\nwriting ... which I do not hate indeed. Talking of hating, ... ‘what you\nlove entirely’ means _that you love entirely_ ... and no more and no\nless. If it did not mean so, I should be unhappy about the _mistake_ ...\nbut to ‘love entirely’ is not a mistake and cannot pass for one either on\nearth or in Heaven. May God bless you, ever dearest. Such haste I write\nin—as if the angels were running up Jacob’s ladder!—or _down_ it, rather,\nat this close!\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                              [Post-mark, March 27, 1846.]\n\n‘Qui laborat, orat’; so they used to say, and in that case I have been\ndevotional to a high degree this morning. Seven holes did I dig (to keep\nup inversions of style)—seven rose-trees did I plant—(‘Brennus’—and\n‘Madame Lafarge’! are two names I remember; very characteristic of old\nGaul and young France—) and, for my pains, the first fruits, first\nblossoms some two or three months hence, will come, and will go to\ndearest Ba who first taught me what a rose really _was_, how sweet it\nmight become with superadded memories of the room and the chair and the\nvase, and the cutting stalks and pouring fresh water ... ah, my own\nBa!—And did you think to warn me out of the Flush-simile by the hint of\nAminè’s privilege which it would warrant? If the ‘ever so much whipping’\nshould please you!... And beside it was, if I recollect, for the\ncreature’s good, those poor imprisoned sisters, all the time. Moreover, I\n_was_ ‘born’ all this and more, that you _will_ know, at least—and only\nwalked glorious and erect on two legs till dear Siren, an old friend of,\nand deep in the secrets of Circe, sprinkled the waters ... perhaps on\nthose roses—No, before that!—\n\nWell, to-morrow comes fast now—and I shall trust to be with you my\nbeloved—and, first, you are to show me the portrait, remember.\n\nI am glad you like Mrs. Jameson—do not _I_ like her all the better, much\nthe better! But it is fortunate I shall not see her by any chance just\nnow—she would be sure to begin and tell me about _you_—and if my hands\ndid not turn cold, my ear-tips would assuredly turn red. I daresay that\nSt. Cecilia is the beautiful statue above her tomb at Rome; covered with\na veil—affectingly beautiful; I well remember how she lies.\n\nNow good-bye; and to-morrow! Bless you, ever dear, dearest Ba—\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Afternoon.\n\nNow, I think, if I had been ‘pricked at the heart’ by dear, dearest Ba’s\ncharge yesterday,—if I did not _certainly_ know why it might sometimes\nseem better to be silent than to speak,—should I not be found taking\nout three or four sheets of paper, and beginning to write, and write!\nMy own, dearest and best, it is _not_ so,—not wrong, my heart’s self\ntells me,—and tells you! But, for the rest, there shall never pass a day\ntill my death wherein I will not write to you, so long as you let me,\nexcepting those days I may spend with you, partly or ... altogether—Love,\nshall I have very, very long to be hating to write, yet writing?\n\nYou see sometimes how I _talk_ to you,—even in mere talking what a\nstrange work I make of it. I go on thinking quite another way; so,\ngenerally, I often have thought, the little I _have_ written, has been\nan unconscious scrawling with the mind fixed somewhere else: the subject\nof the scrawl may have previously been the real object of the mind on\nsome similar occasion,—the very thing which _then_ to miss, (finding in\nits place _such another_ result of a still prior fancy-fit)—which then to\nsee escape, or find escaped, was the vexation of the time! One cannot,\n(or _I_ cannot) _finish up_ the work in one’s mind, put away the old\nprojects and take up new. Well, this which I feel on so many occasions,\ndo you wonder if—if!\n\nI should write on _this_ for ever! It is all so strange, such a dream as\nyou say!\n\nIndeed, love, the picture is not like, nor ‘flattered’ by any means,\nyet I don’t know how it is, I cannot be cross with it—there is a touch\nof truth in the eyes,—would one have believed _that_? I know my own way\nwith portraits; how I let them master eventually my most decided sense\nof their _unlikeness_—and _this_ finds me very prepared—still—it seems\nalready more faithful than last night ... how do I determine where the\nmiraculousness ends? (My Mother was greatly impressed by it—and my\nsister, coming (from my room) into the room where I was with a visitor,\nbefore whom she could not speak English, said ‘_È molto bella_’!)\n\nHere is my ‘proof’—I found it as I expected. I fear I must put you\nto that trouble of sending the other two acts—I hate to think of so\ntroubling you! But do not, Ba, hurry yourself—nor take extraordinary\npains—what is worth your pains in these poor things? I like Luria\nbetter now,—it may do, now,—probably because it _must_; but, as I said\nyesterday, I seriously hope and trust to shew my sense of gratitude for\nwhat is promised my future life, by doing some real work in it; work of\nyours, as through you. I have felt, not for the first time now, but from\nthe beginning vexed, foolishly vexed perhaps, that I could not without\nattracting undesirable notice, ‘dedicate,’ in the true sense of the word,\nthis or the last number to you. But if any really worthy performance\n_should_ follow, then my mouth will be unsealed. All is forewritten!\n\nI wonder if you have ventured down this sunny afternoon—tell me how you\nare, and, once again, do not care about those papers; any time will do.\n\nSo, bless you, my own—my all-beloved Ba.\n\n                                                                 Your R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Evening.\n                                              [Post-mark, March 30, 1846.]\n\nDearest, I have been trying your plan of thinking of you instead of\nwriting, to-day, and the end is that I am driven to the last of the\nday and have scarcely room in it to write what I would. Observe if you\nplease, how badly ‘the system works,’ as the practical people say. Then\nMr. Kenyon came and talked,—asked when I had seen you, ... and desired,\n‘if ever I saw you again,’ (ah, what an ‘if ever’!) that I would enquire\nabout the ‘blue lilies’ ... which I satisfied him were of the right\ncolour, on your authority.\n\nBut, to go to the ‘Tragedy’—I am not to admire it ... am I? And you\nreally think that anyone who can think ... feel ... could help such an\nadmiration, or ought to try to help it? Now just see. It is a new work\nwith your mark on it. That is ... it would make some six or sixteen\nworks for other people, if ‘cut up into little stars’—rolled out ...\ndiluted with rain-water. But it is your work as it is—and if you do not\ncare for _that, I_ care, and shall remember to care on. It is a work\nfull of power and significance, and I am not at all sure (not that it\nis wise to make comparisons, but that I want you to understand how I am\nimpressed!)—I am not at all sure that if I knew you now first and only by\nthese two productions, ... ‘Luria’ and the ‘Tragedy,’ ... I should not\ninvoluntarily attribute more power and a higher faculty to the writer\nof the last—I _should_, I think—yet ‘Luria’ is the completer work....\nI know it very well. Such thoughts, you have, in this second part of\nthe Tragedy! a ‘Soul’s Tragedy’ indeed! No one _thinks_ like you—other\npoets talk like the merest women in comparison. Why it is full of hope\nfor both of us, to look forward and consider what you may achieve with\nthat combination of authority over the reasons and the passions, and\nthat wonderful variety of the plastic power! But I am going to tell\nyou—Certainly I think you were right (though you know I doubted and cried\nout) I think now you were right in omitting the theological argument you\ntold me of, from this second part. It would clog the action, and already\nI am half inclined to fancy it a little clogged in one or two places—but\nif this is true even, it would be easy to lighten it. Your Ogniben (here\nis my only criticism in the ways of objection) seems to me almost too\nwise for a crafty worldling—tell me if he is not! Such thoughts, for the\nrest, you are prodigal of! That about the child, ... do you remember how\nyou brought it to me in your first visit, nearly a year ago?\n\nNearly a year ago! how the time passes! If I had ‘done my duty’ like the\nenchanted fish leaping on the gridiron, and seen you never again after\nthat first visit, you would have forgotten all about me by this day. Or\nat least, ‘that prude’ I should be! Somewhere under your feet, I should\nbe put down by this day! Yes! and my enchanted dog would be coursing\n‘some small deer’ ... some unicorn of a ‘golden horn,’ ... (_not_ the\nKilmansegg gold!) out of hearing if I should have a mind to whistle ever\nso, ... but out of harm’s way perhaps besides.\n\nWell, I do think of it sometimes as you see. Which proves that I love\nyou better than myself by the whole width of the Heavens; the sevenfold\nHeavens. Yet I think again how He of the heavens and earth brought us\ntogether so wonderfully, holding two souls in His hand. If my fault was\nin it, my _will_ at least was not. Believe it of me, dear dearest, that\nI who am as clear-sighted as other women, ... and not more humble (as\nto the approaches of common men), was quite resolutely blind when _you_\ncame—I could not understand the possibility of _that_. It was too much\n... too surpassing. And so it will seem to the end. The astonishment, I\nmean, will not cease to be. It is my own especial fairy-tale ... from the\nspells of which, may you be unharmed...! How one writes and writes over\nand over the same thing! But day by day the same sun rises, ... over, and\nover, and nobody is tired. May God bless you, dearest of all, and justify\nwhat has been by what shall be, ... and let me be free of spoiling any\nsun of yours! Shall you ever tell me in your thoughts, I wonder, to get\nout of your sun? No—no—Love keeps love too safe! and I have faith, you\nsee, as a grain of mustard-seed!\n\n                                 Your own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\n_Say how you are ... mind!_",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                              [Post-mark, March 30, 1846.]\n\n‘The system,’ Ba?—Were _you_ to stop writing, as if for my reasons? Could\n_I_ do without your letters, on any pretence? You say well—it was a\nfoolish fancy, and now—have done with it!\n\nAnd do you think you _could_ have refused to see me after that visit? I\nmean, do you think I did not resolve so to conduct myself; so to ‘humble\nmyself and go still and softly all my days’; that your suspicion should\nneeds insensibly clear up ... (if it had been _so_ pre-ordained, and that\nno more was in my destiny,) and at last I should have been written down\nyour friend for ever, and let come and stay, on that footing. But you\nreally think the confirmation of that sentence must have been attended\nwith such an effect—that I should have forgotten you or _so_ remembered\nyou? You think that on the strength of such a love as _that_, I would\nhave ventured a month of my future life ... much less, the whole of it?\n_Not you_, Ba,—my dearest, dearest!\n\nHow you surprise me (what ever may you think) by liking that ‘Tragedy’!\nIt seems as if, having got out of the present trouble, I shall never fall\ninto its fellow—I will strike, for the future, on the glowing, malleable\nmetal; afterward, _filing_ is quite another process from hammering, and a\nmore difficult one. Note, that ‘filing’ is the wrong word,—and the rest\nof it, the wrong simile,—and all of it, in its stupid wrongness very\ncharacteristic of what I try to illustrate—oh, the better, better days\nare before me _there_ as in all else! But, do you notice how stupid I am\nto-day? My head begins again—that is the fact; it is better a good deal\nthan in the morning—its œconomy passes my comprehension altogether, that\nis the other fact. With the deep joy in my heart below—this morning’s\nletter here—what _does_ the head mean by its perversity? I will go out\npresently and walk it back to its senses.\n\nDearest, did you receive my ‘proof’ this morning? Do not correct nor\nlook at it, nor otherwise trouble yourself—there is plenty of time. But\nwhat day is ours to be? Of that you say nothing, and of my poems a great\ndeal, ‘O _you_ inverter!’ But _I_ am, rather, a _re_verter—and _you_\nshall revert, and mind the natural order of things, and tell me first of\nall—(in to-night’s letter, dearest?)—that it is to be on—?\n\nNow let me kiss you here—my own Ba! Being stupid makes _some_ difference\nin me—I am no poet, nor prose-writer, nor rational ‘Christian, pagan\nnor man’ this afternoon—but I _am_ now—as yesterday—as the long ‘year\nago’—your own, utterly your own! May God bless you! (I wondered yesterday\nif you had gone down-stairs—‘_no_’ I infer!)",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n\nDearest, I send you back the two parts of the ‘Soul’s Tragedy,’ and the\nproof. On a strip of paper are two or three _inanities_ in the form of\ndoubts I had in reading the first part. I think upon the whole that you\nowe me all gratitude for the help of so much high critical wisdom—of\nwhich this paper is a fair proof and expression.\n\nThe proof, the printed ‘Luria’ I mean, has more than pleased me. It\nis noble and admirable; and grows greater, the closer seen. The most\nexceptionable part, it seems to me, is Domizia’s retraction at the last,\nfor which one looks round for the sufficient motive. But the impression\nof the whole work goes straight to the soul—it is heroic in the best\nsense.\n\nI write in such haste. Oh—I should have liked to have read again the\nsecond part of the ‘Tragedy,’ but dare not keep it though you give me\nleave. I think of the printers—and you will let me have the proof, in\nthis case also.\n\nYour letter shall be answered presently. Your sister’s word about the\npicture proves very conclusively how wonderfully like it must be as a\nportrait! _That_ would settle the question to any ‘Royal Commission’ in\nthe world—only we need not go so far.\n\nDearest I end here—to begin again in another half hour. Ah—and you\npromise, you promise—\n\n                        No time—but ever your own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Evening.\n                                              [Post-mark, March 31, 1846.]\n\nAh now, now, you _see_! Held up in _that_ light, it _is_ ‘a foolish\nfancy,’ and unlawful, besides! ‘Not on any _pretence_’ will you do\nwithout letters ... _you_! And you count it among the imaginations of\nyour heart that _I_ could do without them better perhaps ... _I_ ... to\nwhom they are sun, air, and human voices, at the very lowest calculation?\nWhy seriously you don’t imagine that your letters are not a thousand\ntimes more to _me_, than letters ever in the world were before, ... since\n‘Heaven first brought them to some wretch’s aid.’ If you _do_, that _is_\nthe foolishest fancy of all.\n\nSo foolish as to be unspeakable. We will ‘have done with it,’ as you say.\nI only ‘revert’ and innocently,—I do not reproach, even ignorantly,—I\nam grateful rather. What you said in the letter this morning made me\ngrateful, ... and oh, so glad! so glad! what you said, I mean, of writing\nto me on every day that we did not meet on otherwise. That promise seemed\nto bring us nearer (see how I think of letters!), nearer than another\nword _could_, though you went for it to the end of the universe, ...\nthat other word. So I accept the promise as a promise of pure gold, and\nthank _you_, as pure gold too, which you are, or rather far above. Only\nmy own dearest, you shall not write long letters ... long letters are out\nof the agreement.... I never feel the need of length _as long as_ the\nwriting is _there_ ... just the little shred of the Koran, to be gathered\nup reverently ... (Inshallah!)—and then, you shall not write at all when\nyou are not well ... no, you shall not. So remember from henceforth!\nShall I whip my enchanted dog when he is so good and true?—not to say\nthat the tags of the lashes (do you call them _tags_?) would swing round\nand strike me on the shoulders? Dearest, you are the best, kindest in\nthe world—such a very, very, _very_ ‘little lower than the angels!’ If\never I could take advantage of your goodness and tenderness, to teaze and\nvex you, ... what should _I_ be, I have been seriously enquiring to-day,\nhead on hand, when I had sent away ‘Luria.’ For I sent it away, and the\n‘Tragedy’ with it, and I hope you will have all to-morrow morning at the\nfurthest, ... before you get this letter. There was a note too in the\nparcel.\n\nAs to dedications ... believe me that I would not have them if I could\n... that is, _even if there were no dangers_. I could not bear to have\nwords from you which the world might listen to ... I mean, that to be\ncommended of you in _that_ way, on _that_ ground, would make me feel cold\nto the heart. Oh no, no, no! It is better to have the proof-sheet as I\nhad it this morning: it is the better glory ... as glory!\n\n‘Not worthy of my pains’ ... you are right! But infinitely worthy of my\n_pleasures_—such pleasure as I could gather from nothing else, except\nfrom your letters and your very presence. Do you think that anything\nbeside in the whole world could bring pleasure to me, as pleasure goes,\n... anything like reading your poetry? My ‘pains’ indeed! It is a\nfelicitous word—‘je vous en fais mon compliment.’\n\nAnd all this time, while I write lightly, you are not well perhaps—you\nwere unwell when you wrote to me; you were unwell a little yesterday\neven. Say how you are to-morrow—do not forget. For the cause of the\nunwellness, _I_ see it, if _you_ do not. It was _the proof-correcting_—I\nexpected that you would be unwell—it is no worse than was threatened to\nmy thoughts. The comfort is that all this wrong work is coming to an\nend, and that it is covenanted between us for you to _rest absolutely_\nfrom henceforth. Say how you are, dearest dearest. And walk, walk. For\nme, I have not been down-stairs. It has been cold—too cold for _that_, I\nthought.\n\nOh—but I wanted to say one thing! That wonderful picture, which is\nnot much like a unicorn or even ‘a whale’ ... but rather more perhaps\nthan like _me_, you may keep for weeks or months, if you choose; if it\ncontinues ‘not to make you cross.’ Because _it_ does not flatter, and\nbecause _you_ do not flatter (in such equal proportions!): the sympathy\naccounts for the liking ... or absence of dislike; on your part.\n\nNow I must end. _Thursday_ is our day, I think:—and it is easier to say\n‘Thursday’ on Monday than on Saturday ... a discovery of mine, _that_, as\ngood as Faraday’s last!\n\nSay how you are. Do not forget. I had to say.... What I cannot, to-night.\n\n                            But 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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday\n                                              [Post-mark, March 31, 1846.]\n\nDear, dear, Ba, what shall I say or not say? On a kind of principle, I\nhave tried before this to _subdue_ the expression of gratitude for the\nmaterial, _worldly_ good you do me—for my poor store of words would all\npay themselves away here, at the beginning, and so leave the higher,\npeculiar, _Ba’s own_ gifts even without a _cry_ of _acknowledgment_, not\nto say of thanks. But somehow you, you my dearest, my Ba, look out of\nall imaginable nooks and crevices in the materiality—I see you through\nyour goodness,—I cannot distinguish between your acts now,—the greater,\nindeed, and the lesser! Which _is_ the ‘lesser’? _With you_ all their\nheap of work seems no more than——. (I cannot even think of what may serve\nfor some lesser act of kindness! _That_ is just what I wanted to say—‘the\neffect defective comes by cause’ here—there _is_ no ‘lesser’ blessing in\nyour power, as I said!)\n\nNow, darling,—it is late in the afternoon, as posts go—I have been out\nall the morning in town, and while I was happy with one letter (found\nwaiting my return)—the parcel comes—so I will just say this much, (this\n_little_, this _least_)—this word now—and by to-night all shall be\ncorrected, I hope, and got rid of fairly. And to-morrow, I will have you\nto myself, my best one, and will write till you cry out against me. I go\nnow. God bless you and reward you—prays your very own\n\n                                                                      R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening,\n                                              [Post-mark, March 31, 1846.]\n\nIf people were always as grateful to other people for being just kind\nto _themselves_, ... what a grateful world we should have of it! The\nactual _good_ you get out of me, may be stated at about _two commas and a\nsemi-colon_—do I overstate it, I wonder? _You_, on the other side, never\noverstate anything ... never enlarge ... never exaggerate! In fact, the\nimmense ‘worldly’ advantages which fall to you from _me_, are plain to\nbehold. Dearest, what nonsense you talk some times, for a man so wise!\nnonsense as wonderful in its way for ‘Robert Browning’ as the dancing\nof polkas! The worst is, that it sets me wishing impotently, to do some\nreally good helpful thing for you—and I cannot,—cannot. The good comes to\nme from you, and will not go back again. Even the loving you, ... which\nis all I can, ... have I not had to question of it again and again....\n“Is _that_ good?” Now see.\n\nI shall be anxious to hear your own thoughts of the ‘Soul’s Tragedy’ when\nyou have it in print. You liked ‘Luria’ better for seeing it printed—and\nI must have you like the ‘Tragedy’ in proportion. It _strikes_ me.\nIt is original, as they say. There is something in it awakening ...\nstriking:—and when it has awakened, it won’t let you go to sleep again\nimmediately.\n\nAnd of yourself, not a word. You might have said _one_ word—but you\nhave been in London which makes me hope that you are perhaps a little\nbetter ... or at least not worse. Oh, I do not hope _much_ while you are\nabout this printing. You are sure not to be well. That is to be accepted\nas a necessary consequence—it cannot be otherwise. The comfort is,\nthat the whole will be put away in a week or ten days, and that then\nI may set myself to hope for you, as the roses to blow in June. Fit\nsummer-business, _that_ will be! And you will help me, and walk and take\ncare.\n\nWhat do you think I have been doing to-day to Mr. Kenyon? Sending him\nthe ‘enchanted poetry’ which such as _you_ are never to see ... the\ntranslation about Hector and Andromache!—yes, really. Yet after all it\nis not that I like him so much better than you ... I do not indeed ...\nit is just that Miss Thomson and her book are of consequence to him, and\nthat he hears through Miss Bayley and herself of the attempt here and the\nfailure there, ... and so, being interested altogether, he asked me to\nlet him see what I did with Homer. And it is not much. Old Homer laughs\nhis translators to very scorn ... and he does not spare _me_, for being\na woman. Surpassingly and profoundly beautiful that scene is. I have\ntried it in blank verse. About a year ago, when I had a sudden fit of\ntranslating, I made an experiment on the first fifty lines of the Iliad\nin a rhymed measure which seemed to me rather nearer to the Greek cadence\nthan our common heroic verse. Listen to what I remember—\n\n    Thus he spake in his prayer: and Apollo gave ear to the whole;\n    And came down from the steep of Olympus, with wrath in his soul;\n    On his shoulder the bow, and the quiver fast woven by fate,\n    And the darts hurtled on, as he trod, with the thrill of his hate\n    And the step of his godhead. Like night did he travel below—\n    And he sate down afar from the ships, and drew strong to the bow—\n\nAnd so we get to the arrows you talked of ... ah, do you remember ... do\nyou remember? ... which were to kill dogs and mules, you said! But they\ndidn’t. I have an enchanted dog (‘which nobody _can_ deny’!) and am not\nfar to seek in my Apollo.\n\nTo-day I had a letter from Miss Mitford who says that, inasmuch as she\ndoes not go to Paris, she shall come for a fortnight to London and ‘see\nme every day.’!! No time is fixed—but I look a little aghast. _Am I not\ngrateful and affectionate?_ Is it right of you, not to let me love anyone\nas I used to do? Is it in _that_ sense that you kill the dogs and mules?\nPerhaps. The truth is, I would rather she did not come—far rather. And\nshe may not, after all— ... now I am ashamed of myself thoroughly\n\nI have not been down-stairs to-day—the weather seemed so doubtful.\nTo-morrow, if it is possible, I will ... must ... do it. So ... goodbye\ntill the day after—Thursday. May God bless you every day! and if only as\nI think of you ... you would not lose much!\n\n                                                                  Your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, April 1, 1846.]\n\n_Now_—dear, dearest Ba—let me begin the only way!—And so you are kissed\nwhether you feel it or not—through the distance, what matter? Dear love,\nI return from town—my writing has gone away—you remain, and we are\ntogether—as I said, it _would_ be, so it is! And here is your letter,\nand here are recollections of all the letters for so long, all the\nperfect kindnesses which I did not answer, meaning to answer them one\nday—and, one day, look to receive (I may write you) a huge sheetful of\nanswers to bygone interrogatories,—sins of omission remedied according\nto ability—and you will stare like a man, I read of somewhere, who asked\nhis neighbour ‘how he fed that mule of his, so as to keep it in such\ngood case?’—and then, struck by some other fancy, went on to talk of\nother matters till the day’s end—when, on alighting at their Inn (for\nthese two were journeying, and the talk began with the stirrup-cup)—the\nother, who had been watching his opportunity, breaking silence for the\nfirst time, answered—‘With oats and hay.’ Observe that the only part of\nthe story I parallel is the _surprise_ at the end—for I am not going\nto get whipped before I deserve, Aminè (_Ba mine_). At all events I\nwill answer this last dear note. The ‘good’ you do me, I see you cannot\nsee nor understand _yet_—there is my answer! Here, in this instance, I\ncorrected everything,—altered, improved. Did you notice the alterations\n(curtailments) in ‘Luria’? Well, I put in a few phrases in the second\npart of the other,—where Ogniben speaks—and hope that they give a little\nmore insight as to his character—which I meant for that of a man of wide\nspeculation and narrow practice,—universal understanding of men and\nsympathy with them, yet professionally restricted claims for himself,\nfor his own life. _There_, was the theology to have come in! He should\nhave explained, ‘the belief in a future state, with me, modifies every\nfeeling derivable from this present life—I consider _that_ as dependent\non foregoing _this_—consequently, I may see that your principles are\nperfectly right and proper to be embraced so far as concerns this world,\nthough I believe there is an eventual gain, to be obtained elsewhere,\nin either opposing or disregarding them,—in not availing myself of the\nadvantages they procure.’ Do you see?—as a man may not choose to drink\nwine, for his health’s sake, or from a scruple of conscience &c.—and\nyet may be a good judge of what wine should be, how it _ought_ to\ntaste—something like this was _meant_—and when it is forgotten almost,\nand only the written thing with a shadow of the meaning stays,—you\nwonder that the written thing gets to look better in time? Do you think\nif I could forget _you_, Ba, I should not reconcile myself to your\npicture—which already I love better than yesterday—and which, to revenge,\nI know I shall by this time to-morrow like less, so far less. Well, and\nthen there is Domizia—I _could not_ bring her to my purpose. I left the\nneck stiff that was to have bowed of its own accord—for nothing graceful\ncould be accomplished by pressing with both hands on the head above! I\nmeant to make her leave off her own projects through love of Luria. As\nit is, they in a manner fulfil themselves, so far as she has any power\nover them, and then, she being left unemployed, sees Luria, begins to\nsee him, having hitherto seen only her own ends which he was to further.\nOh, enough of it! I have told you, and tell you and will tell you, my Ba,\nbecause it is simple truth,—that you have been ‘helping’ me to cover a\ndefeat, not gain a triumph. If I had not known you _so far_ THESE works\nmight have been the _better_:—as assuredly, the greater works, I trust\nwill follow,—they would have suffered in proportion! If you take a man\nfrom prison and set him free ... do you not probably cause a signal\ninterruption to his previously all ingrossing occupation, and sole labour\nof love, of carving bone-boxes, making chains of cherry-stones, and\nother such time-beguiling operations—does he ever take up that business\nwith the old alacrity? No! But he begins ploughing, building—(castles he\nmakes, no bone-boxes now). I may plough and build—but there,—leave them\nas they are!\n\nHere an end till to-morrow—my best dearest. I am very well to-day—I\nforgot to say anything yesterday. You did not go down-stairs, for all\nyour good intentions, I hope—this morning I mean: observe how the days\nare made—the mornings are warm and sunny—after gets up such a wind as now\nhowls—what a sound! The most melancholy in the whole world I think.\n\nNo—I can’t do what I had set down—keep my remonstrance and upbraiding on\nthe Homer-subject till to-morrow and then speak arrows. What do you mean,\nBa, by ‘remembering’ those lines you give me—have you no more written\ndown, _Quite_ happy and original they are—but to-morrow this is waited\nfor—dearest, bless you ever! your\n\n                                                                        R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday\n                                               [Post-mark, April 3, 1846.]\n\nDearest, your flowers make the whole room look like April, they are\nso full of colours ... growing fuller and fuller as we get nearer to\nthe sun. The wind was melancholy too, all last night—oh, _I_ think the\nwind melancholy, just as _you_ do,—or _more_ than you do perhaps for\nhaving spent so many restless days and nights close on the sea-shore in\nDevonshire. I seem now always to hear the sea _in_ the wind, voice within\nvoice! But I like a sudden wind not too loud,—a wind which you hear the\nrain in rather than the sea—and I like the half cloudy half sunny April\nweather, such as we have it here in England, with a west or south wind—I\nlike and enjoy _that_; and remember vividly how I used to like to walk\nor wade nearly up to my waist in the wet grass or weeds, with the sun\noverhead, and the wind darkening or lightening the verdure all round.\n\nBut none of it was happiness, dearest dearest. Happiness does not come\nwith the sun or the rain. Since my illness, when the door of the future\nseemed shut and locked before my face, and I did not tire myself with\nknocking any more, I thought I was happier, happy, I thought, just\nbecause I was tranquil _unto death_. Now I know life from death, ... and\nthe unsorrowful life for the first time since I was a woman; though I\nsit here on the edge of a precipice in a position full of anxiety and\ndanger. What matter, ... if one shuts one’s eyes, and listens to the\nbirds singing? Do you know, I am glad—I could almost thank God—that Papa\nkeeps so far from me ... that he has given up coming in the evening ...\nI could almost thank God. If he were affectionate, and made me, or _let_\nme, feel myself necessary to him, ... how should I bear (even with my\nreason on my side) to prepare to give him pain? So that the Pisa business\nlast year, by sounding the waters, was good in its way ... and the pang\nthat came with it to me, was also good. He feels!—he loves me ... but it\nis not (this, I mean to say) to the _trying_ degrees of feeling and love\n... trying to _me_. Ah, well! In any case, I should have ended probably,\nin giving up all for you—I do not profess otherwise. I used to think I\nshould, if ever I loved anyone—and if the love of you is different from,\nit is greater than, anything preconceived ... divined.\n\nMrs. Jameson, the other day, brought out a theory of hers which I refused\nto receive, and which I thought to myself she would apply to _me_ some\nday, with the rest of what Miss Mitford calls ‘those good-for-nothing\npoets and poetesses.’ She maintained, (Mrs. Jameson did) that ‘artistical\nnatures never learn wisdom from experience—that sorrow teaches them\nnothing—leaves no trace at all—that the mind is modified in no way by\npassion—suffering.’ Which I disbelieved quite, and ventured to say on\nthe other side, that although practically a man or woman might not be\nwiser, through perhaps the interception of a vivid apprehension of the\npresent, which might put back the influence of the future over actions,\n... yet that it was impossible for a self-conscious nature (which all\nthese artistic natures are) and a sensitive nature, not to receive\nsome sort of modification from things suffered—‘No’—she said, ‘they\ndid not! she had known and loved such—and they were like children, all\nof them,—essentially immature.’ But she did not persuade me. What is\n_inequality_ of nature, as Dugald Stewart observed it, (and did he not\nsay that men of genius had lop-sided minds?) is different, I think, from\nimmaturity in her sense of the word. We were talking of her friend Mrs.\nButler, which brought us to the subject. Presently she will say of you\nand me ... ‘Just see there! she meant no harm, poor thing, I dare say—but\nshe acts like a child! And, for _him_, _his_ is the imbecility of most\nregent genius ... such as I am to live to see confessed imperial, or I\ndie a disappointed woman.’!\n\nDo you hear? _I_ do, distinctly. _You_, in the meantime, are looking at\nthe ‘locks’ ... just as poor Louis Seize did when they were preparing his\nguillotine.\n\nMay God bless you, my own dearest—Think of me _a little_—as you say!\n\n                                   Your\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                               [Post-mark, April 3, 1846.]\n\nI want to tell you a thing before I forget it, my own Ba—a thing that\npleased me to find out this morning. A few days ago there was a paragraph\nin the newspaper about Lord Compton and his ways at Rome. His address\nwas to be read in the general list of working-artists kept for public\ninspection at Monaldini’s news-room, and the Earl’s self was to be found\nin fraternal association with ‘young art,’ at board and sporting-place,\nwearing the same distinctive _blouse_ and Louis II. hat with great\nflaps; even his hair as picturesquely disordered as the best of\nthem—(the artists, not flaps)—at all which the reporter seemed scarcely\nto know whether he ought to laugh or cry. This I read in the _Daily\nNews_ with other gossip about Rome, last Wednesday. But this morning a\n_Cambridge Advertiser_ of the same day reaches me—and there, under the\nhead of College news (after recording that Mr. A. has been appointed\nto this vicarage, and Mr. B. licensed to the other curacy)—one finds\nthis—‘The Earl Compton, M.A. (Hon. 1837)—is of great fame in Rome as a\nPainter!’—which the other authority wholly forgot to mention; supposing,\nno doubt, all the love went to the blouse and flapped hat aforesaid!\nNow, is it not a good instance of that fascination which the _true_\nlife at Rome (apart from the stupidities of the travelling English)\nexercises every now and then on susceptible people? The best thing for\nan English Earl to do,—(who will be a Marquis one day)—would be to stay\nhere and vindicate his title by honest work with the opportunities it\naffords him—but if he _cannot_ rise to the dignity of the best part,\nsurely this, he chooses, is better than many others—being caught as some\nnoblemen were yesterday, for instance, superintending a dog-fight in\nsome horrible den of thieves in St. Giles’s. I don’t know, after all,\nwhy I tell you this,—but that amid all the dull doings of the notable\ndull ones there, and their ‘honours’—(such a wonder of a man was Smith’s\nprize-man,—another had got to be gloriously first in the Classical\nTripos)—this bit of ‘fame at Rome’ seemed like a break of blue real sky\nwith a star in it, shining through the canvas sham clouds and oil-paper\nmoons of a theatre.\n\nNow I get to you, my Ba! How strange! It does so happen that I took the\npen and laid out the paper with, I really think, a completer, deeper\nyearning of love to _you_ than usual even—I seemed to have a thousand\nthings that I _could_ say _now_—and on touching the paper ... see—I start\noff with a foolish story and still foolisher comment as if there were no\nBa close at my head all the time, straight before my eyes too! So it is\nwith me—I give the _expressing_ part up at once! It must be understood,\ninferred,—(_proved_, never!) All nonsense, so I will stay—and try to be\nwise to-morrow—_now_, I have no note to guide me and half put into my\nmouth what I ought to say. So, dear, dear Ba, goodbye! I very well know\nwhat this letter is worth—yet because of the love and endeavour _un_seen,\nmay I not have the hand to kiss—and without the glove? It _is_ kissed,\nwhether you give it or no,—for there are two long days more to wait—and\nthen comes Monday! Bless you till then, and ever, my dearest: My own Ba—\n\n                                                                   Your R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, April 4, 1846.]\n\nShall the heir to a Marquisate ‘justify his title’ in these days?\nIs not the best thing he can do for _himself_, to forget it in a\nstudio at Rome?—and one of the best things he can do for his country,\nperhaps, to desecrate it at dog-fighting before the eyes of all men?\nI should not like to have to justify my Marquisate to reasonable\nmen now-a-days,—should _you_ ... seriously speaking? It would be a\nhard task, and rather dull in the performance. On the other hand, the\nnoble dog-fighters (unconscious patriots!) find it easy and congenial\noccupation down in St. Giles’s, rubbing out (as in the old game of fox\nand goose) figure by figure, prestige by prestige, the gross absurdity of\nhereditary legislators, lords, and the like. Yet of the three positions,\nI would rather be at Rome, certainly a man looks nobler there, is better,\nis happier ... a good deal nearer the angels than on his ‘landed estates’\nplaying at feudal proprietor, or even in St. Giles’s dog-fighting. See\nwhat a republican you have for a ... _Ba_. Did you fancy me capable\nof writing such unlawful, disorderly things? And it isn’t out of\nbitterness, nor covetousness ... no, indeed. People in general would\nrather be Marquises than Roman artists, consulting their own wishes and\ninclination. I, for my part, ever since I could speak my mind and knew\nit, always openly and inwardly preferred the glory of those who live by\ntheir heads, to the opposite glory of those who carry other people’s\narms. So much for glory. Happiness goes the same way to my fancy. There\nis something fascinating to me, in that Bohemian way of living ... all\nthe conventions of society cut so close and thin, that the soul can see\nthrough ... beyond ... above. It is ‘real life’ as you say ... whether at\nRome or elsewhere. I am very glad that you like simplicity in habits of\nlife—it has both reasonableness and sanctity. People are apt to suffocate\ntheir faculties by their manners—English people especially. I admire that\nyou,—R.B.,—who have had temptation more than enough, I am certain, under\nevery form, have lived in the midst of this London of ours, close to the\ngreat social vortex, yet have kept so safe, and free, and calm and pure\nfrom the besetting sins of our society. When you came to see me first, I\ndid not expect so much of you in that one respect. How could I? You had\nlived in the world, I knew, and I thought ... well!—what matter, _now_,\nwhat I thought?\n\nI will tell you instead how to-day has gone by with me. Not like\nyesterday, indeed! In the first place, I went down-stairs, walked up and\ndown the drawing-room twice, and finding nobody there (they were all\nhaving luncheon in the dining-room) came up-stairs again ... half-way on\nthe stairs met Flush, who having been asleep, had not missed me till just\nthen, and was in the act of search. I was lost for ever, thought poor\nFlush. At least I think he thought so by his eyes. They were three times\ntheir usual largeness—he looked quite wild ... and leaped against me\nwith such an ecstasy of astonished joy, that I nearly fell backward down\nthe stairs (whereupon, you would have had to go to the Siren’s island,\ndearest, all by yourself!) After which escape of mine and Flushie’s, and\nwhen I had persuaded him to be good and quiet and to believe that I was\nnot my own ghost, I came home with him and prepared to see....\n\nI will tell you. She is a Mrs. Paine who lives at Farnham, and learns\nGreek, and writes to me such overcoming letters, that at last, and in a\nmoment of imprudent reaction from an ungrateful discourtesy on my part,\nI agreed to see her if she ever came to London. Upon which, she comes\ndirectly—I am taken in my trap. She comes and returns the same day, and\nall to see me. Well—she had been kind to me ... and she came at two\nto-day. Do you know, ... for the first five minutes, I _repented quite_?\nDearest ... she came just with the sort of face which a child might take\nto see a real, alive lioness at the Zoological Gardens ... she just sate\ndown on a chair, and stared. How can people do such things in this year\nof grace when they are abolishing the Corn Laws, I wonder? For my part it\nwas so unlike anything civilized I had ever been used to that I felt as\nif my voice and breath went together. It would have saved me to be able\nto _stare back again_, but _that_ was out of my power. So I endured—and,\nafter a pause, ran violently down a steep place into some sort of\nconversation (thinking of your immortal Simpson, and vowing never to be\ndrawn into such a situation again) and in a little while, I was able\nto recognize that there was nothing worse than bad manners—_ignorant_\nmanners—and that, for the rest, my antagonist was a young, pretty woman\n(_rather_ pretty), enthusiastic and provincial, with a strong love for\npoetry and literature generally, loving Carlyle and _your_self, (could\nI hold out against _that_?) and telling me all her domestic happinesses\nwith a frankness which quite appeased me and prevented my being too tired\n... though she stayed two hours, and _wasn’t you_!—\n\nSo there is my history of to-day for you! To-morrow you will have the\nproof—and perhaps, _I_ shall! Monday will bring a better thing than a\nproof. May God bless you, beloved. Say how you are ... to-morrow! _Mind_\nto do it ... or I will not sit any more in your gondola-chair. How can\nyou make me, unless I choose?\n\nAnd you speak against my letter to-night? you shall not dare do such\nthings. It is a good, dear letter, and it is mine to call so ... and I\nknew its fellows before I knew you and loved them before I loved you,\nand so you are not to be proud and scornful and try to put them down ‘in\n_that_ way.’\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                                          [April 4, 1846.]\n\nOh, my two letters—and to turn from such letters to you, to my own Ba!—I\nvery well know I am not grateful enough, if there is any grace in _that_,\nany power to avert punishment, as one hopes! But all my hope is in future\nendeavour—it _is_, my Ba,—this is earnest truth. And one thing that\nstrikes me on hearing such prognostications of Mrs. Jameson’s opinion on\n_our_ subject—is that—as far as I am concerned ... or yourself, indeed—we\nmust make up our mind to endure the stress of it, and of such opinions\ngenerally, with all resignation ... and by the time we _can_ answer,—why,\nalas, they are gone and forgotten, so that there’s no paying them for\ntheir impertinence. I mean, that I do not _expect_, as a foolish fanciful\nboy might, that on the sudden application of ‘Hymen’s torch’ (to give\nthe old simile one chance more) your happiness will blaze out apparent\nto the whole world lying in darkness, like a wondrous ‘Catherine-wheel,’\nnow all blue, now red, and so die at the bed amid an universal clapping\nof hands—I trust a long life of real work ‘begun, carried on and ended,’\nas it never otherwise could have been (certainly by _me_ ... and if\nI dare hope, _you_, dearest, it is because you teach me to aspire to\nthe height)—that the attainment of all that happiness of daily, hourly\nlife in entire affection, which seeing that men of genius need rather\nmore—ah, these words, I cannot look back and take up the thread of the\nsentence,—but I wanted to say—we will live the real answer, will we not,\ndearest, all the stupidity against ‘genius’ ‘poets,’ and the like, is got\npast the stage of being treated with patient consideration and gentle\npity—it is _too_ vexatious, if it will not lie still, out of the way, by\nthis time. What _is_ the crime, to his fellow man or woman (not to God,\nI know that—these are peculiar sins to Him—whether greater in His eyes,\nwho shall say?)—but to mankind, _what_ is crime which would have been\nprevented but for the ‘genius’ involved in it? A man of genius ill-treats\nhis wife—well, take away the ‘genius’—does he so naturally improve? See\nthe article in to-day’s _Athenæum_, about the French Duel—far enough\nfrom ‘men of genius’ these Dujarriers &c.—but go to-night into half the\n_estaminets_ of Paris, and see whether the quarrels over dice and some\nwine present any more pleasing matter of contemplation _au fond_. Sin is\nsin everywhere and the worse, I think, for the grossness. Being fired at\nby a duellist is a little better, I think also, than being struck on the\nface by some ruffian. These are extreme cases—but go higher and it is the\nsame thing. Poor, cowardly miscreated natures abound—if you could throw\n‘genius’ into their composition, they would become more degraded still, I\nsuppose!\n\nI know I want every faculty I can by any possibility dare—want all, and\nmuch more, to teach me what you are, my own Ba, and what I should do to\nprove that I am taught, and do know.\n\nI will write at length to you to-morrow, my all beloved. I am, somehow,\noverflowing with things to say, and the time is _fearfully_ short—my\nproofs have just arrived, here they are, not even _glanced_ over by\nme—(To-morrow, love! not one thing answered in my letters, as when I read\nand read them to-night I shall say to myself). Bless you, dearest, dearest\n\n                                                                        R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                                          [April 5, 1846.]\n\nIt seems to me the safest way to send back the proofs by the early Monday\npost: you may choose perhaps to bring the sheet corrected into town when\nyou come, and so I shall let you have what you sent me, before you come\nto take it ... though I thought first of waiting. To-morrow I shall force\nyou to tell me how you like the ‘Tragedy’ _now_! For my part, it delights\nme—and must raise your reputation as a poet and thinker ... _must_.\nChiappino is highly dramatic in that first part, and speaks so finely\nsometimes that it is a wrench to one’s sympathies to find him overthrown.\nDo you know that, as far as the _temper_ of the man goes, I am acquainted\nwith a Chiappino ... just such a man, in the temper, the pride and the\nbitterness ... not in other things. When I read your manuscript I was\nreminded—but here in print it, seems to grow nearer and nearer. My\nChiappino has tired me out at last—I have borne more from him than women\nought to bear from men, because he was unfortunate and embittered in his\nnature and by circumstances, and because I regarded him as a friend of\nmany years. Yet, as I have told him, anyone, who had not such confidence\nin me, would think really _ill of me_ through reading the insolent\nletters which he has thought fit to address to me on what he called a\npure principle of adoration. At last I made up my mind (and shall keep it\nso) to answer no letter of the kind. Men are ignoble in some things, past\nthe conceiving of their fellows. Again and again I have said ... ‘Specify\nyour charge against me’—but there is no charge. With the most reckless\nand dauntless inconsistency I am lifted halfway to the skies, and made a\nmark there for mud pellets—so that I have been excited sometimes to say\nquite passionately ... ‘If I am the filth of the earth, tread on me—if\nI am an angel of Heaven, respect me—but I can’t be both, remember.’ See\nwhere your Chiappino leads you ... and me! Though I shall not tell you\nthe other name of mine. Whenever I see him now, I make Arabel stay in\nthe room—otherwise I _am afraid_—he is such a violent man. A good man,\nthough, in many respects, and quite an old friend. Some men grow incensed\nwith the continual pricks of ill-fortune, like mad bulls: some grow tame\nand meek.\n\nWell—_I_ did not like the spirit of the _Athenæum_ remarks either. I\nlike what _you_ say. These literary men are never so well pleased, as\nin having opportunities of barking against one another—and, for the\n_Athenæum_ people, if they wanted to be didactic as to morals, they\nmight have taken occasion to be so out of their own order, and in their\nown country. And then to bring in Balzac _so_! The worst of Balzac (who\nhas not a fine moral sense at any time, great and gifted as he is), the\nvery worst of him, is his bearing towards his literary brothers ... the\nmanner in which he, who can so nobly present genius to the reverence of\nhumanity in scientific men (as he describes them in his books), always\ndishonours and depreciates it in the man of letters and the poet. See his\n‘Grand Homme de Province à Paris,’ one of the most powerful of his works,\nbut the remark is true everywhere. I go on writing as if I were not to\nsee you directly. It is past four oclock—and if Mr. Kenyon does not come\nto-day, he may come to-morrow, and find you, who were here last Thursday\nto his knowledge!—Half I fear.\n\nObserve the proof. Since you have two, you say, I have not scrupled to\nwrite down on this ever so much improvidence, which you will glance at\nand decide upon finally.\n\n‘Grateful’ ... ‘grateful’ ... what a word _that_ is. I never would have\nsuch a word on any proof that came to me for correction. Do not use\nsuch inapplicable words—do not, dearest! for you know very well in your\nunderstanding (if not in your heart) that if such a word is to be used\nby either of us, it is _not by you_. My word, I shall keep mine,—_I_ am\n‘grateful’—_you_ cannot be ‘grateful’ ... for ineffable reasons....\n\n    ‘Pour bonnes raisons\n    Que l’on n’ose dire.\n    Et que nous taisons.’\n\nFor the rest, it is certainly very likely that you may ‘want all your\nfaculties, _and more_’ ... to bear with me ... to support me with\ngraceful resignation; and who can tell whether I may not be found\nintolerable after all?\n\nBy the way (talking of St. Catherine’s wheels and the like torments) you\nwrote ‘gag’ ... did you not? ... where the proof says ‘gadge’—I did not\nalter it. More and more I like ‘Luria.’\n\n                                                                  Your BA.\n\nMr. Kenyon has been here—so our Monday is safe.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                               [Post-mark, April 6, 1846.]\n\nI sent you some even more than usual hasty foolish words,—not caring\nmuch, however—for dearest Ba shall have to forgive my shortcomings every\nhour in the day,—it is her destiny, and I began unluckily with that\nstupidest of all notions,—that about the harm coming of genius &c., so I\nfell with my subject and we rolled in the mud together—_pas vrai?_ But\nthere was so many other matters alluded to in your _dearest_ (because\nlast) letter—there are many things in which I agree with you to such a\ntremblingly exquisite exactness, so to speak, that I hardly dare cry out\nlest the charm break, the imaginary oscillation prove incomplete and\nyour soul, _now_ directly over, pass beyond mine yet, and not _stay_! Do\nyou understand, dear soul of my soul, dearest Ba? Oh, how different it\nall might be! In this House of life—where I go, you go—where I ascend\nyou run before—when I descend it is after you. Now, one might have a\npiece of Ba, but a very little of her, and make it up into a lady and\na mistress, and find her a room to her mind perhaps when she should\nsit and sing, ‘warble eat and dwell’ like Tennyson’s blackbird, and to\nvisit her there with due honour one might wear the finest of robes, use\nthe courtliest of ceremonies—and then—after a time, leave her there and\ngo, the door once shut, without much blame, to throw off the tunic and\nput on Lord Compton’s blouse and go whither one liked—after, to me, the\nmost melancholy fashion in the world. How different with us! If it were\n_not_, indeed—what a mad folly would marriage be! Do you know what quaint\nthought strikes me, out of old Bunyan, on this very subject? He says\n(with another meaning though) ‘Who would keep a cow, that may buy milk at\na penny the quart’—(elegant allusion). Just so,—whoever wants ‘a quart’\nof this other comfort, as solace of whatever it may be (at breakfast\nor tea time too), why not go and ‘buy’ the same, and having discussed\nit, drink claret at dinner at his club? Why did not Mr. Butler _read_\nFanny Kemble’s verses, paying his penny of intellectual labour, and see\nher play ‘Portia’ at night, and make her a call or ride with her in the\nmiddle of the day—why ‘keep the cow’? _But_—don’t you know they prescribe\nto some constitutions the _perpetual living_ in a cow-house? the breath,\nthe unremitting influence is everything,—not the milk—(now, Ba—Ba is\nsuddenly Ἴω πλανωμένη and Mrs. Jameson is the Gadfly—and I am laughed\nat—not too cruelly, or the other lock of hair becomes mine—with which\nlocks ... and not with Louis Seize iron knick-nack ones, I rather think I\nwas occupied last time, last farewell taking—)\n\nFrom all which I infer—that I shall see you to-morrow! Yes, or I should\nnot have the heart to be so glad and absurd.\n\nWell, to-morrow makes amends—dear, dear Ba! Why do you persist in trying\nto turn my head so? It does not turn, I look the more steadfastly at\nthe feet and the ground, for all your crying and trying! But something\nshocking might happen—_would_ happen, if it were not written that I am to\nget nothing but good from Ba,—and _who, who_ began calling names—who used\nthe word ‘flatterer’ first?\n\nBless you my own dearest flatterer—I love you with heart and soul. Are\nyou down-stairs to day? it is warm, the rain you like—yes you are down, I\nthink. God keep you wherever you are!\n\n                                                                 Your own.\n\nI went last night to Lord Compton’s father’s Soirée,—and for all our deep\nconvictions, and philosophic rejoicing, I assure you that of the two or\nthree words that we interchanged—congratulation on the bright fortune\nof his son formed no part,—any more than intelligence about ordering\nRegiments to India whenever I met the relatives of the ordered. And\nyesterday morning I planted a full dozen more rose-trees, all white—to\ntake away the yellow-rose reproach!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                                          [April 6, 1846.]\n\nI shall receive a note from you presently, I trust—but this had better\ngo now—for I expect a friend, and must attend to him as he wants to go\nwalking—so, dearest—dearest, take my—last work I ever shall _send_ you,\nif God please!\n\nA word about a passage or two,—I had forgotten to say before—gadge is a\nreal name (in Johnson, too) for a torturing iron—it is part of the horror\nof such things that they should be mysteriously named,—indefinitely,—‘The\nDuke of Exeter’s Daughter’ for instance ... Ugh!—Besides, am I not\na rhymester? Well, who knows but one may want to use such a word in\na couplet with ‘_badge_’—which, if one reject the old and obsolete\n‘_fadge_,’ is rhymeless?\n\nThen Chiappino remarks that men of genius usually do the _reverse_ ...\nof beginning by dethroning &c. and so arriving with utmost reluctancy\nat the acknowledgment of a natural and unalterable _inequality_ of\nMankind—instead of _that_, they begin _at once_, he says, by recognizing\nit in their adulation &c. &c.—I have supplied the words ‘_at once_,’ and\ntaken out ‘_virtually_,’ which was unnecessary; so that the parallel\npossibly reads clearlier. I know there are other things to say—but at\nthis moment my memory is at fault.\n\nCan you tell me Mrs. Jameson’s address?\n\nMy sea-friend’s opinion is altogether unfavourable to the notion of an\ninvalid’s trusting himself alone in a merchant vessel—he says—‘it will\ncertainly be the gentleman’s death.’ So very small a degree of comfort\ncan be secured amid all the inevitable horrors of dirt, roughness, &c.\nThe expenses are trifling in any case, on that very account. Any number\nof the _Shipping Gazette_ (I think) will give a list of all vessels about\nto sail, with choice of ports—or on the walls of the Exchange one may see\ntheir names placarded, with reference to the Agent—or he will, himself,\n(my friend Chas. Walton) do his utmost with a shipowner, we both know,\nand save some expense, perhaps. I made him remark the difference between\nmy carelessness of accommodations and an invalid’s proper attention\nbeforehand—but he persisted in saying nothing can be done, nothing\neffectual. My time is out—but I must bless you my ever dearest Ba—and\nkiss you—\n\n                                                            Ever your own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                               [Post-mark, April 7, 1846.]\n\nDearest, it is not I who am a ‘flatterer’—and if I used the word first,\nit is because I had the right of it, I remember, long and long ago.\nThere is the vainest of vanities in discussing the application of such a\nword ... and so, when you said the other day that you ‘never flattered’\nforsooth ... (oh no!) I would not contradict you for fear of the endless\nflattery it would lead to. Only that I do not choose (because such things\nare allowed to pass) to be called on my side ‘a flatterer’—I! _That_ is\ntoo much, and too out of place. What do I ever say that is like flattery?\nI am allowed, it may be hoped, to admire the ‘Lurias’ and the rest, quite\nlike other people, and even to _say_ that I admire them ... may I not\nlawfully? If _that_ is flattery woe to me! I tell you the real truth, as\nI see the truth, even in respect to _them_ ... the ‘Lurias’....\n\nFor instance, did I flatter you and say that you were right yesterday?\nIndeed I thought you as wrong as possible ... wonderfully wrong on\nsuch a subject, for _you_ ... who, only a day or two before, seemed so\nfree from conventional fallacies ... so free! You would abolish the\npunishment of death too ... and put away wars, I am sure! But honourable\nmen are bound to keep their honours clean at the expense of so much\ngunpowder and so much risk of life ... _that_ must be, ought to be, ...\nlet judicial deaths and military glory be abolished ever so! For my\npart, I set all Christian principle aside, (although if it were carried\nout ... and principle is nothing unless carried out ... it would not\nmean cowardice but magnanimity) but I set it aside and go on the bare\nsocial rational ground ... and I do advisedly declare to you that I\ncannot conceive of any _possible combination of circumstances_ which\ncould ... I will _not_ say _justify_, but even _excuse_, an honourable\nman’s having recourse to the duellist’s pistol, either on his own\naccount or another’s. Not only it seems to me horribly wrong ... but\nabsurdly wrong, it seems to me. Also ... as a matter of pure reason\n... the Parisian method of taking aim and blowing off a man’s head for\nthe sins of his tongue, I do take to have a sort of judicial advantage\nover the Englishman’s six paces ... throwing the dice for his life or\nanother man’s, because wounded by that man in his honour. His honour!—Who\nbelieves in such an honour ... liable to such amends, and capable of such\nrecovery! _You_ cannot, I think—in the secret of your mind. Or if _you\ncan ... you_, who are a teacher of the world ... poor world—it is more\ndesperately wrong than I thought.\n\nA man calls you ‘a liar’ in an assembly of other men. Because he is a\ncalumniator, and, on that very account, a worse man than you, you ask him\nto go down with you on the only ground on which you two are equals ...\nthe duelling-ground, ... and with pistols of the same length and friends\nnumerically equal on each side, play at lives with him, both mortal men\nthat you are. If it was proposed to you to play at real dice for the\nratification or non-ratification of his calumny, the proposition would be\nlaughed to scorn ... and yet the chance (as chance) seems much the same,\n... and the death is an exterior circumstance which cannot be imagined to\nhave much virtue. At best, what do you prove by your duel? ... that your\ncalumniator, though a calumniator, is not a coward in the vulgar sense\n... and that yourself, though you may still be a liar ten times over, are\nnot a coward either! ‘Here be proofs.’\n\nAnd as to the custom of duelling preventing insults ... why you _say_\nthat a man of honour should not go out with an unworthy adversary. Now\nsupposing a man to be withheld from insult and calumny, just by the fear\nof being shot ... who is more unworthy than such a man? Therefore you\nconclude irrationally, illogically, that the system operates beyond the\nlimit of its operations.—Oh! I shall write as quarrelsome letters as I\nchoose. You are wrong, I know and feel, when you advocate the pitiful\nresources of this corrupt social life, ... and if you are wrong, how are\nwe to get right, we all who look to you for teaching. Are _you_ afraid\ntoo of being taken for a coward? or would you excuse that sort of fear\n... that cowardice of cowardice, in other men? For me, I value your\nhonour, just as you do ... more than your life ... of the two things:\nbut the madness of this foolishness is so clear to my eyes, than instead\nof opening the door for you and keeping your secret, as that miserable\nwoman did last year, for the man shot by her sister’s husband, I would\njust _call in the police_, though you were to throw me out of the window\nafterwards. So, with that beautiful vision of domestic felicity, (which\nMrs. Jameson would leap up to see!) I shall end my letter—isn’t it a\nletter worth thanking for?—\n\nEver dearest, do _you_ promise me that you never will be provoked into\nsuch an act—never? Mr. O’Connell vowed it to himself, for a dead man ...\nand you may to me, for a living woman. Promises and vows may be foolish\nthings for the most part ... but they cannot be more foolish than, in\nthis case, the thing vowed against. So promise and vow. And I will\n‘flatter’ you in return in the lawful way ... for you _will_ ‘make me\nhappy’ ... so far! May God bless you, beloved! It is so wet and dreary\nto-day that I do not go down-stairs—I sit instead in the gondola chair\n... do you not see? ... and think of you ... do you not feel? I even love\nyou ... if _that_ were worth mentioning....\n\n                              being your own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nHow good of you to write so on Sunday! to compare with _my_ bad!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                               [Post-mark, April 7, 1846.]\n\nThey have just sent me _one_ proof, only—so I have been correcting\neverything as fast as possible, that, returning it at once, a _revise_\nmight arrive, fit to send, for _this_ that comes is just as bad as if\nI had let it alone in the first instance. All your corrections are\ngolden. In ‘Luria,’ I alter ‘little circle’ to ‘circling faces’—which\nis more like what I meant. As for that point we spoke of yesterday—it\nseems ‘past praying for’—if I make the speech an ‘aside,’ I _commit_\nOgniben to that opinion:—did you notice, at the beginning of the second\npart, that on this Ogniben’s very entry (as described by a bystander),\nhe is made to say, for first speech, ‘I have known so many leaders of\nrevolts’—‘_laughing gently to himself_’? This, which was wrongly printed\nin italics, as if a comment of the bystander’s own, was a characteristic\ncircumstance, as I meant it. All these opinions should be delivered with\na ‘gentle laughter to himself’—but—as is said elsewhere,—we profess and\nwe perform! Enough of it—Meliora sper_u_mus!\n\nWhat am I to say next, my Ba? When I write my best and send ‘grateful’ to\nyou—you send my proof back, ‘_grateful_ (_h_)’ Then I _must_ do and say\nwhat you hate ... for I am one entire gratitude to you, God knows! May\nHe reward you.\n\nIt is late; bless you once again, my dearest! You have nothing so much\nyours as\n\n                                                                        R.\n\nMy mother says that I paid only fifteen or sixteen pounds for the\nVenice voyage, and much less for the Naples one—_ten_, and no more, she\nthinks—and I think; but _that_ represents _twenty_—as the other, twenty\nfive or thirty pounds, to a person unconnected with the freighting party.\n(In the first ship, Rothschild sent a _locomotive_ entire, with all its\nappurtenances, for one article, to Trieste). Can I make enquiries for\nyou? Nay, I _will_, and at once.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, April 8, 1846.]\n\nIn my _disagree_ ... able letter this morning, I forgot to write\nhow, after you went away, and I came to read again the dedication, I\nadmired it more and more—it is most graceful and complete. Landor will\nbe gratified and grateful ... he, allowably—and only _you_ shall be\n‘hateful’ ... and only to _me_, dearest, ... so that it doesn’t matter\nmuch. As to Ogniben, you understand best of course—_I_ understood the\n‘laughing gently to himself,’ though I omitted to notice the italics. I\nperfectly understood that it was the bystander’s observation.\n\nYour letter came so late to-night that I despaired of it—the postman\nfell into a trance somewhere I fancy, and it was not till nine oclock\nthat the knock (equal to the tapping of a fairy’s wand) came to the\ndoor. Now I have two letters to thank you for together ... for the dear\none on Monday, which lay in the shadow of your coming, and so was a\nlittle, little, less thought of than it could have been under any other\npossible circumstance ... and for this letter to-night. Well! and for\nMr. Buckingham’s voyage, if you will and can conveniently, (I use _that_\nword for my sake, not for your sake—because I think of _you_ and not of\n_him_!) but if you can without inconvenience make enquiries about these\nvessels, why I shall be glad and shall set it to your account as one\ngoodness more. It would be easy for him (and _you_ should have done it,\nin _your_ voyage) to take with him those potted meats and portable soups\nand essences of game which would prevent his being reduced to common\nfare with the sailors. Then a mattress is as portable as the soups,\nnearly. Apart from the asafœtida he may endure, I should think. Do you\nknow, I was amused at myself yesterday, after the first movement, for\nliking to hear you say that ‘dry biscuits satisfied’ you—because, after\nall, I should not be easy to see you living on dry biscuits ... Ceres\nand Bacchus forbid! Oh—I don’t profess to apply, out of a pure poetical\njustice, Lord Byron’s Pythagoreanism to the ‘nobler half of creation’—do\nnot be afraid—but it _is_ rather desecrating and disenchanting to mark\nhow certain of those said Nobilities turn upon their dinners as on the\npivot of the day, for their good pleasure and good temper besides. Did\nyou ever observe a lord of creation knit his brows together because the\ncutlets were underdone, shooting enough fire from his eyes to overdo them\nto cinders ... ‘cinder-blast’ them, as Æschylus would have it? Did you\never hear of the litany which some women say through the first course ...\nlow to themselves? Perhaps not! it does not enter into your imagination\nto conceive of things, which nevertheless _are_.\n\nNot that I ever thought of _you_ with reference to _such_—oh no, no!\nBut every variety of the ‘Epicuri de grege porcus,’ I have a sort of\nindisposition to ... even as the animal itself (pork of nature and the\nkitchen) I avoid like a Jewish woman. Do you smile? And did I half\n(or whole) make you angry this morning through being so didactic and\ndetestable? Will you challenge me to six paces at Chalk Farm, and _will_\nyou ‘take aim’ this time and put an end to every sort of pretence in me\nto other approaches between us two? Tell me if you are angry, dearest! I\n_ask_ you to tell me if you felt (for the time even) vexed with me.... I\nwant to know.... I _need_ to know. Do _you_ not know what my reflection\nmust reasonably be?... That is, _apart from provocation and excitement_,\nyou believe in the necessity of such and such resources, ... provoked and\nexcited you would apply to them—there could be no counteracting force ...\nno help nor hope.\n\nSo I spoke my mind—and you are vexed with me, which I feel in the air.\nMay God bless you dearest, dearest! Forgive, as you can, best,\n\n                                                                  Your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, April 8, 1846.]\n\nFirst of all, kiss me, dearest,—and again—and now, with the left arm\nround you, I will write what I think in as few words as possible.\nI think the fault of not carrying out principles is _yours_, here.\nSeveral principles would arrive at the result you desire—Christianity,\nStoicism, Asceticism, Epicureanism (in the modern sense)—all these\n‘carried out’ stop the procedure you deprecate—but I fancy, as you state\nyour principle, that it is an _eclecticism_ from these and others;\nand presently one branch crosses its fellow, and we _stop_, arrive at\nnothing. Do you accept ‘life’s warm-beating joy and dole,’ for an object\nof that life? Is ‘society’ a thing to desire to participate in? not by\nthe one exceptional case out of the million, but by men generally,—men\nwho ‘live’ only for living’s sake, in the first instance; next, men who,\nhaving ulterior objects and aims of happiness, yet derive various degrees\nof sustainment and comfort from the social life round them; and so on,\nhigher up, till you come to the half-dozen, for whom we need not be\npressingly urgent to legislate just yet, having to attend to the world\nfirst. Well, is social life, a good, generally to these? If so,—go back\nto another principle which I suppose you to admit,—that ‘good’ may be\n_lawfully_ held, defended,—even to the death. Now see where the ‘cross’\ntakes place. Something occurs which forces a man to _hold_ this, defend\nthis—he _must_ do this, or _renounce_ it. You let him do neither. Do\nnot say he _needs_ not renounce it,—we go avowedly on the vulgar broad\nground of fact—you very well know it is a _fact_ that by his refusing to\naccept a challenge, or send one, on conventionally sufficient ground, he\nwill be infallibly excluded from a certain class of society thenceforth\nand forever. What society _should_ do rather, is wholly out of the\nquestion—what _will_ be done? And now, candidly, can you well fancy a\nmore terrible wrong than this to the ordinary multitude of men? Alter the\nprinciples of your reasoning—say, Christianity forbids this,—and _that_\nwill do—rational Simon renounces on his pillar more than the pleasures\nof society if so he may save his soul: say, society is not worth living\nin,—it is no wrong to be forced to quit it—_that_ will do, also,—a man\nwith ‘Paradise Lost’ or ‘Othello’ to write; or with a Ba to live beside\nfor his one companion,—or many other compensations,—_he_ may retire\nto his own world easily. Say, on the lowest possible ground, ‘out of\nsociety one eats, drinks &c. excellently well; what loss is there?’—all\nthese principles _avail_; but _mix_ them—and they surely neutralize each\nother. A man _may_ live, enjoy life, oppose an attempt to prevent his\nenjoying life,—yet not—you see! ‘The method is irrational, proves nothing\n&c.’—what is that to the question? Is the _effect_ disputable or no?\nWordsworth decides he had better go to court—then he must buy or borrow a\ncourt-dress. He goes because of the poetry in him. What irrationality in\nthe bag and sword—in the grey duffil gown yonder, he wrote—half through\nthe exceeding ease and roominess of it—‘The Excursion’; how proper he\nshould go in it, therefore ... beside it will wring his heartstrings\nto pay down the four pounds, ten and sixpence: good, Mr. Wordsworth!\nThere’s no compulsion; go back to the lakes and be entirely approved of\nby Miss Norwick! ... but, if you _do_ choose to kiss hands (instead of\ncheeks ‘smackingly’) why, you must even resolve to ‘grin and bear it’ (a\nsea-phrase!)—and, Ba, your imaginary man, who is called ‘liar’ before\na large assembly, must decide for one or the other course. ‘He makes\nhis antagonist double the wrong’? Nay—_here_ the wrong begins—the poor\nauthor of the outrage should have known his _word_ was _nothing_—the\nsense of it, he and his like express abundantly every hour of the day,\nif they please, in language only a shade removed from this that causes\nall the harm,—and who does other than utterly, ineffably despise them?\nbut he chooses, as the very phrase is, to _oblige_ his adversary to act\nthus. _He_ is nothing (I am going on your own case of a supposed futile\ncause of quarrel)—he may _think_ just what he pleases—but having _said_\nthis and _so_,—_it is entirely society’s affair_—and what _is_ society’s\npresent decision? Directly it relaxes a regulation, allows another outlet\nto the natural contempt for, and indifference to such men and their\nopinions spoken or unspoken, everybody avails himself of it directly. If\nthe Lord Chamberlain issues an order this morning, ‘No swords need be\nworn at next levee’—who will appear with one? A politician is allowed to\ncall his opponent a destructive &c. A critic may write that the author of\nsuch a book or such, is the poorest creature in the world—and who dreams\nof being angry? but society up to this time says, ‘if a man calls another\n&c. &c., _then_ he must’—Will you renounce society? _I for one, could,\neasily: so therefore shall Mr. Kenyon!_ Beside, I on purpose depreciate\nthe value of an admission into society ... as if it were only for those\nwho recognize no other value; and the wiser men might easily forego it.\n_Not so easily!_ There are uses in it, great uses, for purposes quite\nbeyond its limits—you pass through it, mix with it, to get something\nby it: you do _not_ go in to the world to live on the breath of every\nfool there, but you reach something _out_ of the world by being let go\nquietly, if not with a favourable welcome, among them. I leave _here_\nto go to Wimpole Street:—I want to have as little as possible to say to\nthe people I find _between_—but, do you know, if I allow a foolish child\nto put the very smallest of fool’s caps on my head instead of the hat I\nusually wear, though the comfort would be considerable in the change,—yet\nI shall be followed by an increasing crowd, say to Charing Cross, and\nthence pelted, perhaps, till I reach No. 50—there, perhaps to find the\nservant hesitate about opening the door to such an apparition,—and when\nPapa comes to hear how illustriously your visitor was attended through\nthe streets! why he will specially set apart Easter Monday to testify in\nperson his sense of the sublime philosophy, will he not? My Ba—I tell the\nchild on the first symptom of such a wish on his part ‘Don’t!’ with all\nthe eloquence in my power—if I can put it handsomely off my head, even, I\nwill, and with pitying good nature—but if I _must_ either wear the cap,\nand pay the penalty, or—slap his face, why—! ‘Ah,’ you say, ‘but he has\ngot a pistol that you don’t see and will shoot you dead like a foolish\nchild as he is.’ That he may! Have I to be told that in this world men,\nfoolish or wicked, do inflict tremendous injuries on their unoffending\nfellows? Let God look to it, I say with reverence, and do _you_ look\nto this point, _where_ the injury _is_, _begins_. The foolish man who\nthrows some disfiguring liquid in your face, which to remove you must\nhave recourse to some dangerous surgical operation,—perilling himself,\ntoo, by the consequent vengeance of the law, if you sink under knife or\ncauterizing iron,—shall I say ‘the fault is _yours_—why submit to the\noperation? The fault is _his_ that institutes the very fault—which begin\nby teaching him from his cradle in every possible shape! But don’t,\ndon’t say—‘the operation is _unnecessary_; your blistered face will look,\n_does_ look just as usual, not merely to me who know you, perhaps love\nyou,—but to the whole world ... on whose opinion of its agreeableness,\nI confess that you are dependent for nearly every happy minute of your\nlife.’ In all this, I speak for the world, _not_ for me—I have other,\ntoo many other sources of enjoyment—I could _easily_, I think, do what\nyou require. I endeavour to care for others with none of these; as dear,\ndearest Ba, sitting in her room because of a dull day, would have _me_\ntake a few miles’ exercise. Has everybody a Ba? I had not last year—yet\nlast year I had reasons, and still have, for, on occasion, renouncing\nsociety fifty times over: what I should do, therefore, is as improper to\nbe held up for an example, as the exemplary behaviour of Walpole’s old\nFrench officer of ninety, who ‘hearing some youths diverting themselves\nwith some girls in a tent close by, asked, ‘Is this the example _I_ set\nyou, gentlemen?’. But I shall be dishonoured however—Ba will ‘go and call\nthe police’—why, so should I for your brother, in all but the extremest\ncase!—because when I had told all the world, _with whom the concern\nsolely_ is, that, despite his uttermost endeavour, I had done this,—the\nworld would be satisfied at once—and the whole procedure is _meant_ to\nsatisfy the world—even the foolishest know that the lion in a cage,\nthrough no fault of his, cannot snap at a fly outside the bars. The thing\nto know is, will Ba dictate to her husband ‘a refusal to fight,’ and then\nrecommend him to go to a dinner-party? Say, ‘give up the dinner for my\nsake,’ if you like—one _or_ the other it _must_ be: you know, I hate and\nrefuse dinner-parties. Does everybody?\n\nBut now in candour, hear me: I write all this to show the _not such\nirrationality_ of the practice even on comparatively frivolous grounds\n... and that those individuals to whom you once admit society may be a\nlegitimate enjoyment, must take such a course to retain the privileges\nthey value—and that the painful consequences should be as unhesitatingly\nattributed to the first offence and its author,—as the explosion and\nhorror to the fool who _would_ put the match, in play perhaps, to\nthe powder-barrel. And I excepted myself from the operation of this\nnecessity. But I must confess that I can conceive of ‘combinations\nof circumstances’ in which I see two things only ... or a Third: a\nmiscreant to be put out the world, my own arm and best will to do it;\nand, perhaps, God to excuse; which is, approve. My Ba, what is Evil, in\nits unmistakable shape, but a thing to suppress at any price? I _do_\napprove of judicial punishment to death under some circumstances—I think\nwe may, _must_ say: ‘when it comes to _that_, we will keep our pact of\nlife, stand by God and put _that_ out of us, our world—_it_ shall not\nbe endured, or _we_ shall not be endured’! Dear Ba, is Life to become\na child’s game? A. is wronged, B. rights him, and is a hero as we say;\nB. is wronged again, by C.; but he must not right himself; _that_ is\nD.’s proper part, who again is to let _E._ do the same kind office for\n_him_—and so on. ‘Defend the poor and fatherless’—and we all applaud—but\nif they could defend themselves, why not? I will not fancy cases—here’s\none that strikes me—a fact. Some soldiers were talking over a watch fire\nabroad—one said that once he was travelling in Scotland and knocked at a\ncottage-door—an old woman with one child let him in, gave him a supper\nand a bed—next morning he asked how they lived, and she said the cow,\nthe milk of which he was then drinking, and the kale in the garden, such\nas he was eating—were all her ‘_mailien_’ or sustenance—whereon, rising\nto go, he, for the fun, ‘killed the cow and destroyed the kale’—‘the\nold witch crying out she should certainly be starved’—then he went his\nway. ‘And she _was_ starved, of course,’ said a young man; ‘do you\n_rue_ it?’—The other laughed ‘Rue aught like that!’—The young man said.\n‘I was the boy, and that was my mother—now then!’—In a minute or two\nthe preparer of this ‘combination of circumstances’ lay writhing with\na sword through him up to the hilt—‘If you had _rued_ it’—the youth\nsaid—‘you should have answered it only to God!’\n\nMore than enough of this—but I was anxious to stand clearer in your\ndear eyes. ‘Vows and promises!’—I want to leave society for the Sirens’\nisle,—and _now_, I _often seriously reproach_ myself with conduct\nquite the reverse of what you would guard against: I have too much\n_indifferentism_ to the opinions of Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown—by no means\nam anxious to have his notions agree with mine. Smith thinks Cromwell\na canting villain,—Brown believes no dissenter can be saved,—and I\nrepeat Goethe’s ‘Be it your unerring rule, ne’er to contradict a fool,\nfor if folly choose to brave you, all your wisdom cannot save you!’\nAnd sometimes I help out their arguments by a touch or two, after\nOgniben’s fashion—it all seems so wearisomely unprofitable; what comes\nof Smith’s second thought if you change his first—out of _that_ second\nwill branch as great an error, you may be sure! (11 o’clock) Here comes\nyour letter! My own Ba! My dearest best, best beloved! _I_, angry! oh,\nhow you misinterpret, misunderstand the motions of my mind! In all that\nI said, or write here, I speak of others—others, if you please, of\nlimited natures: I say why _they_ may be excused ... that is all. ‘_You\ndo not like pork_’? _But_ those poor Irish Colliers whose only luxury is\n_bacon_ once a month; you understand _them_ liking it? I do not value\nsociety—others do: ‘_we are all His children_’ says Euripides and quotes\nPaul.\n\nNow, love, let this be a moot point to settle among the flowers one\nday—with Sir Thomas Browne’s ‘other hard questions yet not impossible\nto be solved’ (‘What song the Sirens sang to Ulysses,’ is the first!)\nin which blessed hope let me leave off; for I confess to having written\nmyself all-but-tired, headachy. But ‘vexed with you’! Ba, Ba; you perplex\nme, bewilder me; let me get right again; kiss me, dearest, and all is\nright—God bless you ever—\n\n                                                                   Your R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, April 9, 1846.]\n\n_After_ the question about the ‘Sirens’ song to Ulysses, dearest? Then\ndirectly _before_, I suppose, the other ‘difficult question’ talked of\nby your Sir Thomas Browne, as to ‘what name Achilles bore when he lived\namong the women.’ _That_, you think, will be an appropriate position for\nour ‘moot point’ which, once in England, was guilty of tiring you and\nmaking your head ache:—and as for Achilles’ name when he lived among\nwomen, it was Μῶρος you will readily guess, and I shall not dare to deny.\nOnly ... only ... I never shall be convinced on the ‘previous question’\nby the arguments of your letter—it is not possible.\n\nMay I say just one thing, without touching that specific subject? There\nis a certain class of sacrifice which men who live in society, should pay\nwillingly to society ... the sacrifice of little or indifferent things,\n... in respect to mere manners and costume. There is another class of\nsacrifice which should be refused by every righteous man though ever so\neminently a social man, and though to the loss of his social position.\nNow you would be the last, I am sure, to confound these two classes of\nsacrifice—and you will admit that our question is simply _between them_\n... and to which of them, duelling belongs ... and not at all whether\nsociety is in itself a desirable thing and much rejoiced in by the Browns\nand Smiths. You refuse to wear a fool’s cap in the street, because\nsociety forbids you—which is well: but if, in order to avoid wearing\nit, you shoot the ‘foolish child’ who forces it upon you ... why you do\n_not_ well, by any means: it would not be well even for a Brown or a\nSmith—but for my poet of the ‘Bells and Pomegranates,’ it is very ill,\nwonderfully ill ... so ill, that I shut my eyes, and have the heartache\n(for the headache!) only to think of it. So I will not. Why should we\nsee things so differently, ever dearest? If anyone had asked me, I could\nhave answered for you that you saw it quite otherwise. And you would hang\nmen even—you!\n\nWell! Because I do ‘not rue’ (and am so much the more unfit to die) I am\nto be stabbed through the body by an act of ‘private judgment’ of my next\nneighbour. So I must take care and ‘rue’ when I do anything wrong—and\nI begin now, for being the means of tiring you, ... and for seeming to\npersist _so_! You may be right and I wrong, of course—I only speak as\nI _see_. And will not speak any more last words ... taking pardon for\nthese. _I rue._\n\nTo-day I was down-stairs again—and if the sun shines on as brightly, I\nshall be out of doors before long perhaps.\n\nYour headache! tell me how your headache is,—remember to tell me. When\nyour letter came, I kissed it by a sort of instinct ... not that I do\nalways at first sight (please to understand), but because the writing\ndid not look angry ... not vexed writing. Then I read ... ‘First of all,\nkiss’....\n\nSo it seemed like magic.\n\nOnly I know that if I went on to write disagreeing disagreeable letters,\nyou might not help to leave off loving me at the end. I seem to see\nthrough this crevice.\n\nGood Heavens!—how dreadfully natural it would be to me, seem to me, if\nyou _did_ leave off loving me! How it would be like the sun’s setting ...\nand no more wonder! Only, more darkness, more pain. May God bless you my\nonly dearest! and me, by keeping me\n\n                                   Your\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday. 8 A.M.\n                                               [Post-mark, April 9, 1846.]\n\nDearest, I have to go out presently and shall not be able to return\nbefore night ... so that the letter I expect will only be read _then_,\nand answered to-morrow—what will it be, the letter? Nothing but dear\nand kind, I know ... even deserve to know, in a sense,—because I am\nsure all in _my_ letter was meant to be ‘read by your light.’ I submit,\nunfeignedly, to you, there as elsewhere—and,—as I said, I think,—I wrote\n_so_, precisely because it was never likely to be my own case. I should\nconsider it the _most_ unhappy thing that could possibly happen to\nme,—(putting aside the dreadful possibilities one refuses to consider at\nall,—the _most_).\n\nHave you made any discoveries about the disposition of Saturday? May I\ncome, dearest? (On Saturday evening I shall see a friend who will tell\nme all he knows about ships and voyage expenses—or refer me to higher\nauthorities.)\n\nBless you, now and ever, my own Ba. Do you know, next Saturday, in its\nposition of successor to Good Friday, will be the anniversary of Mr.\nKenyon’s asking me, some four years ago, ‘if _I would like to see_ Miss\nB.’ How I remember? I was staying with him for a couple of days. Now, I\nwill ask myself ‘would you like to kiss Ba?’ ‘_Then comes the Selah._’\nGoodbye, dearest-dearest!\n\n                                                                  Yours R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 10, 1846.]\n\nI thought you had not written to me to-night, ever dearest! Nine o’clock\ncame and went, and I heard no postman’s knock; and I supposed that I did\nnot deserve (in your mind) to hear it at all. At last I rang the bell and\nsaid to Wilson ... ‘Look in the letter-box—there may be a letter perhaps.\nIf there should be none, you need not come up-stairs to tell me—I shall\nunderstand.’ So she left me, and, _that_ time, I listened for _footsteps_\n... the footsteps of my letter. If I had not heard them directly, what\nshould I have thought?\n\nYou are good and kind, ... _too_ good and kind, ... always, always!—and\nI love you gratefully and shall to the end, and with an unspeakable\napprehension of what you are in yourself, and towards me:—yet you\ncannot, you know,—you know you cannot, dearest ... ‘submit’ to me in\nan _opinion_, any more than I could to you, if I desired it ever so\nanxiously. We will talk no more however on this subject now. I have had\nsome pain from it, of course ... but I am satisfied to have had the\npain, for the knowledge ... which was as necessary as possible, under\ncircumstances, for more reasons than one.\n\nDearest ... before I go to talk of something else ... will you be\nbesought of me to consider within yourself, ... and not with me to\nteaze you; _why_ the ‘case,’ spoken of, should ‘never in likelihood be\nyour own?’ Are you and yours charmed from the influence of offensive\nobservations ... _personally_ offensive? ‘The most unhappy thing that\ncould happen to you,’ is it, on that account, the farthest thing?\n\nNow—! Mrs. Jameson was here to-day, and in the room before, almost, I\nheard of her being on the stairs. It is goodnatured of her to remember\nme in her brief visits to London—and she brought me two or three St.\nSebastians with the arrows through them, etched by herself, to look\nat—very goodnatured! Once she spoke of you—‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you saw Mr.\nBrowning’s last number! yes, I remember how you spoke of it. I suppose\nMr. Kenyon lent you his copy’.... And before I could speak, she was on\nanother subject. But I should not have had heart to say what I meant and\npredetermined to say, even if the opportunity to-day had been achieved.\nAs if you could not be read except in Mr. Kenyon’s copy! I might have\nconfessed to my own copy, even if not to my own original ... do you not\nthink?\n\nBefore she came, I went down to the drawing-room, I and Flush, and\nfound no one there ... and walked drearily up and down the rooms, and,\nso, came back to mine. May you have spent your day better. There was\nsunshine for you, as I could see. God bless you and keep you. Saturday\nmay be clear for us, or may not—and if it should not be clear, certainly\nMonday and Tuesday will not ... what shall be done? Will you wait till\nWednesday? or will you (now let it be as you choose!) come on Saturday,\nrunning the risk of finding only a parcel ... a book and a letter ... and\nso going away, if there should be reasons against the visit. Because last\nMonday was _known_ of, and I shall not ascertain until Saturday whether\nor not we shall be at liberty. Or ... shall we at once say _Wednesday_?\nIt is for your decision. You go out on Saturday evening ... and perhaps\naltogether there may be a conspiracy against Saturday. Judge and decide.\n\nI am writing as with the point of a pilgrim’s staff rather than a pen.\n‘We are all strangers and pilgrims.’ Can you read anywise?\n\nI think of you, bless you, love you—but it would have been better for\nyou never to have seen my face perhaps, though Mr. Kenyon gave the first\nleave. _Perhaps!!_—I ‘flatter’ _myself_ to-night, in change for _you_.\n\n                          Best beloved I am your\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday—2 o’clock p.m.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 10, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest I wrote last night what might make you doubtful and\nuncomfortable about Saturday; being doubtful myself and not knowing what\nword to say of it. But just now Papa has been here in the room with\nme,—and a beatific Jamaica packet has just come in, as the post declares\n... (Benedetta sia l’ora &c.!) and he will ‘hear more,’ he says, ‘_in the\ncity to-morrow_!’—So we are safe. Come, if there should be no reason\nof your own for staying. For me, I seem to have more need than usual of\nseeing you. May God bless you. I am\n\n                                   Your\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 10, 1846.]\n\nDearest, sweetest best—how can you, seeing so much, yet see that\n‘possibility’—_I leave off loving_ you! and be ‘angry’ and ‘vexed’ and\nthe rest! Well—take care I don’t answer fairly and plainly that I _can_\ndo all this—as the poor women had to confess in their bewilderment\nwhen grave judges asked ‘by which of the thirty-seven ways they were\naccustomed to signify their desire of his presence to Asmodeus—&c.\n&c.—But I cannot jest, nor trifle here—I protest in the most solemn way\nI am capable of conceiving, that I am altogether unable to imagine how\nor whence or why any possible form of anger or vexation or any thing\nakin can or could or should or shall ever rise in me to you—it is a\nsense hitherto undreamed of, a new faculty—altogether an inexplicable,\nimpossible feeling. I am not called on, surely, to suppose cases of\npure impossibility? To say, ‘if you did thus or thus,’—what I know you\ncould no more do than go and kill cows with your own hand, and dig up\nkale grounds? But I _can_ fancy your being angry with me, very angry—and\nspeaking the truth of the anger—that is to be _fancied_: and God knows I\nshould in that case kiss _my_ letters, here, till you pleased to judge\nme not unworthy to kiss the hem of your garment again. My own Ba! My\nelection is made or God made it for me,—and is irrevocable. I am wholly\nyours. I see you have yet to understand what that implies,—but you will\none day. And in this, just said, I understand _serious_ anger, for\nserious offences; to which, despite my earnest endeavour, who shall say I\nmay not be liable? What are you given me for but to make me better—and,\nin that, happier? If you could save my soul, ‘so as by fire,’ would your\ndear love shrink from that? But in the matter we really refer to....\nOh, Ba, did I not pray you at the beginning to _tell_ me the instant\nyou detected anything to be altered by _human_ effort? to give me that\nchance of becoming more like you and worthier of you? and here where\nyou think me gravely in the wrong, and I am growing conscious of being\nin the wrong,—one or two repetitions of such conduct as yours, such\n‘disagreeable letters,’ and I _must_ ‘leave off’.... When I do _that_ on\nsuch ground ... I need imprecate no foolish sense on my head,—the very\nworst will be in full operation. I only wrote to justify an old feeling,\nexercised only in the case of others I have heard of—men called ‘cool\nmurderers,’ ‘deliberate imbruers of their hands in,’ &c. &c.—and I meant\njust to say,—well,—I, and others, despise your society and only go into\nit now to be the surer that, when we leave it, we were not excluded as\nthe children turn from the grapes because their teeth are set on edge,\nwhatever may be the foxes’ pretext—but, for your own devoted followers\nbe a little more merciful, and while you encourage them to spend a dozen\nyears in a law-suit, lest they lose a few pounds ... but I won’t repeat\nthe offence, dear—_you are right_ and I am wrong and will lay it to\nheart, and now kiss, not your feet this time, because I am the prouder,\nfar from the more humble, by this admission and retractation——\n\nYour note arrives here—Ba;—it would have been ‘better for me,’ _that_?\nOh, dearest, let us marry soon, very soon, and end all this! If I\ncould begin taking exceptions again, I might charge you with such wild\nconventionalism, such wondrous perversity of sight or blindness rather!\n_Can_ you, now, by this time, tell me or yourself that you could believe\nme happy with any other woman that ever breathed? I tell _you_, without\naffectation, that I lay the whole blame to myself ... that I feel that if\nI had spoken my love out _sufficiently_, all this doubt could never have\nbeen possible. You quite believe I am in earnest, know my own mind and\nspeak as I feel, on these points we disputed about—yet _I am_ far from\nbeing sure of it, or so it seems now—but, as for loving you,—_there_ I\nmistake, or may be wrong, or may, or might or or—\n\n_Now_ kiss me, my best-dearest beloved! It seems I am always understood\n_so_—the words are words, and faulty, and inexpressive, or wrongly\nexpressive,—but when I live under your eyes, and die, you will never\nmistake,—you _do not now_, thank God, say to me—‘you want to go elsewhere\nfor all you say the visit seems too brief’—and, ‘you would change me for\nanother, for all you possess’—never do you _say_ such things—but when I\nam away, all the mistaking begins—let it end soon, come, dearest life of\nmy life, light of my soul, heart’s joy of my heart!\n\nYou feel I _must_ see you to-morrow if possible—at all events I will call\nfor the parcel. (What made you suppose I was engaged to-morrow night? The\nsaying that I should meet my sea-faring friend, perhaps? But that is to\nbe _here_—he comes here—at all events, I recollect no other engagement—if\nI had one with Death himself, I almost think I would go,—folly!) But let\nthe parcel be ready (to put into my hand at once) and I will venture at 3\no’clock.\n\nIn truth, all yesterday I was very unwell,—going about sight-seeing with\na friend and his lady-cousins, and afterward dining with them—I came home\ndead with intense boring—I rarely remember to have suffered so much.\nTo-day I am rather better,—much better, indeed. If I can but see you for\na few minutes to-morrow!\n\nMay God bless you, dearest—and show you the truth in me, the one truth\nwhich I dare hope compensates for much that is to be forgiven: when I\ntold you at the beginning I was not worthy, was infinitely lower &c., you\nseemed incredulous! well now, you see! I, that you _would_ persist in\nhoping better things of, held such opinions as those—and so you begin\nsetting me right, and so I am set far on towards right—is not all well,\nlove? And now go on, when I give next occasion, and tell me more, and let\nme alter more, and thank you, if I can, _more_,—but not, not love you\nmore, you, Ba, whom I love wholly,—with all my faculties, all my being.\nMay God bless you, again—it all ends there—!\n\n                                                               Your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 13, 1846.]\n\nI will not speak much of the letter, as you desire that I should not.\nAnd because everything you write must be answered in some way and sense,\n... must have some result, there is the less need of words in the\npresent case. Let me say only then, ever dearest, dearest, that I never\nfelt towards you as I felt when I had read that letter ... never loved\nyou so entirely! ... that it went to my heart, and stayed there, and\nseemed to mix with the blood of it ... believe this of me, dear dearest\nbeloved! For the rest, there is no need for me to put aside carefully the\nassumption of being didactic to _you_ ... of being better than _you_, so\nas to teach you! ... ah, you are so fond of dressing me up in pontifical\ngarments (‘for fun,’ as the children say!)—but because they are too large\nfor me, they drop off always of themselves, ... they do not require my\npulling them off: these extravagances get righted of their own accord.\nAfter all, too, you, ... with that præternatural submissiveness of yours,\n... you know your power upon the whole, and understand, in the midst of\nthe obeisances, that you can do very much what you please, with your High\nPriest. Εἴ τις αἴσθησἲς in the ghosts of the tribe of Levi, let them see\nand witness how it is!\n\nAnd now, do _you_ see. It was just natural that when we differed for the\nfirst time I should fall into low spirits. In the night, at dream-time,\nwhen instead of dreams ‘deep thought falleth upon man,’ suddenly I have\nbeen sad even to tears, do you know, to think of _that_: and whenever I\nam not _glad_, the old fears and misgivings come back—no, you _do not\nunderstand_ ... you _cannot_, perhaps! But dear, dearest, never think of\nyourself that you have expressed ‘insufficiently’ your feelings for me.\nInsufficiently! No words but _just your own_, between heaven and earth,\ncould have persuaded me that one such as you could love me! and the\ntongue of angels could not speak better words for that purpose, than just\nyours. Also, I know that you love me.... I do know it, my only dearest,\nand recognize it in the gratitude of my soul:—and it is through my want\nof familiarity with any happiness—through the want of use in carrying\nthese weights of flowers, that I drop them again and again out of weak\nhands. Besides the _truth_ is, that I am _not_ worthy of you—and if you\nwere to see it just as I see it, why there would be an end ... there, ...\nI sometimes think reasonably.\n\nWell—now I shall be good for at least a fortnight. Do I not teaze you and\ngive you trouble? I feel ashamed of myself sometimes. Let me go away from\nmyself to talk of Mr. Kenyon, therefore!\n\nFor he came to-day, and arrived in town on Friday evening—(what an escape\non Saturday!) and said of you, ... with those detestable spectacles—like\nthe Greek burning glasses, turned full on my face ... ‘I suppose now that\nMr. Browning’s book is done and there are no more excuses for coming,\nhe will come _without_ excuses.’ Then, after talk upon other subjects,\nhe began a long wandering sentence, the end of which I could see a mile\noff, about how he ‘ought to know better than I, but wished to enquire of\nme’ ... what, do you suppose? ... why, ‘what Mr. Browning’s objects in\nlife were. Because Mrs. Procter had been saying that it was a pity he\nhad not seven or eight hours a day of occupation,’ &c. &c. It is a good\nthing to be angry, as a refuge from being confounded: I really _could\nsay_ something to _that_. And I did say that you ‘did not _require_ an\noccupation as a means of living ... having simple habits and desires—nor\nas an end of living, since you found one in the exercise of your genius!\nand that if Mr. Procter had looked as simply to his art as an end, he\nwould have done better things.’\n\nWhich made Mr. Kenyon cry out ... ‘Ah now! you are spiteful! and you need\nnot be, for there was nothing unkind in what she said.’ ‘But _absurd_’!\n... I insisted—‘seeing that to put race horses into dray carts, was not\nusually done nor advised.’\n\nYou told me she was a worldly woman; and here is a proof, sent back to\nyou. But what business have worldly women to talk their dust and ashes\nover high altars in that way? I was angry and sinned not—angry for the\nmoment. Then Mr. Kenyon agreed with me, I think, and illustrated the\nsubject by telling me how Wordsworth had given himself to the service\nof the temple from the beginning—‘though,’ observed Mr. Kenyon, ‘he did\nnot escape _so_ from worldliness.’ But William Wordsworth is not Robert\nBrowning. Mr. Kenyon spoke of your family and of yourself with the best\nand most reverent words.\n\nAnd all this reminds me of what I have often and often mused about saying\nto you, and shrank back, and torn the paper now and then.... You know the\nsubject you wanted to discuss, on Saturday. Now whenever the time shall\ncome for discussing that subject, let this be a point agreed upon by both\nof us. The peculiarity of our circumstances will enable us to be free of\nthe world ... of our friends even ... of all observation and examination,\nin certain respects: now let us use the advantage which falls to us\nfrom our misfortune,—and, since we must act for ourselves at last, let\nus resist the curiosity of the whole race of third persons ... even the\naffectionate interest of such friends as dear Mr. Kenyon, ... and put it\ninto the power of nobody to say to himself or to another, ... ‘she had\nso much, and he, so much, in worldly possessions—or she had not so much\nand he had not so much.’ Try to understand what I mean. As it is not of\nthe least importance to either of us, as long as we can live, whether the\nsixpence, we live by, came most from you or from me ... and as it will\nbe as much mine as yours, and yours as mine when we are together ... why\nlet us join in throwing a little dust in all the winking eyes round—oh,\nit is nonsense and weakness, I know—but I would rather, rather, see\nwinking eyes than staring eyes. What has anybody to do with us? Even my\nown family ... why should they _ever_ see the farthest figure of _our_\naffairs, as to mere money? There now—it is said, ... what I have had in\nmy head so long to say. And one other word resumes my meditations on ‘the\nsubject’ which will not be ripe for discussion for ever so many months\n... and that other word is ... that if ever I am to wrong you so much as\nto be yours _so_, it is on the condition of leaving England within the\nfewest possible half hours afterwards. I told you _that_, long ago—so\nbear it in mind. I should not dare breathe in this England. Think!—There\nis my father—and there is yours! Do you imagine that I am _not afraid\nof your family_? and should be still more, if it were not for the great\nagony of fear on the side of my own house. Ah—I must love you unspeakably\n... even to dare think of the possibility of such things. So we will not\ntalk of them now. I write what I write, to throw it off my mind and have\ndone. Bear it in yours, but do not refer to it—_I ask you not to refer to\nit_.\n\nA long straggling letter, this is. I shall have mine to-morrow. And\nyou will tell me if Wednesday or Thursday shall be our day; and above\nall, tell me how you are. Then the book will come. Remember to send one\nto Mrs. Jameson! I write in haste ... in haste—but one may think of\nyou either in haste or at leisure, without blotting the air. Love me,\nbeloved ... do not leave off to see if I deserve it. I am at least (which\nis at most)\n\n                                                            Your very own.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 13, 1846.]\n\nDearest, unspeakably dear Ba,—would I were with you! But my heart stays\nwith you: I write this, tired somewhat and out of spirits—for I have been\nwriting notes this morning; getting rid of the arrears which turn out\nmore considerable than I thought. And the moment I have done, I look to\nthe chair and the picture and desire to be at rest with you; the perfect\nrest and happiness here on earth. But _do_ think, my own Ba, in the\ndirection I indicated yesterday—any obstacle now, would be more than I\ncould bear—I feel I _must_ live with you,—if but for a year, a month—to\nexpress the love which words cannot express, nor these letters, nor aught\nelse.\n\nSee one thing! Through your adorable generosity, my beloved,—at the\nbeginning you pleased to tell me my love was returned,—that I had gained\nyour love; without your assurance, I should never have believed that\npossible, whatever you may think; but _you_, what you _say_, I _believe_;\nwould in other matters believe, rather than my own senses; and _here_ I\nbelieved—in humbleness, God knows; but so it was. —Then, is there not\nthis one poor fruit of that generosity, one reassuring consideration,\nif you will accept it, that, nearly a year ago, I was in possession\nof all I aspired to?—so that if I had been too weak for my accorded\nhappiness—likely to be in due time satiated with it, and less and less\nimpressed by it, and so on, till at last ‘_I changed_,’—would not this\nhave happened inevitably _before now_? I had gained your love; one could\nnot go on gaining it—but some other love might be gained! Indeed, I\ndon’t see how, in certain instances (where there is what is called a\n‘pursuit,’ and all the excitement of suspense, and alternating hope and\nfear, all ending in the marriage day, after the fashion of a Congreve\ncomedy), how with the certainty of that kind of success, all the interest\nof the matter can avoid terminating. But it does seem to me, that the\nlove I have gained is as nothing to the love I trust to gain. I want the\nlove at our lives’ end, the love after trial, the love of _my_ love, when\nmine shall have had time and occasion to prove itself! I have already,\nfrom the beginning indeed, had quite enough magnanimity to avoid wishing\nfor opportunities of doing so at your expense—I pray you may never be in\ndangers from which I rescue you, nor meet sorrow from which I divert you:\nbut in the ordinary chances of life—I shall be there, and ready, and your\nown, heart and soul. Why do I say this to you?\n\nAll words are so weak,—_so_ weak!\n\nHere,—(no, I shall have to send it to-morrow, I believe—well, here in\nthe course of the day)—comes ‘Luria’ and the other—and I lay it at my\ndear Lady’s feet, wishing it were worthier of them, and only comforted,\nthrough all the conviction of the offering’s unworthiness, by knowing\nthat _she_ will know,—the dear, peerless, all precious Ba I adore, will\nknow—that I would give her my life gladlier at a word. See what I have\nwritten on the outside—‘to Miss Barrett’!—because I thought even leaving\nout the name might look suspiciously! But where no eye can see; save your\ndear eye ... _there_ is written a dedication.\n\nKiss me, dear Ba. May God bless you. Care for everything—if you should\nhave taken cold last night, for instance! Talk of a sword suspended by a\nhair!—what is the feeling of one whose priceless jewel hangs over a gulf\nby a hair? Tell me all—I love you wholly and am wholly yours.\n\nSee the strangely dirty paper—it comes from my desk where, every now and\nthen, a candle gets over-set; or the snuffers remain open, aghast at what\nI write!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 14, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest I have your two letters; and because there are only two\n‘great lights’ to rule the day and the night, I am not likely to hear\nfrom you again before to-morrow. Then you want Mrs. Jameson’s direction\n... (it is just _Mrs. Jameson, Ealing_!) and here is the last ‘Bell and\nPomegranate’—and, for all these reasons, I must write without waiting; I\nwill not wait for the night. Thank you for the book, thank you! I turn\nover the leaves ever so proudly. Tell me how I can be proud of _you_,\nwhen I cannot be proud of your loving me:—I am certainly proud of _you_.\nOne of my first searches was for the note explanatory of the title—and\nI looked, and looked, and looked, at the end, at the beginning, at the\nend again. At last I made up my mind that you had persisted in not\nexplaining, or that the printer had dropped the manuscript. Why, what\ncould make you thrust that note on all but the titlepage of the ‘Soul’s\nTragedy’? Oh—I comprehend. Having submitted to explain, quite at the\npoint of the bayonet, you determined at least to do it where nobody\ncould see it done. Be frank and tell me that it was just _so_. Also the\npoor ‘Soul’s Tragedy,’ you have repudiated _so_ from the ‘Bells and\nPomegranates’ ... pushing it gently aside. Well—you must allow it to\nbe a curious dislocation—only it is not important—and I like the note,\nall except the sentence about ‘Faith and Works,’ which does not apply,\nI think, ... that instance. ‘Bells and Pomegranates’ is a symbolic\nphrase—which the other is not at all, however much difficult and doubtful\ntheological argument may have arisen from it as a collective phrase.\nSo I am the first critic, you see, notwithstanding that Mr. Forster\nwaylaid the first copy. Ah no! I shall have my gladness out of the book\npresently, beyond the imagination of any possible critic. Who in the\nworld shall measure gladnesses with me?\n\nTell me—I was going to write _that_ ‘Tell me’ in my yesterday’s letter,\nbut at last I was hurried, and could not ... did you come into London on\nSunday? did you walk past this house on the other side of the street,\nabout two o’clock? Because just then I and Flush went down-stairs. The\ndrawing-room had nobody in it, and the window being wide open, I walked\nstraight to it to shut it. And there, across the street, walked somebody\n... I am so near sighted that I could only see a shadow in a dimness ...\nbut the shadow had, or seemed to have, a sign of you, a trace of you ...\nand instead of shutting the window I looked after it till it vanished.\nNo, it was not _you_. I feel now that it was not you; and indeed\nyesterday I felt it was not you. But, for the moment, it made my heart\nstop beating, ... that insolent shadow, ... which pretended to be you and\nwasn’t. Some one, I dare say, who ‘has an occupation eight or nine hours\na day’ and never does anything! I may speak against him, for deceiving\nme—it’s a pure justice.\n\nTo go back to the book ... you are perfectly right about ‘gadge,’ and\nin the view you take of the effect of such words. You misunderstood me\nif you fancied that I objected to the word—it was simply my ignorance\nwhich led me to doubt whether you had written ‘gag.’ Of course, the\nhorror of those specialities is heightened by the very want of distinct\nunderstanding they meet with in us:—it is the rack in the shadow of the\nvault. Oh—I fully agree.\n\nAnd now ... dearest dearest ... do not bring _reason_ to me to prove ...\nwhat, to prove? I never get anything by reason on this subject, be very\nsure!—and I like better to _feel_ that unreasonably you love me—to _feel_\nthat you love me as, last year, you did. Which I could not feel, last\nyear, a whole day or even half a day together. _Now_ the black intervals\nare rarer ... which is of your goodness, beloved, and not of mine. For\nme, you read me indeed a famous lesson about faith, ... and set me\nan example of how _you_ ‘believed’! ... but it does not apply, this\nlesson, ... it does not resemble, this example!—inasmuch as what _you_\nhad to believe ... viz. that roses blow in June ... was not quite as\ndifficult as what _I_ am called to believe, ... viz. that St. Cecilia’s\nangel-visitant had a crown of roses on, which eternally were budding and\nblowing. But I believe ... believe ... and want no ‘proof’ of the love,\nbut just itself to prove it,—for nothing else is worthy. On the other\nside, I have the audacity to believe, as I think I have told you, that no\nwoman in the world _could_ feel for you exactly what ... but, here, too,\nI had better shun the reasons, ... the ‘bonnes raisons’ which ‘le roy\nnotre sire’ cannot abide.—What foolishness I am writing really! And is\nit to be for a ‘year,’ or a ‘month’—or a _week_,—better still? or we may\nend by a compromise for the two hours on Wednesdays, ... if it goes on\nso,—more sensibly.\n\nI have heard to-day from Miss Martineau and from Mrs. Jameson, both—one\ntalking Mesmer and the other Homer. I sent her (Mrs. J.) two versions\nof the daughters of Pandarus, the first in the metre you know, and the\nsecond in blank verse; ... and she does not decide which she likes best,\nshe says graciously, whereas I could not guess which I liked worse, when\nI sent them on Saturday. Do let her have ‘Luria’ at once. She will take\nthe right gladness in it, even as she appreciates you with the right\nwords and thoughts. But surely you use too many stamps? Have you a pair\nof scales like Zeus and me? ... only mine are broken, or I would send you\nan authority on this important subject, as well as an opinion.\n\nHow did you _not_ get my letter, pray, by the first post on Monday?\nYou ought to have had it! it was not my fault. And thinking of ‘causas\nrerum,’ ... I was to ‘catch cold,’ I suppose, on Saturday, because you\nwent away?—there was no stronger motive. I did not however catch cold—ah,\nhow you make me giddy with such words, as if I did really ‘hang over a\ngulph’!—not with _fear_ though! Is it possible, I say to myself, that I\ncan be so much to him? to _him_! May God bless him! There was no harm\nmeant by the black seal, I think? Tell me too of the headache, and\nwhether the dinner is for Wednesday, and whether, in that case, _it_ is\nstill to be preferred, with all its close clipping, to Thursday. Meantime\nthe letter grows as if there was no such thing as shears!\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 14, 1846.]\n\nI waited till this second letter should arrive—feeling that it would be\neasier to address the answer to _this_.\n\nAbout the other,—that part which you bid me not refer to. You are\nobeyed now—my time will come in its turn, and I will try and speak.\nWith respect to the immediate leaving England, you will let me say, I\nthink, that _all_ my own projects depend on that,—there will not be one\nleast objection made to it by my father or mother, I know beforehand.\nYou perhaps misconceived something I said last Saturday. I meant the\nobvious fact however—that while there would be a _best_ way of finding\nmyself with you, still, from the _worst_ way (probably, of taking a house\nopposite Mrs. Procter’s)—from that even, to the _best_ way of any other\nlife I can imagine,—what a descent! From the worst of roses to the most\nflourishing of—dandelions. But we breathe together, understand together,\nknow, feel, live together ... I feel every day less and less need of\ntrying to assure you _I_ feel thus and thus—I seem to know that _you_\nmust _know_!\n\nMrs. Procter is very exactly the Mrs. Procter I knew long ago. What she\nsays is of course purely foolish. The world does seem incurably stupid on\nthis, as other points. I understand Mr. Kenyon’s implied kindness—that\nis,—understand he may think he sees my true good in this life with older\nand better instructed eyes than my own—so benevolent people beg me ‘not\nto go out in the open air—without something about my neck,’ and would\ngird on a triple worsted ‘comforter’ there, entirely for my good, if I\nwould let them. ‘Why, Mr. Procter wears one!’ Ah, but without it, what a\ncold he would catch!\n\nThe explanatory note fills up an unseemly blank page—and does not come\nat the end of the ‘Soul’s Tragedy’—prose after prose—still it does look\nawkwardly—but then I don’t consider that it excludes this last from the\n‘Bells’—rather it says this _is_ the last, (_no, nine_ if you like,—as\nthe title says ‘eight _and_ last’—from whence will be this advantage,\nthat, in the case of another edition, all the lyrics &c. may go together\nunder one common head of Lyrics and Romances—and the ‘Soul’s Tragedy,’\nprofiting by the general move-up of the rest of the numbers, after the\nfashion of hackney coaches on a stand when one is called off, step into\nthe place and take the style of No. 8—and the public not find themselves\ndefrauded of the proper quantity!)\n\nAnd shall I indeed see you to-morrow, Ba? I will tell you many things, it\nseems to me now, but when I am with you they always float out of mind.\nThe feelings must remain unwritten—unsung too, I fear. I very often fancy\nthat if I had never before resorted to _that_ mode of expression, to\nsinging,—poetry—_now_ I should resort to it, discover it! Whereas now—my\nvery use and experience of it deters me—if one phrase of mine should seem\n‘poetical’ in Mrs. Procter’s sense—a conscious exaggeration,—put in for\neffect! only _seem_, I say! So I dare not try yet—but one day!\n\nBa, I kept your letter yesterday, _about_ me—it lay by my head at\nnight—that its good might not go from me,—such perfect good! How strange\nto hear what you say of my letters,—of such and such a letter—some seem\nkind, and kinder and kindest—and how should I guess why? My life and love\nflow steadily under all those bubbles, or many or less—it is through the\nunder current that, whatever you see, _does_ appear, no doubt—but also\nwhere nothing appears,—all is one depth!\n\nBless you, all dearest beloved.\n\nTo-morrow, Wednesday!\n\n                                                       Ever your very own,",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 16, 1846.]\n\nThis morning, you would never guess what I have been doing.—Buying a\nbonnet! That looks like a serious purpose of going out, walking out,\ndriving out ... now doesn’t it? And having chosen one a little like a\nQuaker’s, as I thought to myself, I am immediately assured by the learned\nthat ‘nothing can be more fashionable’ ... which is a most satisfactory\nproof of blind instinct, ... feeling towards the Bude lights of the\nworld, and which Mrs. Procter would highly esteem me for, if she did but\nknow it.\n\nIn the meanwhile assure yourself that I understand perfectly your\nfeeling about the subject of yesterday. Flies are flies, and yet they\nare vexatious with their buzzing, _as_ flies. Only Mrs. Jameson told\nme the other day that a remedy against the mosquitos ... _polvere di\nmorchia_ ... had been discovered lately in Italy, so that the world\nmight sleep there in peace—as _you_ may here ... let us talk no more\nof it. I think I should not have told you if I had not needed it for a\ntalking-ladder to something else. For the rest, it is amusing to me,\nquite amusing, to observe how people cannot conceive of _work_ except\nunder certain familiar forms. Men who dig in ditches have an idea that\nthe man who leads the plough rather rests than works: and all men of\nout-door labour distrust the industry of the manufacturers in-doors—while\nboth manufacturers and out-door labourers consider the holders of offices\nand clerkships as idle men ... gentlemen at ease. Then between all these\nclasses and the intellectual worker, the difference is wider, and the\nwant of perception more complete. The work of creation, nobody will admit\n... though everybody has by heart, without laying it to heart, that God\nrested on the seventh day. Looking up to the stars at nights, they might\nas well take all to be motionless—though if there were no motion there\nwould be no morning ... and they look for a morning after all. Why who\ncould mind such obtuse stupidity? It is the stupidity of mankind, par\nexcellence of foolishness! The hedger and ditcher they see working, but\nGod they do not see working. If one built a palace without noise and\nconfusion and the stroke of hammers, one would scarcely get credit for\nit in this world ... so full of virtue and admiration it is, to make a\nnoise! Even I, you see, who said just now ‘Talk no more of it,’ talk\nmore and more, and make more noise than is necessary. Here is an end\nthough—we leave Mrs. Procter here. And do not think that the least word\nof disrespect was said of you—indeed it was not! neither disrespect nor\nreproach. So you and I will forgive everybody henceforward, for wishing\nyou to be rich. And if Miss Procter would ‘commit suicide’ rather than\nlive as you like to live, _I_ will not, as long as you are not tired\nof me—and _that, just now_ and as things are, is of a little more\nconsequence perhaps....\n\nScarcely had you gone, dearest, yesterday, when I had two letters with\nthe very prose of life in them, dropping its black blotchy oil upon all\nthe bright colours of our poetry! I groaned in the spirit to read, and to\nhave to answer them. First was a Miss Georgiana Bennet—did you ever hear\nof her?—_I_ never did before, but that was my base ignorance; for she is\na most voluminous writer it appears ... and sent me five or six ‘_works_’\n(observe), ... published under the ‘high sanction’ (and reiterated\nsubscription) of ever so many Royal Highnesses and Right Reverends ...\nwritten in prose and verse, upon female education and the portrait of\nHarrison Ainsworth (‘I gaze upon that noble face, and bright expressive\neyes!’), miscellaneous subjects of that sort!—also, there is a poem of\nsome length, called ‘The Poetess,’ which sets forth in detail how Miss\nGeorgiana Bennet has found the laurel on her brow a mere nightshade,\nand the glories of fame no comfort in the world. Well—all these books\nwere sent to me, with a note hortative—giving indeed a very encouraging\nopinion of my poems generally, but desiring me to consider, that poets\nwrite both for the learned and the unlearned, and that in fact I am in\nthe habit of using a great many hard words, much to the confusion of\nthe latter large class of readers. She has heard (Georgiana has) that\nI am a classical scholar which of course (of course) accounts for this\npeculiarity ... but it is the duty of one’s friends to tell one of\none’s faults, which is the principle she goes upon. In return for which\nbenevolence, I am requested to send back a copy of my poems directly,\nand to ‘think of her, as she thinks of me.’ There an end. The next\nletter is from a Mrs. Milner, who used to edit the ‘Christian Mother’s\nMagazine’; the most idiotic tract-literature, that magazine was, but\nsupported by the Queen dowager and a whole train of Duchesses proper—very\nproper indeed! She used to edit the ‘Christian Mother,’ but now she has\n‘generalised’ it, she says, to the ‘Englishwoman’s Magazine’ and wants me\nto write for it and says....\n\nOh—I cannot have patience to go on to tell you. Besides you will take me\nto be too bitter, when I ought to be grateful perhaps! But if you knew\nhow hard it is for me to have to read and write sometimes, as if you were\nnot in the world with me ... as if.... Is it wrong to laugh a little, to\nput it off,—only to _you_, though? And do you know, I feel ill at ease\nin my conscience, on account of what I said (even to _you_) about Mrs.\nPaine, who came to see me, you remember; and because she has written me\na letter which quite affected me, I shall send it for you to read, to\nundo any false impression. Then you will not dislike reading it on other\ngrounds. She is very different from the Georgiana Bennets, and I am\ninterested in her, and touched aright by what she says.\n\nYou will write. You think of me? I am better to-day, much—and it is\nstrange to be so, when you are not here. Ever dearest, let your thoughts\nbe with me—\n\n                                                         I am your own....",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 16, 1846.]\n\nHow are you now, dearest? If the worse for my visit.... No, there is no\naffectation in what I would say—you might be worse, you know, through\n_excitement_, whether pleasurable or the reverse. One comfort is,\nthe walking, going down-stairs, &c. have not occasioned it. I expect\neverything from your going out of doors, that is to be—what a joy to\nwrite it, think of it, expect it! Oh, why are you not here—where I sit\nwriting; whence, in a moment, I could get to know why the lambs are\nbleating so, in the field behind—I do not see it from either window in\nthis room—but I see a beautiful sunshine (2½ p.m.) and a chestnut tree\nleafy all over, in a faint trembling chilly way, to be sure—and a holly\nhedge I see, and shrubs, and blossomed trees over the garden wall,—were\nyou but here, dearest, dearest—how we would go out, with Flush on before,\nfor with a key I have, I lock out the world, and then look down on it;\nfor there is a vast view from our greatest hill—did I ever tell you that\nWordsworth was shown that hill or its neighbour; someone saying ‘R.B.\nlives over _there_ by that HILL’—‘Hill’? interposed Wordsworth—‘_we_ call\nthat, such as that, a _rise_’! I must have told you, I think. (While I\nwrite, the sun gets ever brighter—you must be down-stairs, I feel sure—)\n\nI fully meant to go out this morning—but there is a pressing note from my\nold young friend, Frank Talfourd, to get me to witness—only another play\nand farce!—and what is to be done?\n\nHere shall be my ending ‘for reasons, for reasons.’ To-morrow I will\nwrite more; my Monday—to have to wait so long! And when I _do_ see you, I\nbegin to pour out profusions of confusions of speech about Mrs. Procter\nand her vain notions—to what earthly good? ... as it is very easy to ask\n_now_! now that I am here again, alone again.\n\nDear, dearest Ba, I cannot serve you, nor even talk to you ... but love\nyou,—oh, that I must dare say I _can_ do, as none other could—as you have\nyet to know!\n\nBless you my very dearest, sweetest Ba—I am your own, heart and soul—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 17, 1846.]\n\nAh, the chestnut tree: do you think that I never saw the chestnut tree\nbefore? Long ago, I did ... a full year ago or more—more! A voice talked\nto me of the ‘west wind’ which ‘set dancing the baby cones of my chestnut\ntree’—nearly I remember the words. Do _you_, the time? It was early in\nthe morning—‘before seven,’ said the voice!—too early in the morning\nfor my dream to be—because a dream, says Lord Brougham when he tries at\nphilosophy, a dream, if ever so long a dream, is all contained in the\nlast moment of sleep, at the turn towards waking—so, late and not early!\n\nNo—you did not tell me of Wordsworth—not at least, after _that_ reading.\nPerhaps if Hatcham should not be swept away in the Railway ‘scirocco,’\nI may see the ‘hill’ or the ‘rise’ at some distant day. Shall I, do you\nthink? I would rather see it than Wordsworth’s mountains—‘for reasons,\nfor reasons’ as you say. And talking of reasons, and reasonable people in\ngeneral, I thought, ... after you went away on Wednesday, and I began to\nremember how you had commended your own common sense and mine,—I thought\nthat it might be very well for you to do it, inasmuch as nobody else\nwould, for you——! ὑπέρ σου as the theological critics intensify ὑπέρ to\nthe genitive, ‘for reasons, for reasons.’\n\nHow ‘Luria’ takes possession of me more and more! _Such_ a noble work!—of\na fulness, a moral grandeur!—and the language everywhere worthy. Tell\nme what you hear the people say—I shall be anxious, which you will\nnot be—but, to _me_, you will forgive it. ‘The Soul’s Tragedy’ is\nwonderful—it suggests the idea of more various power than was necessary\nto the completion of ‘Luria’ ... though in itself not a comparable work.\nBut you never wrote more vivid dramatic dialogue than that first part—it\nis exquisite art, it appears to me. Tell me what the people say!—and tell\nme what the gods say ... Landor, for instance!\n\nMr. Kenyon has not been here—and I dare not, even in a letter, be the\nfirst to talk to anyone of you. It is foolish of me perhaps—but if I\nwhisper your name I expect to be directly answered by all the thunders\nof Heaven and cannons of earth. When I was writing to Miss Martineau the\nother day, for full ten minutes I held the pen ready charged with ink\nover a little white place, just to say ‘have you read,’ ... or ‘have\nyou heard’ ... and at last I couldn’t write one word of those words ...\nI believe I said something about landed proprietors and agrarian laws\ninstead.\n\nSo you ‘_felt_’ that I was down-stairs to-day! See how wrong feeling may\nbe, when it has to do with such as I. For, dearest, notwithstanding your\nbright sunshine I did not go down-stairs ... only opened the window and\nlet in the air. I have not been quite as well, as far as just sensation\ngoes, as usual, these few days—but it is nothing, a passing common\nheadache, as I told you, ... and your visit did good rather than harm,\nand to-morrow you may think of me as in the drawing-room. Oh, I _might_\nhave been there to-day, or yesterday, or the day before! but it was\npleasanter to sit in the chair and be idle, so I sate! But you did not\nsee me in my gondola chair—not _you_! you were thinking of the lambs\ninstead, and looking over the wall to the ‘blossomed trees’ ... (what\ntrees? cherry-trees? apple-trees? pear-trees?) and so, altogether, you\nlost your second sight of me and made mistakes. Ever dearest, is your\nhead better? You will not say. You are _afraid_ to say, perhaps, that you\nwere ill, through writing too many notes and not going out to take the\nright exercise. Ah, _do_ remember me for _that_ good! I heard yesterday\nthat ‘Mr. Browning looked very pale as he came up-stairs.’ Which comes of\nMr. Browning’s writing when he should be walking!—now doesn’t it?\n\nDo you go to Mr. Serjeant Talfourd’s on _Monday_? and would it be better\ntherefore if you came here on Tuesday? You could come on the next\nSaturday all the same—consider! Nobody shall leap into lions’ dens for\n_me_! so let us measure the convenience of things, as Miss Mitford would\nin marriages. ‘Convenance,’ though, she would say—which is more foolish\nthan ‘convenience’ as I write it. She asserts that _every marriage in her\nexperience_, beginning by any sort of _love_, has ended miserably—thus\nrun her statistics in matrimony. Add, that she thinks—she told me last\nautumn—that all men without exception are essentially tyrants,—and that\npoets are a worse species of men, seeing that, all human feelings, they\nput into their verses, and leave them there ... add this, and this, and\nthen calculate how, if I consulted her on our prospects (shall I?), she\nwould see for me an infinite succession of indefinite thumbscrews and\n_gadges_!! Well—I am not afraid—except for _you_ sometimes! for myself I\naccept my chances for life under the _peine forte et dure_. And I won’t\nspeak to Miss Mitford, if _you_ don’t to Mr. Kenyon ... and I beseech you\nto avoid by every legitimate means the doing _that_ ... oh, _DO NOT ever\nspeak THAT to him_!\n\nMay God bless you my beloved!—Walk for my sake, and be well, try to be\nwell! For me, I am so without trying, ... just as I am\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 17, 1846.]\n\nNo, my own dearest, I did not see you sit in your chair, nor in mine,\nyesterday—did I write nothing about your walking with me by the garden\nwall, and on the hill, and looking down on London? And afterwards you\nwent with me, indeed, to Talfourd’s (last night was that purgatorial\nbusiness,—how could I make you think it related to Monday?) If I have to\nput the least thing into words, _so_ I put it always! Being just like\nthe family of somebody—‘who were one and all so stupid’ said he—‘that if\nyou bade them spell A B they answered _B A_——’ Nay, I spell Happiness,\nand Blessing, and all other good words if ever so many letters by that\nsame Ba! But I want to go on and say you kept me from such an undiluted\nevening of misery (because I saw you through it all)—oh, such an\nevening!—it shall be the last, I think—and the going out is so near,—_the\nbonnet_ is bought! And you pretend not to know I would walk barefoot till\nI dropped, if so I might attain to the sight of you, _and it_. Do let\nme say, for gratitude’s sake—it is like the sign of spring in Shelley’s\n‘Prometheus’—\n\n    When ‘mild winds shake the elder-brake,\n    And the wandering herdsmen know\n    That the white thorn soon _will blow_’:\n\n—that the flower of my life will blow! Now let me try and\nanswer everything in Ba’s darling letters and so not be ‘vexed’\nafterward,—recollecting how she asked _this_, or bade me be sure to reply\nto _that_, and how I answered, spelling A B _for_ B A! First, there\nis a famous contrivance against fly tormentors, a genuine _canopy_,\ngnat-repelling enclosure of muslin which covers your bed wholly, and into\nwhich once introduce yourself dexterously (because the plagues try to\nfollow slily) and lo, you are in a syren’s isle within the isle, a world\ncut off from the outer one by that fine hazy cloudish gauze—a delight it\nis! Only, if you let one persisting critic of a buzzer lie perdue, he\nwill have you at a glorious advantage—(not that one _ever_ bit ME, in\nEngland or elsewhere). And now—your letters,—Miss Bennet’s letter _that_\nyou received ‘just after I had gone’—will you be edified if I tell you\nwhat _I_ received the moment I got home? (once, beforehand—my experience\nor yours, which would you rather _not_ have?) My sister pointed with\nimmense solemnity to a packet,—_then_ delivered a message, and _then_—but\nhear the message—a ‘Mrs. George Sharp’ (unless I mistake the name)\nlives next door to Dickens and awfully respects him—she asks one aunt\nof mine, to ask another, to ask my sister, to ask me ... who have never\nseen or heard of this Mrs. George,—_me_, who am, she has understood, a\nfriend of Dickens,—to get inserted in the _Daily News_ some paragraph\nof a reasonable length in recommendation of the accompanying packet of\n_cough-drops_, (lozenges, or pills—for I was not rightly instructed\n_which_)—_my fee_, I suppose, being the said packet of pills! All comment\nis beyond me.\n\nWell, but your Mrs. Bennet—what a wretched, disgusting _sfacciataccia_!\nI would not be accessory to keeping those soapy bubbles of stupid vanity\nfrom bursting, by sparing a rough finger, certainly not. _How_ ‘ought you\nto be grateful, perhaps?’ For _what_ on earth?\n\nDearest, dearest Ba,—a ‘passing’ headache of ‘these few days,’ what can\nI say, or do? May God bless you, and care for all. Still the comfort\ncontinues, it is not that you have made an effort, and so grown worse.\n\nI am pretty well,—I half determine to go out and see Carlyle to-night,—so\nto forget a hasty resolution against all company (‘other’ company I\nhad written ... as if to honour it—Ba’s is one company, and those\npeople’s!—‘another’!)—I think I will go.\n\nI spoke about Mr. Kenyon,—because I never would in my life take a step\nfor _myself_ (if that could be), apart from your good, without being\nguided by you where possible—much more, therefore, in a matter directly\nconcerning you rather than me, did I want your opinion as to the course\nmost proper, _in the event_ of &c. I do not think it likely he will\nspeak, or I shall have to answer ... but if that _did_ happen, and you\nwere not at hand, my own dearest,—how I should be grieved if, answering\nwrongly, I gave you annoyance! Here I seem to understand your wish.\n\nMy Ba, my only, utterly dear love, may God reward you for your\nblessing to me—my whole heart turns to you—and in your own. I kiss\nyou, dearest—this morning a very ordinary motivetto in the overture to\n‘Rabuco’ seemed to tell you more than _I_ ever _shall_—I sit and speak to\nyou by _that_, now!\n\n                                                                      R.B.\n\nNo letters yet from ‘anybody’—the few received are laudatory however—I\nwill send you one from the old sailor-friend I told you of—but, mark!\nyou must not send it back, to show my eyes and grieve my heart, when the\nbulky letter proves to be only _this_—returned! Landor’s in due time, I\nsuppose! This I send is to make you laugh.... My Ba’s dear laugh can hurt\nnobody, not even my friend here—who _has praised her poems_ more to me,\nthere’s my consolation,—Consuelo—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 18, 1846.]\n\nBut, dearest of all, you never said a word about Monday. So I did not\nmisunderstand—I only _misguessed_. Because you did not mention any day,\nI took it into my head that you might perhaps be invited for Monday, and\nmake an effort, which would make a fatigue, and go there and come here.\nI am glad you went to Carlyle’s—and where is Tennyson, and the dinner\nat Forster’s all this while? And how did the Talfourds torment you so?\nwas it that you were _very unwell_? I fear you were unwell. For me, I\nhave recovered from my dreadful illness of the last day or two ... I knew\nI should survive it after all ... and to-day, just that I might tell\nyou, I went down-stairs with Flush, he running before as when _we_ walk\ntogether through the gate. I opened the drawing-room door; when instead\nof advancing he stopped short ... and I heard strange voices—and then he\ndrew back and looked up in my face exactly as if to say, ‘No! This will\nnot do for us!—we had better go home again.’ Surely enough, visitors\nwere in the room ... and he and I returned upon our steps. But think\nof his sense! Flush beats us both in ‘common sense,’ dearest, we must\nacknowledge, let us praise each other for it ever so. Next to Flush we\nmay be something, but Flush takes the _pas_, as when he runs down-stairs.\n\nTo-day Mr. Kenyon came, spectacles and all. He sleeps in those spectacles\nnow, I think. Well, and the first question was ... ‘Have you seen Mr.\nBrowning? And what did he come for again, pray?’ ‘Why I suppose,’ I said,\n‘for the bad reason my visitors have in general, when they come to see\nme’—Then, very quickly I asked about ‘Luria,’ and if he had read it and\nwhat he thought of it—upon which, the whole pomegranate was pulled out of\nhis pocket, and he began to talk like the agreeable man he can be when he\ndoesn’t ask questions and look discerningly through spectacles. ‘Luria’\nwas properly praised indeed. A very noble creation, he thought it, and\nheroically pathetic ... and much struck he seemed to be with the power\nyou had thrown out on the secondary characters, lifting them all to the\nheight of humanity, justifying them by their own lights Oh—he saw the\ngoodness, and the greatness, the art and the moral glory; we had a great\ndeal of talk. And when he tried to find out a few darknesses, I proved\nto him that they were clear noonday blazes instead, and that his eyes\nwere just dazzled. Then the ‘Soul’s Tragedy’ made the right impression—a\nwonderful work it is for suggestions, and the conception of it as good\na test of the writer’s genius, as any we can refer to. We talked and\ntalked. And then he put the book into his pocket to carry it away to\nsome friend of his, unnamed: and we had some conversation about poets\nin general and their way of living, of Wordsworth and Coleridge. I like\nto hear Mr. Kenyon talk of the gods and how he used to sit within the\nthunder-peal. Presently, leaning up against the chimney-piece,—he said\nquietly ... ‘Do you not think—oh, I am sure I need not ask you—in fact I\nknow your thoughts of it ... but how strikingly upright and loyal in all\nhis ways and acts, Mr. Browning is!—how impeccable as a gentleman’ &c.\n&c. and so on and on ... I do not tell you any more, because I should be\ntired perhaps ... (do you understand?) and this is not the first time,\nnor second, nor third time that he has spoken of you personally, _so_\n... and as no man could use more reverent language of another. And all\nthis time, what has become of Walter Savage Landor? I shall be vexed in\nanother day. He may be from home perhaps—there must be a reason.\n\nVive Pritchard! and thank you for letting me see what he wrote.\n\nOh—and you _shall_ see what I did not send yesterday—I shall make you\nread this one sheet of Mrs. Paine’s letter, because it really touched me,\nand because I am bound to undo the effects of my light speaking. As for\nthe overpraise of _myself_, the overkindness in every respect, ... why we\nknow how ‘sermons are found in stones’ ... yet no praise to the stones on\nthat account! But you shall read what I send, both for her sake and mine,\n... because I like you to read it.\n\nMy own dearest, do you mind what I say, and take exercise? You are vexing\nyourself with those notes, as I see from here. Now take care—follow my\nexample, and be well—if not, there will be no use in wellness to me!\nMay God bless you! Do you remember when you wrote first to me ‘_May God\nbless you and me_ in _that_!’ It was before we met. Can you guess what\nI thought? I have the whole effect in my memory distinctly. I felt with\na bitter feeling, that it was quite a pity to throw away such beautiful\nwords out of the window into the dark. ‘Bitterly’ does not mean anything\nwrong or harsh, you know. But there was something painful ... as if the\nwords were too near, for the speaker to be so far. Well—I am glad in\nlooking back ... yes, glad ... glad to be certain at my heart, that I did\nnot assume anything ... stretch out my hand for anything ... _dearest_!...\n\nIt is always when one is asleep that the dream-angels come. Watchers see\nnothing but ghosts.\n\nYet I shall see you on Monday, and shall watch and wait as those who\nwait for the morning ... that is, the Monday-morning! Till when and ever\nafter, I am\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 18, 1846.]\n\nSo my dear, own Ba _has_ good sense, best sense—whatever Flush’s may be!\nDo you think ... (to take the extreme horn of a certain dilemma I see)\n... that—\n\nNow, dearest, somehow I can’t write the great proof down—I will tell you\non Monday—as to _my_ good sense. I was wrong to give such a praise to\nmyself in the particular case you were alluding to at the time—the good\nsense of the bird which finds out its mate amid a forest-full of birds\nof another kind! Why the poorest brown butterfly will seek out a brown\nstone in a gravel walk, or brown leaf in a flower bed, to settle on and\nbe happy——(And I suppose even dear Carlyle is no longer my brown leaf;\nat least, I could not go last night. I will, however, try again on\nMonday—after leaving you—with that elixir in my veins).\n\nMrs. Paine’s note is charming. I thank you, dearest, for sending it—(How\nI like being reminded of thanks, due from me to you, which I may\nsomehow come near the expression of! I am silent about an infinity of\nblessings—but I do say how grateful I am for this kindness!). Now, there\nis the legitimate process; the proper benefit received, in the first\ninstance, and profited by, and thence grows in proper time the desire of\nbeing admitted to see you—so different from the vulgar ‘Georgianas’ who,\npossibly, hearing of the privilege extended to such a person as this we\nspeak of, would say, with the triumphant chuckle of low cunning, ‘ah,—I\nwill get as far, by one stroke of the pen—by one bold desire “to be\nthought of as I think of her.”’ She could but ask and be refused! Whereas\nMrs. Paine was already in possession of much more dear, dear Ba, than\ncould be taken away even by a refusal—besides, her reverence would have\nmade her understand and acquiesce even in that. Therefore, I am glad,\nsympathisingly glad she is rewarded, that good, gentle Mrs. Paine! I will\nbring her note with me.\n\nBecause, here is Mr. Kenyon’s, and Landor’s (which had been sent to\n_Moxon’s_ some days ago, whence the delay)—and Mrs. Jameson’s. All kind\nand indulgent and flattering in their various ways ... but, my Ba,\nmy dear, dear Ba, other praises disregarding, I but harken those of\nyours—only saying—Ah, it is wrong to take the sacrificial vessel and\nsay,—‘See, it holds my draught of wine, too’!—I will not do so, not\nparody your verses again. And I like to be praised now, in a sense,\nmuch, much more than ever—but, darling, oh how easily, if need were, I\ncould know the world was abusing at its loudest outside; if you were\n_inside_ ... though but the thinnest of gauze canopies kept us from the\nbuzzing! This is only said _on_ this subject, struck out by it, not\n_of_ it,—for the praise is good true praise and from the worthies of\nour time—_but_—_you_, I love,—and there is the world-wide difference.\nAnd what ought I to say to Mr. Kenyon’s report of me? Stand quietly,\nassentingly? You will agree to _this_ at least, that he cannot _know_\nwhat he says—only be disposed to hope and believe it is _so_: still,\nto speak so to _you_—what would I not do to repay him, if that could\nbe! What a divinely merciful thought of God for our sake ... that we\ncannot _know_ each other—infallibly know—as we know other things, in\ntheir qualities! For instance, I bid you know my love for you (which\nwould be knowing _me_)—I complain that you do not, _cannot_—yet,—if you\n_could_ ... my Ba, would you have been ever quite my Ba? If you said,\ncalmly as when judging of material objects, ‘there is affection, so\nmuch, and sincerity, and admiration &c., yes, _that_ I see, of course,\nfor it is _there_, plainly’—So I should lose the delight crowning the\ndelight,—first of the fact, as _I_ know it; and then of _this_; that you\n_desired_ to know it, chose to lean forward, and take my poor testimony\n_for_ a fact, believing through desire, or at least will to believe—so\nthat I do, in the exercise of common sense, adore you, more and more, as\nI live to see more, and feel more. So let me kiss you, my pearl of woman.\nDo I ‘remember’ praying God to bless me _through_ the blessing on you?\nShall I ever forget to pray so, rather! My dear—dearest, I pray now, with\nall my heart; may He bless you—and what else can now bless your own R?—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Afternoon.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 20, 1846.]\n\nJust now I read again your last note for a particular purpose of\nthinking about the end of it ... where you say, as you have said so many\ntimes, ‘that your hand was not stretched out to the good—it came to you\nsleeping’—etc. I wanted to try and find out and be able to explain to\nmyself, and perhaps to you, why the _wrongness_ in you should be so\nexquisitely dear to me, dear as the rightness, or dearer, inasmuch as it\nis the topmost grace of all, seen latest on leaving the contemplation of\nthe others, and first on returning to them——because, Ba, that adorable\nspirit in all these phrases, what I should adore without their embodiment\nin these phrases which fall into my heart and stay there, that strange\nunconsciousness of how the love-account really stands between us, _who_\nwas giver altogether and _who_ taker, and, by consequence, what is the\nbefitting virtue for each of us, a generous disposition to forgetfulness\non the giver’s part, as of everlasting remembrance and gratitude on the\nother—this unconsciousness _is wrong_, my heart’s darling, strangely\nwrong by the contrast with your marvellous apprehension on other points,\nevery other point I am capable of following you to. I solemnly assure\nyou I cannot imagine any point of view wherein I ought to appear to any\nrational creature the benefitting party and you the benefitted—nor any\nmatter in which I can be supposed to be even magnanimous, (so that it\nmight be said, ‘_there_, is a sacrifice’—‘_that_, is to be borne with’\n&c.)—none where such a supposition is not degrading to me, dishonouring\nand affronting. I know you, my Ba, not because you are _my_ Ba, but\nthrough the best exercise of whatever power in me you too often praise,\nI _know_—that you are immeasurably my superior, while you talk most\neloquently and affectingly to me, I _know_ and could prove you are\nas much my Poet as my Mistress; if I suspected it before I knew you,\npersonally, how is it with me _now_? I feel it every day; I tell myself\nevery day it is so. Yet you do not feel nor know it—for you write thus\nto me. Well,—and this is what I meant to say from the beginning of the\nletter, I love your inability to feel it in spite of right and justice\nand rationality. I would,—I _will_, at a moment’s notice, give you\nback your golden words, and lie under your mind supremacy as I take\nunutterable delight in doing under your eye, your hand. So Shakespeare\nchose to ‘envy this man’s art and that man’s scope’ in the Sonnets. But I\ndid not mean to try and explain what is unexplainable after all—(though\nI wisely said I _would_ try and explain!) You seem to me altogether ...\n(if you think my words sounded like flattery, _here_ shall come at the\nend—anything but that!) you do seem, my precious Ba, _too_ entirely\n_mine_ this minute,—my heart’s, my senses’, my soul’s precise τὸ καλόν\nto _last_! Too perfect for that! The true power with the ignorance of\nit, the real hold of my heart, as you can hold this letter,—yet the fear\nwith it that you may ‘vex me’ by a word,—makes me angry. Well,—if one\nmust see an end of all perfection—still, to know one _was_ privileged to\nsee it—Nay, it is safe now—for this present, all my future would not pay,\nwhatever your own future turned to!\n\nYet if I had to say, ‘I shall see her in a month or two—_perhaps_’—as\nthis time last year I was saying in a kind of contented feeling!\n\nThank God I shall see her to-morrow—my dearest, best, only Ba cannot\nchange by to-morrow!—What nonsense! The words break down, yet I _will_ be\ntrying to use them!\n\nGod bless my dearest, ever bless her.\n\nI shall be with you soon after this reaches you, I trust—now, I kiss you,\nhowever, and now, my Ba!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLetters! since you bid me send them,—do you not?—see what the longer says\nof the improved diction, freedom from difficulty &c. Who is to praise for\nthat, my Ba? Oh, your R.B. wholly and solely to be sure!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                                         [April 21, 1846.]\n\nI would not say to you yesterday, perhaps could not, that you wrote\never so much foolishness to me in the morning, dearest, and that I\nknew it ever so well. There is no use, no help, in discussing certain\nquestions,—some sorts of extravagance grow by talking of,—shake this\nelixir, and you have more and more bubbles on the surface of it. So\nI would not speak—nor will I write much. Only I _protest_, from my\nunderstanding, from my heart—and besides I do assert the truth—clear\nof any ‘affectation,’ this time,—and it is that you always make me\nmelancholy by using such words. It seems to me as if you were in the dark\naltogether, and held my hand for another’s: let the shutter be opened\nsuddenly; and the hand ... is dropped perhaps ... must I not think such\nthoughts, when you speak such words? I ask you if it is not reasonable.\nNo, I do not ask you. We will not argue whether eagles creep, or worms\nfly. And see if it is distrust on my part! _Love_, I have learnt to\nbelieve in. I see the new light which Reichenbach shows pouring forth\nvisibly from these chrystals tossed out. But when you say that the blue,\nI see, is red, and that the little chrystals are the fixed stars of the\nHeavens, how am I to think of you but that you are deluded, mistaken?—and\nin _what_? in love itself? Ah,—if you could know—if you could but\nknow for a full moment of conviction, how you depress and alarm me by\nsaying such things, you never would say them afterwards, _I_ know. So\ntrust to me, even as I trust to you, and do not say them ever again,\n... _you_, who ‘never flatter’. Is it not enough that you love me? Is\nthere anything greater? And will you run the risk of ruining that great\nwonder by bringing it to the test of an ‘argumentum ad absurdum’ such\nas I might draw from your letter? Have pity on me, my own dearest, and\nconsider how I must feel to see myself idealized away, little by little,\nlike Ossian’s spirits into the mist ... till ... ‘Gone is the daughter\nof Morven’! And what if it is mist or moon-glory, if I stretch out my\nhands to you in vain, and must still fade away farther? Now _you will not\nany more_. When the world comes to judge between us two, or rather over\nus both, the world will say (even the purblind world, as I myself with\nwide-open eyes!) that I have not been generous with my gifts—no; you are\nin a position to choose ... and you might have chosen better— ... that\nis my immoveable conviction. It has been only your love for me,—which\nI believe in perfectly as love—and which, being love, does not come by\npure logic, as the world itself may guess ... it has been only, wholly\nand purely your love for me which has made a level for us two to meet\nand stand together. There is my fact against your fiction! Now let us\ntalk no more. We cannot agree, because we stand in different positions\n... ‘I hear a voice you cannot hear’! ... I am on the black side of the\nknight’s shield. Presently you will hear perhaps, and see. Shall you love\nme _then_? When the ideal breaks off, when the light is gone, ... will\nyou love me then for the love which I shall bear you then as now, ... the\nonly real thing?\n\nIn the meantime I did but jest about the letters—I _know_ you care for\nmine ... because I care for yours so infinitely: ... it is a lesson\nlearnt by heart. To-night I shall write again!—\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 21, 1846.]\n\nMy dearest Ba, my sweetest, only love must sit, if she please, in the\ngondola chair and let me talk to-day, not write to her—for my head\naches,—from pure perversity,—and a little from my morning spent over a\nnovel of Balzac’s—_that_ is it, not any real illness, I know—however,\nthe effect is the same. Beside I got tired with the long walk from\nCarlyle’s last night—for I went and saw him to heart’s content—and he\ntalked characteristically and well, and _constringingly_, _bracingly_. He\nhas been in the country a little,—that is, has gone down to see his wife\noccasionally who was on a visit at Croydon, whence she only returned on\nSaturday. He told me he had read my last number; and that he had ‘been\nread to’—some good reader had recited ‘The Duchess’ to him. Altogether\nhe said wonderfully kind things and was pleased to prophesy in the same\nspirit; God bless him! We talked for three or four hours—he asked me to\ncome again soon, and I will.\n\nHere are two letters—Chorley’s, one—and the other from quite another kind\nof man, an old friend who ‘docks’ ships or something like it; a great\nlover of ‘intelligibility in writing,’ and heretofore a sufferer from my\npoetry.\n\nMy love, I lend you such things with exactly as much vanity as ... no\ncomparison will serve! it is the French vulgarism—comme ... n’importe\nquoi! Celui me pousse à la vanité comme—n’importe quoi!\n\nWill you have a significative ‘comme’ of another kind? ‘je me trouve bête\nce matin comme ... trente-six oies!’—(I assure you this is no flower\nculled from Balzac this morning—but a little ‘_souvenir_’ of an old play.)\n\nNow, if I were to say to myself something is dear as ‘thirty-six Bas’—I\nshould be scared, as when looking into a mirror cut into façettes one\nis met on every side by the same face, twenty times repeated. Nothing\ncan add to my conception of the one Ba—my one, only—ever dear, dearest\nBa—‘what perfect nonsense’ says Ba—and nonsensical I will be— —all she\npleases so long as let live and die her very own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 22, 1846.]\n\n‘Vanity’! I never saw in you, my very dearest, even the short morning\nshadow of ‘vanity.’ ‘Vanity’ is not of you! You work as the cedars grow,\nupward, and without noise, and without turning to look on the darkness\nyou cause upon the ground. It is only because you are best and dearest\nthat you let me see the letters ... yes, and besides, because I have a\nlittle a right to have them sent to me,—since they concern me more than\nyou,—and are, after a fashion, _my_ letters. _My_ letters? what am I\nsaying? _My_ letters, _my true_ letters, are different indeed—and one of\nthem came to-night to prove so!\n\nBut Mr. Chorley’s and the illegible man’s whose name begins with a D (or\ndoesn’t) both gave me pleasure. If Mr. Chorley did not read ‘Luria’ at\nonce, he speaks of you in the right words—and the naval illegible man,\nwith his downright earnest way of being impressed, makes a better critic\nthan need be sought for in the _Athenæum_ synod. And what a triumph\n(after all!) and what a privilege, and what a good deed, is this carrying\nof the light down into the mines among the workmen, this bringing down of\nthe angels of the Ideal into the very depth of the Real, where the hammer\nrings on the rough stone. The mission of Art, like that of Religion, is\nto the unlearned ... to the poor and to the blind—to make the rugged\npaths straight, and the wilderness to blossom as the rose—at least it\nseems so to me. And now, pray, why am I not to hear what Carlyle said?\nwill you tell me? won’t you tell me? how shall I persuade you? If I can\nor not, I will say God bless him too ... since he spoke the right word,\nto do you good. For the manifest advance in clearness and directness of\nexpression ... I quite forgot to take notice of what you said to me—and\nyou, who never flatter!—about being the cause of it—I! Now do observe\nthat the ‘Soul’s Tragedy,’ which is as light as day, I never touched\nwith my finger, except in one place, I think ... to say ... ‘Just here\nthere is a little shade.’ The fact is, that your obscurities, ... as far\nas they concern the _medium_, ... you have been throwing off gradually\nand surely this long while—you have a calmer mastery over imagery and\nlanguage, and it was to be expected that you should. For me, I am the fly\non the chariot, ... ‘How we drive!’ Shall I ever, ever, ever, be of any\nuse or good to you? See what a thought you have thrown me into, from that\nheight! Shall I ever, ever, be of any use, any good—and not, rather, the\ncontrary to these? Love is something: and it is something to love you\nbetter than a better woman could: but ... but....\n\nThere is no use nor good in writing so, and you with a headache too!\nWhy, how could you get that headache? First with not walking; then with\nwalking—!! and reading Balzac. But you had been writing notes perhaps? or\nCarlyle had talked _too_ ‘bracingly?’ or you fasted too long, being too\nlate for his tea-kettle? The headache _came_ at any rate. Did it _go_?\ntell me, dearest beloved! say how you are. And let me hear if your mother\ncontinues to be better. How happy that change must make you all! and\nshall I not thank God that it makes _you_ happy?\n\nMr. Kenyon has not been here, and I have nothing, nothing, to tell you.\nThe east wind has kept guard at the door, so that I should not go out,\n... and nothing has happened. I seem not to have drawn breath scarcely,\nsince we parted. ‘Parted’—what a word! As if we could!—in the full sense!\n\nI have written to Miss Bayley to ask her to come on any day except\nSaturday.\n\nShall the thirty-six Bas love you all together in that one Ba who is your\nown?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 22, 1846.]\n\nI never thought I should convince you, dearest—and I was foolish to write\n_so_, since it makes you reply so. At all events, I do not habitually\noffend in this kind—forty-nine days out of fifty I hear my own praises\nfrom your lips, and yet keep silence—on the fiftieth I protest gently—is\nthat too much? Then I will be quiet altogether, my Ba, and get a comfort\nout of the consciousness of obedience there at least. But I should like\nsome talking-bird to tell you the struggle there is and what I _could_\nsay. Shall I idealize you into mere mist, Ba, and see the fine, fine,\nlast of you? Well, I cannot even play with the fancy of _that_—so, one\nday, when so much is to be cleared up between us, look for a word or\ntwo on this matter also. Some savage speech about the ‘hand I was to\nhave dropped’—the whole ending with the Promethean—Οὕτως ὑβρίζειν τοὺς\nὑβρίζοντας χρέων. Meantime my revenge on the hand must be to kiss it—I\nkiss it.\n\nYesterday’s letters both arrived this morning by the 11½ post—was that\nright? I add my mite of savageness to the general treasury of wrath:\nevery body is complaining. Still, so long as I _do_ get my letters,—such\nletters!\n\nThe cold wind continues—you will have kept the room to-day no doubt—what\ncolourless weather; not the moist fresh bright true April of old years!\nI shall go out presently—but with such an effort, such unwillingness! I\nam better however—and my mother still continues _well_—goes out every\nmorning—so there is hope for everybody. I ought to tell you that I went\nto my doctor last evening—(remembering _to whom_ I promised I would\ndo so, if need were, or good seemed likely to follow)—and he speaks\nencouragingly and I have engaged to be obedient; perhaps, because he\nordains no very intolerable laws. He says I am better than when he saw\nme last—and, as he wanted _then_ to begin and prescribe, ... there is\nclearly a gain of about two months’ comfort!\n\nHere strikes fatal four-o’clock! To-morrow for more writing; and _now_,\nfor the never-ending love, and thought of my dearest dearest. May God\nbless you, Ba.\n\n                                                                Your own——",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Evening.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 23, 1846.]\n\nThen seriously you are not well, since you went for the medical advice\nafter all! _that_ is the thought which is uppermost as the effect of your\nletter, though I ought to be grateful to you (and am!) for remembering\nto keep your promise, made two months ago. But how can I help thinking\nthat you are ill ... help _knowing_ that you felt very ill before you\ncame to consider that promise? You _did_ feel very ill ... now did you\nnot? And I see in this letter that you _are not_ well—I see plainly,\nplainly! Have you been using the shower-bath? tell me:—and tell me how\nyou are—do not keep back anything. For the rest, you will submit to\nthe advice, you say, and you _mean_ to submit, I think, my own very\ndearest—remember that all my light comes, not only _through_ you, but\n_from_ you, let it be April light or November light. I say that for\n_you_. As for myself, when I am anxious about you, it is not, I hope,\nfor such a reason as that my light comes from you. Before I had any\nlight, ... before I knew you _so_ ... do I not remember how Mr. Kenyon\nwith that suggestive shake of the head and grave dropping of the voice,\nwhen he came and told me with other news, of your being _ill_, ... made\nme wonderfully unhappy and restless till I could not help writing for a\ndirecter account? Oh, those strange days to look back upon, ... which had\nno miraculous light, yet were strange days, with their ‘darkness which\nmight be felt’ and was felt!\n\nYou will be careful, ... will you not? ... in these? I am not happy about\nyou, to-night. I feel as if you are worse perhaps than you say. And it\ndoes you so much good to keep talking about this misgiving and that\nmisgiving!—the ‘trente-six oies’ are nothing at all to me, really.\n\nFor those two letters, it was far from any intention of mine that you\nshould have them both together,—and the first-written went to the post\nat two on the day before. Too bad it is! I observe that you never get a\nletter on the day it is posted, unless the posting is very early, ... say\nbefore eight, or, at latest, before nine. Which is abominable, when the\ndistance is considered.\n\nAnd you make a piteous case out for yourself against me, indeed, ... and\nit seems very hard to have to endure so much, ‘forty-nine days out of\nfifty’ ... I did not think it was so bad with you! And when you protest\ngently on the fiftieth day ... so gently ... so gently!! Well, the fact\nis that you forget perhaps what sort of a gentle protestation it was, you\nwrote to me on Sunday, you who protest so gently, and never flatter! And\nas for having your own ‘praises blown in your eyes’ for forty-nine days\ntogether, I cannot confess to the iniquity of it, ... you mistake, you\nmistake, as well as forget—only that I will not vex you and convict you\ntoo much now that you are not well. So we shall have peace, shall we not?\non each side. _I_ never write extravagances—ah, but we will not write\n_of_ them, even. Any more letters about ‘Luria?’\n\nYes—All day to-day in the gondola chair! There was no leaving this room\nfor the cold wind, and it made me feel so tired without my taking a step\nscarcely, that after dinner ... guess what I did, and save me the shame\nof relating? after dinner, my dinner at one oclock, I positively fell\nfast asleep with this pen in my hand, and went to see you in a dream I\ndare say, though, this time, I do not remember. Then I half expected\nMiss Bayley, and she did not come, and instead of talking to her I wrote\nletters to ‘all the peoples’ ... I hate writing letters, how I hate it\nnow, except to you only. And to-day I thought only of you, let me write\never so away from you. Which is why you saw me in the gondola chair.\n\nBut you are not well—the ‘refrain’ comes round constantly—call it a\n_burden_! May God bless you, dearest beloved! Do you say harm of this\nApril, when it is the best April I ever saw, let it be proved to want the\nvulgar sun and blue sky as much as you please! Yet you are not well! say\nhow you are! I come clear out of the mist to call myself\n\n                              Your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 23, 1846.]\n\nDear, dear Ba, I was never very ill, and now am very much better, quite\nwell, indeed. I mean to co-operate with your wishes, and my doctor’s\ndoings, which are luckily gentle enough,—and so, how should I fail of\nbringing into subjection this restive, ill-conditioned head of mine?\n\nThis morning I have walked to town and back—leaving myself barely time\nto write—but just before going out, I got your letter, for which I was\nwaiting; and the joy of it, the entire delight, carried me lightly out\nand in again. Ah, my own Ba,—of the two ‘extravagances which you never\nwrite nor speak,’—after all, if I must, I concede the _praises_ and\neagle-soaring and, and—because, if I please, I can say, if you do persist\nin making me, ‘why, it _may_ be so,—how should I know, or Ba _not_ know?’\nAnd as a man may suppose himself poor and yet be rightful owner to a\nwonderful estate somewhere (in novels &c.)—so, I, the intellectually poor\n&c. &c.—But, dearest, if you say ‘My letters _tire_ you’——say _that_\nagain—and then _what_ unknown _gadge_ ought to stop the darling mouth?\nHow does honey dew bind up the rose from opening? Moreover it is one\npeculiarity of my mind that it loses no pleasure,—must not forego the\nformer for the latter pleasure. How shall I explain? I believe that, when\nI should have been your husband for years,—years—if I were separated from\nyou for a day and a letter came—I think my heart would move to it _just\nas it now does_—because now, when I see you, know what that blessing\nis—still the very oldest first flutter of delight at ‘Miss Barrett’s’\nwriting it is all here, _all_!\n\nShall my heart flutter, then, to-morrow, my dear dear heart’s heart? And\nit shall be _not_ April when I read it your letter—but June and May—if it\ntells _you_ are well, _as I am well_,—now, if I say _that_, can you doubt\nwhat I consider my present state? But be _better_, dear Ba, and make me\nbetter—I should like to breathe and move and live by your allowance and\npleasure—being your very very own\n\n                                                                      R.B.\n\nI see this morning a characteristic piece of news in the paper. President\nPolk, with an eye to business, gets his brother, a tall gaunt hungry man,\nappointed Ambassador to Naples—why not? So he arrives a year ago,—finds\nthe Neapolitans speak Italian, or else French, or else German—that is,\nthe Diplomatic Body at Naples don’t speak English—on which discovery,\nPolk secundus sees he may as well amuse himself, so goes to Paris for\nhalf a year,—then to Rome where he is now, seeing sights—who could\ntell the Italians were not able to talk English? Is not that American\nentirely? Carlyle told me of an American who was commissioned by some\nlearned body of his countrymen to ask two questions ... ‘What C.’s\nopinion was as to a future state?’—and next ‘what relation Goethe was to\nGoethe’s mother’s husband?’—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 24, 1846.]\n\nYes, you are better, I think. I thank God for _that_, first of all. And,\ndo you know, your note only just comes, and it is past ten o’clock, and I\nhad rung the bell to have the letter-box investigated ... and then came\nthe knock and the letter! Such a sinning post, it is, more and more. But\nto come at last, is something—I am contented indeed. And for being well,\nI am well too, if that is all. The wind is a little hard on me; but I\nkeep in the room and think of you and am thought of by you, and no wind,\nunder such circumstances, can do much harm perhaps:—it does not to _me_,\nanywise. So keep well, and believe that I am so:—‘well as you are well’\n... which sounds very well.\n\nWhat nonsense one comes to write when one is glad! I observe _that_\nin myself constantly. All my wisdom seems to depend on being pricked\nwith pins ... or rather with something sharper. And besides your being\nbetter, I am glad through what you say here about your ‘peculiarity’!\nAh—how you have words in your coffers, of all sorts, ... crowns to suit\nall heads ... and this, which I try on last, suits mine better than the\nother glittering ones. Those exaggerations, idealizations, with burning\ncarbuncles in the front of them, which made me sigh under the weight,\n... those are different—! But when you say now that you do not part with\nfeelings,—that it is your peculiarity not to wear them out, and that you\nare likely to care for the sight of my handwriting as much after years\nas at first, why you make me happy when you say such things, and (see\nwhat faith I have!) _I believe them_, since you say them, speaking of\nyourself. They are not after the fashion of men, or women either—but,\ntrue of _you_, they may be, ... and I take upon trust that they are: I\naccept such words from you as means of gladness. The worst is—I mean,\nthe worst reasonableness that goes out to oppose them, is, ... the fear\nlest, when your judgments have been corrected by experience, the feelings\nmay correct themselves. But it is ungrateful to talk reason in the face\nof so much love. I take up the gladness rather, and thank you and bless\nyou seven times over, to completion. You are the best, I know, of all\nin the world. Did I tell you once that my love was ‘_something_’? Yet\nit is nothing: because there is no woman, let her heart be ever so made\nof stone and steel, who could _help_ loving you, ... I answer for all\nwomen!—so this is no merit of mine, though it is the best thing I ever\ndid in my life.\n\nDearest beloved, when I used to tell you to give me up, and imagined\nto myself how I should feel if you did it, ... and thought it would\nnot be much worse than it was before I knew you ... (a little better\nindeed, inasmuch as I had the memory for ever ...) the chief _pang_ was\nthe idea of another woman——! From _that_, I have turned back again and\nagain, recoiling like a horse set against too high a wall. Therefore if\nI talk of what all women _would_ do, I do not mean that they _should_.\n‘Thirty-six Bas,’ we shall not have,—shall we? or I shall be like Flush,\nwho, before he learnt to be a philosopher, used to shiver with rage at\nsight of the Flush in the looking-glass, and gnash his teeth impotently,\nand quite howl. Now,—we shall not, dearest, have the thirty-six Bas ...\nnow, shall we? Besides, _one_ will be more than enough, she fears to\nherself, for your comfort and patience.\n\nNo more letters about ‘Luria’? Did you see Moxon when you were in town?\n\nMiss Bayley has not been here yet. To-morrow, perhaps. When she comes,\nI shall not dare name you, but _she_ will, I think ... I seem sure of\nhearing her mind about ‘Luria’ and the ‘Tragedy.’ George thinks the\nformer ‘very fine.’ Mr. Kenyon does not come,—and to-morrow (Friday) he\ngoes ... from London.\n\nYou will care for me always the same? But _that_ is like promising a\ncharmed life, or an impossible immortality to somebody—and nobody has\neither, except Louis Philippe. May God bless you,—say how you are when\nyou write to-morrow.\n\n                                 Your own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nOh—your learned Americans! was it literal of Carlyle, do you think, or a\njest?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, April 24, 1846.]\n\nHow I sympathize with poor Cloten when he complains that ‘he is in\nthe habit of saying daily many things fully as witty as those of\nPosthumus, men praise so—_if men would but note them_’!—I feel jealous\nof the success and ‘praise’ of my Ba,—falling as they do on the mere\n_asides_ and interjectional fits and starts of the play,—when its earnest\nsoliloquy, the very soul and substance of it all, never reaches her ear,\nnor calls down her dear, dear words.\n\nYet do I say that I feel jealous? Rather, I acquiesce gladly in the\nignorance ... because when the words, the golden words, are brought in to\nme by the inferior agents, and honestly transferred by _them_ to the real\nmoving powers ... they, even, find the reward too much, too much, till\nthey—till they resolve (on the other side of a sheet) to keep silence and\nbe grateful till death help them to speak.\n\nWell, my dear, own dearest ... the week has got to its weary end, and\nto-morrow I shall trust to be with you. I continue to feel better,—and\nthis morning’s rain, in the opinion of the learned, will be succeeded by\nwarm weather. May is just here, beside.\n\nLet me say how a word of praise from your brother gratifies me. I feel\nhis kindness in other respects—feel it deeply—as I do that of the rest\nof your family. Because ... after these extravagant flatteries of mine\nyou find such just fault with,—wherein I go the length of attributing to\nyou the authorship of the ‘Drama of Exile,’ and ‘Geraldine’ and ‘Bertha,’\nand many more poems which I used to suppose my Ba’s,—after that undue\nglorification, you will bear to be told, by way of ‘set-off’—that I\ncannot help thinking, you, of all your family, are the most ignorant of\nyour own value—very ignorant you are, my sweet Ba,—but they cannot be,\nand their kindness to me becomes centupled ‘for reasons, for reasons.’\n\nNow let me kiss you—which kiss, as I am to really kiss you to-morrow,\nmy sweetest, I shall dare tell the truth of to myself, and say ‘The\nreal will be better.’ At other times, with a longer perspective of\ndays, and days after them, until ... why, _then_ I make the best of\npity and say ‘_Can_ the real be better—what can be better than the\nbest’? Still—remember my ‘peculiarity’—with the greater I keep the less,\nyou let me say and praise me for saying—so, with all the dear hope of\nto-morrow,—_now_, my Ba—and now, I kiss you. May God bless you, best and\ndearest.\n\nNo letters that are letters—here is one however from Arnould[1] just\narrived—an Oxford Prize Poet, and an admirable dear good fellow, for all\nhis praise—which is better.\n\n[1] [Afterwards Sir Joseph Arnould.]",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 27, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest you might have stayed ten minutes more. George did not come\nin till half past six after all—but there is the consciousness of being\nwise in one’s generation, which consoles so many for their eternity as\nchildren of light, ... yet doesn’t console _me_ for my ten minutes, ...\nso it is as well to say no more on this head!\n\nI have glanced over the paper in the _Athenæum_ and am of an increased\ncertainty that Mr. Chorley is the writer. It is his _way_ from beginning\nto end—and that is the way, observe, in which little critics get to tread\non the heels of great writers who are too great to kick backwards. Think\nof bringing George Sand to the level of the same sentence with such a\nwoman as Mrs. Ellis! And then, the infinite trash about the three eras in\nthe Frenchwoman’s career, ... which never would have been dragged into\napplication there, if the critic had heard of her last two volumes ...\npublished since the ‘Meunier d’Angibault,’ ‘Teverino’ and ‘Isidora.’ One\nmay be angry and sin not, over such inapplicable commonplace. The motive\nof it, the low expediency, is worse to me than the offence. Why mention\nher at all ... why name in any fashion any of these French writers, for\nthe reception of whom the English mind is certainly not prepared, unless\nthey are to be named worthily, recognised righteously? It is just the\nprinciple of the advice about the De Kocks; whom people are to go and see\nand deny their acquaintance afterwards. Why not say boldly ‘These writers\nhave high faculty, and imagination such as none of our romance-writers\ncan pretend to—but they have besides a devil—and we do not recommend\nthem as fit reading for English families!’ Now wouldn’t it answer every\npurpose? Or silence would!—silence, at least. But this digging and\nnagging at great reputations, ... it is to me quite insufferable: and not\ncompensated for by the motive, which is a truckling to conventions rather\nthan to morals. As if earnestness of aim was not, from the beginning,\nfrom ‘Rose et Blanche’ and ‘Indiana,’ a characteristic of George Sand!\nReally it is pitiful.\n\nThe ‘Mysteries of the Heaths,’ I suppose to be a translation of ‘Sept\nJours au Château,’ a very clever story from the monstrous Hydra-headed\nimagination of Frédéric Soulié. Dumas is inferior to them all of\ncourse, yet a right good storyteller when he is in the mind for\nstorytelling;—telling, telling, telling, and never having done. You know\nI like listening to stories—I agree with the great Sultan and would\nforego ever so much cutting off of heads for the sake of a story—it is a\ntaste quite apart from a taste for literature: a story-teller, I like,\napart from the sweet voice. Now that book of Dumas’s on the League wars,\nwhich distressed me so the other day, by having the cruelty ... the\n‘villainie’ ... of hanging its hero in the fourth volume ... (regularly\nhanging him on a pair of gallows—wasn’t it too bad?) that book is amusing\nenough, more than amusing enough, to take with one’s coffee ... which is\nmy fashion, ... because you are not here and I have nobody to talk to me.\nThe hero who was hanged, deserved it a little, I think, though the author\nmeant it for a pure misfortune and though no good romance-reader in the\nworld, such as I am, could bear to part with the hero of four volumes\nin _that_ manner, without pain; but the hero did deserve it a little\nwhen one came to consider. In the first place, he was a traitor once or\ntwice in war and politics, and was quite ready to be so a third or fourth\ntime, ... _only_ ... as he said to the lady he loved ... ‘je perdrais\nvotre estime.’ ‘Is that your only objection’ she enquired. ‘_The only\none_’ he answered! (_How_ frightfully true, that those brilliant French\nwriters have no moral sense at all! do not, for the most part, know\nright from wrong! here, an instance!) Then, from the beginning to the\nend of the four volumes, he loves two women together ... a ‘phénomène’\nby no means uncommon, says the historian musingly, ... and, except for\nthe hanging, there might have been a difficulty perhaps in the final\narrangement. Yet oh ... to see one’s hero, the hero of four volumes, and\nnot a bad hero either in some respects, hung up before one’s eyes! ...\nit wrongs the natural affections to think of it! it made me unhappy for\na full hour! There should be a society for the prevention of cruelty to\nromance-readers, against the recurrence of such things!\n\nPure nonsense I write to you, it seems to me.\n\nWhat beautiful flowers you brought me!—and the sweet-brier is unfolding\nits leaves to-day, as if you did them, so, no wrong. And I have been\nconsidering; and there are not, if you please, _five_ but _four_ days,\nbetween Saturday and Thursday. In the meanwhile say how you are, dearest\ndearest! My thoughts are with you constantly ... indeed. I could almost\nsay, too much, ... because sometimes they grow weak and tired ... not of\n_you_, who are best and beloved, but of themselves, having been so long\nused to be sad, May God bless you, ... bless you! His best blessing for\n_me_ (after _that_!) were to make me worthy of you—but it would take too\nmany miracles.\n\n                                   Your\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nRemember the letters, if they come.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 27, 1846.]\n\nSee what a brain I have,—which means, _you_ have! The book I ought to\nput in my pocket,—and fancy I leave on the table,—is picked up in our\nlane and presented to me on my return; so my reason, which told you I had\nforgotten it, the book, was wrong, and my instinct which told me, all\nthe time, that I could not forget even so poor a matter if it tended to\nyou,—_that_ was right, as usual? (Don’t think that I forgot the said book\non the former occasions ... I wanted to look through it first, so as to\nbe able to correct any possible mistakings, in case you should ask, or\nshould not ask, my siren! I read the book during the voyage.)\n\nWill you tell me what number of the _League_ contains the notice of you?\nI can get it directly. I did not ask you yesterday, being just as much\nmaster of myself as I commonly am when with you—but after-wisdom comes\nduly for a consolation, and mine was apparent in a remark I made last\nnight—‘Here is truly an illusion broken’ I said—‘for not very long ago I\nused to feel impatient at listening to other people’s commendations of\nher, and as if they were usurping my especial office,—they _could_ not\nsee what I see, not utter what I could utter: and now, at the beginning\nof my utterance, the hand closes my mouth, while its dear fellow shuts\nmy eyes,—I may not see what everybody sees, nor say what the whole world\nsays,—I, that was to excel them all in either function! So now I will\nchange my policy and bid them praise, praise, praise, praise, since I\nmay not. Will you let me hear them, my Ba? You know Chesterfield forbids\nhis son to play on the instrument himself—‘for you can pay musicians’\nhe says—‘and hear them play.’ Where may I hear this discourser of most\nexcellent music?\n\nIn your last letter you spoke of ‘other women,’ and said they might\n‘love’ me—just see! They might love me because of something in me,\nlovingness in me, which they never could have evoked ... so the effect\nproduces the cause, my dear ‘inverter’! If there had been a vague aimless\nfeeling in me, turning hither and thither for some object to attach\nitself to and spend itself on, and you had chanced to be that object, I\nshould understand you were very little flattered and how a poplar does as\nwell for a vine-prop as a palm tree—but whatever love of mine clings to\nyou was created by you, dearest,—they were not in me, I believed—those\nfeelings,—till you came. So that, mournful and degrading as it sounds,\nstill it would, I think, be more rational to confess the possibility\nof their living on, though you withdrew,—finding some other—oh no, it\nis,—that is as great an impossibility as the other,—they came from you,\nthey go to you, what is the whole world to them!\n\nMay God bless you, repay you—He can—\n\nWell Ba, do you see the _Examiner_? That is very kind, very generous\nof Forster. There are real difficulties in the way of this prompt,\nefficient, serviceable notice—for he has a tribe of friends, dramatists,\nactors ‘conflicting interests’ &c. &c. to keep the peace among,—and\nhe quite understands his trade—how compensation is to be made, and an\nequilibrium kept in the praises so as to offend nobody,—yet see how he\nwrites, and with a heap of other business on his shoulders! I thank him\nvery sincerely, I am sure.\n\nTell me how you are, beloved—all-beloved! I am quite well to-day,—have\nbeen out.\n\nDo you remember our friend Bennett of Blackheath? (Don’t ejaculate ‘le\nBenêt’!) He sent me letters lately—and I returned a copy of ‘Luria’ to\nsave compliments and words—here is his answer ... (I will at once confess\nI could not read it, but Ba bids me send, and what am I but Ba’s own,\nvery very own?)",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 27, 1846.]\n\nOh yes; that paper is by Chorley, no doubt—I read it, and quite\nwonder at him. I suppose he follows somebody’s ‘lead’—writes as he\nis directed—because I well remember what he said on lending me ‘Le\nCompagnon.’ There, there is that other silly expenditure of pen and ink\non the English poets, or whatever they are. And in such work may a man\nspend his youth and not a few available energies—sad work altogether!\n\nMy love, _I_ have done a fair day’s work this Monday,—whoever may be\nidle—I thought I would call on Forster this morning—he was out, and I\ncrossed over to Moxon’s, not seeing him, neither, and thence walked\nhome—so that to tell you I am _well_ is superfluous enough, is it not?\nBut while the sun shone brightest, (and it shines now) I said ‘The\ncold wind is felt through it all,—_she keeps the room_!’ The wind is\nunremitting,—savage. Do you bear it, dearest, or suffer, as I fear?\n(Speaking of Forster ... you see the _Examiner_, I believe? Or I will\nsend it directly of course). I entirely agree with you in your estimate\nof the comparative value of French and English Romance-writers. I bade\nthe completest adieu to the latter on my first introduction to Balzac,\nwhom I greatly admire for his faculty, whatever he may choose to do with\nit. Do you know a little sketch ‘La Messe de l’Athée,’—most affecting\nto me. And for _you_, with your love of a ‘story,’ what an unceasing\ndelight must be that very ingenious way of his, by which he connects the\nnew novel with its predecessors—keeps telling you more and more news yet\nof the people you have got interested in, but seemed to have done with.\nRastignac, Mme. d’Espard, Desplein &c.—they keep alive, moving—it is not\ningenious? Frédéric Soulié I know a little of (I let this reading drop\nsome ten years ago) and only George Sand’s early works: by the way,\nthe worst thing of all in that blessed article we have been referring\nto, is the spiteful and quite uncalled for introduction of the names of\nA. de Musset and De Lamennais—what have the English families to do with\n_that_? Did you notice a stanza quoted from some lachrymose rhymester to\nbe laughed at (in the Article on Poetry)—in which the writer complains\nof the ill-treatment of false friends, for, says he, ‘I have felt their\n_bangs_.’ The notion of one’s friend ‘banging’ one is exhilarating when\none reflects that he might get a little pin, and prick, prick after this\nfashion. No, it is probably a manner of writing,—meant for the week’s\nlife and the dozen readers. Here is a note from his sister, by the way.\n\nNow, dearest-dearest, good bye till to-morrow. I think of you all day,\nand, if I dream, dream of you—and the end of the thinking and of the\ndreaming is still new love, new love of you, my sweetest, only beloved!\nso I kiss you and bless you from my heart of heart.\n\n                                                              Ever your R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Evening.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 28, 1846.]\n\nVery good _Examiner_!—I am pleased with it and with Mr. Forster for the\nnonce, though he talks a little nonsense here and there, in order to be a\ntrue critic, and though he doesn’t talk at all, scarcely, of the ‘Soul’s\nTragedy’ ... how is one to bear it? That ‘Tragedy’ has wonderful things\nin it—thoughts, suggestions, ... and more and more I feel, that you never\ndid better dialogue than in the first part. Every pulse of it is alive\nand individual—dramatic dialogue of the best. Nobody in the world could\nwrite such dialogue—now, you know, you must be patient and ‘meke as\nmaid,’ being in the course of the forty-nine days of enduring praises.\nPraises, instead of ‘bangs’!!—consider that it might be worse!—_dicit\nipsissima Ba_.\n\nThink of my not hearing a word about the article in the _Examiner_,\nuntil I had your note this morning. And the _Examiner_ was in the house\nsince Saturday night, and nobody to tell me! I was in high vexation,\nreproaching them all, to-day—till Stormie had the impertinence to turn\nround and tell me that only Papa had read the paper, and that ‘he had of\ncourse put it away to keep me from the impropriety of thinking too much\nabout ... about’ ... yes, really Stormie _was_ so impertinent. For the\nrest, when Papa came up-stairs at one o’clock, he had it in his hand.\n\nAt two, Miss Bayley came, and sate here two hours, and thought me looking\nso well, with such improved looks from last autumn, that I don’t mean to\ngroan at all to you to-day about the wind—it is a savage wind, as you\nsay, and I wish it were gone, and I am afraid of stirring from the room\nwhile it lasts, but there’s an end ... and not of _me_, says Miss Bayley.\nShe doffed her bonnet and talked and talked, and was agreeable and\naffectionate, and means to come constantly to see me ... (‘only not on\nThursday,’ I desired:) and do you know, you need not think any more of my\ngoing with you to Italy, for she has made up her mind to take me herself\n... there is no escape for me that I can see—it’s fixed ... certain!\nwith a thousand generous benignities she stifled my ‘no’s’ ... and all I\nhad breath to say at last, was, that ‘there was time enough for plans of\nthat kind.’ Seriously, I was quite embarrassed to know how to adjourn the\ndebate. And she is capable of ‘arranging everything’—of persisting, of\ninsisting—who knows what? And so, ... when I am ‘withdrawn’ ... carried\naway ... then, shall all my ‘feelings,’ which are in you, be given to\nsomebody else? is _that_ the way—?\n\nNow I shall not make jests upon _that_ ... I shall not: first, I shall\nnot, because it is ungrateful—and next and principally, because my\nheart stands still only to think of it...! Why did you say _that_ to\nme? I could be as jealous (did I not tell you once?) as any one of\nyour melodramatic gitana heroines, who carries a poignard between the\nwhite-satin sash and the spangles? I perfectly understand, at this\ndistance, what _jealousy_ is, would be, ought to be, must be—though I\nnever guessed at all what _love_ was, at _that_ distance, and startled I\nam often and confounded, to see the impotency of my imagination.\n\nForgive the blottings out—I have not blotted out lately ... _have_ I now?\nand it is pardonable once in a hundred years or days.\n\nThe rest for to-morrow. Your correspondent of the first letter you sent\nme really does write like a Bennet, though he praises you. I could not\nhelp laughing very gently, though he praises you. Good-night my only\nbeloved ... dearest! As _my_ Bennet says (Georgiana) when she catches\nvehemently at the laurel ... ‘_I will not be forgot_’....\n\n‘I must die ... but I WILL NOT BE FORGOT’ (in _large capitals_!) But what\n_she_ applies to the Delphic groves, turns for _me_ to something more\nambitious. ‘I will not be forgot’ ... will I? shall I? not till Thursday\nat least ... being ever and ever\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 28, 1846.]\n\nNow bless you, my dearest, best Ba, for this letter that comes at the\neleventh hour,—which means, at 3 o’clock. Was not I frightened! I\nmade sure you would write. Why, our Post emulates the Italian glory\n... nay, that is _too_ savage a saying—for in Venice or Rome I should\nhave to go for this to the office, and only get it at last through the\nforbearing honesty of every other applicant for letters during the day,\nor week—since to every man and woman who thrusts his or her head in at\nthe window at Venice, the clerk hands coolly over the whole odd hundred,\nand turns to his rest again till as many are taken as may be thought\nnecessary. But, Ba, dear dearest Ba, do you really mean to tell me I\n_said ‘that’_ ... of ‘transferring feelings’ etc? I hope I did,—though\nI cannot imagine how I ever could—say so—for so the greater fault will\nbe Ba’s—who drives me from one Scylla (see my critic’s account) into a\nworse Charybdis through pure fear and aversion,—and then cries ‘See where\nyou are _now_!’ I was retreating as far as possible from that imaginary\n‘woman who called out those feelings,’—might have called them out,—just\nas this April sun of ours makes date-palms grow and bear—and because I\nsaid, of the two hypotheses, the one which taught you the palms _might_\nbe transplanted and _live on_ here,—_that_ was the more rational ... you\nturn and ask ‘So your garden will rear palms.’ Now, I tell Ba,—no, I will\nkiss Ba and so tell her.\n\nHow happy Miss Bayley’s testimony makes me! One never can be too sure of\nsuch a happiness. She has no motive for thus confirming it. You ‘look so\nwell’—and she not merely sees it, but _acts_ upon it,—is for deriving a\npractical benefit from it, and forthwith. Then, Miss Bayley, let me try\nand ‘transfer’ ... ah, the palm is too firmly rooted in my very heart,—I\ncan but sprinkle you over with yellow dust!\n\nOh, Ba; not to tell me of the _League_; the _number_!—will you please\ntell me? One letter more I get, do I not? Then comes Thursday—my Thursday.\n\nWhat you style ‘impertinence’ in your Brother, is very kind and\ngood-natured to my thinking. Well, now—see the way a newspaper criticism\naffects one, nearly the only way! If this had been an attack—how it would\naffect you and me matters nothing—it might affect others disagreeably—and\nthrough them, us. So I feel very much obliged to Forster in this instance.\n\nI kiss you with perfect love, my sweetest best Ba. May God bless you.\n\n                                                                        R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 29, 1846.]\n\nDearest, you are not to blame the post, nor even me. The reason you did\nnot get the letter was simply that Henrietta slept over the hour, and let\nit lie on the table till past eight. Still, you should have had it before\n_three_ perhaps. Only the wrong was less a wrong than you fancied.\n\nFor _my_ wrongs, dearest beloved, they are mine I confess, and not yours\n... ah, you are ‘evilly persecuted, and entreated’ of me, I must allow.\nYet as, with all my calumnious imputations, I think softly to myself\nseven times seven times a day that no living man is worthy to stand in\nyour footsteps, ... why you must try to forgive and (_not_) forget me. Do\nI teaze you past enduring, sometimes? Yes, yes. And wasn’t it my fault\nabout the ‘imaginary woman;’ that heiress, in an hypothesis, of the\n‘love’ I ‘made’? Yes, yes, yes—it was, of course. Unless indeed she came\nout of that famous mist, which you fined me away into, ... the day you\nslew and idealized me, remember!—and, now I begin to consider, I think\nshe did! So we will share the fault between us, you and I. The odium of\nit, I was going to say—but _odium_ is by no means the right word, perhaps.\n\nThe truth of all is, that you are too much in the excess of goodness,\n... that you spoil me! There it is! Did I not tell you, warn you, that\nI never was used to the purple and fine linen of such an infinite\ntenderness? If you give me back my sackcloth, I shall know my right hand\nfrom my left again, perhaps, ... guess where I stand ... what I am ...\nrecover my common sense. Will you? no—do not.\n\nAnd for the _League_ newspaper, you mistook me, and I forgot to say so\nin my letter yesterday. I told you only that the _League_ paper had\nmentioned me—not noticed me. It was just ... I just shall _tell_ you,\nthat you may not spend another thought on such a deep subject ... it was\na mere quotation from the ‘cornships in the offing,’ with a prefatory\n_as that exquisite poet Miss B ... says_! Now you are done with the\nwinter of your discontent? You are with the snowdrops at any rate. But\nlast year there was a regular criticism on my poems in that _League_\npaper, and I had every reason to thank the critic. I have heard too that\nCobden is a very gracious reader of mine ... and that his Leeds (liege)\nsubjects generally do me the honours of popularity, more than any other\npeople in England. There’s glory for you, talking of palm-trees.\n\nAh—talking of palm-trees, you do not know what a curious coincidence your\nthought is with a thought of mine, which I shall not tell you now ... but\nsome day perhaps. There’s a mystery! talking of Venice!\n\nFor Balzac, I have had my full or overfull pleasure from that habit of\nhis you speak of, ... and which seems to prove his own good faith in the\nlife and reality of his creations, in such a striking manner. He is a\nwriter of most wonderful faculty—with an overflow of life everywhere—with\nthe vision and the utterance of a great seer. His French is another\nlanguage—he throws new metals into it ... malleable metals, which fuse\nwith the heat of his genius. There is no writer in France, to my mind, at\nall comparable to Balzac—none—but where is the reader in England to make\nthe admission?—_none_, again ... is almost to be said.\n\nBut, dearest, you do not say how you are; and _that_ silence is not\nlawful, and _is_ too significant. For me, when the wind changed for a\nfew hours to-day, I went down-stairs with Flush, and had my walk in the\ndrawing-room. Mrs. Jameson has written to proclaim her coming to-morrow\nat four,—so I shall hear of ‘Luria,’ I think. Remember to bring my\nverses, if you please, on your Thursday. And if dreaming of me should be\ngood for making you love me, let me be dreamt of ... go on to dream of\nme: and love me, my beloved, ever so much, without grudging,—because the\nlove returns to you, all of it, ... as the wave to the sea; and with an\naddition of sundry grains of soiling sand, to make you properly grateful.\nTake care of yourself—may God take care of you for your own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                              [Post-mark, April 29, 1846.]\n\nOh, post, post, how I am plagued by what uses to delight me! No\nletter,—and I cannot but think you have written one, my Ba! It will come\nperhaps at 3 o’clock. Shame and again, shame!\n\nMeantime I will tell you what a dear, merciful Ba you are, in only\nthreatening me with daggers,—when you play at threatening,—instead of\ndeclaring you will _frown_ at me.... Oh, but here ‘Fear recoils, he knows\nwell why, even at the sound himself has made—’\n\nThe best of it is, that this was the second fright, and by no means the\nmost formidable. When I read that paragraph beginning ‘you need not think\nany more of going with me to Italy’—shall I only say I _was_ alarmed?\nWithout a particle of affectation, I tell Ba, I _am_, cannot help being,\nalarmed even now—we have been discussing possibilities—and it is rather\nmore possible than probable that Miss Bayley may ‘carry off’ my Ba, and\nher Flush, and, say, an odd volume of the Cyclic Poets, all in her pocket\n... she being, if I remember, of the race of the Anakim—than that I shall\never find in the wide world a flesh and blood woman able to bear the\nweight of the ‘feelings,’ I rest now upon the B and the A which spell\nBa’s name,—only her name!\n\nForster sent a note last evening urging me to go and dine with him and\nLeigh Hunt to-day,—there was no refusing. There is sunshine—you may have\nbeen down-stairs—but the wind continues.\n\nI shall know to-morrow—but surely a letter _is_ to come presently—let me\nwait a little.\n\nNothing! Pray write if anything have happened, my own Ba!\n\nNo time—Ever your",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                                 [Post-mark, May 1, 1846.]\n\nI am delighted with the verses and quite surprised by Mr. Arnould’s,\nhaving expected to find nothing but love and law in them, and really\nthere is a great deal besides. Hard to believe, it was, that a university\nprize poet (who was not Tennyson) could write such good verses: but he\nwrote them of _you_, and _that_ was enough inspiration for _him_, I\nsuppose, as it would be for others, my own dearest. How I delight in\nhearing you praised!—it is such a delightful assent to the word which is\nin me, in the deepest of me. You know that mysterious pleasure we have,\nin listening to echoes!—we hear nothing new, nothing we have not said\nourselves—yet we stand on the side of the hill and listen ... listen ...\nas if to the oracles of Delphi. The very pleasure of it all is in the\nrepetition ... the reverberation.\n\nWhen you had gone yesterday and I had taken my coffee, holding my book\n... ‘La Gorgone’ a sea-romance by _Landelle_, (those little duodecimo\nbooks are the only possible books to hold in one’s hand at coffee-times\n... and the people at Rolandi’s library sent me this, which is not worth\nmuch, I think, but quite new and very marine) ... holding my book at one\npage, as if fixed ... transfixed, ... by a sudden eternity, ... well,\nafter all _that_ was done with, coffee and all, ... in came George, and\ntold me that the day before he had seen Tennyson at Mr. Venables’ house,\nor chambers rather. Mr. Venables was unwell, and George went to see him,\nand while he was there, came the poet. He had left London for a few days,\nhe said, and meant to stay here for a time ... ‘hating it perfectly’\nlike your Donne ... ‘seeming to detest London,’ said George ... ‘abusing\neverything in unmeasured words.’ Then he had been dining at Dickens’s,\nand meeting various celebrities, and Dickens had asked him to go with\nhim (Dickens) to Switzerland, where he [is] going, to write his new\nwork: ‘but,’ laughed Tennyson, ‘if I went, I should be entreating him to\ndismiss his sentimentality, and so we should quarrel and part, and never\nsee one another any more. It was better to decline—and I have declined.’\nWhen George had told his story, I enquired if Tennyson was what was\ncalled an agreeable man—happy in conversation. And the reply was ...\n‘yes—but quite inferior to Browning! He neither talks so well,’ observed\nGeorge with a grave consideration and balancing of the sentences, ...\n‘nor has so frank and open a manner. The advantages are all on Browning’s\nside, _I should say_.’ Now dear George is a little criticised you must\nknow in this house for his official gravity and dignity—my sisters murmur\nat him very much sometimes ... poor dear George!—but he is good and kind,\nand high and right minded, as we all know, and I, for my part, never\nthought of criticising him yesterday when he said those words rather ...\nperhaps ... barristerially, ... had they been other words.\n\n_My_ other words must go by my next letter—I am to write to you again\npresently, you are to be pleased to remember ... and that letter may\nreach you, for aught I can guess, at the same moment with this. In the\nmeantime, ever beloved,\n\n                                I am your\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                                 [Post-mark, May 1, 1846.]\n\nI go to you, my Ba, with heart _full_ of love, so it seems,—yet I come\naway always with a greater capacity of holding love,—for there is more\nand still more,—_that_ seems too! At the beginning, I used to say (most\ntruly) that words were all inadequate to express my feelings,—now,\nthose very feelings seem, as I see them from this present moment, just\nas inadequate in their time to represent what I am conscious of now.\nI _do_ feel more, widelier, strangelier ... how can I tell you? You\nmust believe,—my only, only beloved! I daresay I have said this before,\nbecause it has struck me repeatedly,—and, judging by past experience, I\nshall need to say it again—and often again. Am I really destined to pass\nmy life sitting by you? And you speak of _your_ hesitation at trusting\nin miracles! Oh, my Ba, my heart’s—well, Ba, I am so far guiltless of\npresumption, let come what will, that I never for the moment cease to\nbe ... tremblingly anxious I will say,—and conscious that the good is\ntoo great for me in this world. You do not like one to write so, I know,\nbut there is a safety in it—the presumptuous walk blindfold among pits,\nto a proverb—and no one shall record that of me. And if I have cares\nand scruples of this kind at times, or at all times, I have none where\nmost other people would have very many. I never ask myself, as perhaps I\nshould,—‘Will _she_ be happy too?’—All that seems removed from me, far\nabove my concernment—she—you, my Ba ... will make _me_ so entirely happy,\nthat it seems enough to know ... my palm-trees grow well enough without\nknowing the cause of the sun’s heat. Then I think again, that your nature\nis to make happy and to bless, and itself to be satisfied with that.—So\ninstead of fruitless speculations how to give you back your own gift,\nI will rather resolve to lie quietly and let your dear will have its\nunrestricted way. All which I take up the paper determining _not_ to\nwrite,—for it is foolish, poor endeavour at best, but,—just this time it\nis written. May God bless you—\n\n                                                                      R.B.\n\nI called on Moxon, who is better, and reports cheeringly. Then I went to\nmy friend’s, and thence home, not much tired. I have to go out (to-day)\nwith my sister but only next door. To-morrow I hear from you, love, and\non Monday—(unless a pressing engagement &c.—ah!)\n\nWhat do you say to this little familiar passage in the daily life of\nfriend Howitt,—for which I am indebted to Moxon. Howitt is book-making\nabout Poets, it seems—where they were born, how they live, ‘what relation\ntheir mothers’ sons are to their fathers’—etc. In the prosecution of\nthis laudable object he finds his way to Ambleside, calls on Wordsworth\n‘quite promiscuously’ as Mrs. Malaprop says, meaning nothing at all. And\nso after a little ordinary complimenting and _play_-talk, our man of\nbusiness takes to good earnest, but dexterous questioning ... all for\npure interest in poetry and Mr. W. ‘So, sir, after that school ... if I\nunderstand—you went to ... to ...?’—and so on. Mr. Wordsworth the younger\nhaving quicker eyes than his father detected a certain shuffling movement\nbetween the visitor’s right hand and some mysterious region between\nthe chair’s back and his coat-pocket ... glimpses of a pocket case and\npaper note book were obtained. He thought it (the son) high time to go\nand tell Mrs. Wordsworth,—who came in and found the good old man in the\nfull outpouring of all those delightful reminiscences hitherto supposed\nthe exclusive property of Miss Fenner no doubt! Mrs. W—‘desired to speak\nwith William for a moment’ (the old William)—and then came the amazement,\nhorror &c. &c., and last of all came Mr. Howitt’s bow and ‘so no more at\npresent from your loving &c.’—Seriously, in my instinct—instinct—instinct\nthrice I write it and thank my stars! Moxon said, Howitt is ‘just gone to\ncall on Tennyson for information—having left his card for that purpose.’\n‘And one day will call on you’ quoth Moxon, who is but a sinister\nprophet, as _you_ may have heard—Dii meliora piis! It is fair enough in\nTennyson’s case, for he is apprised by Howitt’s self of the purpose of\nhis visit, but to try and inveigle Wordsworth into doing what he would\nhate most ... to his credit be it said—why, it is abominable—abominable!\n\nThen I heard another story—his wife, Mary, finds out,—at all events,\ntranslates Miss Bremer. Another publisher gets translated other works—or\nmay be the same,—as who shall say him nay? Howitt writes him a letter\n(which is shown my informant), wherein ‘rogue,’ ‘thief,’ ‘rascal’ and\nsimilar elegancies dance pleasantly through period after period.\n\n‘Come out from among them my soul, neither be thou a partaker of their\nhabitations!’\n\nFrom all which I infer—I may kiss you, may I not, love Ba? It is done,\nmay I or may I not—\n\n                                                            Ever your own",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                                 [Post-mark, May 2, 1846.]\n\nHow you write to me! Is there any word to answer to these words ...\nwhich, when I have read, I shut my eyes as one bewildered, and think\nblindly ... or do not think—some feelings are deeper than the thoughts\ntouch. My only beloved, it is thus with me ... I stand by a miracle in\nyour love, and because I stand in it and it covers me, just for _that_,\nyou cannot see me! May God grant that you _never see me_—for then we\ntwo shall be ‘happy’ as you say, and I, in the only possible manner, be\nvery sure. Meanwhile, you do quite well not to speculate about making me\nhappy ... your instinct knows, if _you_ do not know, that it is _implied_\nin your own happiness ... or rather (not to assume a magnanimity) in my\nsense of your being happy, not apart from me. As God sees me, and as I\nknow at all the motions of my own soul, I may assert to you that from the\nfirst moment of our being to each other anything, I never conceived of\nhappiness otherwise ... never thought of being happy through you or by\nyou or in you, even—your good was all my idea of good, and _is_. I hear\nwomen say sometimes of men whom they love ... ‘such a one will make me\nhappy, I am sure,’ or ‘I shall be happy with _him_, I think’—or again\n... ‘He is so good and affectionate that nobody need be afraid for my\nhappiness.’ Now, whether you like or dislike it, I will tell you that I\nnever had such thoughts of _you_, nor ever, for a moment, gave you that\nsort of praise. I do not know why ... or perhaps I do ... but I could not\nso think of you ... I have not time nor breath ... I could as soon play\non the guitar when it is thundering. So be happy, my own dearest ... and\nif it should be worth a thought that you _cannot_ be _alone_, _so_, you\nmay think _that_ too. You have so deep and intense a nature, that it were\nimpossible for you to love after the fashion of other men, weakly and\nimperfectly, and your love, which comes out like your genius, may glorify\nenough to make you happy, perhaps. Which is my dream, my calculation\nrather, when I am happiest now. May God bless you. Suppose I should\never read in your eyes that you were not happy with me?—can I help, do\nyou fancy, such thoughts? Could _you_ help being not happy? The very\nword ‘_unhappiness_’ implies that you cannot help it. Now forgive me my\nnaughtiness, because I love you, and never loved but you, ... and because\nI promise not to go with Miss Bayley to Italy ... I promise. Ah—If you\ncould pretend to be afraid of _that, indeed_, _I_ have a right to be\nafraid, without pretence at all ... _I_ who am a woman and frightened of\nlightning. And see the absurdity. If I did not go to Italy with _you_,\nthe reason would be that you did not choose—and if _you_ did not choose,\nI should not choose ... I would not see Italy without your eyes—_could_\nI, do you think? So if Miss Bayley takes me to Italy with a volume of the\nCyclic poets, it will be as a dead Ba clasped up between the leaves of\nit. You talked of a ‘Flora,’ you remember, in the first letter I had from\nyou.\n\nHow bad of William Howitt! How right you are, always! Yet not quite\nalways, dear dearest beloved, happily for your own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nSay how you are I beseech you, and honestly! I was down-stairs to-day,\nsince the wind changed, and am the better for it. What writing for a\npostman!—or for _you_ even!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                                 [Post-mark, May 2, 1846.]\n\nNo, my Ba, your letter came as it ought last night,—and the promise\nit contained of another made me restless all the morning—to no\npurpose,—nothing more comes—_yet_—for there is a ‘peradventure’ yet\nunwithdrawn. When I do not hear from you, as now, I always fancy there\nwas some signal reason why I ought to have heard ... that ‘to-morrow,’ I\ncould better bear the not hearing ... though never, never do yesterday’s\nletters slip by a hair’s breadth from the place in my affection they\nonce take,—_they_ could not have been dispensed with,—but the imaginary\nletter of to-morrow _could_, by contrast with to-day’s exigencies ...\ntill to-morrow really comes and is found preferring such claims of its\nown—such claims.\n\n_This_ letter I have got, and will try and love enough for two ... I can\ndo no harm by trying ... _this_ I do not mean to say that I expected. May\nI say ‘in heart-playing,’ ... now, Ba, it will be a fancy, which you can\npounce on and poke your humming-bird bill through, like a needle, in a\nvery ‘twinkling,’ and so shall my flower’s eye be ruined for ever, and\nwhen it turns black and shrivels up as dead flowers do, you can triumph\nand ask ‘are these your best flowers, best feelings for me?’. But now,\nafter this deprecation, you will be generous and only hover above, using\nthe diamond eye rather than the needle-bill,—and I will go on and dare\nsay that I should like, for one half second, _not to love you_, and then\nfeel all the love lit up in a flame to the topmost height, at the falling\nof such a letter on my heart. Don’t you know that foolish boys sometimes\nplay at hanging themselves—suspend themselves by the neck actually for\nsuch a half second as this of my fancying—that they may taste the luxury\nof catching back at existence, and being cut down again? There is a\nnotable exemplification, a worthy simile! It all comes, I suppose, from\nthe joy of being rid handsomely of my dinners and in a fair way for\nMonday ... nothing between but letters,—I shall continue to hope! At sea\nit always sounds pleasantly to hear ... after passing Cape This and Isle\nthe other, ‘now, _next_ land we make is—Italy, or England, or Greece.’\n\nMoxon told me Tennyson was still in Town. Switzerland? He is a fortnight\ngoing to wherever a Train takes him—‘for,’ says Moxon, ‘he has to pack\nup, and is too late, and next day’ ... I dare say he unaffectedly\nhates London where this poco-curanteism would entail all manner of\ndisagreeabilities. If I caught rightly ... that is, now apply rightly,\na word or two I heard ... one striking celebrity at Dickens’ Dinner\nwas—Lord Chesterfield—literary, inasmuch as a great ‘maker _up_ of\nbooks’—for the Derby. Macready may have been another personage—they,\nTennyson and he, may ‘fadge,’ in Shakespearian phrase, if the\nwriter of the ‘Two Voices’ &c. considers Home’s ‘Douglas’ exquisite\npoetry,—otherwise,—it is a chance!\n\nBut with respect to your Brother ... first of all—nay, and last of all,\nfor it all is attributable to _that_—I feel his kindness, in its way,\nas I feel yours; as truly, according to its degree and claim: but—‘now\nthink what I would speak!’—When he really _does_ see me one day—no longer\nembarrassed as under the circumstances I could not but have been on these\ntwo or three occasions when we met—he will find something better than\nconversational powers to which I never pretended—and what he will accept\nin preference,—a true, faithful desire of repaying his goodness—he will\nfind it, that is, because it must be _there_, and I have confidence in\nsuch feelings making sooner or later their way.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSo now, at 2½ p.m., I must (—_here is the Post_ ... from you? _Yes_—the\nletter is here at last—I was waiting:—now to read; no, kissing it comes\nfirst).\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd now ... I will not say a word, my love of loves, my dearest, dearest\nBa,—not one word—but I will go out and walk where I can be alone, and\nthink out all my thought of you, and bless you and love you with nothing\nto intercept the blessing and the love. I will look in the direction\nof London and send my heart there.... Dear, dear love, I kiss you and\ncommend you to God. Your very own—\n\nI am very well—quite well, dearest.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                                 [Post-mark, May 4, 1846.]\n\nWhen I said one more letter might come before to-morrow, I forgot. How\nused I to manage in the early ‘day of small things’—comparatively—when\nletters came once a week at most, and yet I felt myself so rich, dearest!\n\nI want you to remember, Ba, what I shall be nearly sure to forget when\ncloser to you than now; tell me to-morrow. If I chance to see Mrs.\nJameson in the course of the week what am I to say,—that is, what have\nyou decided on saying? Does she know that you write to me? Because there\nis a point of simple good taste to be preserved ... I must not listen\nwith indifference if I am told that ‘her friend Miss B.’ thought well\nof the last number. But she must know we write, I think,—never make any\nsecret of that, when the subject is brought forward.\n\nHere is warm May weather, my Ba; I do not shiver by sympathy as I fancy\nyou going down-stairs. I shall hope to see the sweet face look its ...\nnow, what? ‘Best’ would be altogether an impertinence,—unless you help my\nmeaning, which is ‘best,’ too.\n\nI received two days ago a number of the _People’s Journal_—from our\nillustrious contemporary, Bennett! Bennett figures where Barrett might\nhave fronted the world. Fact! I will cut you out his very original\nlyric[2]—observe the felicitous emendation in the author’s own blue ink\n... that supplemental trochee makes a musical line of it! Mary Howitt\nfollows with a pretty, washy, very meritorious Lyric of Life. There is ‘a\nguilty one’—‘Name her not!’ ‘Virtue turns aside for shame’\n\n    She was born of guilty kin—\n    Her life’s course hath guilty been—\n    Unto school she never went—\n    And whate’er she learned was sin,—\n                        LET HER DIE!\n\nAnd so on—what pure nonsense! Who cries ‘let her die’ in the whole world\nnow? thank God, nobody. The sin of the world (of the lookers-on, not the\ncausers of the wrong) consists, in these days, in looking on and asking\n‘How can we help her dying—or factory children’s dying—or evicted Irish\npeasantry’s dying?’ What ails these Howitts of a sudden, that they purvey\nthis kind of cat-lap,—they that once did better? William Howitt grinds\nhere an article on May day; past human power of reading of course, but I\njust noticed that not a venerablest commonplace was excused on account of\nits age—the quotations from Chaucer, Spenser, Herrick got once more into\nrank and file with the affecting alacrity shown the other day at a review\nof the Chelsea invalids! Oh, William, ‘Let them die!’\n\nSo goodbye till to-morrow, my dearest. I love you and bless you ever, and\nam your\n\n                                                                      R.B.\n\n[2] [‘Cry of the Spring Flower-seller,’ by W. C. Bennett.]",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                                 [Post-mark, May 5, 1846.]\n\nYes, you were right, my Ba—our meeting was on the 20th of last May: the\nnext letter I received was the 14th and _that_ ran in my head, no doubt,\nyesterday. You must have many such mistakes to forgive in me when I\nundertake to talk and ‘stare’ at the same time ... well for me if they\nare no more serious mistakes!\n\nI referred to my letters—and found much beside the date to reflect on.\nI will tell you. Would it not be perilous in some cases,—many cases—to\ncontrast the present with the very early Past: the first time, even when\nthere is abundant fruit, with the dewy springing and blossoming? One\nwould confess to a regret at the vanishing of that charm, at least, if\nit were felt to be somehow vanished out of the present. And, looking\nupon our experience as if it were another’s,—undoubtedly the peril\nseems doubled—with that five months’ previous correspondence ... only\n_then_,—after all the curiosity, and hope and fear,—the first visit to\ncome! And after,—shortly after,—you know—the heightened excitement that\nfollowed ... I should not believe in the case of another,—or should not\n_have_ believed,—that the strange delight could last ... no more than I\nshould think it reasonable to wonder, or even grieve, that it did not\nlast—so long as other delights came in due succession. Now, hear the\ntruth! I never, God knows, felt the joy of being with you as I felt it\nYESTERDAY—the fruit of my happiness has grown under the blossom, lifting\nit and keeping it as a coronet—not one feeling is lost, and the new\nfeelings are infinite. Ah, my Ba, can you wonder if I seem less inclined\nto see the adorable kindness in those provisions, and suppositions, and\nallowances for escape, change of mind &c., you furnish me with,—than to\nbe struck at the strange fancy which, as I said, insists on my being\nfree to leave off breathing vital air the moment it shall so please me?\n\nAnd when I spoke of ‘dishonouring suppositions’ I had not the faintest\napproximation to an idea of standing in your eyes for a magnanimous\nkeeper of promises, vow-observer, and the rest. All _that_ is profoundly\npitiable! But to change none of my views of the good of this life and\nthe next, and yet to give up my love on the view (for instance) which\nsees that good in money, or worldly advancement,—what is that if not\ndishonouring?\n\nAll the while, I know your thought, your purpose in it all,—I believe and\nam sure—and I bless you from my heart—you will soon know, what _you_ have\nto know—_I_ believe, beforehand, I repeat.\n\nI am rather out of spirits to-day—_thus_ I feel toward you when at all\nmelancholy ... you would undo me in withdrawing from me your help, _undo_\nme, I feel! When, as ordinarily, I am cheerful, I have precisely the same\nconviction. Does that prove nothing, my Ba?\n\nWell, I give up proving, or trying to prove anything—from the beginning I\nabjured mere words—and now, much more!\n\nLet me kiss you, ever best and dearest! My life is in the hand you call\n‘mine,’—if that hand would ‘shake’ less from letting it fall, I earnestly\npray God may relieve you of it nor ever let you be even aware of what\nfollowed your relief! For what _should_ one live or die in this world?\n\n                                                        I am wholly yours—\n\nDid I not meet two of your brothers yesterday in the Hall? Pray take care\nof this cold wind—be satisfied with the good deeds of the last few days.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                                 [Post-mark, May 6, 1846.]\n\nDearest, it has just come into my head that I should like to carry this\nletter to the post myself—but no, I shall not be able. Probably the\npost is far out of reach, and even if it were within reach, my grand\nscheme of walking in the street is scarcely a possible thing to-day,\nfor I must keep watch in the house from two till five for Lady Margaret\nCocks, an old friend of mine, who was kind to me when I was a child,\nin the country, and has not forgotten me since, when, two months in\nthe year, she has been in the habit of going to London. A good, worthy\nperson, with a certain cultivation as to languages and literature, but\nquite manquée on the side of the imagination ... talking of the poets,\nas a blind woman of colours, calling ‘Pippa Passes’ ‘_pretty and odd_,’\nand writing herself ‘poems’ in heaps of copy books which every now and\nthen she brings to show me ... ‘odes’ to Hope and Patience and all the\ncardinal virtues, with formulas of ‘Begin my muse’ in the fashion ended\nlast century. She has helped to applaud and scold me since I could walk\nand write verses; and when I was so wicked as to go to dissenting chapels\nbesides, she reproached me with tears in her eyes; but they were tears of\nearnest partizanship, and not of affection for me, ... she does not love\nme after all, nor guess at my heart, and _I_ do not love her, I feel.\nWoe to us! for there are good and unlovable people in the world, and we\ncannot help it for our lives.\n\nIn the midst of writing which, comes the Leeds Miss Heaton, who used to\nsend me those long confidential letters _à faire frémir_, and beg me\nto call her ‘Ellen,’ and as this is the second time that she has sent\nup her card, in an accidental visit to London, I thought I would be\ngood-natured for once, and see her. An intelligent woman, with large\nblack eyes and a pleasant voice, and young ... manners provincial enough,\nfor the rest, and talking as if the world were equally divided between\nthe ‘Congregationalists’ and the ‘Churchpeople.’ She assured me that ‘Dr.\nVaughan was very much annoyed’ at the article on my poems which ‘crept’\ninto his review, and that it was fully intended to recant at length on\nthe first convenient opportunity. ‘And really,’ she said, ‘it seems to\nme that you have as many admirers among churchmen as among dissenters.’!\nThere’s glory!—and I kept my countenance. _Lost_ it though, five minutes\nafterwards, when she observed pathetically, that a ‘friend of hers who\nhad known Mr. Browning _quite intimately_, had told her he was an infidel\n... more’s the pity, when he has such a genius.’ I desired the particular\ninformation of your intimate friend, a little more warmly perhaps than\nwas necessary, ... but what could be expected of me, I wonder?\n\nI shall write again to you to-night, you know, and this is enough for two\no’clock. Now will you get my letter on this Tuesday? Do you think of me\n... love me? And are you well to-day? The flowers look beautiful though\nyou put their heads into the water instead of their feet.\n\n                                                                  Your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                                 [Post-mark, May 6, 1846.]\n\nBut my own only beloved, I surely did not speak too ‘insistingly’\nyesterday. I shrank from your question as you put it, because you put it\nwrong. If you had asked me instead, whether I meant to keep my promise\nto you, I would have answered ‘yes’ without hesitation: but the form you\nchose, referred to _you_ more than to _me_, and was indeed and indeed a\nfoolish form of a question, my own dearest! For the rest ... ah, you do\nnot see my innermost nature, ... _you_!—you are happily too high, and\ncannot see into it ... cannot perceive how the once elastic spring is\nbroken with the long weights! ... you wonder that it should drop, when\nyou, who lifted it up, do not hold it up! you cannot understand! ... you\nwonder! And _I_ wonder too ... on the other side! _I_ wonder how I can\nfeel happy and alive ... as I can, _through you_! how I can turn my face\ntoward life again ... as I can, _for you_! ... and chiefly of all, how I\ncan ever imagine ... as I do, sometimes ... that such a one as you, may\nbe happy perhaps with such a one as _I_! ... happy!\n\nDo not judge me severely, you, to whom I have given _both_ hands, for\nyour own uses and ends!—you, who are more to me than I can be to you,\neven by your own statement—better to me than life ... or than death even,\nas death seemed to me before I knew you.\n\nCertainly I love you enough, and trust you enough, if you knew what God\nknows. Yet, ... ‘now hear me.’ I shall not be able to please you, I\nthink, by a firm continued belief of this engagement’s being justifiable,\nuntil the event wholly _has_ justified it ... I mean, ... until I shall\nsee you not less happy for having lived near me for six months or a\nyear—should God’s mercy permit such justification. Do not blame me. I\ncannot help it ... I would, if I could, help it. Every time you say, as\nin this dearest letter, ever dearest, that you have been happy on such a\nday through being with me, I have a new astonishment—it runs through me\nfrom head to feet ... I open my eyes astonished, whenever my sun rises\nin the morning, as if I saw an angel in the sun. And I _do_ see him, in\na sense. Ah—if you make a crime to me of my _astonishments_, it is all\nover indeed! can I help it, indeed? So forgive me! let it not be too\ngreat a wrong to be covered by a pardon. Think that we are different,\nyou and I—and do not think that I would send you to ‘money and worldly\nadvancement’ ... do not think so meanly of my ambition for you.\n\nDearest dearest!—do you ever think that I could fail to you? Do you doubt\nfor a moment, ever ... ever, ... that my hand might peradventure ‘shake\nless’ in being loosed from yours? Why, it might—and would! _Dead_ hands\ndo not shake at all,—and only _so_, could my hand be loosed from yours\nthrough a failing on my part. It is your hand, while you hold it: while\nyou choose to hold it, and while it is a living hand.\n\nDo you know what you are to me, ... _you_? We talk of the mild weather\ndoing me good ... of the sun doing me good ... of going into the air as\na means of good! Have you done me no good, do you fancy, in loving me\nand lifting me up? Has the unaccustomed divine love and tenderness been\nnothing to me? Think! Mrs. Jameson says earnestly ... said to _me_ the\nother day ... that ‘love was only magnetism.’ And I say in my heart,\nthat, magnet or no magnet, I have been drawn back into life by your means\nand for you ... that I see the dancing mystical lights which are seen\nthrough the eyelids ... and I think of you with an unspeakable gratitude\nalways—always! No other could have done this for me—it was not possible,\nexcept by you.\n\nBut, no—do not, beloved, wish the first days here again. You saw your\nway better in them than I did. I had too bitter feelings sometimes: they\nlooked to me like an epigram of destiny! as if ‘He who sitteth on high\nshould laugh her to scorn—should hold her in derision’—as why not? My\nbest hope was that you should be my friend after all. We will not have\nthem back again ... those days! And in these, you do not love me less but\nmore? Would it be strange to thank you? I feel as if I _ought_ to thank\nyou!\n\nI have written, written, and have more to write, yet must end here now.\nThe letter I wrote this morning and gave to my sister to leave in the\npost, she was so naughty as to forget, and has been well scolded as a\nconsequence; but the scolding did not avail, I fear, to take the letter\nto you to-night; there is no chance! Mrs. Jameson came to-day when I was\nengaged with Lady Margaret Cocks and I could not see her—and Mr. Kenyon\ncame, when I could see him and was glad. I am tired with my multitude of\nvisitors—oh, so tired!\n\nWhy are you melancholy, dear, dearest? Was it my fault? could _that_ be?\nno—you were unwell, I think ... I fear. Say how you are; and believe that\nyou may answer your own questions, for that I never can fail to you. If\ntwo persons have one will on a matter of that sort, they need not be\nthwarted here in London—so answer your own questions.\n\n                                               Wholly and ever yours I am.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                                 [Post-mark, May 6, 1846.]\n\nDearest Ba let me [be] silent, as on other occasions, over what you\npromise: one reads of ‘a contest in generosity,’ and now this party was\nas determined to give, as that party not to accept—far from anything so\ngraceful, I am compelled to clutch at the offering, I take all, because,\nbecause—because I _must_, now! May God requite you, my best beloved!\n\nI met Mrs. Jameson last evening and she began just as I prophesied ...\n‘but’ said she ‘I will tell you all when you come and breakfast with\nme on Thursday—which a note of mine now on its way to you, desires may\nhappen!’\n\nA large party at Chorley’s, and admirable music—not without a pleasant\nperson or two. I wish you could hear that marvellous Pischek, with his\nRhine songs, and Bohemian melodies. Then a Herr Kellerman told a kind of\ncrying story on the violoncello, full of quiet pathos, and Godefroi—if\nthey so spell him—harped like a God harping, immortal victorious music\nindeed! Altogether a notable evening ... oh, the black ingratitude of\nman ... these few words are the poor ‘set-off’ to this morning’s weary\nyawning, and stupefaction. To-night having to follow beside! So near you\nI shall be! Mrs. J. is to [be] at the Procters’ to-night too. Oh, by the\nway, and in the straight way to make Ba laugh ... Mrs. J.’s _first_ word\nwas ‘What? Are you _married_?’ She having caught a bit of Miss Chorley’s\nenquiry after ‘Mrs. Browning’s health’ i.e. my mother’s. Probably\nMiss Heaton’s friend, who is my intimate, heard me profess complete\ninfidelity as to—homœopathy ... _que sais-je_? But of all accusations\nin the world ... what do you say to my having been asked if I was not\nthe Author of ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ and ‘Othello’? A man actually asked me\nthat, as I sate in Covent Garden Pit to see the second representation\nof ‘Strafford’—I supposed he had been _set on_ by somebody, but the\nsimple face looked too quiet for that impertinence—I was muffled up in\na cloak, too; so I said ‘No—so far as I am aware.’ (His question was,\n‘_is not THIS Mr. Browning_ the author of &c. &c.’) After the play, all\nwas made clear by somebody in Macready’s dressing room—two burlesques on\nShakespeare _were_ in the course of performance at some minor theatre by\na Mr. Brown, or Brownley, or something Brown-like—and to these my friend\nhad alluded.\n\nSo is begot, so nourished ‘_il mondan rumore_’—_I_, author of\n‘Othello’!—when I can be, and am, and may tell Ba I am, her own, own\n\n                                                                        R.\n\nThe news about the post—the walk there which might have been,—_that_ is\npure delight! But take care, my all-precious love—_festina lente_. All\nthe same, what a vision I have of the _Bonnet_!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Evening.\n                                                 [Post-mark, May 7, 1846.]\n\nNow, dearest, you are close by and I am writing to you as if you were\never so far off. People are not always the better, you see, for being\nnear one another. There’s a moral to put on with your gloves—and if you\nwere not quite sufficiently frightened by Mrs. Jameson’s salutation, it\nmay be of some use to you perhaps—who knows?\n\nShe left word yesterday that she should come to-day or to-morrow, and as\nto-day she didn’t, I shall hear of you from her to-morrow ... that is,\nif you go to her breakfast, which you will do I dare say, supposing that\nyou are not perfectly ill and exhausted by what came before. Ah—you do\nnot say how you are—and I know what _that_ means. Even the music was half\nlost in the fatigue ... _that_ is what you express by ‘stupefaction.’ And\nthen to have to dine at Mr. Procter’s without music ... say how you are\n... do not omit it this time.\n\nNor think that I shall forget how to-morrow is the seventh of May ...\nyour month as you call it somewhere ... in Sordello, I believe ... so\nthat I knew before, you had a birthday there—and I shall remember it\nto-morrow and send you the thoughts which are yours, and pray for you\nthat you may be saved from March-winds ... ever dearest!\n\nI am glad you heard the music after all: it was something to hear, as you\ndescribe it.\n\nTo-day I had a book sent to me from America by the poetess Mrs. Osgood.\nDid you ever hear of a poetess Mrs. Osgood? ... and her note was of the\nvery most affectionate, and her book is of the most gorgeous, all purple\nand gold—and she tells me ... oh, she tells me ... that I ought to go to\nNew York, only ‘to see Mr. Poe’s wild eyes flash through tears’ when he\nreads my verses. It is overcoming to think of, even ... isn’t it? Talking\nof poetesses, such as Mrs. Osgood and me, Miss Heaton, ... the friend of\nyour intimate friend, ... told me yesterday that the poetess proper of\nthe city of Leeds was ‘_Mrs. A._’ ... ‘Mrs. A.?’ said I with an enquiring\ninnocence. ‘Oh,’ she went on, (divining sarcasms in every breath I drew)\n... ‘oh! I dare say, _you_ wouldn’t admit her to be a real poetess. But\nas she lives in Leeds and writes verses, we call her our poetess! and\nthen, really, Mrs. A. is a charming woman. She was a Miss Roberts ...\nand her ‘Spirit of the Woods,’ and of the ‘Flowers’ has been admired, I\nassure you.’ Well, in a moment I seemed to remember something,—because\nonly a few months since, surely I had a letter from somebody who once was\na spirit of the Woods or ghost of the Flowers. Still, I could not make\nout _Mrs. A._ ...! ‘Certainly’ I confessed modestly, ‘I never did hear\nof a Mrs. A. ... and yet, and yet’.... A most glorious confusion I was\nin ... when suddenly my visitor thought of spelling the name ... ‘_H e\ny_’ said she. Now conceive that! The Mrs. Hey who came by solution, had\nboth written to me and sent me a book on the Lakes quite lately ... ‘by\nthe author of the Spirit of the Woods’.... _There_ was the explanation!\nAnd my Leeds visitor will go back and say that I denied all knowledge of\nthe charming Mrs. A. the Leeds poetess, and that it was with the greatest\ndifficulty I could be brought to recognise her existence. Oh, the\narrogance and ingratitude of me! And Mrs. A. ... being ‘a churchwoman’\n... will expose me of course to the churchwardens! May you never fall\ninto such ill luck! You could not expect me to walk to the post office\nafterwards—now could you?\n\nWhat nonsense and foolishness I take it into my head to send you\nsometimes.\n\nI was down-stairs to-day but not out of the house. Now you are talking,\nnow you are laughing—I think that almost I can hear you when I _listen\nhard_ ... at Mr. Procter’s!\n\nDo _you_, on the other side, hear _me_? ... and how I am calling myself\nyour very own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                                 [Post-mark, May 7, 1846.]\n\nNo, dearest,—I get Mrs. Jameson’s leave to put the breakfast off till\nto-morrow—and this morning, instead of resting as I had intended, I\nwisely went to town, to get a call on Forster off my mind—I have walked\nthere and back again ... see the weakness you pity! I _cheat_ you, my Ba,\nof all that pity ... yet when I have got it, however unjustly, I lay it\nto my heart.\n\nAnd I was at Mrs. Procter’s last night—Kinglake and Chorley, with a\nlittle of Milnes and Coventry Patmore—but no Howitts: because they have a\nsick child,—dying, I am afraid. On my return I found a note from Horne,\nwho is in London of a sudden for a week.\n\nOh,—_The Daily News_ passes into the redoubtable hands of Mr. Dilke,—and\nthe price is to be reduced to 2½d, in emulation of the system recently\nadopted by the French Journals. Forster continues to write, on the new\nEditor’s particular entreaty. I rather think the scheme will succeed,\nDilke having the experience the present régime wants—he will buy his\nprivileges cheaply too. So that Chorley may possibly be employed. Here\nends my patronage of it, at all events—not another number do I groan over!\n\nPatmore told me in his quiet way that his criticisms—his book on which\nhe had been expending a world of pains, is altogether superseded by the\nappearance of ‘Ulrici on Shakespeare’—‘the very words of many of his more\nimportant paragraphs are the same.’ _That_ astounds one a little, does it\nnot?\n\nAnd what, _what_ do you suppose Tennyson’s business to have been at\nDickens’—what caused all the dining and repining? He has been sponsor\nto Dickens’ child _in company with Count D’Orsay_, and accordingly the\n_novus homo_ glories in the prænomina, Alfred D’Orsay Tennyson Dickens!\nAh, Charlie, if this don’t prove to posterity that you might have been a\nTennyson and were a D’Orsay—why excellent labour will have been lost! You\nobserve, ‘Alfred’ is common to both the godfather and the—devil-father,\nas I take the Count to be: so Milnes has been goodnaturedly circulating\nthe report that in good truth it is _the_ Alfred of neither personage,\nbut of—Mr. Alfred Bunn. When you remember what the form of sponsorship\nis, to what it pledges you in the ritual of the Church of England— —and\n_then_ remember that Mr. Dickens is an enlightened Unitarian,—you will\nget a curious notion of the man, I fancy.\n\nHave you not forgotten that birthday? Do, my Ba, forget it—my day, as I\ntold you, is the 20th—my true, happiest day! But I thank you all I can,\ndearest—All good to me comes through you, or for you—every wish and hope\nends in you. May God bless you, ever dear Ba.—\n\n                                                               Your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "May 7th, 1846.\n\nBeloved, my thoughts go to you this morning, loving and blessing you! May\nGod bless you for both His worlds—not for this alone. For me, if I can\never do or be anything to you, it will be my uttermost blessing of all I\never knew, or could know, as He knows. A year ago, I thought, with a sort\nof mournful exultation, that I was _pure of wishes_. Now, they recoil\nback on me in a spring-tide ... flow back, wave upon wave, ... till I\nshould lose breath to speak them! and it is nothing, to say that they\nconcern another ... for they are so much the more intensely mine, and of\nme. May God bless you, very dear! dearest.\n\nSo I am to forget to-day, I am told in the letter. Ah! But I shall forget\nand remember what I please. In the meanwhile I was surprised while\nwriting thus to you this morning ... as a good deed to begin with ... by\nMiss Bayley’s coming. Remembering the seventh of May I forgot _Thursday_,\nwhich she had named for her visit, and altogether she took me by\nsurprise. I thought it was Wednesday! She came and then, Mr. Kenyon came,\n... and as they both went down-stairs together, Mrs. Jameson came up.\nMiss Bayley is what is called _strong-minded_, and with all her feeling\nfor art and Beauty, talks of utility like a Utilitarian of the highest,\nand professes to receive nothing without _proof_, like a reasoner of the\nlowest. She told me with a frankness for which I did not like her less,\nthat she was a materialist of the strictest order, and believed in no\nsoul and no future state. In the face of those conclusions, she said,\nshe was calm and resigned. It is more than _I_ could be, as I confessed.\nMy whole nature would cry aloud against that most pitiful result of the\nstruggle here—a wrestling only for the dust, and not for the crown. What\na resistless melancholy would fall upon me if I had such thoughts!—and\nwhat a dreadful indifference. All grief, to have itself to end in!—all\njoy, to be based upon nothingness!—all love, to feel eternal separation\nunder and over it! Dreary and ghastly, it would be! I should not have\nstrength to love you, I think, if I had such a miserable creed. And for\nlife itself, ... would it be worth holding on such terms,—with our blind\nIdeals making mocks and mows at us wherever we turned? A game to throw\nup, this life would be, as not worth playing to an end!\n\nThere’s a fit letter for the seventh of May!—but why was _Thursday_\nthe seventh, and not Wednesday rather, which would have let me escape\nvisitors? I thank God that I can look over the grave with you, _past_ the\ngrave, ... and hope to be worthier of you _there_ at least.\n\nMrs. Jameson did not say much, being hoarse and weak with a cold, but\nshe told me of having met you at dinner, and found you ‘very agreeable.’\nAlso, beginning by a word about Professor Longfellow, who has married,\nit appears, and is a tolerably merciful husband for a poet ... (‘solving\nthe problem of the _possibility_ of such a thing,’ said she!) ...\nbeginning so, she dropped into the subject of marriage generally, and\nwas inclined to repropose Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s septennial act\n... which might be a reform perhaps! ... what do you think? Have I not,\naltogether, been listening to improving and memorable discourse on this\nseventh of May? The _ninth’s_ will be more after my heart.\n\nI like Mrs. Jameson, mind!—and I like her views on many\nsubjects—_ex_clusive of the septennial marriage act, though.\n\nHow you amuse me by your account of the sponsorship! the illustrious\nD’Orsay with his _paletot_ reputation, in a cleft stick of Alfred ...\nTennyson! Bunn in the distance! A curious combination it makes really ...\nand you read it like a vates that you are!—\n\nSo, good night—dearest!—I think of you behind all these passing clouds of\nsubjects, my poet of the Lyre and Crown! Look down on your own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                                 [Post-mark, May 8, 1846.]\n\n‘_Look down on you_’—my Ba? I would die for you, with triumphant\nhappiness, God knows, at a signal from your hand! But that,—look\n_down_,—never, though you bade me again and again, and in such words! I\nlook _up_,—always up,—my Ba. When I indulge in my deepest luxury, I make\nyou _stand_ ... do you not know that? I sit, and my Ba chooses to let me\nsit, and stands by,—understanding all the same how the relation really\n_is_ between us,—how I would, and do, kiss her feet,—my queen’s feet!\n\nDo you feel for me so, my love? I seldom dare to try and speak to you of\n_your love for me_ ... my love I am allowed to profess ... I could not\nsteadily (I have tried, whether you noticed it or no, and could not,)\nsay aloud ‘and you love _me_’! Because it is altogether a blessing of\nyour gift,—irrespective of my love to you—however it may go to increase\nit. Here are the words however. Human conviction is weak enough, no\ndoubt,—but, when I forget these words, and this answer of my heart to\nthem,—I cannot say it—\n\nMay God bless you, dearest dearest,—my Ba! I was at Mrs. Jameson’s\nthis morning—she spoke of you so as to make my heart tremble with\nvery delight—I never liked her so much ... I may say, never liked her\nbefore—by comparison. She read me your three translations,—clearly\nfeeling their rare beauty; and now,—let me clap hands, my Ba, and ask\nyou who knows best? She means to print BOTH versions—the blank verse\nand the _latter_ rhymed one. Of course, of course! But she said so many\nthings—I must tell you to-morrow,—if you _remind_ me. She felt such\ngratifications, too, at your thinking her etching of St. Cecilia worthy\nto hang by your chair, in your sight. Do you know, Ba, at the end,—_à\npropos of her breakfast_, I fairly took her by both hands, and shook\nthem with a cordiality which I just reflect, tardily, may subject the\nLiterary Character to a possible misconstruction. ‘He must have wanted a\nbreakfast,’ she will say!\n\nI am going to the Museum on Monday with her, to see Italian prints. I\nlike her very much. And after breakfast, Mr. Kenyon came in, and Mr.\nBezzi—and Mr. K. means to make me go and see him next Monday also, I\nbelieve.\n\nBut my seeing, and hearing, and enjoying—Saturday is my day for all that?\nTo-morrow—by this time!—too great happiness it is, I know.\n\nAnd I, too, look long over the grave, to follow you, my own heart’s love.\nLet Mrs. Jameson repeal those acts,—limit the seven years to seven days\nor less,—what matters? If the seven days have to be endured because of a\nlaw,—then I see the weariness of course—but in our case, if a benevolent\nLegislature should inform me, now, that if I choose, I may decline\nvisiting you to-morrow—\n\n... Ah, nefandum,—kiss me, my own Ba, and let the world legislate and\ndecree and relieve and be otherwise notable—so they let me be your own\nfor ever\n\n                                                                        R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 11, 1846.]\n\nDearest when you use such words as ‘eligible ...’ (_investment_ ... was\nit?) and I do not protest seriously and at length, it is through the\nvery absurdity and unnaturalness ... as if you were to say that the last\ncomet was made of macaroni, and Arago stood by, he would not think it\nworth while to confute you. Talking the worldly idiom, as you will tell\nme you just meant to do in those words, and considering the worldly\nconsiderations, why still the advantage is with you—I can do nothing\nthat I can see, but stand in your sunshine. I solemnly assure you that\nonly the apparent fact of your _loving me_, has overcome the scruple,\nwhich, on this ground, made me recoil from.... Well! there is no use now\nin talking. But for _you_ to talk of what is eligible and ineligible for\n_me_, is too absurd—indeed it is. You might be richer, to be sure—but _I_\nlike it better as it is, a hundred times—I should _choose_ it to be so,\nif it were left to my choice. In every other respect, using the world’s\nmeasures, ... or the measure of the angel who measured the heavenly\nJerusalem, ... you are beyond me ... above me—and nothing but your love\nfor me could have brought us to a level. My love for you could not have\n_tried_, even! Now, if I teaze you with saying such things over and over,\nit is the right punishment for what _you_ said yesterday about ‘eligible\nmarriages’—now, isn’t it?\n\nBut your conclusion then was right. For if you were twice yourself,\nwith a duchy of the moon to boot, it would avail nothing. We should have\nto carry all this underground work on precisely the same. Miserable it\nis, nevertheless—only, I keep my eyes from _that side_, as far as I\ncan. I keep my eyes on your face. Yesterday Henrietta told me that Lady\nCarmichael, a cousin of ours, met her at the Royal Academy and took her\naside to ‘speak seriously to her’ ... to observe that she looked thin and\n_worried_, and to urge her to act for herself ... to say too, that Mrs.\nBayford, an old hereditary friend of ours, respected by us all for her\nserene, clear-headed views of most things,—and ‘of the strictest sect,’\ntoo, for all domestic duties,—‘did not like, as a mother, to give direct\nadvice, but was of opinion that the case admitted certainly and plainly\nof the daughter’s acting for herself.’ In fact, it was a message, sent\nunder cover of a supposed irresponsibility. Which is one of a hundred\nproofs to show how this case is considered exceptional among our family\nfriends, and that no very hard judgment will be passed at the latest.\nOnly, on other grounds, _I_ shall be blamed ... and perhaps by another\nclass of speakers. As for telling Mr. Kenyon, it is most unadvisable,\nboth for his sake and ours. Did you never hear him talk of his organ of\ncaution? We should involve him in ever so many fears for us, and force\nhim to have his share of the odium at last. Papa would not speak to him\nagain while he lived. And people might say, ‘Mr. Kenyon did it all.’\nNo—if we are to be selfwilled, let us be selfwilled ... at least, let\n_me_! for you, of course, are free to follow your judgment in respect\nto your own friends. And then, it is rather a matter of feeling with me\nafter all, that as I _cannot_ give my confidence to my father, I should\nrefuse it to others. I feel _that_ a little.\n\nHenrietta will do nothing, I think, this year—there are considerations\nof convenience to prevent it; and it is better for us that it should be\nso, and will not be worse for _her_ in the end. I wish that man were a\nlittle nobler, higher ... more of a man! He is amiable, good-natured,\neasy-tempered, of good intentions in the main: but he eats and drinks and\nsleeps, and _shows_ it all when he talks. Very popular in his regiment,\nvery fond of his mother—there is good in him of course—and for the\nrest....\n\nDearest ... to compare others with you, would be too hard upon them.\nBesides, each is after his kind. Yet ... as far as love goes ... and\nalthough this man sincerely loves my sister, I do believe, ... I admit\nto myself, again and again, that if you were to adopt such a bearing\ntowards _me_, as he does to her, I should break with you at once. And\nwhy? Not because I am spoilt, though you knit your brows and think so\n... nor because I am exacting and offensible, though you may fancy that\ntoo. Nor because I hold loosely by you ... dearest beloved ... ready at a\ncaprice to fall away. But because _then_ I should know you did _not_ love\nme enough to let you be happy hereafter with me ... you, who must love\naccording to what you _are_! greatly, as you write ‘Lurias’!\n\nTo-morrow, shall you be at Mr. Kenyon’s? To-morrow I shall hear. Nothing\nhas happened since I saw you. May God bless you.\n\n                                                           Your own, I am.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 11, 1846.]\n\nI am always telling you, because always feeling, that I can express\nnothing of what goes from my heart to you, my Ba; but there is a certain\nchoice I have all along exercised, of subjects on which I would _try_ and\nexpress somewhat—while others might be let alone with less disadvantage.\nWhen we first met, it was in your thought that I loved you only for your\npoetry ... I think you thought that. And because one _might_ be imagined\nto love that and not you,—because everybody must love it, indeed,\nthat is worthy, and yet needs not of necessity love you,—yet _might_\nmistake or determine to love you through loving _it_ ... for all these\nreasons, there was not the immediate demand on me for a full expression\nof my admiration for your intellectuality,—do you see? Rather, it was\nproper to insist as little as possible on it, and speak to the woman,\nBa, simply—and so I have tried to speak,—partly, in truth, because\nI love _her_ best, and love her mind by the light and warmth of her\nheart—reading her verses, saying ‘and these are Ba’s,’—not kissing her\nless because they spoke the verses. But it does not follow that I have\nlost the sense of any delight that has its source in you, my dearest,\ndearest—however I may choose to live habitually with certain others in\npreference. I would shut myself up with you, and die to the world, and\nlive out fifty long, long lives in bliss through your sole presence—but\nit is no less true that it will also be an ineffable pride,—something too\nsweet for the name of pride,—to avow myself, before anyone whose good\nopinion I am soliciting to retain, as _so_ distinguished by you—it is\n_too_ sweet, indeed,—so I guard against it,—for frequent allusion to it,\nmight,—(as I stammer, and make plain things unintelligible) ... might\ncause you to misconceive me, which would be dreadful ... for after all,\nBa’s head has given the crown its worth,—though a wondrous crown it is,\ntoo! All this means ... the avowal we were speaking of, will be a heart’s\npride above every other pride whenever you decide on making such an\navowal. You will understand as you do ever your own R.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn getting home I found letters and letters—the best being a summons\nto meet Tennyson at Moxon’s on Tuesday,—and the frightfullest ...\nnay, I will send it. Now, Ba, hold my hand from the distant room,\ntighter than ever, at about 8 o’clock on Wednesday ... for I must go, I\nfear—‘Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking’ &c. &c. ‘ἔα, ἔα, ἄπεχε,\nφεῦ.’ Then Mr. Kenyon writes that his friend Commodore Jones is returned\nto England in bad health and that he must away to Portsmouth and see\nhim—so I do not go on Monday. While I was away Chorley’s brother (John\nChorley) called,—having been put to the trouble of a journey hither for\nnothing.\n\nI have been out this morning—to church with my sister—and the sun shone\nalmost oppressively,—but now all is black and threatening. How I send\nmy heart after your possible movements, my own all-beloved! Care for\nyourself, and for me. But a few months more,—if God shall please. May He\nbless you—\n\n                                                             Ever your own\n\nHail and rain—at a quarter to four o’clock!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday 4 o’clock.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 11, 1846.]\n\nSweetest, I have this moment come from Town and Mrs. Jameson—the\nMarc-Antonio Prints kept us all the morning—and at last I said ‘There is\na letter for me at home which I _must_ go and answer.’ And now I cannot\nanswer it—but I can love you and say so. God bless you, ever dearest.\nI have read your letter ... but only once. Now I shall begin my proper\nnumber of times—\n\n                                                        Ever your very own",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 12, 1846.]\n\nIt is too bad, or too good, or something. Almost I could reproach you,\nand quite would thank you! yet do not let it be so again. You are\nsupernaturally kind ... kindestest, bestestest ... and, so, dearestest\nby the merest justice; only, to think of your hastening home, as if you\nwere under an obligation to write to me in the face of the seven worlds,\n... _that_ is too much, and shall not be again—now see that it shall not.\nI seem to hear the rattling of the chain all this distance. And do, for\nthe future, let it be otherwise. When you are kept in London, or in any\nway hindered, or unwell, ... in any case of the sort, let the vow be kept\nby _one line_, which, too late for the day’s post, may reach me the next\nday,—and I shall not be uneasy at eight o’clock, but wait ‘as those who\nwait for the morning.’ In the meanwhile how I thank you! The second dear\nletter comes close in the footsteps of the first, as your goodnesses are\nso apt to do.\n\nWell!—and whatever you may think about Wednesday, _I_ am pleased, and\nfeel every inclination to ‘return thanks’ myself in reply to the bishop\nof Lincoln. I send the letter back lest you should want it. The worst\nis that you are likely to have a very bad headache with the noise and\nconfusion—and the bishop’s blessing on the dramatists of England, will\nnot prevent it, I fear.\n\nLook what is inside of this letter—look! I gathered it for you to-day\nwhen I was walking in the Regent’s Park. Are you surprised? Arabel and\nFlush and I were in the carriage—and the sun was shining with that green\nlight through the trees, as if he carried down with him the very essence\nof the leaves, to the ground, ... and I wished so much to walk through\na half open gate along a shaded path, that we stopped the carriage and\ngot out and walked, and I put both my feet on the grass, ... which was\nthe strangest feeling! ... and gathered this laburnum for you. It hung\nquite high up on the tree, the little blossom did, and Arabel said that\ncertainly I could not reach it—but you see! It is a too generous return\nfor all your flowers: or, to speak seriously, a proof that I thought of\nyou and wished for you—which it was natural to do, for I never enjoyed\nany of my excursions as I did to-day’s—the standing under the trees and\non the grass, was so delightful. It was like a bit of that Dreamland\nwhich is your especial dominion,—and I felt joyful enough for the moment,\nto look round for you, as for the cause. It seemed _illogical_, not to\nsee you close by. And you were not far after all, if thoughts count as\nbringers near. Dearest, we shall walk together under the trees some day!\n\nAnd all those strange people moving about like phantoms of life. How\nwonderful it looked to me!—and only you, ... the idea of you ... and\nmyself seemed to be real there! And Flush a little, too!—\n\nAh—what ... _next_ to nonsense, ... in the first letter, this morning! So\nyou think that I meant to complain when we first met, of your ‘_loving\nme only for my poetry_’! Which I did not, simply because I did not\nbelieve that _you loved me!—for any reason_. For the rest, I am not\nover-particular, I fancy, about what I may be loved for. There is no good\nreason for loving me, certainly, and my earnest desire (as I have said\nagain and again) is, that there should be by profession no reason at\nall. But if there is to be any sort of reason, why one is as welcome as\nanother ... you may love me for my shoes, if you like it ... except that\nthey wear out. I thought you did not love me at all—you loved out into\nthe air, I thought—a love _a priori_, as the philosophers might say, and\nnot _by induction_, any wise! Your only knowledge of me was by the poems\n(or most of it)—and what knowledge could _that_ be, when I feel myself so\nfar below my own aspirations, morally, spiritually? So I thought you did\nnot love me at all—I did not believe in miracles _then_, nor in ‘Divine\nLegations’—but _my_ miracle is as good as Constantine’s, you may tell\nyour bishop on Wednesday when he has delivered his charge.\n\nIs it _eight_ o’clock, or _three_? You write a [figure] which looks like\nboth, or at least either.\n\nLove me, my only beloved; since you _can_. May God bless you!\n\n                        I am ever and wholly your\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\n_Say how you are._",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 12, 1846.]\n\nMy Ba, your flower is the one flower I have seen, or see or shall\nsee—when it fades ‘I will bless it till it shine,’ and when I can bless\nyou no longer it shall fade with me and my letters and ... perhaps ...\nmy ring. Ba, if ... I was going to say, _if_ you meant to make me most\nexquisitely happy ... and you _did_ surely mean it ... well, you succeed,\nas you know! And I see you on the grass, and am with you as you properly\nacknowledge. And by this letter’s presence and testimony, I may judge\nyou to be not much the worse,—not fatigued ... is it so? Oh, it was a\ngood inspiration that led you through the half-opened gate and under the\nlaburnum, and, better still, that made you see us ‘one day walking by\nthe trees together’—when all I shall say is,—I hope, in spite of that\nfelicity to remember and feel _this_, as vividly as now.\n\n‘For the chain you hear rattle’ ... _there_ comes the earthly mood again\nand the inspiration goes away altogether! So you being Miss Barrett\nand not my Ba for the moment, I will give you none of my, and Ba’s,\nsyren-island illustrations, but ask you, what a fine lady would say if\nyou caught at her diamond necklace and cried—‘You shall wear no such\nchains,—indeed you shall not!’ Why even Flush is proud of his corals and\nblue beads, you tell me! As for me,—being used to bear sundry heavier\nchains than this of writing to you—owning the degradation of being, for\ninstance, forced to respire so many times a minute in order to live—to\ngo out into the open air so as to continue well—with many similarly\naffronting impositions on a free spirit ... on the whole, I can very\npatiently submit to write a letter which is duly read, and forgiven for\nits imperfections, and interpreted into a rationality (sometimes) not\nits own, and then answered by the sweetest hand that ever ministered to\nthe dearest, dearest Ba that ever was imagined, or can be! Ba,—there are\nthree Syren’s Isles, you know: I shall infallibly get into the farthest\nof them, a full thirty yards from you and the tower,—so as to need being\nwritten to—for the _cicale_ make such a noise that you will not be able\nto call to me—which is as well, for you may ... that is, _I_ might—break\nmy neck by a sudden leap on the needles of rocks ... as I remember the\nboatman told me.\n\nAs for what you wish yesterday ... the _mode_ of my expressing my love\n... I never think of it,—I _have_ none—no system, nor attempt at such a\nthing—I begin and end by saying _I love you—whatever comes of it_. There\nis one obvious remark to make however ... that unless I _had_ loved you\nand felt that every instant of my life depended on you for its support\nand comfort,—I should never have dreamed of what has been proposed and\naccepted ... Your own goodness at the very beginning would have rendered\nthat superfluous; for I was put in possession of your friendship,—might\nwrite to you, and receive letters—might even hope to see you as often as\nanybody—would not this have sufficed a reasonable friendship? May not Mr.\nKenyon be your satisfied friend?... But all was different—and so——\n\nSo I am blessed now—and can only bless you. But goodbye, dearest, till\nto-morrow—and next day, which is ours. At 8—eight I conjecture my\nmartyrdom may take place ... oh, think of me and help me! I shall feel\nyou,—as ever. You forgot the letter after all ... can you send it? It may\nbe convenient to produce, as I know nobody of them all—terrible it is\naltogether! ‘At six’ the dinner begins— —I shall get behind my brother\nDramatists ... and say very little about them, even.\n\nKiss me, in any case, of failure, or success,—and the one will be\nforgotten, and the other doubled, centupled—to your own—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 13, 1846.]\n\nWhen you began to speak of the islands, the three islands, I thought you\nwere going to propose that you should live in one, and Flush in one, and\nI in the third: and almost it was so, ... only that you took, besides,\nthe ‘_farthest_’ for yourself! Observe!—always I write nonsense, when you\nsend me a letter which moves me like this, ... dearest, ... my own!\n\nTo-day Mrs. Jameson has been here, and having left with me a proof about\nTitian, she comes again to-morrow to take it. I think her quite a lovable\nperson now—I like her more and more. How she talked of you to-day, and\ncalled you the most charming companion in the world, setting you too\non your right throne as ‘poet of the age.’ Wouldn’t it have been an\n‘_effect_’ in the midst of all, if I had burst out crying? And what with\nbeing flurried, frightened, and a little nervous from not sleeping well\nlast night, I assure you it was quite possible—but happily, on every\naccount, I escaped that ‘dramatic situation.’ I wish ... no, I can’t\nwish that she wouldn’t talk of you as she does whenever she comes here.\nAnd then, to make it better, she told me how you had recited ‘in a voice\nand manner as good as singing,’ my ‘Catarina.’ How are such things to be\nborne, do you think, when people are not made of marble? But I took a\nlong breath, and held my mask on with both hands.\n\nYou will tell me of the Marc Antonio prints,—will you not? Remember\nthem on Thursday. Raffael’s—are they not? I shall expect ever so much\nteaching, and showing, and explaining ... I, who have seen and heard\nnothing of pictures and music, from you who know everything ... so the\ncicale must not be too loud for _that_. Did ever anyone say to you\nthat you were like Raffael’s portrait—not in the eyes, which are quite\ndifferent, but in the lower part of the face, the mouth, and also the\nbrow? It has struck me sometimes—and I had it on my lips to-day as a\nquestion to Mrs. Jameson. I think I was mad to-day altogether. But she\ndid not see it—(I mean my madness ... not your likeness!) [and] went away\nunconsciously.\n\nHere, at last, is the letter! Careless that I was yesterday!—\n\nAnd you take me to be too generous if you fancy that I proposed giving up\nthe daily letter which is my daily bread. I meant only that you should\nnot, for the sake of a particular post, tire yourself, hurry yourself,\n... do what you did yesterday. As for the daily letter, I am Ba—not Miss\nBarrett. Now, am I Miss Barrett? am I not Ba rather, and your Ba? I\nshould like to hear what will be heard to-morrow. Oh—I should like to be\nunder the table, or in a pasty, after the fashion of the queen’s dwarf\nwhen Elizabeth was queen and Shakespeare poet. Shall you be nervous, as\n_I_ was with Mrs. Jameson? Oh no,—why should you be nervous? You will do\nit all well and gracefully—I am not afraid for you. It is simply out of\nvain-glory that I wish to be there! Only ... the dramatists of England\n... where in the world are they just now? Or will somebody prove _ten_ of\nthem,—because _nought_ after _one_, makes exactly ten? Mr. Horne indeed.\nBut I wish the toast had been ‘the poets of England,’ rather. May God\nbless you, any way! ‘_I love you whatever comes of it._’ Yes, unless\nsorrow of yours should come of it, _that_ is what I like to hear. Better\nit is, than a thousand praises of this thing and that thing, which never\nwere mine ... alas!—Also, loving me _so_, you can be made happy with\nlaburnum-leaves!—Dearest—most dear! Dare I speak, do you think?\n\nExactly at eight to-morrow, and exactly at three the next day, I shall be\nwith you—being at any hour\n\n                                                            Your very own.\n\nThe walk did me no harm. But you say nothing of yourself!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 13, 1846.]\n\nDearest, dearest, I shall be with you to-morrow and be comforted—and will\ntell you all about everything. I am a little tired (but _very_ well,\naltogether well, singularly so)—and I _do_ feel a little about to-night’s\naffair, though you may not. _You_, indeed, to judge me by yourself! But,\nafter all I do not greatly care ... I can but get up and stammer and\nsay ‘thank you’ and sit down again, like my betters,—and—as I say and\nsay,—_you_ are at the end of everything ... so long as I find _you_!\nI hoped that Tennyson was to have been Poet-respondent—but Moxon says\n‘no’ ... and, moreover, that the Committee had meant (and he supposed\nhad acted upon their meaning) to offer me the choice of taking either\nqualification, of Poetry or the Drama, as mine ... but they have altered\ntheir mind. As it _is_ ... observe—(you will find a list of Stewards in\nlast _Athenæum_)—observe that they are all Bishops or Deans or Doctors\n... and that all will be grave and heavy enough, I dare say. So I shall\ntry and speak for about five minutes on the advantages of the Press over\nthe Stage as a medium of communication of the Drama ... and so get done,\nif Heaven please!\n\nI saw Tennyson last night—and ... oh, let me tell you to-morrow. Also,\nSevern, I saw ... Keats’ Severn, who bought his own posthumous picture\nof Keats, and talked pleasantly about him and Shelley (Tennyson asked\nme ‘what I thought of Shelley’—in so many words). Moxon’s care of\nhim,—Tennyson, not Severn,—is the charmingest thing imaginable, and he\nseems to need it all—being in truth but a LONG, hazy kind of a man, at\nleast just after dinner ... yet there is something ‘naif’ about him,\ntoo,—the genius you see, too.\n\nMay God bless you, my dearest dearest,—to-morrow repays for all—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 15, 1846.]\n\nThe treader on your footsteps was Miss Bayley, who left a card and\n‘would come another day.’ She must have seen you.... One of these days,\n‘scirocco’ will be ‘loose’—we may as well be prepared for it. To keep it\noff as long as possible is all that can be. But when it comes it will not\nuproot my palm-trees, I think, though it should throw flat the olives.\n\nPapa brought me some flowers yesterday when he came home ... and they\nwent a little to my heart as I took them. I put them into glasses near\nyours, and they look faded this morning nevertheless, while your roses,\nfor all your cruelty to them, are luxuriant in beauty as if they had\njust finished steeping themselves in garden-dew. I look gravely from\none set of flowers to the other—I cannot draw a glad omen—I wish he had\nnot given me these. Dearest, there seems little kindness in teazing you\nwith such thoughts ... but they come and I write them: and let them come\never so sadly, I do not for a moment doubt ... hesitate. One may falter,\nwhere one does not fail. And for the rest, ... it is my fault, and not my\nsorrow rather, that we act so? It is by choice that we act so? If he had\nlet me I should have loved him out of a heart altogether open to him. It\nis not my fault that he would not let me. Now it is too late—I am not his\nnor my own, any more.\n\nThis morning I have had American letters of the kindest ... from\nMassachusetts—and a review on my poems, quite extravagant indeed, in the\n_Methodist Quarterly_. One of these letters is so like another, that\nI need only tell you of them ... written too by people ... Lydias and\nRichards ... never heard of before by either of us. The review repeats\nthe fabulous story in the ‘Spirit of the Age,’ about unknown tongues\nand a seven years’ eclipse in total darkness—but I say to myself ...\nafter all, the real myth is scarcely less wonderful. If I have not all\nthis knowledge ... I have _you_ ... which is greater, better! ‘Not less\nwonderful’ did I say? when it is the miracle....\n\nOh, these people!—I am seized and bound. More to-night! from\n\n                                 Your own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\n_Say how you are._",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 15, 1846.]\n\nThe sun is warm, and the day, I suppose, is fine,—but my Ba will have\nbeen kept at home by the vile wind—most vile—even I feel it! So the\nspring passes away without the true spring feeling—all the blossoms are\nfast going already—and one’s spirits are affected, I dare say. Did you\nnot think me intolerable yesterday with my yawning and other signs of\nfatigue you noticed? Well now—I _do_ think a little is _said_ by all\nthat: might one not _like_ or even _love_ ... just short of _true_ love,\nso long as the spirits were buoyant and the mind cheerful,—and when the\ncontrary befell, some change might appear, surely!\n\nThe more I need you the more I love you, Ba—and I need you _always_—in\njoy, to make the joy seem what it is—and in any melancholy that I can\nimagine, _more_ still, infinitely more, I need you—though _melancholy_,\nI certainly was not—only tired a little ... all I mean to say is, that\nat times when I could, I think, shut up Shelley, and turn aside from\nBeethoven, and look away from my noble Polidoro,—my Ba’s ring—not to say\nthe hand—ah, you know, Ba, what they are to me!\n\nI have to go out to-day, to my sorrow—to the Garrick Club, and a friend\nthere. (My sister tells me we have to go to the Flower-show next\nWednesday unless the day be rainy. I shall hear from Mr. Kenyon, I\nexpect.)\n\nLet me end the chapter we began yesterday, about speech-making and adepts\nin it of various kinds, by telling you what my father made me laugh\nby an account of, the other day ... only it should be really _told_,\nand not written. He had a curiosity to know how would-be Parliamentary\nmembers _canvassed_ ... and as the Chamberlain of the City, Sir James\nShaw, came into the Bank for that purpose (there being Livery men there,\nor whatever they are called, with votes) my father followed to hear how\nhe would address people. Sir James, a gigantic man, went about as his\nfriends directed ... or rather pushed and shoved him ... and whenever\nthey reached an Elector the whole cortège stopped, Sir James made his\nspeech, the friends, book and pencil in hand, recorded the promise the\nmoment it was made, and forthwith wheeled round their candidate to the\nnext man ... no word of speechification being to be wasted once its\nobject accomplished, since time pressed—so now fancy. _Friends_ (to Sir\nJ) ‘Mr. Snooks, Sir James!’ Sir J. (_with his eyes shut, and head two\nfeet above Snooks_) ‘When Charles Fox came into Parliament, he came into\nParliament with a profusion of promises, of which I’ll defy Charles Fox’s\nbest friends to say that he ever kept a single one’—(Friends twitch\nhim)—‘Thankee Sir,’—‘Mr. Smith.’ ‘When Charles Fox came into Parliament\n... thankee, Sir’—‘Mr. Thompson’—‘When Charles Fox ... thankee!’ &c. &c.\nAnd so on from man to man, never getting beyond this instructive piece of\nanecdotical history—till at the very last a little Elector, reaching to\nthe great man’s elbow, let him go to the full length of the sentence’s\ntether from admiration of such an orator ... did not say briefly ‘yes’\nor ‘no’ as the others had done. So Sir James arrived duly at ... ‘kept a\nsingle one. Thus—if ... as it were ... eh? oh!’ Here he opened his eyes\nwith a start, missing the pushing and driving from his friends in the\nrear—and finding it was only this little man; he abruptly stopped ...\nwas not going to spend more eloquence on _him_! There, Ba; _you tell_ me\nyou write nonsense ... _I do_ the thing, the precise thing! But no more\nnonsense because I am going to kiss you, which is wise, and love you with\nmy whole heart and soul forever, which is wiser, and pray you to love me,\ndear, dear Ba, which is the wisest! Sweetest, may God bless you,—\n\n                                                            Your very own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Evening.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 16, 1846.]\n\nNot even do you yawn in vain then, O you! And this, then, is what Cicero\ncalled ‘oscitans sapientia?’ The _argument of the yawn_ ought in fact, to\nbe conclusive!\n\nBut, dearest, if it was ‘intolerable’ to see you yawn yesterday, still\nless supportable was it to-day when I had all the yawning to myself, and\nproved nothing by it. Tired I am beyond your conceiving of ... tired!\nYou saw how I broke off in my letter to you this morning. Well—that\nwas Miss Heaton, who came yesterday and left the packet you saw, and\ncame again to-day and sate here exactly three hours. Now imagine that!\nThree hours of incessant restless talking. At the end I was _blanched_,\nas everybody could see, and Mrs. Jameson who came afterwards for five\nminutes and was too unwell herself to stay, seriously exhorted me not to\nexert myself too much lest I should pay the penalty. And I had not been\ndown-stairs even—only been ground down in the talking-mill. Arabel told\nher too, before she came up-stairs, that I was expecting a friend—‘Oh’\n... said she to me, ‘I shall go away directly anyone comes.’ And again\npresently ... ‘Pray tell me when I ought to go away’! (As if I could\nsay _Go_. She deserved it, but I _couldn’t_!) And then ... ‘How good\nof you to let me sit here and talk!’ So good of me, when I was wishing\nher ... only at Leeds in the High Street, between a dissenter and a\nchurchman—anywhere but opposite to my eyes! Yet _she_ has very bright\nones, and cheeks redder than your roses; and she is kind and cordial ...\nas I thought in the anguish of my soul, when I tried to be grateful to\nher. Certainly I should have been more so, if she had stayed a little\nless, talked a little less—it is awful to think how some women can talk!\nHappily she leaves London to-morrow morning, and will not be here again\ntill next year, if then. She talked biography too ... ah, I did not mean\nto tell you—but it is better to tell you at once and have done ... only\nshe desired me not to mention it ... only she little knew what she was\ndoing! You will not mention it. She told me that ‘her informant about Mr.\nBrowning, ... was a lady _to whom he had been engaged_ ... that there\nhad been a very strong attachment on both sides, but that everything\nwas broken off by _her_ on the ground of religious differences—that it\nhappened years ago and that the lady was married.’ At first I exclaimed\nimprudently enough (but how could it be otherwise?) that it was not\ntrue—but I caught at the bridle in a minute or two and let her have it\nher own way. Do not answer this—it is nonsense, I know—but it helped to\ntire me with the rest. Wasn’t it a delightful day for me? At the end of\nthe three hours, she threw her arms round me and kissed me some half\ndozen times and wished me ‘goodbye’ till next year. Wilson found me\nstanding in the middle of the room, looking as she said, ‘like a ghost.’\nAnd no wonder! The ‘vile wind’ out of doors was nothing to it.\n\nDearest, you are well? Your letter says nothing. Only one more letter,\nand then Monday. Ah—it is the sweetest of flattery to say that you ‘need’\nme—but isn’t it difficult to understand? Yet while you even fancy that\nyou have such a need, you may be sure (let Charles Fox break his promises\never so!) of your own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 16, 1846.]\n\nThen, dearest-dearest, _do_ take Mrs. Jameson’s advice—_do_ take care of\nthe results of this fatigue—why should you see any woman that pleases to\nask to come? I am certain that some of the men you have refused to admit,\nwould be more considerate—and Miss Heaton must be a kind of fool into the\nbargain with her inconsiderateness ... though _that_ is the folly’s very\nself. As for her ‘Yorkshire Tragedy,’ I hold myself rather aggrieved by\nit—they used to get up better stories of Lord Byron,—and even _I told_\nyou, anticipatingly, that I caused that first wife of mine to drown and\nhang herself ... whereas, now, it turns out she did neither, but bade me\ndo both ... nay, was not my wife after all! I hope she told Miss Heaton\nthe story in the presence of the husband who had no irreligious scruples.\nBut enough of this pure nonsense—I had, by this post that brings me\nyour last letter, one from Horne—he leaves to-day for Ireland, and says\nkind things about my plays—and unkind things of Mr. Powell ‘a dog he\nrepudiates for ever.’ So our ‘clique’ is deprived of yet another member!\n\nFor me, love,—I am pretty well—but _rather_ out of spirits,—for no\nearthly cause. I shall take a walk and get better presently—your dear\nletters have their due effect, all that effect!\n\nSo, dear,—all my world, my life, all I look to or live for, my own Ba—I\nwill bless you and bid you goodbye for to-day—to-morrow I will write\nmore—and on Monday—return, my Ba, this kiss ... my dearest above all\ndearness!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Morning.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 16, 1846.]\n\nYou shall hear from me on this Sunday, though it cannot be as an answer,\ndearest, to your letter of to-night. But I being so wretchedly tired last\nnight, and ‘yawning’ being, to your mind, so ‘intolerable,’ it is as well\nto leave a better impression with you than _that_ ... though there is\nnothing to say, and the east wind blows on virulently.\n\nThe _Athenæum_ has put me out of humour for the day ... besides. Not a\nword of ‘Luria’—not a word of the Literary Fund dinner, and a great,\ndrawling carrying out of the ‘Poetry for the Million’ article ... as\nif all this trash could not die of itself!—as if it were not _dead_ of\nitself!—That the critics of a country should set themselves to such\nwork ... is as if the Premier of England took his official seat in the\nwindow to kill flies, ... talking, with his first finger out, of ‘my\nadministration.’ Only flies are flies and have fly-life in them: they are\nnobler game than those.\n\nMrs. Jameson, while she was here the five minutes yesterday, talked,\nin an under-breath to my under-breath opposition, her opinion about\nthe present age. ‘That the present age did not, could not, ought not,\nto express itself by Art, ... though the next age would.’ She is\nsurprisingly wrong, it appears to me. There is no predominant character\nin the age, she says, to be so expressed! there is no unity, to bear\nexpression.\n\nBut art surely, if art is anything, is the expression, not of the\ncharacteristics of an age except accidentally, ... essentially it is the\nexpression of Humanity in the individual being—and unless we are men no\nlonger, I cannot conceive how such an argument as hers can be upheld for\na moment. Also it is exasperating to hear such things.\n\nThen I do not believe, for one, that genius in the arts is a\nmere reflection of the character of the times. Genius precedes\nsurely,—initiates. It is genius which gives an Age its character and\nimposes its own colour.... But I shall not write any more. Her paper on\n‘Titian’s House at Venice,’ which she let me read in proof, and which is\none of the essays she is printing now, is full of beauty and truth, and\nI admired it heartily. Then there is a quotation about the ‘calm, cold,\nbeautiful regard,’ of ‘Virgin child and saint’ ... which you may remember\nperhaps. I know you will like the essay and feel it to be Venetian.\n\nThat you were feeling the east wind, beloved, meant that you were not\nwell, though you have quite left off telling me a word of yourself\nlately. And why? It shall not be so next week,—now shall it? May\nGod bless you. I am afraid of going down-stairs, because of the\ndouble-knocks. It will be great gain to have the loudest noises from the\ncicale. Except when somebody else is noisy,—which is a noise I am always\nforgetting, just as if it were impossible.\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                                (Day before to-morrow!)\n                                                [Post-mark, May 18, 1846.]\n\nHow kind to write to me and help me through the gloomy day with a light!\nI could certainly feel my way in the dark and reach to-morrow without\nvery important stumbling, but now I go cheerfully on, spite of a little\nheadache and weariness. Need you? I should hate life apart from you.\nKnowing what I say, I should hate it—the life of my soul as seen apart\nfrom that of the mere body ... to which, to the necessities of which, no\nhuman being ever ministered before, and which, now that I have known you,\nI myself cannot provide for,—or could not were you removed,—even after\nthe imperfect fashion of former times. If you ask Mrs. Jameson she will\ntell you, if she has thought it worth remembering, that I once, two or\nthree years ago, _explained_ to her that I could not believe in ‘love’\nnor understand it,—nor be subject to it consequently. I said—‘all you\ndescribe as characteristics of the passion—I should expect to find in\n_men_ more easily and completely—’ now I know better, and my year’s life\nspent in this knowledge makes all before it look pale and all _after_, if\nan after could come, look black.\n\nWhy do I write so? I am rather dull, this horrible day, and cling to you\nthe closelier.\n\nAll you write about Art is most true. Carlyle has turned and forged,\nreforged on his anvil that fact ‘that no age ever appeared heroic to\nitself’ ... and so, worthy of reproduction in Art by itself ... I thought\nafter Carlyle’s endeavours nobody could be ignorant of that,—nobody who\nwas obliged to seek the proof of it out of his own experience. The cant\nis, that ‘an age of transition’ is the melancholy thing to contemplate\nand delineate—whereas the worst things of all to look back on are times\nof comparative standing still, rounded in their important completeness.\nSo the young England imbeciles hold that ‘belief’ is the admirable\npoint—_in what_, they judge comparatively immaterial! The other day I\ntook up a book two centuries old in which ‘glory’, ‘soldiering’, ‘rushing\nto conquer’ and the rest, were most thoroughly ‘believed in’—and if by\nsome miracle the writer had conceived and described some unbeliever,\nunable to ‘rush to conquer the Parthians’ &c., it would have been as\nthough you found a green bough inside a truss of straw.\n\nBut you know—\n\nAnd I know one thing, one—but one—I love you, _shall_ love you ever,\nliving and dying your own—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 19, 1846.]\n\nMy own ever dearest, when I try to thank you for such a letter as\nyesterday’s, ... for any proof, in fact, of your affection, ... I cannot\nspeak: but you know, of this and all things, that I understand, feel—you\nmust know it very well. There is only one thing I can do as I ought, and\nit is to love you; and the more I live, not ‘_the less_’ but the _more_\nI am able to love you—believe it of me. And for _the less_, ... we never\nwill return to that foolish subject, ... but for the ‘less you spoke of\nwhen you said ‘you do not love me less?’ ... why I thought at the moment\nand feel now, that it would be too late, as I am, ever, upon any possible\nground, to love you less. If you loved _me_ less ... even!—or (to leave\nthat) if you were to come to me and say that you had murdered a man—why\nI may imagine such things, you know—but I cannot imagine the possibility\nof my loving you less, as a consequence of your failing so! I am yours\nin the deepest of my affections:—not unreasonably, certainly, as I see\nyou and know you—but if it _were_ to turn unreasonable ... I mean, if you\ntook away the appearance of reasonableness ... still I should be yours in\nthe deepest of my affections ... it is too late for a difference _there_.\n\nMrs. Jameson has just now sent me a proof with the ‘Daughters of\nPandarus,’ which she is to call for presently and therefore I must come\nto an end with this note. How I shall think of you to-morrow! And if it\nshould be fine, I may perhaps drive in the park near the gardens ... take\nmy sisters to the gate of the gardens, and feel that you are inside! That\nwill be something, if it is feasible. And if it is fine or not, and if I\ngo or not, I shall remember our first day, the only day of my life which\nGod blessed visibly to me, the only day undimmed with a cloud ... my\ngreat compensation-day, which it was worth while being born for!\n\n                              Your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nOh—you will _not see me_ to-morrow, remember! I tell you only out of\ncunning ... to win a thought!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 19, 1846].\n\nWith this day expires the first year since you have been yourself\nto me—putting aside the anticipations, and prognostications, and\neven assurances from all reasons short of absolute sight and\nhearing,—excluding the five or six months of these, there remains a year\nof this intimacy. You accuse me of talking extravagantly sometimes. I\nwill be quiet here,—is the tone _too_ subdued if I say, such a life—made\nup of such years—I would deliberately take rather than any other\nimaginable one in which fame and worldly prosperity and the love of the\nwhole human race should combine, excluding ‘that of yours—to which I\nhearken’—only wishing the rest were there for a moment that you might\nsee and know that I did turn from them to you. My dearest, inexpressibly\ndearest. How can I thank you? I feel sure you _need_ not have been so\nkind to me, so perfectly kind and good,—I should have remained your own,\ngratefully, entirely your own, through the bare permission to love you,\nor even without it—seeing that I never dreamed of stipulating at the\nbeginning for ‘a return,’ and ‘reward,’—but I also believe, joyfully,\nthat no course but the course you have taken would have raised me above\nmy very self, as I feel on looking back. I began by loving you in\ncomparison with all the world,—now, I love you, my Ba, in the face of\nyour past self, as I remember it.\n\nAll words are foolish—but I kiss your feet and offer you my heart and\nsoul, dearest, dearest Ba.\n\nI left you last evening without the usual privilege—you did not rise, Ba!\nBut,—I don’t know why,—I got nervous of a sudden, it seemed late and I\nremembered the Drawing-room and its occupants.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 20, 1846.]\n\nDo you remember how, when poor Abou Hassan, in the Arabian story, awakens\nfrom sleep in the Sultan’s chamber, to the sound of instruments of music,\nhe is presently complimented by the grand vizier on the royal wisdom\ndisplayed throughout his reign ... do you remember? Because just as he\nlistened, do _I_ listen, when you talk to me about ‘the course I have\ntaken’.... _I_, who have just had the wit to sit still in my chair with\nmy eyes half shut, and dream ... dream!—Ah, whether I am asleep or awake,\nwhat do I know ... even now? As to the ‘course I have taken,’ it has been\nsomewhere among the stars ... or under the trees of the Hesperides, at\nlowest....\n\nWhy how can I write to you such foolishness? Rather I should be serious,\ngrave, and keep away from myths and images, and speak the truth plainly.\nAnd speaking the truth plainly, I, when I look back, dearest beloved, see\nthat you have done for me everything, instead of my doing anything for\nyou—that you have lifted me.... Can I speak? Heavens!—how I had different\nthoughts of you and of myself and of the world and of life, last year\nat this hour! The spirits who look backward over the grave, cannot feel\nmuch otherwise from my feeling as I look back. As to _your_ thanking\n_me_, _that_ is monstrous, it seems to me. It is the action of your own\nheart alone, which has appeared to do you any good. For myself, if I do\nnot spoil your life, it is the nearest to deserving thanks that I can\ncome. Think what I was when you saw me first ... laid there on the sofa\nas an object of the merest compassion! and of a sadder spirit than even\nthe face showed! and then think of all your generosity and persistence\nin goodness. Think of it!—shall I ever cease? Not while the heart beats,\nwhich beats for you.\n\nAnd now as the year has rounded itself to ‘the perfect round,’ I will\nspeak of that first letter, about which so many words were, ... just to\nsay, this time, that I am glad now, yes, glad, ... as we were to have a\nmiracle, ... to have it _so_, a born-miracle from the beginning. I feel\nglad, now, that nothing was _between_ the knowing and the loving ... and\nthat the beloved eyes were never cold discerners and analyzers of me at\nany time. I am glad and grateful to you, my own altogether dearest! Yet\nthe letter was read in pain and agitation, and you have scarcely guessed\nhow much. I could not sleep night after night,—could not,—and my fear was\nat nights, lest the feverishness should make me talk deliriously and tell\nthe secret aloud. Judge if the deeps of my heart were not shaken. From\nthe first you had that power over me, notwithstanding those convictions\nwhich I also had and which you know.\n\nFor it was not the character of the letter apart from you, which shook\nme,—I could prove that to you—I received and answered very calmly, with\nmost absolute calmness, a letter of the kind last summer ... knowing\nin respect to the writer of it, (just as I thought of _you_), that a\nmoment’s enthusiasm had carried him a good way past his discretion. I am\nsure that he was perfectly satisfied with my way of answering his letter\n... as I was myself. But _you_ ... _you_ ... I could not escape so from\n_you_. You were stronger than I, from the beginning, and I felt the\nmastery in you by the first word and first look.\n\nDearest and most generous. No man was ever like you, I know! May God\nkeep me from laying a blot on one day of yours!—on one hour! and rather\nblot out mine!\n\nFor my life, it is yours, as this year has been yours. But how can it\nmake you happy, such a thing as my life? _There_, I wonder still. It\nnever made me happy, without you!—\n\n                              Your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nMrs. Jameson was here to-day and brought a message from Mr. Kenyon, who\ncomes to-morrow _at one_. The sun does not promise to come besides—does\nhe?\n\nMrs. Jameson goes to Brighton on Thursday, and returns in a day or two to\nspend another month or six weeks in town, changing her lodgings.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 20, 1846.]\n\nMy Ba, I can just kneel down to you and be kissed,—I cannot do more, nor\nspeak, nor thank you—and I seem to have no more chance of getting new\nlove to give you,—all is given,—so I have said before, and must keep\nsaying now—all of me is your very own.\n\nMy sister (whose engagement, and not mine, this was) decides to act\naccording to the letter of Mr. Kenyon’s kind instructions, and keeps at\nhome on account of the rain. She is very subject to colds and sore-throat\nwhich the least dampness underfoot is sure to produce in her. So I am\nnot near you! You would not go, however,—I think, would not go,—to the\nPark gate as you conditionally promised—I do not, therefore, miss _my_\nflower-show, my ‘rose tree that beareth seven times seven.’ But the\nother chance which your last letter apprises me of,—the visit of Mr.\nKenyon,—which, by going in time to him, I might perhaps make my own\ntoo—_that_, on a second thought, I determine to forego ... because\nit jeopardizes my Saturday, which will be worth so many, many such\nvisits,—does it not? There is no precedent in our golden year for three\nvisits taking place in a single week—not even in that end of October when\nall the doubt was about the voyage—how I remember!\n\nI shall be more with you than if in the presence of people before whom\nI may not say ‘Miss Barrett’ with impunity while professing to talk of\nMiss—I forget who! But ‘_more_ with you’ I who am always with you!\n\nAlways with you in the spirit, always yearning to be with you in the\nbody,—always, when with you, praying, as for the happiest of fortunes,\nthat I may remain with you for ever. So may it be, prays your\n\n                                                               own, own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday, May 20.\n\nWas it very wrong of me that never did I once think of the possibility of\nyour coming here with Mr. Kenyon? Never once had I the thought of it. If\nI had, I should have put it away by saying aloud ‘Don’t come’; because\nas you say, it would have prevented Saturday’s coming, the coming to-day\nwould, ... and also, as you do not say, it would have been infinitely\nhard for me to meet you and Mr. Kenyon in one battalion. Oh no, no! The\ngods forefend that you should come in that way! It was bad enough as it\nwas, to-day, when while he sate here his ten minutes, (first showing me a\nsonnet from America, which began ‘Daughter of Græcian Genius!’) he turned\nthose horrible spectacles full on me and asked, ‘Does Mrs. Jameson know\nthat Mr. Browning comes here?’ ‘No,’ said I,—suddenly abashed, though\nI had borne the sonnet like a hero. ‘Well, then! I advise you to give\ndirections to the servants that when she or anyone else asks for you,\nthey should not say _Mr. Browning is with you_,—as they said the other\nday to Miss Bayley who told me of it.’ Now, wasn’t _that_ pleasant to\nhear? I thanked him for his advice, and felt as uncomfortable as was well\npossible—and am, at this moment, a little in doubt how he was thinking\nwhile he spoke. Perhaps after the fashion of my sisters, when they cry\nout ‘Such a state of things never was heard of before!’ Not that they\nhave uttered one word of opposition ... not, from the first they knew,\n... understand!—but that they are frightened at what may be said by\npeople who take for granted that we are strangers, you and I, to one\nanother. Ah!—a little more, a little less ... of what consequence is it?\n\nSuch a day, to-day!—it was finer last year I remember! and Tuesday,\ninstead of Wednesday! Your sister was right, very right—though mine\nwent—but the distance was less, with us. A party of _twelve_ went from\nthis house—‘among us but not of us.’ For my part, I have not stirred\nfrom my room of course—the carriage was out of the question. And, if you\nplease, I never ‘_promised_’ to be at the park gate—oh indeed, I never\nmeditated seeing you even from afar—I thought only that I should hear\na little distant music and remember that, where it sounded, you were,\n_that_ was all, ... and too much, the stars made out, and so drove down\nthe clouds.\n\nPoor Mr. Kenyon was grave—depressed about his friend, who is in a\ndesperate state—dying in fact. He returns to Portsmouth to-morrow to be\nwith him till the change comes.\n\nDearest, how are you? Never now will you condescend to say how you\nare. Which is not to be allowed in this second year of our reign. I am\nvery well. Yesterday I heard some delightful matrimonial details of an\n‘establishment’ in Regent’s Park, quite like an old pastoral in the\nquickness of the repartee. ‘I hate you’—‘I abhor you’—‘I never liked\nyou’—‘I always detested you.’ A cup and saucer thrown bodily, here, by\nthe lady! On which the gentleman upsets her, ... chair and all, ...\nflat on the floor. The witness, who is a friend of mine, gets frightened\nand begins to cry. She was invited to the house to be godmother to their\nchild, and now she is pressed to stay longer to witness the articles of\nseparation.\n\nOh, I suppose such things are common enough!—But what is remarkable\n_here_, is the fact that neither party is a _poet_, by the remotest\ncourtesy.\n\nGoodnight, dear dearest—\n\n                                I am your\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 21, 1846.]\n\nJust as I write, the weather is a little more proper for this ‘the\nblest ascension-day of the cheerful month of May’: may you not go out\ntherefore, my Ba? Or down-stairs, at all events. We were sorry, Sarianna\nand I, to see the bright afternoon yesterday ... we ought to have\ngone, perhaps—but Mr. Kenyon is good and will understand; spite of the\nspectacles. But what sonnet is that, you perverse Ba, of which you give\nme the two or three words,—in print,—how, where? And if I do not request\nand request I shall be sure to hear nothing of that American review\nagain,—so, I do request, Ba!\n\nLast night brought Dickens’ ‘Pictures from Italy’—which I read this\nmorning. He seems to have expended his power on the least interesting\nplaces,—and then gone on hurriedly, seeing or describing less and less,\ntill at last the mere names of places do duty for pictures of them, and\nat Naples he fairly gives it up ... the Vesuvius’ journey excepted. But\nthe book is readable and clever—shall I bring it?—(or next week when\neverybody here has done with it).\n\nI know, dearest, you did not _promise_ me that beatific vision by the\ngate—but was not enough said to justify me in waiting for you there?\nIndeed, yes—only the rain and wind seemed to forbid you; as they did.\nWere your sisters pleased? I am not sure I should have been glad to\nmeet them _so_—I could not have left my sister (whom nobody would have\nknown)—and then, with that unspoken secret between us. Also I please\nmyself by hoping that Mr. Kenyon was only relieved of a great trouble and\nannoyance in the present state of his anxieties by our keeping away. Poor\nCaptain Jones—really a fine, manly, noble fellow—I am heartily sorry. As\nfor me, since Ba asks, I am pretty well,—much better in some points, and\nno worse in the rest—all is right but the little sound in the head which\n_will_ be intrusive—but I must walk it away presently, or _think_ it away\nat worst.\n\nFor, dearest, dearest Ba, I _can_ cure all pains at once with you to\nthink of, and to love, and to bless. So, bless you!\n\n                                                                   Your R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 22, 1846.]\n\nDearest, when your letter came I was cutting open the leaves of Dickens’\n‘Letters from Italy’ which Papa had brought in—so I am glad to have\nyour thoughts of the book to begin with. Before your letter came I had\nsent you the review, as you will find. What changes, what changes! And\nthe sonnet was purely manuscript, and for the good of the world should\nremain so. Oh—you cannot care for all this trash—such trash! Why I\nhad a manuscript sonnet sent to me last autumn by ‘person or persons\nunknown,’ ... ‘To EBB on her departure from England _to Pisa_.’ Can\nyou fancy that melodious piece of gossipping? Then a lady of the city,\nfamous, I believe, for haberdashery, used to address _all_ her poems to\nme—which really was original ... for she would write five or six ‘poems’\non an evening, and sweep them up and send them to me once a fortnight,\nupon faith, hope and charity, seaweed and moonshine, cornlaws and the\nimmortality of the soul, and take me for her standing muse, properly\n_thou_’d and _thee_’d all through. What a good vengeance it would be\nupon your unjust charges, if I set you to read a volume or two of those\n‘poems’ ... which all went into the fire—so you need not be frightened.\n\nAnd to-day I had a rose-tree sent to me by somebody who has laid close\nsiege to me this long while, and whom I have escaped hitherto ... but who\nhas encamped, she says, ‘till July’ in _16_ Wimpole Street. She writes\ntoo on her card ... ‘When are you going to Italy?’\n\nAh! you, who blame me (half blame me) for ‘seeing women,’ do not know\nhow difficult it is to help it sometimes, without being in appearance\nungrateful and almost brutal. Just because I am unwell, they teaze me\nmore, I believe. Now that Miss Heaton ... oh, I need not go back, but it\nwas not of my choice, be sure. You being a man are different,—and perhaps\nyou make people afraid and keep them off. They do not thrust their hands\nthrough the bars where the lion is, as they do with the giraffe. Once I\nhad this proposition—‘If we mayn’t come in, _will you stand up at the\nwindow that we may see_?’ Now!—And there’s the essence of at least ten\nMS. sonnets!——so don’t complain any more.\n\nAs for Mr. Kenyon, he had his ‘collation,’ I understand—and he said\nthat he was expecting Mrs. Jameson and _sundries_—but he referred to\nsome ‘friends from the country who would not be so mad as to come,’ and\nwhom I knew to be yourselves. You were quite, quite right not to come.\nTo-day you are right too ... in thinking that I—was out. I was in the\npark nearly an hour, Arabel and Flush and I: and perhaps if to-morrow\nshould be fine, I may walk in the street; so think of me and help me.\nThis is my last letter before I see you again, dear dearest. Oh—but I\nheard yesterday ... and it was not a tradition of the elders this time\n... it was ‘vivid in the pages of contemporary history’ ... in fact one\nof my brothers heard it at the Flower Show and brought it home as the\nnewest news, ... that ‘Mr. Browning is to be married immediately to Miss\nCampbell.’ The tellers of the news were ‘intimate friends’ of yours, they\nsaid, and knew it from the highest authority—\n\nLaugh!—Why should not they talk, being women? My brother did not tell\n_me_, but he told it down-stairs—and Arabel was amused, she said, at some\nof the faces round. At that turn of the road they lost the track of the\nhare. Not an observation was made by anybody.\n\nMay God bless you—Think of me. I am ever and ever\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n\nThis is not to be called a letter, please to understand, because to write\na letter to you once a day is enough in all reason. But I want to send\nyou the review you asked for at the same time with the drawings which I\nkept too long I thought months ago,—but I have looked over them again and\nagain. Then there is the book on Junius—and lastly, the song which I want\nyou to have ... the ‘Toll Slowly’—_that_ is my gift to you, for as much\nas it is worth, and not to be sent back to me if you please. As for the\nNotes on Naples, I shall keep them for the present, having need to study\nabout Amalfi.\n\nNow I am going out in the carriage, and shall drive round the park\nperhaps. You will not think much of the music—but it being the first\nmusic I had heard for years and years, and in itself so overwhelmingly\nmelancholy, it affected me so that I should scarcely hear it to the\nend. I went down-stairs on purpose to hear it and be able to thank the\ncomposer rightly. But she has done better things, I am sure.\n\n                                 Your own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nObserve—I disobey in nothing by sending this parcel. There is too much\nfor you to carry. Don’t forget to bring me my _Statesmen_ which is a\nlawful burden.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 22, 1846.]\n\nI have a great mind to retract ... I _do_ retract altogether whatever\nI said the other day in explanation of Miss Heaton’s story. I make no\ndoubt, now, it was a pure dream to which my over-scrupulousness of\nconscience gave a local habitation and name both, through the favourable\ndimness and illusion of ‘a good many years ago’—because this last charge\nabout ‘Miss Campbell’—briefly—I never in my life saw, to my knowledge,\na woman of that name—nor can there be any woman of any other name from\nmy acquaintance with whom the merest misunderstanding in the world could\npossibly arise to a third person ... I mean, that it must be a simple\nfalsehood and not gossip or distortion of fact, as I supposed in the\nother case. I told you of the one instance where such distortion _might_\ntake place,—(Miss Haworth, to avoid mistake). This charge after the other\n... I will tell you of what it reminds me—in my early boyhood I had a\nhabit of calling people ‘fools,’ with as little reverence as could be,\n... and it used to be solemnly represented to me after such offences that\n‘whoso calleth his brother “fool,” is in danger &c. for he hath committed\nmurder in his heart already’ &c. in short,—there was no help for it,—I\nstood there a convicted _murderer_ ... to which I was forced penitently\nto agree.... Here is Miss Heaton’s charge and my confession. Now, let\na policeman come here presently to ask what I know about the ‘Deptford\nMurder’ or the ‘Marshalsea Massacre’—and you will have my ‘intimate\nfriend’s’ charge. By the way, did your brother overhear this, or was it\nspoken to someone in his company, or is my friend his acquaintance also?\nBecause in either of the latter cases I can interfere easily. (There is\na _Mr. Browning_—Henry I think—living in, or near the Regent’s Park.) At\nall events, please say that I know no such person, nor ever knew,—that\nthe whole is a pure falsehood—(and I only use so mild a word because\nI write to _you_, and because on reading the letter again I see the\nspeakers were women).\n\nIt is a _fact_ that I have made myself almost ridiculous by a kind of\nmale prudery with respect to ‘young ladies’ ... that I have seemed to\nimply—‘If I gave you the least encouragement something would be sure to\nfollow.’ In fact never seeing any attractiveness in the class, I was very\nlittle inclined to get involved in troubles and troubles for nothing at\nall. And as for marrying ... that is a point on which I have certainly\nnot chosen to dilate before _you_, nor shall I now dilate on it.\n\nWell, I shall see you to-morrow, that remedies everything. And that is\nyour way of letting me see the Review,—you send it! Not that it has\narrived yet. Dear Ba, how ever good you are!\n\nAll about the lady enthusiasts makes me laugh—don’t think I fail of\nthe proper respect to them, however—it is only once in a week that one\nsees a real painted Emperor settle on a flower, and then perhaps for a\nfew minutes—while at all times, if you look, you will find a good half\ndozen of earnest yet sleepy drones _living_ there, working away at the\nsweet,—after all, these get the most out of the flower.\n\nDid you really go out yesterday? I was not sure, for the wind was\nEasterly—but it appears to have done you no harm,—you may ‘go into the\nstreet’ to-day—I am most happy,—most happy—and always entirely happy in\nyou,—in thinking of you, and hoping,—my life is in you now—\n\n                                         Bless you, dearest—I am your own.\n\n2 o’clock, the parcel arrives ... thank you, best of Ba’s! I will read\nand tell you—(only what on earth do you mean by sending back those\nsketches?)",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Morning.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 25, 1846.]\n\nMy own Ba is entreated to observe, that when she sends me reviews\nabout herself, and songs by herself, and a make-weight book about\n‘Junius’ happens to be sent also ... I do not ordinarily plunge into\nthe Junius-discussion at once—perhaps from having made up my mind that\nthe Author is Miss Campbell:—at all events, while the review was read\nand re-read and the music done justice and injustice to, the Junius was\nopened for the first time this morning, at eight of the clock, and Ba’s\nletter which lay between pages 16 and 17, ‘came to hand’—was brought\nto me by my mother, from my father! but for whose lucky inspiration of\ncuriosity the said note had perhaps lain shut in till the book’s secret\nwas found out ... certainly _I_ should never have touched the book before\nthen! And from this note, duly studied, I learn that yesterday I must\nhave appeared to Ba touched by a general mental paralysis—inasmuch as I\nwas surprised, over and above the joyfulness, to hear that she was in the\nPark on Thursday, as well as Friday ... (oh, I know the letter I _did_\nreceive mentioned it, but it seems as if _one_ of the two excursions were\nunrecorded)—and seeing that I enquired whether Ba had heard with her own\nears the song ... and altogether omitted thanking her for the gift of it:\nand lastly, brought no _Statesmen_, even on Ba’s request! Of all which\nmatters I _ought_ to have been made acquainted by the note: what must you\nthink of me, you Ba; dearest-dearest, that expect me to know the face\nthrough the bonnet, and the letter through the book covers—(Ba sitting\nin the Bookseller’s shop was a type, I see!). What did you think of me\nyesterday, I want to know?\n\nWell, and now my letter does come I thank you—(for all the trouble this\nprecedent will give me—next time a parcel comes—of poking into all\nimpossible places to see and to see!). You are the dearest, dearest,\nimpossibly dear Ba that heart ever adored,\n\n    ‘And the roses which thou strowest,\n    All the cheerful way thou goest,\n    Would direct to follow thee,’\n\nas Shirley sings—and every now and then the full sense of the sweetness\n_collects_ itself and overcomes me entirely, as now, on the occasion of\nthis note that I find; I am blessed by you in the hundred unspeakable\nways—but were it only for _this_ and similar pure kindness, I find it in\nmy heart to give you my life could it profit you! Here ought I, by every\nlaw and right and propriety ... ask Miss Campbell! ... to be ministering\nto you, caring for you; and ... oh, Ba, do please, please, throw a coffee\ncup at me!—(giving some _grounds_ for complaint!)—and after it the\n_soucoupe_ (‘glaring with _saucer_ eyes’)—and see what you shall see, and\nhear what you shall hear! You ‘strongest woman that has written yet’!\nHave _they_ found that out? _I_ know it, I think, by this! So I will go\nand think over it in the garden, and tell you more in the afternoon.\n\n_12 o’clock!_—What strange weather!—but pleasant, I think—you have been\nout, or will go out, perhaps. Tell me all, dearest, and how you feel\nafter it. To-morrow I will send you the Review and some of the other\nbooks you have spoken of from time to time—but, I almost dare to keep\nthe _Statesmen_, spite of your positive request. Why, dear, want to see\nwhat I desire to forget altogether? So my other poems, ‘Sordello’ &c.—I\nmost unaffectedly shudder at the notion of your reading them, as I said\nyesterday. _My_ poetry is far from the ‘completest expression of my\nbeing’—I hate to refer to it, or I could tell you why, wherefore, ...\n_prove_ how imperfect (for a mild word), how unsatisfactory it must of\nnecessity be. Still, I should not so much object, if, such as it is, it\nwere the best, the flower of my life ... but that is all to come, and\nthrough you, mainly, or more certainly. So will it not be better to let\nme write one last poem this summer,—quite easily, stringing every day’s\nthoughts instead of letting them fall,—and laying them at the dear feet\nat the summer’s end for a memorial? I have been almost determining to\ndo this, or try to do it, as I walked in the garden just now. A poem to\npublish or not to publish; but a proper introduction to the afterwork.\nWhat do you think, my Ba, my dearest siren, and muse, and Mistress, and\n... something beyond all, above all and better ... shall I do this?\nAnd what are you studying about Amalfi, my Ba? Will you please keep\nthat Naples’ Note-book till I ask for it—at Amalfi. Till holy church\nincorporate two in one; and I take the degree of my aspiration. Rᵗ. Bᵍ.\n_B.A._—in earnest of which, kiss me dear, ‘earnest, most earnest of\npoets,’ and let me kiss you as I do ... loving you as I love you. Bless\nyou, best and dearest.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 25, 1846.]\n\nWhen you came yesterday I had scarcely done my grumbling over the\n_Athenæum_, which really seems to me to select its subjects from the\nthings least likely to interest and elevate. It goes on its own level\nperhaps—but to call itself a Journal of Art and Literature afterwards,\nis too much to bear patiently when one turns it over and considers. Lady\nHester Stanhope’s physician, antiquities of the mayors of London, stories\nre-collected from the magazines by Signor Marcotti—and this is literature\n... art! Without thinking of ‘Luria,’ it is natural and righteous to\nbe angry even after the sun has gone down. These are your teachers,\nO Israel! Mr. Dilke may well fly to the _Daily News_ for congenial\noccupation and leave literature behind him, and nobody hang on the wheels\nof his chariot, crying, ‘Come back, Mr. Dilke.’\n\nTalking of chariots, George met you, he said, yesterday, wheeling down\nOxford Street, ... (this he told me when he came in ...) going as fast as\nan express train, and far too fast, of course, either to recognize or be\nrecognized.\n\nOh—I forgot to tell you one thing about the review in the _Methodist\nQuarterly_. You observe there some very absurd remarks about\nTennyson—but, just _there_, is an extract from the ‘Spirit of the Age,’\nabout his ‘coming out of himself as the nightingale from under the\nleaves,’ ... you see _that_? Well ... it is curious that precisely what\nis quoted _there_, is some of my writing, when I contributed to Mr.\nHorne’s book. It amused me to recognize it, (as you did not George) ...\nbut I was vexed too at the foolish deduction, because....\n\nIn the midst I had to hold my Sunday-levee, when for the only day in the\nweek and for one half hour I have to see all my brothers and sisters at\nonce: on the week days, one being in one place and one in another, and\nthe visits to me only coming by twos and threes. Well, and Alfred, who\nnever had said a word to me before, gave me the opportunity of saying\n‘_no, no, it is not true_’—followed hard by a remark from somebody else,\nthat ‘of course Ba must know, as she and Mr. Browning are such _very_\nintimate friends,’ and a good deal of laughter on all sides: on which,\nwithout any transition and with an exceeding impertinence, Alfred threw\nhimself down on the sofa and declared that he felt inclined to be very\nill, ... for that then perhaps (such things being heard of) some young\nlady might come to visit _him_, to talk sympathetically on the broad\nand narrow gauge! Altogether, I shall leave you for the future to ...\ncontradict yourself! I did not mean to do it this time, only that Alfred\nforced me into it. But he said ... ‘How the Miss Cokers praised him!...\n“It was delightful,” they cried, “to see a man of such a great genius\ncondescend to little people like them.”’ So they are better than the\n_Athenæum_, and I shall not have them spoken of ungently, mind, even if\nthey do romance a little wildly, and marry _me_, next time, to the man in\nthe moon.\n\nIn the meantime, dearest, it is no moonshine that I was out walking\nto-day again, and that I walked up all these stairs with my own feet on\nreturning. I sate down on the stairs two or three times, but I could\nnot rest in the drawing-room because somebody was there, and I was not\ncarried, as usual—see how vain-glorious I am. And what a summer-sense in\nthe air—and how lovely the strips of sky between the houses! And yet I\nmay tell you truly, that, constantly, through these vivid impressions,\nI am thinking and feeling that mournful and bitter would be to me this\nreturn into life, apart from you, apart from the consideration of you.\nHow could ever I have borne it, I keep feeling constantly. But you are\n_there_, in the place of memory. Ah—you said yesterday that you were\nnot ungrateful! _I_ cannot say so. I blame myself often. And yet again\nI think that the wrong may be pardoned to me, for that those affections\nhad worked out on me their uttermost pang—nearly unto death I had felt\nthem—and now if I am to live, it must be by other means—or I should\ndie still, and not live. Also I owe _you_ gratitude——do I not owe you\ngratitude? Then, _I cannot help it_ ... right or wrong, I cannot help it\n... you are all to me, and, beloved—whichever way I look, I only can see\n_you_. If wrong, it is not for _you_ to be severe on me—\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday. 12 o’clock.\n\nI get nothing by the post this morning:—perhaps at next delivery! Well,\nI had the unexpected largess yesterday, you know. At this time last\nyear the letters came once a week! Now the manna falls as manna should\nomitting only the seventh day.\n\nDo you know, my Ba,—the Campbell mystery is all but solved, to my\nthinking, by supposing, as one may, that, those foolish ladies confound\ntheir cousin’s friend _Brown_, an indubitable Scot and Lord Jeffrey’s\nnephew,—(and their intimate for aught I know)—with _me_. He is in town\nnow; _did_ dine with them just before I saw him a fortnight ago; and\n_may_ meditate happiness with Miss Campbell, and be provided with a\nparagon of a ‘sister’ besides. Those ladies have been to Scotland—may\neasily know him there and see ‘sights’ with him here. Is not all this\nlikely? It is not worth writing about to White, nor a visit to him at\nDoctors’ Commons, but when I next chance on his company, I will enquire.\n\nHere is the review,—which I like very much—the introductory, abstract\nremarks might be better, but so it always is when a man, having really\nsomething to say about one precise thing (your poems), thinks he had\nbetter preface it by a little graceful _generality_. All he _wanted_ to\nwrite, I agree in, thoroughly agree,—though I cannot but fancy my own\nselection,—that _might_ be,—of passages and single poems!\n\nAnd, dearest, I venture to keep back the _Statesmen_, as I asked leave to\ndo yesterday, for the reasons then given—may I keep it back?\n\nAlso I return those sketches,—now they have been in your hand, they\ncannot lie about here—(I keep brown paper with your writing on it, and\nstring, and the wrappage of this pen of mine—to be sure) so I shall get\nyou to bear with them again, two or three being added, just as I find\nthem. There is, too, the ode which was presented to me on my departure\nfrom Rome by an enthusiastic Roman; red ribbon and all! And last of all\nyou have my play as altered by Macready: greater excisions had been\ndetermined on, but on the appearance of the printed copy had the effect\nit intended ... it would have been too ludicrous to leave out the whole\nof the first scene, for instance (as was in contemplation), and then to\ntell the public ‘my play’ had been acted. I refer to this silly business\nonly to show you what success or non-success on the stage means and is\nworth. It is all behind me now—so far behind!\n\nNow I will wait and see what next post may bring me from dearest Ba—Ba,\nthe dear, and the beloved, e sopra tutto, the tall! Does she not ‘stand\nhigh in the affection’—of her very own\n\n                                                                     R.B.?",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 25, 1846.]\n\nDear, dear love, your letter comes at half past _three_ by a new\nPostman,—(very bewildered). You will perhaps have received my parcel and\nnote—if not, such things are on the road. All in _your_ note delights\nme entirely. As for my walking fast, _that_ is exactly my use and wont\n... I am famous for it,—as my father is for driving old lady-friends\ninto illnesses, and then saying innocently, ‘I took care to walk _very_\nslowly.’ When I have anything to occupy my mind, I all but run—but the\npen can’t run, for this letter must go, and nothing said.\n\nSo, Ba, my Ba, Goodbye till to-morrow from\n\n                                                            Your own, own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 26, 1846.]\n\nMy beloved I scarcely know what to say about the poem. It is almost\nprofane and a sin to keep you from writing it when your mind goes that\nway,—yet I am afraid that you cannot begin without doing too much and\nwithout suffering as a consequence in your head. Now if you make yourself\nill, what will be the end? So you see my fears! Let it be however as it\nmust be! Only you will promise to keep from all excesses, and to write\nvery very gently. Ah—can you keep such a promise, if it is made ever so?\nThere are the fears again.\n\nYou are very strange in what you say about my reading your poetry—as if\nit were not my peculiar gladness and glory!—my own, which no man can\ntake from me. And not _you_, indeed! Yet I am not likely to mistake\nyour poetry for the flower of your nature, knowing what that flower is,\nknowing something of what that flower is without a name, and feeling\nsomething of the mystical perfume of it. When I said, or when others\nsaid for me, that my poetry was the flower of me, was it praise, did you\nthink, or blame? might it not stand for a sarcasm? It might,—if it were\nnot true, miserably true after a fashion.\n\nYet something of the sort is true, of course, with all poets who write\ndirectly from their personal experience and emotions—their ideal rises to\nthe surface and floats like the bell of the waterlily. The roots and the\nmuddy water are _subaudita_, you know—as surely there, as the flower.\n\nBut _you_ ... you have the superabundant mental life and individuality\nwhich admits of shifting a personality and speaking the truth still.\n_That_ is the highest faculty, the strongest and rarest, which exercises\nitself in Art,—we are all agreed there is none so great faculty as the\ndramatic. Several times you have hinted to me that I made you careless\nfor the drama, and it has puzzled me to fancy how it could be, when\nI understand myself so clearly both the difficulty and the glory of\ndramatic art. Yet I am conscious of wishing you to take the other crown\nbesides—and after having made your own creatures speak in clear human\nvoices, to speak yourself out of that personality which God made, and\nwith the voice which He tuned into such power and sweetness of speech. I\ndo not think that, with all that music in you, only your own personality\nshould be dumb, nor that having thought so much and deeply on life and\nits ends, you should not teach what you have learnt, in the directest and\nmost impressive way, the mask thrown off however moist with the breath.\nAnd it is not, I believe, by the dramatic medium, that poets teach most\nimpressively—I have seemed to observe _that_! ... it is too difficult\nfor the common reader to analyse, and to discern between the vivid and\nthe earnest. Also he is apt to understand better always, when he sees\nthe lips move. Now, here is yourself, with your wonderful faculty!—it is\nwondered at and recognised on all sides where there are eyes to see—it is\ncalled wonderful and admirable! Yet, with an inferior power, you might\nhave taken yourself closer to the hearts and lives of men, and made\nyourself dearer, though being less great. Therefore I do want you to do\nthis with your surpassing power—it will be so easy to you to speak, and\nso noble, when spoken.\n\nNot that I usen’t to fancy I could see you and know you, in a reflex\nimage, in your creations! I used, you remember. How these broken lights\nand forms look strange and unlike now to me, when I stand by the complete\nidea. Yes, _now_ I feel that no one can know you worthily by those poems.\nOnly ... I guessed a little. _Now_ let us have your own voice speaking of\nyourself—if the voice may not hurt the speaker—which is my fear.\n\n_Evening._—Thank you, dearest dearest! I have your parcel—I have your\nletters ... three letters to-day, it is certainly feast day with me.\nThank you my own dearest. The drawings I had just fixed in my mind,\ncourageously to ask for, because as you _meant_ me to keep them I did not\nsee why I should throw away a fortune—and they return to me with interest\n... I observe these new vivid sketches! Some day I shall put them into\na book, as _you_ should have done. Then for the Roman ode, and all the\nrest, thank you, thank you. _I_ looked here and looked there, though,\nfor a letter—I could not find it at first, and was just saying to myself\nquite articulately ‘What wickedness’! ... meaning that it was wickedness\nin you to send me a parcel without a word, ... when I came upon the\nfolded paper. For _I_ looked inside the books, be sure. _I_ did not toss\nthem away....\n\nThere’s the gratitude of the world, you see! and of womankind in\nparticular! there’s the malign spirit of the _genus coffee-cup-throw-arum_!\nTalking of which coffee-cups, you dare me to it. Which is imprudent,\nto say the least of it. I heard once of her most gracious Majesty’s\nthrowing a tea-cup,—whereupon Albertus Magnus, who is no conjurer, could\nfind nothing better to do than to walk out of the room in solemn silence.\nIf I had been he, I should have tied the royal hands, I think; for when\nwomen get to be warlike after that demonstrative fashion, it seems to me\nto be allowable to teach them that they are not the strongest. I say it,\nnever thinking of my ‘licence to’ throw coffee-cups—which you granted,\nknowing very well what I know intimately, ... that ... that....\n\nI have a theory about you. Was ever anybody in the world, ... a woman\nat least, ... _angry with you_? If anyone ever tried, did she not fail\nin the first breath of the trying?—go out to curse like the prophet,\nand bless instead? Tell me if anyone was ever angry with you? It is\nimpossible, I know perfectly. Therefore, as to the coffee-cup license,\n... the divine Achilles, invulnerable all but the heel, might as well\nhave said to his dearest foe ‘Draw out your sword, O Diomede, and strike\nme across the head, prick me in the forehead, slash me over the ears,\n...’ and _that_ stand for a proof of courage!\n\nWhat stuff I do write, to be sure. I was out to-day walking, with Arabel\nand Flush, and rested at the bookseller’s; but as I went farther than the\nother day, I let Stormie carry me up-stairs, ... it is such a long way!\nSay how you are, dearest—you do not! Shall you walk so fast when you walk\nwith me under the trees? I shall not let you—I shall hang back, as Flush\ndoes, when he won’t go with a string. Ah—little (altogether) you know\nperhaps what a hard Degree that B:A: is, to take— —the BA which is not a\nBachelor’s.\n\nNo, no, for the rest. It was not any Brown on earth, but the only\nBrowning of the great genius, who was shown up as intimate friend to the\nMiss Cokers and elect husband of that cloud, Miss Campbell the ‘great\nheiress’—all in proportion, observe! But I do entreat you not to say a\nword to Dr. White or another. Why should you? It is mere nonsense,—so\ndo let it evaporate quietly. Why, with all my doubts for which you have\nblamed me, ... at the thickest and saddest of the doubting, it never\nwas what people could _say of you_ that could move me. And this is so\nfoolish, and unbelieved even by the very persons who say it, perhaps! Let\nit pass away with other dust, in the wind. It is not worth the watering.\n\nMay God bless you! This is my last letter ... already! I had another\ncriticism to-day from America, in a book called ‘Thoughts on the Poets,’\nwhich is written by a Mr. Tuckermann, and selects its poets on the most\nsingular principle ... or rather on none at all ... beginning with\nPetrarch, ending with Bryant, receiving Tennyson, Procter, Hunt, and your\nBa ... and not a word of you! Stupid book—Petrarch and Alfieri are the\nonly foreign poets admitted—criticisms, swept back to the desk from the\nmagazines, I dare say. Very kind to me—you shall see if you like.\n\nAnd now ... good-night at last! it must come. Have I not written you one\nletter as long as the three? Only not worth a third as much—_that_ I know.\n\n                           Wholly and ever your\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nOh I must speak, though I meant to be silent! though first, I meant\nto keep the great subject of the _Statesmen_ for an explosion on\nWednesday. I gave up the early poems because I felt contented to read\nthem afterwards—but listen ... my _Statesmen_, I _will not give up_. Now\nlisten—I expect nothing at all from them—they were written for another\nperson, and under peculiar circumstances ... they are probably as bad as\nanything written by you, can be. Will _that_ do, to say? And _may_ I see\nthem? Now I ask ever so humbly ... _Dearest_!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "3½ P.M. Tuesday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 26, 1846.]\n\nDearest, your dearest of notes only arrived at 2 o’clock—and Carlyle has\njust been with me,—come on horseback for the express purpose of strolling\nabout—so that I was forced, forced ... you see! He is gone again—and\nthere is only time to tell you why no more is told—but to-morrow will\nsupply all deficiency. Bless you, my dearest best Ba. How I love you!\n\n                                                                 Your own—\n\nPoor Capt. Jones is dead,—you may see in the papers.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 28, 1846.]\n\nDearest it is my fancy to write quickly this morning and take my\nletter to the post myself. Oh, I shall do it this time—there will be\nno obstacle. The office is just below Hodgson’s, the bookseller’s. And\nso with this letter, please to understand that I go to you twice and\nwholly, once in the spirit, and again in the body.\n\nBut there is nothing to tell you, except that I think of you with the\nthought which never can change essentially, while it deepens always. What\nI meant to say yesterday was simply, that I, _knowing that_, should be\n‘bad’ if I could fail practically to myself and you. I have known from\nthe beginning the whole painful side of what is before me, also ... I\nshould have no excuse therefore for any weakness in any fear. Should I\nnot be ‘bad’ then, and more unworthy of you than even according to my own\naccount, if the obstacle came from _me_? _It never can._ Remember to be\nsure of it.\n\nA change of feeling indeed would be a different thing, and we think\nexactly alike on the fit consequences of it. Which change is however\nabsolutely impossible in my position and to _me_, ‘for reasons ... for\nreasons’ ... you guess at some of them, some are spoken, and others\ncannot be.\n\nIn one word for all, life seems to come to me only through you.\n\n                            I am your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 28, 1846.]\n\nThere is a long four days more of waiting—I feel more and more and ever\nmore how, wanting you, my life wants all it can have. Dear Ba, never\nwonder that I fancy at times such an event’s occurrence as you tell me I\nneed not fear. I shall always fear,—never _can_ I hold you sufficiently\nfast, I shall think. So, if my jewel must be taken from me, let some\neagle stoop down for it suddenly, baffling all human precaution, as I\nlook on my treasure on a tower’s top miles and miles inland,—don’t let\nme have to remember, though but in a minute of life afterwards, that\nI let it drop into the sea through foolishly balancing it in my open\nhand over the water. There is one of Ba’s ‘myths,’ excepting all Ba’s\nfelicitousness of application and glory of invention,—but then it has all\nmy own love and worship of Ba’s self, all I care to be distinguished by.\n\nI hope you go out this fine morning—the wind is cold, to be sure, but\nLondon is much warmer than this place, and the wind kept off by the\nhouses. I have got two of Mr. Kenyon’s kind notes, to confirm the\nappointment for Wednesday (when Mrs. Jameson is to be of the party), and\nto invite me to meet Landor on Tuesday—so that for three days running I\nshall be in Ba’s very neighbourhood ... for if the wind can’t get through\nhouses and walls, Ba can and does, as my heart knows. Might I not see\nyou for a moment on the Wednesday? Ah, there will be time to contrive,\nto concert—but the worst is that when I see you I contrive nothing,\nnor do you help me, you Ba! Else, out of these walks,—who is to object\nto my going to see the Thames Tunnel or the Tower, by way of Wimpole\nStreet,—wanting the organ of locality as I am said to? Whereas I am all\none consciousness of the influence of one locality, turning as my whole\nheart and soul turn to Ba,—my dearest, dearest, whom may God bless and\nrequite. I can only kiss you, as I do, and be your very own, my Ba, as I\nam and shall be ever.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 29, 1846.]\n\nDearest dearest, I thought I had lost my letter to-night, for not a sound\ncame like a postman’s knock ... I thought I had lost my letter, talking\nof losing jewels. I waited and waited, and at last broke silence to\nArabel with, ‘when _will_ the post come?’ ‘Not to-night,’ said she—‘it is\nnearly ten.’ On which I exclaimed so pitifully and with such a desperate\nsense of loss, ‘You mean to say that I shall have no letter to-night,’?\n... that after she had laughed a very little, she went down-stairs to\nsearch the letterbox and brought me what I wanted.\n\nAnd you think it possible that I should give up my letters and their\ngolden fountain?—_I!_ ... while I live and have understanding! I can’t\nfancy what manner of eagles you believe in. If in real live eagles, ...\nwhy it is as probable as any other thing of the sort, that I (or you)\nshould be snatched away by an eagle ... the eagle who used to live, for\ninstance, at the Coliseum of Regent’s Park. And when I ride away upon an\neagle, I may take a wrong counsel perhaps that hour from other birds of\nthe air: ... but _till then_, I am yours to have and to hold, ... unless,\nas you say, you open your hand wide and cry with a distinct voice, ‘Go.’\nIt shall be your doing and not mine, if we two are to part—or God’s\nown doing, through illness and death. And the way to avert danger is\nto avoid observation and discussion, as much as we can—and we have not\nbeen frightened much yet, ... now have we? As for Wednesday, there is\ntime to think. But how can you leave your sister? you cannot. So unless\nyou derange your ‘myth’ altogether, and find a trysting place for us,\n... each mounted on an eagle, ... in Nephelococcygia, we had better be\nsatisfied, it seems to me, with Monday and Saturday.\n\nI was out to-day as you saw by my letter, which with my own hand I\ndropped into the post. I liked to do it beyond what you discern. And how\nthe sun shone,—and the little breath of wind could do nobody harm, I\nfelt. Also there was the ‘Autography’ in the shop-window to see, before I\nsate down in the shop. So you were thought of by necessity, besides the\nfreewill.\n\nDo you not see that I am bound to you hand and foot? Why do you not see\nwhat God sees?\n\nBut it is late, and the rest must be for to-morrow. The sender of the\nrose-tree sent to-day a great heliotrope—so, presently, you will have to\nseek me in a wood.\n\n                           Everywhere your own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 29, 1846.]\n\nMy own darling, your little note was a great delight to me last night,\nwhen I expected nothing; and though I do not hear to-day, I will believe\nyou are well after the walk—the walk, what a ‘divine fancy’; not\nmentioned by Quarles!\n\nAnd then the words that follow the good news of the walk ... those\nassurances ... oh, my best, dearest Ba,—it is all right that I\ncannot speak here,—if I _could_, by some miracle, speak, it would be\nfoolish:—but my life lies before you to take and direct, and keep or give\naway,—I am altogether your own.\n\nI come in rather tired from Town—having spent the morning at the\nExhibition, and made calls beside. (Etty’s picture of the _sirens_ is\nabominable; though it looks admirable beside another picture of his: did\nI not tell you he had chosen the sirens for a subject?)\n\nOh, dearest beyond all dearness, _now_, at this moment only, your last\nand _pro tempore best_ letter comes to me! One can’t scold and kiss at\nthe same time ... so let the wretched Post arrangements be unmentioned\nfor the moment; there is enough to get up a revolution about, I do\nthink! But you, you spoil me and undo me almost,—_ought_ to do so, at\nleast,—they were _too_ delicious to bear, the things you say to me! Why\nwill you not say rather what I feel,—for you can, perhaps, being what you\nare, and let me subscribe it! It is a real pain to me to feel as I feel,\nand speak no more than I speak.\n\nAnd again the time urges ... just when I want most to go on writing—but\nto-morrow I will do nothing else. Take this now, sweet, sweet Ba, with my\nwhole heart that loves, loves you!\n\n                                                                   Your R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 30, 1846.]\n\nI have your letter ... you who cannot write! The contrariety is a part of\nthe ‘miracle.’ After all it seems to me that you can write for yourself\npretty well—rather too well I used to think from the beginning. But if\nyou persist in the proposition about my doing it for you, leaving room\nfor your signature ... shall it be this way?\n\n_Show me how to get rid of you._\n\n                                                           (signed) _R.B._\n\nNow isn’t it _I_ who am ... not ‘balancing my jewel’ over the gulph ...\nbut actually tossing it up in the air out of sheer levity of joyousness?\nOnly it is not perhaps such dangerous play as it looks: there may be\na little string perhaps, tying it to my finger. Which, if it is not\nimprudence in act, is imprudence in fact, you see!\n\nDearest, I committed a felony for your sake to-day—so never doubt that\nI love you. We went to the Botanical Gardens, where it is unlawful\nto gather flowers, and I was determined to gather this for you, and\nthe gardeners were here and there ... they seemed everywhere ... but\nI stooped down and gathered it. Is it felony, or burglary on green\nleaves—or what is the name of the crime? would the people give me up to\nthe police, I wonder? _Transie de peur_, I was, ... listening to Arabel’s\ndeclaration that all gathering of flowers in these gardens is highly\nimproper,—and I made her finish her discourse, standing between me and\nthe gardeners—to prove that I was the better for it.\n\nHow pretty those gardens are, by the way! We went to the summer-house and\nsate there, and then on, to the empty seats where the band sit on your\nhigh days. What I enjoy most to see, is the green under the green ...\nwhere the grass stretches under trees. _That_ is something unspeakable\nto me, in the beauty of it. And to stand under a tree and feel the green\nshadow of the tree! I never knew before the difference of the _sensation_\nof a green shadow and a brown one. I seemed to feel that green shadow\nthrough and through me, till it went out at the soles of my feet and\nmixed with the other green below. Is it nonsense, or not? Remember that\nby too much use we lose the knowledge and apprehension of things, and\nthat I may feel therefore what you do not feel.\n\nBut in everything I felt _you_—and always, dearest beloved, you were\nnearer to me than the best.\n\nWell; to go on with my story. Coming home and submitting to be carried\nup-stairs because I was tired, the news was that Miss Bayley had waited\nto see me three quarters of an hour. Then she sate with me an hour—and\noh, such kind, insisting, persisting plans about Italy! I did not know\nwhat to say, so I was _niaise_ and grateful, and said ‘thank you, thank\nyou’ as I could. Did Mrs. Jameson tell you of her scheme of going to\nFlorence for two years and to Venice for one, taking her niece with\nher in order to an ‘artistical education’? And Mr. Bezzi, who is the\n‘most accurate of men,’ furnishes the details of necessary expenses,\nand assures her in his programme that she may ‘walk in silk attire’ and\ndrive her carriage like an English aristocrat, for three hundred a year,\nat Florence—but the place is English-ridden ... filled and polluted.\nSorrento is better or even Pisa. We will keep our Siren-isles to\nourselves ... will we not?\n\nAnd now tell me. Was there not a picture of Sirens by Etty, exhibited\nyears ago ... which was also ‘abominable,’ as I thought when I saw it?\nIs it the same picture returning like a disquieted ghoule ... much more\n_that_, than like a Siren at all, if it is the same, ... I remember it\nwas scarcely to be looked at for hideousness ... though I heard some\ncarnivorous connoisseurs praising the ‘colouring’!! Foreigners might\nrefer such artistical successes to our national ‘beef’ ... ‘le bifteak’\nideal. The materialism of Art.\n\nCan you love me _so_? _do_ you? ... will you always? And is any of that\nlove ‘lost,’ do you think, ... as the saying is? Indeed it is not. I put\ngolden basins all round (the reverse shape of lachrymatories) to catch\nevery drop as it falls, ... so that when we two shall meet together in\nthe new world, I may look in your face (as I cannot at this moment) and\nsay ‘None of the love was lost, though all of it was undeserved.’ May God\nbless you, dearest, best! My heart is _in_ you, I think. You would laugh\nto see the books I take up ... first, ‘Strafford’ ... then Suetonius to\nsee about your Cæsar ... then the Naples book. Oh, but I find you out in\nthe _Statesmen_ ... for all the dim light.\n\n                              Your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 30, 1846.]\n\nOh, yes, do ‘show me how to get rid of you,’ my best Ba,—for so I shall\nhave the virtuous delight of deciding to keep you, instead of being\nwholly kept by you,—it is all out of my head, now, how I used to live\nwhen I was my own: and if you can, by one more witchery, give me back\nthat feeling for once ... Ba, I have no heart to write more nonsense,\nwhen I can take your dearest self into my arms; yet I shall never quite\nlie quiet and happy, I do think ... I shall be always wishing you would\nbe angry and cruel and unjust, for a moment,—for my love overflows the\nbounds, needs to prove itself—all which is foolish, I know. To-day, for\nsome unknown reason, is a day of hope with me ... all bright things seem\npossible; I was feeling them so, when your note came—as I sate in the\ngarden—and when I saw the flower (Paracelsus’ _own_ ... they usually\nornament his pictures with it,—I said something on the subject in the\npoem, too, and gave a note about ‘Flammula citrinula—herba Paracelso\nmultum familiaris’—) when I saw that, and read on and on,—every now and\nthen laying the letter down to feel the entire joy,—and when the end\ncame,—Ba, dearest Ba, it was with me then as now, as always after steady\nthinking of _what_ you are to me ... I cannot tell you—but for the past,\nutterly irrespective of the future,—for what you _have_ been, this love\ncannot cease though you were transformed into all you are not nor could\never be. I mean, that after the blow struck, the natural vibration must\nfollow and continue its proper period—and that my love for what I have\nreceived from you already _must_ last to my life’s end—cannot end sooner!\n‘Shall I continue to love you!’\n\nYou said in Thursday’s letter—‘We have not been frightened much yet,’\nour meetings have been uninterrupted hitherto, and these letters: yes,\n_that_ I am most thankful for—whatever should happen, our real relation\none to the other is wholly known—that fact has been established beyond\npossibility of doubt at least. I don’t make myself understood here, I\nknow,—but, think,—if at the very beginning any accident had separated\nus....\n\nBut I will believe in the end now and henceforth—I will believe you _are_\nmy very own Ba,—my best dream’s realization, my life’s fulfilment and\nconsummation—and having discovered you, I shall live and die with you. So\nmay God dispose.\n\nI will write the rest,—(nothing is here) a longer letter to-morrow—but\nnow my mind is too full of you—the poor hand gets despised for lagging\nafter! All my thoughts are with you, dearest. May God bless you and make\nme less unworthy—\n\n                                                    being your own, own R.\n\nOne more day—one, and Monday!\n\n(See what kindness of Mr. Kenyon! I do not accept, having no need to\ntrouble him as he desires—but see how kind.)",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                                [Post-mark, May 30, 1846.]\n\nYou shall have a visit from me on the seventh day as on the others, I\nthink, because I remember you every day equally, and because, without\nwaiting for your Saturday’s letter, I have always with me enough of you,\nto thank you. This morning, Henrietta and I went as usual to Hodgson’s\nand took possession of the chair in waiting, as Flush did of the whole\nterritory, setting himself, with all the airs of a landed proprietor, to\nsnap at the shop boy. Nota bene—Flush is likely to injure my popularity\nif I take him about with me much. He has been used, you see, to be\n‘_Cæsar_ in his own house,’ and the transition to being Cæsar everywhere\nis the easiest thing in the world. Yet as to leaving him at home, it is\nimpossible, ... not to mention other objections! His delight in going out\nin the carriage is scarcely a natural thing—but I have told you of it.\nYesterday I was in the back drawing-room waiting to go out, and just said\nto him, ‘Flush! go and see if the carriage is come’—instantly he ran to\nthe front windows, standing on his hind legs and looking up the street\nand down. Now Mr. Kenyon would declare that _that_ was my invention. Yet\nit is the literal truth of history.\n\nComing back from Hodgson’s, we passed our door and walked to 57 and home,\nwhich is an improvement in the distance. Then I walked up-stairs to the\ndrawing-room, and was carried the rest of the way. May I be tired a\nlittle, after it all? Just a little, perhaps.\n\nHenrietta dined at Mr. Lough’s yesterday, and met Miss Camilla Toulmin\nwho was gracious ... and Professor Forbes, who can do nothing without\nthe polka, ... and sundries. There was a splendid dinner, and wine of\nall vintages—one is in a strait in such cases to know how to praise at\nonce the hospitable intentions and to blame the bad taste—surely it\n_is_ bad taste in a man like Mr. Lough who lives by his genius, to give\nambitious dinners like a man who lives by his dinners. The true dignity\nof simplicity in these things were worth such a man’s holding, one might\nthink. But he is kind and liberal, and a good artist, ... and sent me a\nvery gracious invitation to go and see his works.\n\nThe Hedleys are likely to be in England this summer again— —more’s the\npity. I am fond of them, but would rather, rather, not see them just\nnow, and not be seen by them—for eyes have they, and can see. My uncle\nHedley comes next week, ... comes to London for several weeks ... that\nis certain—and my aunt after settling the younger part of her family at\nBaréges for the summer, _ponders_ coming, ... as I behold from afar off,\n... with her daughter Arabella, who is to be married immediately to the\nyounger brother of the great Brewery partner, Barclay and Bevan, a Mr.\nBevan. But they will not be in this house, and we must manage as we can,\ndearest! One leap over Sunday, and Monday comes bringing you! Then, I\nshall have you near on Tuesday besides, and Wednesday, afterwards! how\nthe cup overflows! May God bless you my beloved! It is not exaggeration\nto say that I feel you in the air and the sun.\n\n                       Ever and ever your own I am!\n\n                                                                     _Ba_.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 1, 1846.]\n\nMy own Ba, do you want to turn my head with good fortune and get at my\nsecrets, that you give me two letters in one day? For there was too much\nlife and warmth, I do think, in these last, to be kept in the Postman’s\npouch as before—he delivered them punctually as he was obliged, not\nbefore his cold newspapers and railway-prospectuses felt astonished, you\nmay be sure; so, as I say, do you want to try my temper and bring out\ninfirmities of mind that may be latent, as kings used to put robes and\ncrowns on their favourites to see what they would do then?\n\nI will try and say as soberly as I can,—if you did not write to me for\na week, I would remember and love you the same—you are not bound to any\nkindness, much less to this extravagance—which yet so blesses me that—\n\nLet me leave what I can never say, and make the few remarks I ought to\nhave made before. Mrs. Jameson did tell me something about her intended\njourney to Italy—but not in detail as to you. Miss Bayley seems worthy\nto be your friend, dearest,—and it is satisfactory, very satisfactory to\nfind her opinion thus confirming yours, of the good you will derive from\ntravelling. You know I look on you with absolute awe, in a sense,—I don’t\nunderstand how such a creature lives and breathes and moves and does\n_not_ move into fine air altogether and leave us of the Etty-manufacture!\nI have solemnly set down in the tablets of my brain that Ba prefers\nmorphine to pork, but can eat so much of a chicken as Flush refuses—a\nchapter in my natural history quite as important as one in Pliny’s (and\nÆlian’s too)—‘When the Lion is sick, nothing can cure him but to eat an\nApe!’—though not so important as my great, greatest record of all—‘A cup\nof coffee will generally cure Ba’s headaches—’\n\nAs for Pisa or Florence, or Sorrento, or New Orleans,—_ubi_ Ba, _ibi_\nR.B.! Florence, however, you describe exactly ... the English there are\nintolerable,—even from a distance you see _that_. Indeed, I have heard\nhere in England of a regular system of tactics by which _parvenus_ manage\nto get among the privileged classes which at home would keep them off\ninexorably. Such go to Florence, make acquaintance as ‘travellers,’\nkeeping the native connexions in the farthest of back grounds, and after\na year or two’s expatriation, come back and go boldly to rejoice the\nfriends they ‘passed those amusing days with’ &c.\n\nWhat you say of Lough is right and true in one point of view—but I\nexcuse him, knowing the way of life in London—what alternative has he?\nEven when you ask people by ones and twos, and think to be rational,\nwhat do you get for your pains? Not long ago somebody invited himself\nto dine with me—and got of course the plainest fare, and just hock and\nclaret, because I like them better than heavier wines myself, and suppose\nothers may. I had to dine in the same manner with my friend a week after,\nand he judiciously began by iced champagne, forced vegetables &c. What\nwas that but telling me _such_ was his notion of the duty of the giver\nof ‘just a chop’ according to stipulation? It is all detestable—a mere\npretext! there is simply a ‘_fait accompli_’ in every such dinner,—it\nis an eternal record (to the seasons’ end) that you witnessed (because\nyou may let it alone for aught anybody cares, so long as you have eyes\nand can see)—_such_ a succession of turbot, and spring-soup and—_basta!_\nI shall go and take tea with Carlyle before very long. Lough has asked\nme more than once, but I never went. I like him when he is not on the\nsubject of himself or other artists. Of one particular in his liberality\nI can bear testimony, he promises at a great rate. Some three years ago\nhe most preposterously signified his intention of giving me a cast of one\nof his busts—me who had neither claim on him, the slightest, nor much\ndesire for the bust; but on this intimation I was bound to express as\nmany thanks as if the bust had arrived in very plaster,—which it has not\ndone to this day; so that I was too prodigal, you see, and instead of\nthanks ought to have contented myself with making over to him the whole\nprofits of ‘Luria’—value received. But, jokes apart, he is a good, kind\nman I believe, so don’t mention this absurdity to your sister—which I\nam sorry for having mentioned now that mentioned it is! So sorrow shall\nbe turned into joy, for I will only think that the evening is come, and\nnight will follow, and morning end ... 3 o’clock with all of dearest,\ndearest Ba,—with the walkings and drivings to evidence in her face? _My_\nface, thank God, I am let say to my unutterable joy and pride and love,\nabove all other feelings.\n\n                                                            Ever your own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 2, 1846.]\n\nYou understand, dearest beloved, all I _could_ mean about your sister’s\ncoming here. Both I was afraid of not being liked enough ... which\nwas one reason, and none the less reasonable because of your being\n‘infatuated’ ... (oh, _that_ is precisely the word to use, and indeed\nI never falter to myself in the applying of it!) and I felt it to be\nimpossible for me to receive so near a relative of yours, your own only\nsister, as I should another and a stranger. There would be the need in\nme of being affectionate to your sister! how could I not? and yet, _how\ncould I?_ Everything is at once too near and too far—it is enough to make\nme tremble to think of it—it _did_, when Mr. Kenyon made his proposition.\nI would rather, ten times over, receive Queen Victoria and all her\ncourt——do you understand? can you misunderstand? can you pretend to\nfancy, as you talked yesterday, that the reluctance came from my having\n‘too many visitors,’ or from any of those common causes. Why, she is your\nsister—and _that_ was the cause of the reluctance. You will not _dare_ to\nturn it into a wrong against yourself.\n\nNow I am going to ask you a question, dearest of mine, and you will\nconsider it carefully and examine your own wishes in respect to it,\nbefore I have any answer. In fact it is not necessary to treat of the\nsubject of it at all at this moment—we have a great deal of time before\nus. Still, I want to know whether, upon reflection, you see it to be wise\nand better for me to go to Italy with Miss Bayley, or with any other\nperson who may be willing to take me, (supposing I should find such a\nplan possible) and that you should follow with Mr. Chorley or alone, ...\nleaving other thoughts for another year. Or if I find this scheme, as\nfar as I am concerned, impossible, shall we gain anything, do you think,\non any side of the question that you can see, by remaining quietly as we\nare, you at New Cross, and I here, until next year’s summer or autumn?\nShall we be wiser, more prudent, for any reason, or in any degree, by\nsuch a delay?\n\nIt is the question I ask you—it is no proposal of mine, understand—nor\nshall I tell you my own impression about it. I have told you that I would\ndo as you should decide, and I will do that and no other. Only on that\nvery account it is the more necessary that you should decide well, and\naccording to the best lights of your own judgment and reason.\n\nI forgot to talk to you yesterday of your _Statesmen_ which I read with\na peculiar sort of pleasure, coming and going as I see you and miss you.\nThere is no mistaking your footsteps along the sands.\n\nMay God bless you, dear dearest! Say how your head is, and love me _so_\nmuch more than Machiavelli, as to spare it from farther injury. It is\nnot hard to think of you to-day in this chair, where you were sitting\nyesterday—do you think it _is_?\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 2, 1846.]\n\nYou are the most entirely lovable creature I ever dreamed perhaps\nmight be in a better world—altogether made up of affectionateness\nand generosity. I do not much fear, now, I shall ever offend\nyou—in the miserable way of giving you direct offence which mortal\nwill and endeavour could avert (although I speak—by design, on\nprofession—doubtfully about the happiness of the future in some\nrespects, yet I dare be quite bold here, and feel sure, as of my life at\nthis moment, that I shall never do _that_, ...)—but at present I almost\nlove even the apprehension that I may be found out too useless, too\nunworthy in the end; let it be said so, since I feel it so, my own Ba! I\nlove this, because your dear love seems fit to cover any imperfection of\nmine: I dare say you do _not_ see them, as you say—but you will perhaps,\nand then I trust to the love wholly. I want forms, ways, of expressing my\ndevotion to you—but such as I am, all is yours.\n\nI will write more to-morrow—the stupid head will not be quiet to-day—my\nmother’s is sadly affected too—it is partly my fault for reading ... a\nstate to be proud of! Don’t let my frankness do me wrong, however,—the\ninconvenience is very little, but I was desired to tell you, was I not? I\nshall go out presently and get well.\n\nAre _you_ out to-day, beloved? It is very warm; be careful like the\ndearest Ba you are! And kiss me as I kiss you ... all except the\nadoration which is mine indefeasibly.\n\nMay God bless you ever for your very own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Night.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 3, 1846.]\n\nMy own dearest who are never to offend me!—And, true, _that_ is—because I\nhave _tried_, before now, to be offended, and could not, ... being under\na charm. So it is not my fault but yours, that never you see me angry.\n\nBut your head, _my_ head ... is it better, dearest, by this time, or\nis it ringing and aching even, under the crashing throat-peals of Mr.\nLandor’s laughter? he laughs, I remember like an ogre—he laughs as if\nlaughter could kill, and he knew it, thinking of an enemy. May it do his\nfriends no harm to-night! How I think of you, and, in every thought,\nlove you! Yes, surely I can love you as if I were worthier! and better\nperhaps than if _I_ were better, ... though that may sound like a riddle.\nAnd dear dearest, why do you talk of your faults _so_? It is not at all\ngracious of you indeed. You are on a high hill above me where I cannot\nreach your hand—(in the myths, be it understood) and you sigh and say\nquerulously ... ‘By and bye I may have to take a step down lower.’ Now\nis that gracious of you, or worthy of your usual chivalry? You ought to\nbe _glad_, on the contrary, to be so much nearer _me_—! in the myths, be\nit understood! For _out_ of the myths we are near enough, as near as two\nhearts can be, ... I believe ... I trust!\n\nYou will not mistake what I said to you this morning my own beloved—you\nwill not? My promise to you was to place the decision in your hands—and\nmy desire is simply that you should decide according to your judgment and\nunderstanding ... I do not say, your affections, this time. Now it has\nstruck me that you have a sort of _instinct_....\n\nBut no—I shall not write on that subject to-night. Rather I will tell you\nwhat I have been doing to-day to be so very, very tired. To-day I paid\nmy first visit—not to Mr. Kenyon but to an older friend than even he—to\nMiss _Trepsack_ ... learn that name by heart ... whom we all of us have\ncalled ‘Treppy’ ever since we could speak. Moreover she has nursed ...\ntossed up ... held on her knee—Papa when he was an infant; the dearest\nfriend of his mother and her equal, I believe, in age—so you may suppose\nthat she is old now. Yet she can outwalk my sisters, and except for\ndeafness, which, dear thing, she carefully explains as ‘a mere nervous\naffection,’—is as young as ever. But she calls us all ‘her children’ ...\nand I, you are to understand, am ‘her child,’ _par excellence_ ... her\nacknowledged darling and favourite,—perhaps because tenderly she thinks\nit right to carry on the love of her beloved friend, whom she lived with\nto the last. Once she saw you in the drawing-room—and you perhaps saw\nher. She dines here every Sunday, and on the other days of course often,\nand has the privilege of scolding everybody in the house when she is out\nof humour, and of being ‘coaxed’ by slow degrees back into graciousness.\nSo, she had full right to have me on my first visit—had she not? and\nthe goodness and kindness and funniness of the reception were enough to\nlaugh and cry over. First ... half way up-stairs, I found a chair, to\nsit and rest on. Then the windows were all shut up, because I liked it\nso in my room. And then, for occulter reasons, a feast was spread for\nArabel and Flush and me, which made me groan in the spirit, and Flush\nwag his tail, to look upon ... ice cream and cakes, which I was to taste\nand taste in despite of all memories of dinner an hour before ... and\n_cherrybrandy_!!! which I had to taste too, ... just then saved alive by\nan oath, on Arabel’s part, that I was ‘better without it.’ Think of dear\nTreppy!—of all the kindness, and fondness! Almost she kissed me to pieces\nas the ‘darlingest of children.’ So I am glad I went—and so is Flush,\nwho highly approves of that class of hospitable attentions, and wishes\nit were the way of the world every day. But I am tired! so tired! The\nvisiting is a new thing.\n\nIt is an old one that I should write such long letters. If I am tired,\nyou might retort with the _Ed io anche_!—Yet you will not, because you\nare supernaturally good; and as it was in the beginning, ever shall be,\nyou say!\n\nBut will you explain to me some day why you are sorry for Italy having\nbeen mentioned between us, and why you would rather prefer Nova Zembla?\n_So as to kill me the faster, is it?_\n\nYour Ælian says that the oldest painters used to write under a tree, when\nthey painted one, ‘This is a tree.’ So _I_ must do, I suddenly remember,\nunder my jests ... I being, it would appear, as bad an artist in jesting,\nas they were in painting. Therefore ... see the last line of the last\nparagraph ... ‘_This is a jest._’\n\nAnd _this_ is the earnest thing of all ... that I love you as I can\nlove—and am for ever ... living and dying....\n\n                                                                 Your own—\n\nTake care of the head, _I entreat_! and say how you are! and how your\nmother is! I am grieved to hear of that relapse!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 3, 1846.]\n\nI will tell you, dearest: your good is my good, and your will mine; if\nyou were convinced _that_ good would be promoted by our remaining as we\nare for twenty years instead of one, I should endeavour to submit in the\nend ... after the natural attempts to find out and remove the imagined\nobstacle. If, as you seem to do here, you turn and ask about _my_\ngood—yours being supposed to be uninfluenced by what I answer ... then,\nhere is my TRUTH on that subject, in that view,—my good for myself. Every\nday that passes before _that day_ is one the more of hardly endurable\nanxiety and irritation, to say the least; and the thought of another\nyear’s intervention of hope deferred—altogether intolerable! Is there\nanything I can do in that year—or that you can do—to forward our object?\nAnything impossible to be done sooner? If not—\n\nYou may misunderstand me now at first, dear, dearest Ba: at first I sate\nquietly, you thought; do I live quietly now, do you think? Ought I to\nshow the evidence of the unselfishness I _strive_, at least, to associate\nwith my love, by coolly informing you ‘what would please me.’\n\nBut I will not say more, you must know ... and _I_ seem to know that this\nquestion was one of Ba’s old questions ... a branch-licence, perhaps, of\nthe original inestimable one, that charter of my liberties, by which I am\nempowered to ‘hold myself unengaged, unbound’ &c. &c.\n\nGood Heaven; I would not,—even to save the being asked such\nquestions,—have played the horseleech that cries ‘give, give,’ in\nSolomon’s phrase—‘Do you let me see you once a week? Give me a sight once\na day!—May I dare kiss you? Let me marry you to-morrow!’\n\nBut to the end, the very end, I am yours: God knows I would not do you\nharm for worlds—worlds! I may easily mistake what _is_ harm or not. I\nwill ask your leave to speak—at your foot, my Ba: I would not have dared\nto take the blessing of kissing your hand, much less your lip, but that\nit seemed as if I was leading you into a mistake—as did happen—and that\nyou might fancy I only felt a dreamy, abstract passion for a phantom of\nmy own creating out of your books and letters, and which only took your\nname.... _That_ once understood, the rest you shall give me. In every\nevent, I am your own.\n\n_12 o’clock._—I thought another letter might arrive. This must go as we\nshall set off presently to Mr. Kenyon’s.\n\nI _did_ understand the question about my sister. I mean, that you felt\nsomewhat so, incredible as it seems—only I believe _all_ you say, all—to\nthe letter, the iota. Think of _that_, whenever I _might_ ask and do\nnot—or speak, and am silent ... but I am getting back to the question\ndiscussed above, which I ought not to do—understand me, dearest dearest!\nSee me, open the eyes, the dear eyes, and see the love of your\n\n                                                                        R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday—5 p.m.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 4, 1846].\n\nThen let it be as we meant it should be. And do you forgive me, my own,\nif I have teazed you ... vexed you. Do I not always tell you that you are\ntoo good for me?\n\nYet the last of my intentions was, this time, to doubt of your attachment\nfor me. Believe _that_. I will write to-night more fully—but never can\nbe more than at this moment\n\n                                   Your\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Evening.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 4, 1846.]\n\nNothing at all had it to do with your Magna Charta, beloved, that\nquestion of mine. After you were gone the other day and I began turning\nyour words over and over, ... (_so_, I make hay of them to feed the\nhorses of the sun!) it struck me that you had perhaps an instinct of\ncommon sense, which, with a hand I did not see and a voice I could not\nhear, drew you perhaps. So I thought I would ask. For after all, this is\nrather a serious matter we are upon, and if you think that you are not\nto have your share of responsibility ... that you are not to consider\nand arrange and decide, and perform your own part, ... you are as much\nmistaken as ever _I_ was. ‘Judge what I say.’ For my part, I have done,\nit seems to me, nearly as much as I can do. I do not, at least, seem\nto myself to have any power to _doubt_ even, of the path to choose for\nthe future. If for any reason you had seen wisdom in delay, it would\nhave been a different thing—and the seeing was a _possible_ thing, you\nwill admit. I did not ask you if you _desired_ a delay, but if you saw\na reason for it. In the meantime I was absolutely yours, I remembered\nthoroughly, ... and the question went simply to enquire what you thought\nit best to do with your own.\n\nFor me I agree with your view—I never once thought of proposing a delay\non my own account. We are standing on hot scythes, and because we do\nnot burn in the feet, by a miracle, we have no right to count on the\nmiracle’s prolongation. Then nothing is to be gained—and everything\nmay be lost—and the sense of mask-wearing for another year would be\nsuffocating. This for _me_. And for yourself, I shall not be much younger\nor better otherwise, I suppose, next year. I make no motion, then, for a\ndelay, further than we have talked of, ... to the summer’s end.\n\nMy good ... happiness! Have I any that did not come from you, that is not\n_in_ you, that you should talk of my good apart from yours? I shudder to\nlook back to the days when you were not for me. Was ever life so like\ndeath before? My face was so close against the tombstones, that there\nseemed no room even for the tears. And it is unexampled generosity of\nyours, that, having done all for me, you should write as you always do,\nabout _my giving_ ... giving! Among the sons of men there is none like\nyou as I believe and know, ... and every now and then declare to my\nsisters.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDearest, if I vexed you, teazed you, by that question which proved\nunnecessary ... forgive me! Had you uncomfortable thoughts in the gardens\nto-day? Perhaps! And I could not smooth them away, though I drew as near\nas I dared ... though I was in a carriage at seven o’clock, running a\nmystical circle round your tents and music. Did you feel me, any more\nthan if I were a ‘quick spider,’ I wonder.\n\nHenrietta and Arabel were going to spend the evening with cousins of\nours, and as the carriage waited for the plaiting of Henrietta’s hair,\nor the twisting of the ringlets, Arabel said to me ‘Will you go for a\nquarter of an hour?’ And in a minute, we were off ... she and Flush\nand Lizzie and I. Never did I expect again to see so many people—but I\nthought of _one_ so much that my head was kept from turning round—and\nwe drove once round the ‘inner circle,’ so called, and looked up to Mr.\nKenyon’s windows—and _there_, or _there_, you were, certainly!—and either\n_there_, or _there_, you were being disquieted in your thoughts by me,\nas certainly! Ah forgive me. After all, ... listen ... I love you with\nthe fulness of my nature. Nothing of all this unspeakable goodness and\ntenderness is lost on me ... I catch on my face and hands every drop of\nall this dew.\n\nSo now ... you are not teazed? we are at one again, and may talk of\noutside things again?\n\nBut first, I must hear how the head is. _How_ is it, best and dearest?\nAnd you had my letter at last, had you not? Because I wrote it as usual,\nof course. May God bless you—and _me_ as I am altogether your own.\n\n_Twice_ (observe) I have been out to-day—the first time, walking. Also,\ntwice have I written to you.\n\nSay how your mother is—and _yourself_!—\n\nGeorge and Henrietta were asked to meet you at Mr. Kenyon’s—but only\nto-day, and too late to forestall other engagements. Did you enjoy any of\nit? Tell me.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 4, 1846.]\n\n‘Vex me,’ or ‘teaze me,’ my own Ba, you cannot. I look on it indeed,\nafter a moment, as the only natural effect of your strange disbelief\nin yourself, and ignorance of our true relation one to the other by\nevery right and reason. Only, Ba, you _are_ wrong—doubly,—that is, you\nwould be wrong if your own estimate of your power over me were the true\none—for,—though it is difficult for me to fancy these abstractions and\nfantastic metamorphoses (as how one could feel without one’s head,—or how\nI could live without the love of you now I have once got it)—yet, since\nyou make me, I will fancy I love my head and love you no longer ... and\nthen (which is _now_) _now_, do you think I am so poor a creature as to\ngo on adding to my faults, and letting you gently down, as the phrase is,\nwith cowardly excuses, ‘postponing’ this, and ‘consenting to delay’ the\nother,—and perhaps managing to get you to do the whole business for me\nin the end? I hope and think I should say at once—Oh, no more of this!\nBut see how right I was—‘_an instinct_, you seem to see.’ So, I have been\nthinking,—there are but few topics of our conversation from which any\nsuch impressions could arise—was it that I have asked more than once, if\nyou could really bear another winter in London, (in all probability a\nsevere one)—and again, if you could get to Italy by any ordinary means\nwithout the same opposition you will have to encounter for my sake?...\nMy Ba, as God knows, _all that_ was so much pure trembling attempting\nto justify myself for the over-greatness of the fortune, the excess of\nthe joy,—if I could but feel that there was a little of your own good\nin it too—that you would gain that much advantage at least by my own\ninestimable advantage! If you knew how,—spite of all endeavours,—how\nhappy I have been—which is a shame to confess—but how very happy to hear\nthat you could not without a degree of danger stay here—could no more\neasily leave England with Miss Bayley than with me! It seemed to justify\nme, as I say. And so of ‘the wishing I had not mentioned Italy’—I wish\nyour will to be mine, to originate mine, your pleasure to be only mine.\nExpressed first—it _will be_ my pleasure ... but all is wrong if you\ntake the effect, seek to know it, before the cause. What does it matter\nthat I should prefer Italy to Nova Zembla? So, you _ought to have begun\nby saying_ ‘we will go there,’ and then my pleasure in obedience had\nbeen naturally expressed. Did I not ask you whether you had not, after\nall, thought of going to Italy first—to Pisa, or Malta,—from the very\nbeginning? _Always to justify myself!_ Always!\n\nBut—this too is misunderstood. Let me say humbly, I _should_ prefer to go\nwith you to Italy or any place where we can live alone for some little\ntime, till you can _know_ me, be as sure of me as of yourself. Nor am I\nso selfish, I hope, as that (because my uttermost pride and privilege\nand glory above all glories would be to live in your sick-room and\nserve you,)—as that, on that account, I would not rather see you in a\ncondition to need none of my service ... the next thing to serving you,\nis to be—what shall I say?—served by you ... loved by you, made happy by\nyou—it is the being an angel, though there might be _arch_angels—\n\nAnd if _now_ you do not understand,—well, I kneel to you, my Ba, and pray\nyou to give yourself to me in deed as in word, the body as the heart and\nmind,—and _now_!—at any time,—you know what I cannot say, I cannot, I\nthink,—if I know myself—love you more than I do ... but I shall always\nlove you _thus_—and _thus_, in any case, happen what God may ordain—\n\n                                                                   Your R.\n\nI know this is taking the simple experimental question too seriously to\nheart ... but such experiments touch at the very quick and core of the\nheart ... I cannot treat them otherwise—_ought_ I?\n\nYou will see Miss Bayley to-day—Mr. Kenyon asked if I were going to call\nto-day ... ‘if not, Miss B. would.’\n\nI have your letter ... the short note, not the promised one ... for all\nthis writing about the question ... but I could not merely say—‘Oh no,\nyou mistake ... I had rather, upon the whole, not wait.’\n\nEven now the feeling, in its subsiding, hinders me from speaking of the\ndelightful account of ‘Treppy’ ... whom I remember now, perfectly—and\nwhat comfort is in _thy_ dear note!\n\nBless you, _my_ ‘darlingest creature,’—my Ba!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 5, 1846.]\n\nYou are too perfect, too overcomingly good and tender—dearest you are,\nand I have no words with which to answer you. There is little wonder\nindeed that _I_, being used so long to the dark, should stumble and\nmistake, and see men like trees walking—and yet I must tell you that I\ndid _not_ mistake to the extent you have set down for me ... and that\nnever was I so dull, so idiotic and ungrateful, as to fancy you into one\n‘wishing to let me down gently with cowardly excuses.’ Since I first\nlooked you in the face, and before that day, I have been incapable of\ndefiling the idea of you with such an unworthy imputation. And surely\nwhat I _did_, fancy, was consistent with the fullest faith in you and\nin the completest verity of your affection for myself. You might have\nhad reasons, surely, which I did not see, without aggrieving me in any\nfashion. So do not make me out _too_ stupid—it is bad enough actually.\nYes—those questions you refer to, turned me down that path—and do tell me\nhow I could be expected to guess at the real drift of them, after having\nbeen accustomed to walk rather with men than with angels! Ah—and now\neven, that I _see_, it makes me smile and sigh together. To say that I am\nnot worthy, all at once grows too little to say. _No one_ could be worthy\nof such words from _you_. You are best, best!! How much more do you want\nme to owe to you, when I _begin_ by owing to your all things, ... the\nonly happiness of my life?\n\nAs to Italy, I thought of it first, so I am in no danger of thinking\nthat you engage me as female courier and companion ... the feminine of\nwhat Mr. Bezzi wants to be, Miss Bayley told me to-day. So if it is the\nsame thing to you, we will put off Nova Zembla a little. But how is it\npossible to jest, with this letter close by? Dearest of all, believe that\nI am grateful to you as I ought to be ... penetrated ... touched to the\nbottom of my heart with the sense of what you have been to me and are;\ndearest beloved!\n\nSo do not reproach me with my dull questions, on Saturday. I won’t ask\nthem any more, ... and I did not mean by them the wickedness you thought\n... so now let us be tranquil and happy till the fine weather ends.\nBrightly it begins, does it not? So hot it is to-day—so very hot in this\nroom! Miss Bayley came just as I had been out walking and was tired; but\nshe talked and interested me, and I found out from her that you were not\nin the gardens when we drove round them, but in the house when I looked\nup at the windows. Very happy and agreeable you all were, she said, at\nMr. Kenyon’s—though Mrs. Jameson missed the flower-show.\n\nI forgot to tell you that Treppy is a Creole—she would say so as if she\nsaid she was a Roman. She lived, as an adopted favourite, in the house\nof my great grandfather in Jamaica for years, and talks to the delight\nof my brothers, of that ‘dear man’ who, with fifty thousand a year, wore\npatches at his knees and elbows, upon principle. Then there are infinite\ntraditions of the great great grandfather, who flogged his slaves like\na divinity: and upon the beatitude of the slaves as slaves, let no one\npresume to doubt, before Treppy. If ever she sighs over the slaves, it is\nto think of their emancipation. Poor creatures, to be emancipated!\n\nMay God bless you, dear dearest! Shall I ever be better, I wonder, than\nthe torment of your life? It is _I_ who want to be ‘_justified_,’ and not\n_you_ my beloved,—except as to your good sense for having made such a\nchoice.\n\nSuch as I am however, I am\n\n                              Your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 5, 1846.]\n\nNor did _I_ mean so bad, dearest dearest, as that you _were_ suspecting\nme of _that_ ... Oh no, since ‘Scorn of me (_that_ “me”) would recoil on\nyou’ ... you would have no right to bear with such a person for a moment:\nbut I put the broadest case possible to declare upon broadly. As I would\ndo _so_ if I felt _so_ ... felt no love longer ... so, in due degree, I\nwould tell you frankly a fear or a doubt if I felt either. I thought you\nsuspected me, perhaps, of being deficient in this last point of courage:\nbut it was not altogether so,—or if it was, you shall doubt no more,\nbut believe the more strongly for the future ... let us kiss on that\nconvention, dearest! You see, I knew it _could not but be that_ ... for\nif anything had struck _you_ as really to be gained by delay, you must\nfeel whether I should listen to that or no—last year, for instance, when\nyou said ‘let us wait.’\n\nAh, Ba, my own, many things _are_ that ought not to be ... and I hide\nnothing ... cannot hide from you some feelings ... as that—after all,\nafter all—talk, and indeed think, as one may—it is, let us say, a\n_pleasant_ thing, at least, to be able to prove one’s words,—even one’s\nlighter words. The proof may justify _some_ words, I mean, and the rest,\nthat admit of no proof, get believed on the score of _them_,—the first\nwords and proofs. I should like to prove a very, very little ... if\nI could but do so in turning fifty-thousand a year, or less, to some\naccount and building Flush a house ‘fair to see’—after which I could go\non talking about the longings never to be satisfied here....\n\nNow this is foolish,—so the causeless blame, if you please, shall be\ntransferred here ... as naughty children punished by mistake are promised\na remission of next offence.\n\nOh to-morrow kisses all right ... all so right again, dearest! I have\nso much to say. Make me remember, love, to tell you something I have\njust learned about Mr. Kenyon which makes one—no, all is proper,—he\n_should_ have the money, and I the admiration and love of his divine use\nof it: something to love him for, and he happy that God will reward it.\nRemember—for even _that_ I should forget by you!\n\nAnd all has been charming at Mr. Kenyon’s—Landor’s dinner, and our\nflower-show feast,—I will tell you to-morrow—and last night I went to\nMrs. Procter’s in downright spirits ‘_pour cause_’ (with my first letter\n... not my second, which only arrived this morning)—and I danced, to put\nit on record there that I was altogether happy, and saw Mrs. Jameson,\nand the Countess Hahn-Hahn, and Milnes and the Howitts and others in a\nmultitude,—and I got to this house door at 4 o’clock, with the birds\nsinging loud and the day bright and broad—and my head is _quite well_,—as\nmy mother’s is better, I hope—quite well, I am at this minute. For\nthe rest, the news of your two exits and entrances in one day ... oh,\nthank you, thank the golden heart of my own, own Ba! whom I shall see\nto-morrow, but can ... _how_ I can kiss her now—being her own\n\n                                                                      R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 6, 1846.]\n\nThis is the first word I have written out of my room, these five years, I\nthink ... if I dare count anything beyond two ... for I do know that one\ncomes after two ... (now just see what I have written!) that two comes\nafter one, I meant to say, ... as well as a mathematician. I am writing\nnow in the back drawing-room, half out of the window for air, driven out\nof my own territory by the angel of the sun this morning. Oh—it is so\nhot—and the darkness does not help when the lack is just of _air_. There\nis a thick mist lacquered over with light—it is cauldron-heat, rather\nthan fire-heat. So different in the country it must be! Well, everybody\nbeing at church or chapel, I knew I could have this room to myself,\nwithout fear even of the dreadful knocker ... more awful to me than\nthe famous knocks which used to visit the Wesley family—so here I curl\nup my feet ‘_more meo_’ on the settee, and help to keep the sabbath by\n_resting_ upon you. Would Miss Goldsmid call it as ‘profane’ as anything\nin your poems? But it will not be more profane for _that_—as I could\nprove if we wanted proofs—only we do not.\n\nSuch flowers as you brought me yesterday—such roses! The roses are best,\nas coming from your garden! When I began to arrange them, I thought I\nnever saw such splendid roses anywhere—they are more beautiful than what\nyou brought last year surely! It seems so to me. Dearest, how did you\nget home, and how are you? and how is your mother? Remember to answer my\nquestions, if you please.\n\nAfter you were gone I received from Mr. Lough a very gracious intimation\nthat if I would go to see his studio, his statue of the Queen and other\nworks, he would take care that no creature should be present, he would\nuncover all the works and provide a clear solitude for me—he ‘would\nnot do it for a Duchess,’ he said, but he ‘would for _me_’! Now what\nam I to say. My sisters tell me that I can go quite easily. The place\nis very near, and there are no stairs. Well, I think I must go. It is\nvery kind and considerate, and there would be a pleasure, of course.\nDo you know that statues have more power over me than all the pictures\nand all the colours thereof which the world can show? Mr. Kenyon told\nme once that it was a pure affectation of mine to say so—and for my own\npart I could not see for a long while what was the _reason_ of a most\nunaffected preference. I think I see it now. Painting flatters the senses\nand makes the Ideal credible in a vulgar way. But with sculpture it is\ndifferent—and there is a grand audacity in the power of an Ideal which,\nappealing directly to the Senses, and to the coarsest of them, the Touch,\nas well as the Sight, yet forces them to receive Beauty through the door\nof an Abstraction which is a means abhorrent to them. Have I written\nwhat I mean, I wonder, or do you understand it, without? Then there is\na great deal, of course, in that grand white repose! Like the Ideas of\nthe Platonic system, these great sculptures seem—when looked at from a\ndistance.\n\nWhen you were gone yesterday, and I had had my coffee and put on my\nbonnet, I went, with the intention of walking out, as far as the\ndrawing-room, and there, failed: not even with your recommendation\nin my ears, beloved, could I get any further. Notwithstanding all\nmy flatteries (meaning the flatteries of me!) I was not at best and\nstrongest, yesterday, nor am even to-day, though it is nothing to mind\nor to mention—only I think I shall not try to walk out in this heat even\nto-day, and yesterday it seemed impossible. So I came back and lay on\nmy own sofa, and presently began to read ‘Le Comte de Monte Cristo,’\nthe new book by Dumas, (observe how I waste my time—while you learn how\n_not_ to fortify cities, out of Machiavelli!) and really he amuses me\nwith his ‘Monte Cristo’ ... six volumes I am glad to see—he is the male\nScheherazade certainly. Now that the hero is safe in a dungeon (of the\nChâteau d’If) it will be delightful to see how he will get out—somebody\nknocks at the wall already. Only the narrative is not always very clear\nto me, inasmuch as, when I read, I unconsciously interleave it with such\nthoughts of you as make very curious cross readings ... j’avais cru\nremarquer quelques infidelités ... he really seems to love me—l’homme\nn’est jamais qu’un homme ... never was any man like him—ses traits\nétaient bouleversés ... the calmest eyes I ever saw.... So, Dumas or\nMachiavelli, it is of the less consequence what I read, I suppose, while\nI apply so undestractedly.\n\nMay God bless you, ever beloved! I think of you, I love you—I forgot\nagain your ‘Strafford’—Mr. Forster’s ‘Strafford,’ I beg his pardon for\nnot attributing to him other men’s works. Not that I mean to be cross—not\nto him even.\n\n                                                            I am your own.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 8, 1846.]\n\nOne thing you said yesterday which I want to notice and protest against,\nmy Ba—you charged me with speaking depreciatingly of myself because you\nhad set the example—‘I should not have thought of it but that you began.’\nNow I am tired, just at this moment, and submissive altogether, and\n_hopeful_ besides, on the whole,—so I will let you off with a simple but\nfirmest of protests,—I did NOT think of imitating you, but spoke as I\nfelt and knew,—and feel and know still. The world, generally, will inform\nyou of this in its own good time and way, so ... _taceo_! (The last\nopinion of the world’s on the respective value of people and people, is\nunhappily too decisive. ‘And, after all, Mr. Langton is quite as good as\nthe Duke’s daughter ... for he will have full twenty thousand a year!’)\nI suspect I was going to turn a pretty phrase and tell you I have only\na heart, as the play-books prescribe,—when the said heart pricks me as\nif I reserved something—so I will confess to owning a ‘forehead and an\neye’—one advantage over Pope, to whom folks used to remark ‘Sir, you have\nan eye’—and no more—whereas yesterday evening after leaving Ba, while I\nsettled myself in the corner of our omnibus to think of her, a spruce\ngentleman stretched over, and amid the rumbling begged my pardon for\nbeing forced to remark that my forehead and eye interested him deeply,\nphrenologist as he was; and he was sure I must needs be _somebody_ ...\nbesides a passenger to Greenwich! So if Ba will trust in phrenology!—I\nwill at least not be unkind to her as to the learned man—who left the\nvehicle in due time, lamenting that in return for his own confidence and\npink bill (‘Mr. Hamilton, phrenologist and lecturer’ &c. &c.) I would not\nbreak my obstinate reserve and augustly pronounce ‘Am I a Beefeater now?’\n\n_Assez de sottises_: Ba, my Ba, I am happy in you beyond hope of\nexpression—you know how happy.... And have not I some shade of a right,—I\nwho loved the dear, dear pale cheek and the thin hand,—a right to be\nblessed in the wonders I see ... so long as I continue to be thankful to\nGod whose direct doing I know it to be: how can I ever doubt the rest ...\nthe so easy matters remaining—I will not doubt more, I think.\n\nTell me, write of yourself, love: remember the fierce heat ... and\n_never_ go up the long stairs—or, at least, _rest_ at proper intervals.\nI think of the Homeric stone heaved nearly to the hill-top and\n_then_!... An accident now would be horrible,—think, and take every\nprecaution—because it is _my_ life, (if that will influence you) my whole\nhappiness you are carrying safely or letting slip. May God over-watch all\nand care for us!\n\nGood bye, best beloved,—I fear I ought to go to Mrs. Jameson’s to-night:\nthere is a breakfast engagement for Wednesday, to meet this and the\nother notable; and a simple ‘at home’ promised to anybody calling this\nevening—and my pride won’t let me accept _one_, nor my liking to Mrs.\nJ. suffer me to refuse both.... Yet the fatigue! I have been at church\nto-day, seeing people faint.\n\n                                                     Your own, your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 8, 1846.]\n\nMy ‘recommendation’ to dearest Ba was properly interpreted by her when\nshe regarded the spirit and not the letter of it.\n\nThe day was hot—even _I_ thought who thrive in heat—and yesterday you\ndid well to keep the house—but last night’s rain, and this comfort of\ncloudiness may allow you to resume the exercise,—only with _all_ ease,\ndarling! Mrs. Jameson told me she called the other day on Miss Barrett,\nand was informed that lady was ‘walking before her door’—for I went last\nnight, and deserved to be amused, perhaps, for the effort, ... and so I\nwas, I never liked our friend as I now like her, I more than like the\ngood nature and good feeling and versatility of ready intelligence and\nquick general sympathy. She is to see you to-day. She told this to a Miss\nKindersley who had been reading the ‘Drama of Exile’ to her complete\ndelight—but in listening silently,—and after, when Mrs. J. obligingly\nturned and said ‘How I should like to introduce _you_ to Miss Barrett\n... did you ever see her?’ ... to which I answered in the old way, ‘that\nnobody, as she knew, saw you.’ At all these times did not I feel the\n‘mask’ you speak of! I am, fortunately, out of the way of enquiries ...\nbut if the thing were of constant occurrence, it would be intolerable.\nShall it indeed end soon? May I count by months, by weeks? It is not\nsafe—beginning to write on this subject—I can do nothing moreover.\n\nWell, Lough has some good works, and you will be pleased I daresay:\nbut of all things, hold him to his bond of maintaining the strictest\nprivacy—for Mr. Powell or his kith and kin go there, and _his_ impudence\nand brazen insensibility are dreadful to encounter beyond all belief.\nHe would book-make about ‘the meeting,’ and in his ordinary talk,\nbe supplied with a subject to tell lies about for the next year or\ntwo,—unless he got a lesson earlier. But Lough will understand and keep\nhis promise, no doubt, if you exact it strictly.\n\nMy mother is decidedly better, ... I am quite well—considering Thursday\nis so far off!—considering the end of summer is so far off. Would it be\nprofane to think of that lament ... ‘the Summer is ended and we are not\nsaved’?\n\nI am obliged to leave off here—I love you ever my best\n\n                                                          dearest, own Ba!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday _Morning_.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 9, 1846.]\n\nThe stars threaten you with a long letter to-day, it seems, for I stretch\nout my hand and take blindly the largest sheet. Dearest, I have been\ndriving out before your letter came ... and to _Hampstead_! think of\n_that_. And see the proof of it—this grew in the hedges when the sun rose\nto-day. We had a great branch gathered, and ‘this was of it,’ starred\nover with dog-roses. I did in the morning long for air, through the\nsuffocation yesterday, and the walking being better for another day, my\nsisters persuaded me into the carriage. Only I wanted to wait for your\nletter, my letter, and could not—it did not come by the usual early post,\nand the carriage was here before it ... so I had to go, thinking of it\nall the way, and having it on my return ready to gladden me. How you\nmake me laugh with your phrenologist! ‘For the interests of science’ you\nshould have given your name. Then, would have come the whole history in\nthe next lecture, ... how ‘Once in an omnibus he met an individual with\na forehead and eyes of mark, and knew him at a glance for the first poet\nof the age.’ It would have made a feature in the lecture, and highly\ndeveloped, I dare say, ... to suit the features in the omnibus. Just at\nthe moment of this observation _I_ too was thinking of eyes—‘calm eyes’\ndid I say? Yes, calm, serene ... which was what struck me first of all,\nin the look of them—was it ever observed before, I wonder? The most\nserene spiritual eyes, I ever saw—I thought _that_ the first day I saw\n_you_. They may be called by other names beside, but they shall not lose\nthe name I then gave them. Now to bear with the horrible portrait in\nthe matter of the eyes, is a hard thing—Mr. Howitt must have _his_ shut\nnearly, I think. The hair is like—and nothing else. The mouth, the form\nof the cheek, one is as unlike as the other. And the character of the\nwhole is _most_ unlike of the whole—it is a vulgarized caricature—and\nI only wonder how I could have fastened it inside of my ‘Paracelsus’\nfrontispiece-fashion. When it was hung up and framed, I did not know you\nface to face, remember. Mr. Kenyon told me it was ‘rather like.’ But\nalways and uninstructed I seemed to know that it was not like you in some\nthings....\n\n_Monday Evening._—Observe how the sentence breaks off! While I was\nwriting it, came a ‘tapping, tapping at the chamber door,’ as sings my\ndedicator Edgar Poe. Flush barked vociferously; I threw down the pen\nand shut up the writing case, ... and lo, Mrs. Jameson! I suppose she\ndid not guess that I was writing to you. She brought me the engravings\nof Xanthian marbles, and also her new essays ... and was very kind as\nusual, and proposed to come some day next week with a carriage to take\nme out,—and all this time, how we treat her! Will she not have a right\nto complain of being denied the degree of confidence we gave ( ... Mr.\nKenyon gave for me ...) to Miss Bayley? Will she not think hereafter\n‘There was no need of their deceiving _me_?’ And yet I doubt how to\nretreat now. Could I possibly say to her the next time she speaks of you\n... or could I not? it would set her on suspecting perhaps. She talked\na little to-day of Italy, and plainly asked me what thoughts I had of\nit,—to which I could answer truthfully ‘No thoughts, but dreams.’ Then\nshe insisted, ‘But whenever you have thoughts, you will let me know them?\nYou will not be in Italy when I am there, without my knowing it? And\nwhere will you go—? to Pisa? ... to Sienna? to Naples?’ And she advised\n... ‘Don’t go where the English are, in any case.’ And encouraged like an\noracle, ... ‘Remember that where there’s a will there’s a way’—knowing no\nmore what she spoke, than a Pythian on the serpent’s skin.\n\nBeloved, you are right in your fear about Mr. Lough. I have decided not\nto go there. Oh, it is best certainly; and, quietly considered, I shall\nbe happier as well as safer in not going. We must walk softly on the\nsnowdrifts of the world, now that we have got to them.\n\nFor the rest, ... that is for the chief thing ... you wrote foolishly\nin your first letter to-day, my beloved,—you _can_ write foolishly on\noccasion, let me grant to the critics. I have just so much logic as to be\nable to see (though I am a woman) that for _me_ to be too good for _you_,\nand for _you_ to be too good for _me_, cannot be true at once, both ways.\nNow I could discern and prove, from the beginning of the beginning, that\n_you_ were too good for _me_—it is too late therefore to take up the\nother argument—the handle of it was broken last year.\n\nAlso, I do not go to the world to ask it to appraise you—I would fain\nleave to Robins the things of Robins. I hope you have repented all day\nto-day having written so foolishly yesterday. Even Robins would not\njustify you.\n\nDearest, the avalanches are on us! Uncle and aunts coming down in a great\ncrash! My uncle Hedley comes next week!—on the second or third of July,\nthe eldest of my aunts, ... from Paris, ... who proposes to reside in\nthis house for a week—it may be longer! and, still in July, the rest\nof the Hedleys, I think!—everybody coming, coming! Their welcome will\nbe somewhat of a ghastly smile from _me_—for indeed I cannot be quite\ndelighted, after the fashion of a thoroughly dutiful niece.\n\nAh, never mind them! Nobody can change anything, if you do not change\nyourself. You have ‘a right’ ... not the ‘shadow’ of one, but the very\nright ... to all I am, and to all the life I live. Did you not see\nbefore, what I have felt so long, that indeed you have a right to me and\nover me?\n\n                              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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                                [Post-mark, June 9, 1846.]\n\n_Is_ your letter ‘long,’ my own Ba? I seem to get to the end, each time I\nread it, just as sorrowfully soon as usual—so much for thankfulness! But\nif Ba is not to be ‘tall,’ depend on it, her letter shall not describe\nitself as ‘long’—though in a sense nothing ever written, ever read by\nme, drew such a trail of light after it as her letters—your letters, my\nown, own love! While I write this, my lips rest on the eglantine ...\nwell, it shall be ‘_dog_-rose’ for Flushie’s sake! You say truly about\nthe folly—it is very foolish,—when I fancy you proposing to give _me_ a\ngolden Papal rose and gift for a King, instead of this! And if _I_ feel\nthis, why should not you, and more vividly even? A rose from Hampstead!\nAnd you bore the journey well? You should tell me, precisely, detailedly.\n\nAs for Lough’s statues ... now, I have said more than I meant if it\ndeters you from going to see them! If he will abide strictly by his\npromise, there is much to reward the trouble of going.\n\nAlways remember, my Ba, that the secret is _your_ secret and not mine ...\nthat I keep it while you bid me, but that you may communicate it to whom\nyou please, _when_ you please, without waiting to apprize me. I should,\nI think, have preferred telling Mrs. Jameson from the beginning about\nthe mere visits ... or, I don’t know ... by one such piece of frankness\nyou only expose yourself to fifty new—whatever they are! For there would\nbe so much the more talk about you,—and either the quick woman’s wit and\ndiscernment are to be eluded, or they are not,—foiled or not—and how\nmanage without ... without those _particular_ evasions which seem to\ndegrade most of all? Miss Mitford’s promises began the embarrassment.\nIn short I think the best way in such a case is to tell _all_ or none.\nI believe you might tell all to Mrs. Jameson with perfect safety, but,\nfor _her_ sake, I doubt the propriety ... for it would be to introduce\nher forthwith to exactly our own annoyances with respect to Mr. Kenyon,\nChorley &c. Once knowing, she cannot _un_-know. In any case, I promise my\nconscience to give her,—and anybody else that may have a right to it,—a\nfull explanation at the earliest safe moment.. may _that_ be at no great\ndistance! My own feeling is for telling Mr. Kenyon ... though you would\nconsiderably startle me if you answered ‘well, _do_!’ But, of the whole\nworld, I seem only to care for _his_ not feeling aggrieved: oh, he will\nunderstand!—and _can_, because he knows the circumstances at your house.\nCome what will, I am sure of you; ‘if you live, and are well’—even this\nlast clause I might exclude; it has often been in my thought to tell\nyou ... only, dearest, there is always, when I plan never so dreamily\nand vaguely, always an understood submission the most absolute to your\nown desire ... but I fancied, that, in the case of any _real_ obstacle\narising so as to necessitate the ‘postponement,’ &c., I should have\n_stipulated_ ... in the right yourself have given me ... I should have\nsaid—‘we will postpone it, if you will marry me _now_ ... merely as to\nthe form ... but so as to enable me, if difficulties should thicken, to\nbe by your bed-_side_ at least.’ You see, what you want ‘to relieve’ me\nof, is just what my life should be thrice paid down for and cheaply. How\ncould you ever be so truly mine as _so_? Even the poor service does not\n‘part us’ before ‘death’——‘till _sickness_ do us part!’\n\nBut there will be no sickness and all happiness, I trust in God! Dear,\ndear Ba, I love you wholly and for ever—true as I kiss your rose, and\nwill keep it for ever. Bless you.\n\nMy first letter ‘did not reach you by the first post on Monday\nmorning’—No! How should it ... when I carried it to town on Sunday night\nand went half a mile out of my way to put it in the general post office\nat the corner of Oxford Street!\n\nYou know I am to breakfast with Mrs. Jameson to-morrow—and perhaps I may\nmake some calls after: if anything keeps me in Town so as to hinder the\nletter by the 8 o’clock post, you will know the reason ... and expect the\nletter the next morning; but I will endeavour to get back in time.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 10, 1846.]\n\nBest, dearest beloved, ... would it not be strange if you were not so to\nme? How do you think I feel, hearing you say such things ... finding such\nthoughts in your mind? If it is not worthy of you to have a burden set\non your shoulders and to be forced into the shadow of disquietudes not\nyour own, yet this divine tenderness is worthy of you ... worthy of your\nnature; as I know and recognise! May God help me to thank you, for I have\nnot a word.\n\nPractically however, see how your proposal would work. It could not work\n_at all_, unless circumstances were known—and if they were known, at the\nvery moment of their being known you would be saved, dearest, all the\ntrouble of coming up-stairs to me, by my being thrown out of the window\nto you ... upon which, you might certainly pick up the pieces of me and\nput them into a bag and set off for Nova Zembla. _That_ would be the\nevent of the working of your proposition. Yet remember that I will accede\nto whatever you shall choose—so _think for us both_. You know more of\nthe world and have more practical sense than I—and if you did not, had\nnot, you may _do what you like with your own_, as surely as the Duke of\nNewcastle might.\n\nFor Mrs. Jameson, I never should think of telling her ‘_all_’—I should\nnot, could not, would not! and the gods forefend that you should think\nof telling Mr. Kenyon any more. Now, listen. Perfectly I understand your\nreasons, your scruples ... what are they to be called? But I promise\nto take the blame of it. I will tell dear Mr. Kenyon hereafter that\nyou would have spoken, but that I _would not let you_—won’t _that_ do?\nwon’t it stop the pricking of the conscience? Because, you see, I know\nMr. Kenyon, ... and I know perfectly that either he would be unhappy\nhimself, or he would make us so. He never could bear the sense of\nresponsibility. Then, as he told me to-day, and as long ago I knew, ...\nhe is ‘irresolute,’ timid in deciding. Then he shrinks before the dæmon\nof the world—and ‘what may be said’ is louder to him than thunder. And\nthen again, and worst of all, he sees afar off casualty within casualty,\nand a marriage without lawyers would be an abomination in his sight.\nMoreover, to discover ourselves to him, and _not submit to his counsels_,\nwould be a real offence ... would it not? As it is, it may seem natural\nand excusable that we two of ourselves should poetically rush into a\nfoolishness—but if we heard counsel, and rejected it!! Do you see?...\n\nHe came here to-day, dear Mr. Kenyon, and is to come with Miss Bayley on\nFriday, and take me in the carriage to drive, and to see his house. I\nmust go, but dread it ... shrink from it—yes, indeed. As for Mr. Lough,\nhow could I have ‘bound him with Styx nine times round him?’ It is easier\nto bind Mrs. Jameson. Oh no! You were right, and I was wrong in my first\ninclination about Mr. Lough.\n\nAnd yesterday I was not tired to signify. I shall not be ill, my\nbeloved,—I think I shall not. I am as perfectly well now in all respects\n(except that I have not strength for much exercise and noise and\nconfusion, ...) as it is possible to be. So do not be anxious about\nme—rather spend your dear thoughts of me in loving me, ... dear, dearest!\n\nYou breakfast with Mrs. Jameson, and I shall remember not to long too\nmuch for the eight o’clock letter at night. Remember _you_, not to be\nhurried as to the writing of it.\n\nOh! I had a letter from my particular Bennet this morning, ... and my\nGeorgiana desires me instantly to say why I presumed not to write to her\nbefore. I am commanded out of all further delays. ‘_Did_ I receive her\nletter,’ she wonders!!!! Georgiana is imperative.\n\n                   May God bless you, you who bless me!\n\n                                                     I am wholly your own.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 12, 1846.]\n\nI must write very little to-day, dearest, because Mr. Kenyon, as a\nnote from him just tells me, comes at half past two for me, and in\nthe meantime I am expecting a visit from my uncle Hedley, who arrived\nyesterday while we were together. Scarcely could Henrietta keep him, she\nsays, from coming up-stairs ‘to see Ba!’ We just escaped, therefore. I\nhave been thinking that having the barbarians down on us may be at least\na means of preserving us from going into the wilderness ourselves ...\n_my_self ... if I were taken away, as I told you, to Tunbridge, Dover, or\nother provinces of Siberia. How should I bear, do you think, to be taken\naway from you? Very badly!—though you will not hear of my being able to\nlove you as I ought——when _that_ is precisely the only thing I can do, it\nseems to me, at all worthily of you.\n\n_Ora pro me_ in Mr. Kenyon’s carriage to-day—I am getting so nervous and\nfrightened! I shall feel all the while as if set on a vane on the top of\nSt. Paul’s ... can you fancy the feeling? I do wish I were safe at home\nagain, reading your letter ... which _will_ come to-night—_will_ ...\n_shall_ ... _must_ ... according to the letter and spirit of the Law.\n\nYou made the proposal to me about New Cross, yesterday, out of\nconsideration and kindness to _me_! I understand it so, thanking you.\nFor the rest, I need not, I am certain, assure you that it would be the\ngreatest pain to me at any time, to be wanting in even the forms of\nrespect and affection towards your family—and that I would not, from a\nmere motive of shyness, hazard a fault against _them_—you will believe\nthis of me. But the usual worldly form (if the world is to give the\nmeasure) would be _against_ my paying such a visit—and under ordinary\ncircumstances it never is paid—not _so_. Therefore the not paying it\nis not an omission of an ordinary form of attention—_that_ is what I\nmean to say. And to keep all dear to you quite safe and away from all\nsplashing of the mud which we cannot ourselves hope to escape, is the\ngreat object,—it does seem to me. Your father and mother would be blamed\n(in this house, I know, if not in others) for not apprizing my father of\nwhat they knew. As it is, there is evil enough—though there is a way of\nescaping _that_ evil.\n\nAs it is.—Now I do beseech you to consider well whether you will not have\ntoo much pain in finding that they suffer it (after every precaution\ntaken) ... to render all this which we are about, wise and advisable.\nThey will suffer, to hear you spoken of as we both shall be spoken of ...\nbe perfectly sure! They will suffer, to have to part with you _so_— —and\nthe circumstances, perhaps, will not help to give them confidence in the\nstranger, who presumes _so_ to enter their family. I _ask you_ not to\nanswer this!—only, to think of it in time, lest you should come to think\nof it too late. Put it between the leaves of Machiavel,—that at need you\nmay confute yourself as well as M. Thiers.\n\nBeloved, say how you are—and how your mother is. Here I must end—to be\nready for dear Mr. Kenyon, and casualties of uncles &c. Think of me, love\nme—my heart is full of you.\n\n                                                             I am your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 12, 1846.]\n\nWhen I am close to you, in your very room, I see through your eyes\nand feel what you feel—but after, the sight widens with the circle of\noutside things—I cannot fear for a moment what seemed redoubtable enough\nyesterday—nor do I believe that there will be two opinions anywhere\nin the world as to your perfect right to do as you please under the\npresent circumstances. People are not quite so tolerant to other people’s\npreposterousness, and that which yourself tell me exceeds anything I\never heard of or imagined—but, dearest, on twice thinking, one surely\nought not to countenance it as you propose—why should not my father and\nmother know? What possible harm can follow from their knowing? Why should\nI wound them to the very soul and for ever, by as gratuitous a piece of\nunkindness as if,—no,—there is no comparison will do! Because, since I\nwas a child I never looked for the least or greatest thing within the\ncompass of their means to give, but given it was,—nor for liberty but it\nwas conceded, nor confidence but it was bestowed. I dare say they would\nbreak their hearts at such an end of all. For in any case they will take\nmy feeling for their own with implicit trust—and if I brought them a\nbeggar, or a famous actress even, they would believe in her because of\nme,—if a Duchess or Miss Hudson, or Lady Selina Huntingdon rediviva ...\nthey would do just the same, sorrow to say! As to any harm or blame that\ncan attach itself to _them_,—it is too absurd to think of! What earthly\ncontrol can they have over me? They live here,—I go my own way, being of\nage and capability. How can they interfere?\n\nAnd then, blame for _what_, in either God’s or the devil’s name? I\nbelieve you to be the one woman in the world I am able to marry because\nable to love. I wish, on some accounts, I had foreseen the contingency\nof such an one’s crossing my path in this life—but I did not, and on\nall ordinary grounds preferred being free and poor, accordingly. All\nis altered now. Does anybody doubt that I can by application in proper\nquarters obtain quite enough to support us both in return for no\nextraordinary expenditure of such faculties as I have? If it _is_ to\nbe doubted, I have been greatly misinformed, that is all. Or, setting\nall friends and their proposals and the rest of the hatefulness aside—I\nshould say that so simple a procedure as writing to anybody ... Lord\nMonteagle, for instance, who reads and likes my works, as he said at\nMoxon’s two days ago on calling there for a copy to give away ... surely\nto write to him, ‘When you are minister next month, as is expected, will\nyou give me for my utmost services about as much as you give Tennyson\nfor nothing?’—_this_ would be rational and as easy as all rationality.\n_Let me do so, and at once, my own_ Ba! And do you, like the unutterably\nnoble creature I know you, transfer your own advantages to your brothers\nor sisters ... making if you please a proper reservation in the case of\nmy own exertions failing, as failure comes everywhere. So shall the one\npossible occasion of calumny be removed and all other charges go for the\nsimple absurdities they will be. I am entirely in earnest about this, and\nindeed had thought for a moment of putting my own share of the project\ninto immediate execution—but on consideration,—no! _So_ I will live and\nso die with you. I will not be poorly endeavouring to startle you with\nunforeseen generosities, catch you in pretty pitfalls of magnanimities,\nbe always surprising you, or trying to do it. No, I resolve to do my\nbest, _through_ you—by your counsel, with your help, under your eye ...\nthe most strenuous endeavour will only approximate to an achievement\nof _that_,—and to suppose a superfluousness of devotion to you (as all\nthese surprises do) would be miserably foolish. So, dear, dear Ba,\nunderstand and advise me. I took up the paper with ordinary feelings ...\nbut the absurdity and tyranny suddenly flashed upon me ... it must not\nbe borne—indeed its only safety in this instance is in its impotency. I\nam not without fear of some things in this world—but the ‘wrath of men,’\nall the men living put together, I fear as I fear the fly I have just put\nout of the window; but I fear _God_—and am ready, he knows, to die this\nmoment in taking his part against any piece of injustice and oppression,\n_so_ I aspire to die!\n\nSee this long letter, and all about a tiny one, a plain palpable\ncommonplace matter about which you agree with me, you the dear quiet\nBa of my heart, with me that make all this unnecessary fuss! See what\nis behind all the ‘bated breath and whispered humbleness?’—but it is\n_right_, after all, to revolt against such monstrous tyranny. And I ought\nnot, I feel, to have forgotten the feelings of my father and mother as I\ndid—because I know as certainly as I know anything that if I could bring\nmyself to ask them to give up everything in the world; they would do it\nand cheerfully.\n\nSo see, and forgive your own\n\n                                                                        R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 13, 1846.]\n\nBut dearest, dearest, ... _when_ did I try to dissuade you from telling\nall to your father and mother? Surely I did not and could not. That you\nshould ‘wound them to the very soul and for ever’ ... I am so far from\ncounselling it, that I would rather, I think, as was intimated in my\nletter of this morning, have all at an end at once—_rather_! Certainly\n_rather_, ... when the alternative would be your certain unhappiness and\nremorse. _A right_, they have, to your entire confidence;—for _me_ to say\na word against your giving it—may God forbid! Even that you should submit\nyour wishes to theirs in this matter, would be no excess of duty—I said\nso, I think, in my letter of this morning.\n\nAt the same time, I _am_ of opinion, ... which was what I meant to put\ninto words, ... that, _in the case_ of their approving in the sufficient\ndegree ... and of your resolving finally on carrying out our engagement\n... you should avoid committing them further than is necessary, and so\nexposing them to unpleasant remarks and reproaches from _my family_\n... to go no farther. You think that nothing can be said—I wish _I_\ncould think so. You are not to be restrained perhaps ... but you are\nto be _advised_ ... and it would be a natural step for your father, to\ngo straight to his friend Mr. Kenyon. Do you see what might be done\nthough you are ‘of age’—and for not doing which, your father might be\nreproached? And more there would be to do, besides. Therefore I thought\nthat you should avoid, as far as possible, committing him openly ...\nmaking him a party in the eyes of the world (as would be done by my visit\nto New Cross for instance)—yet I may be wrong here, ... and you, in any\ncase, are the master, to act as you see best.\n\nAnd, looking steadily at the subject, do you not see, ... now that we\nlook closely besides, ... how mortifying to the just pride of your\nfamily, as well as to your own self-respect, is every possible egress\nfrom these unhappy circumstances? Ah—I told you—I told you long ago! I\nsaw that at the beginning. Giving the largest confidence to your family,\nyou still must pain them—still.\n\nFor the rest ... you are generous and noble as always—but, no, ... I\nshall refuse steadily for reasons which are plain, to put away from me\nGod’s gifts ... given perhaps in order to this very end ... and apart\nfrom which, I should not have seen myself justified, ... even as far as\nnow I vaguely, dimly seem ... to cast the burden of me upon you. _No._ I\ncare as little for money as you do—but this thing I will not agree to,\nbecause I ought not. At the same time, you shall be at liberty to arrange\nthat after the deaths of us two, the money should return to my family ...\nthis, if you choose—for it shall be by your own act hereafter, that they\nmay know you for what you are. In the meanwhile, I should laugh to scorn\nall _that_ sort of calumny ... even if I could believe it to be possible.\nSupposing that you sought _money_, you would not be quite so stupid, the\nworld may judge for itself, as to take hundreds instead of thousands,\nand pence instead of guineas. To do the world justice, it is not likely\nto make a blunder on such a point as this.\n\nI wish, if you can wish so, that you were the richer. I could be content\nto have just nothing, if we could live easily so. But as I have a little\nwithout seeking it, you must, on the other hand, try to be content, and\nnot be too proud.\n\nAs to Lord Monteagle, ... dearest ... you will do what you like of\ncourse, though I do not understand exactly what your object is. A pension\non literary grounds is the more difficult to obtain, that the fund set\napart for that end is insufficient, I believe. Then if you are to do\ndiplomacy for it, ... how do you know that you may not be sent to Russia,\nor somewhere impossible for me to winter in? If you were fixed even in\nLondon, ... what then? You know best what your own views are, and wishes\nare—I would not cross them, if you should be happier so, or so.\n\nAnd do you think that because this may be done, or not done ... and\nbecause _that_ ought _not_ to be borne ... we can make any change ... act\nany more openly ... face to face, perhaps—voice to voice? Alas, no!—You\nsaid once that women were as strong as men, ... unless in the concurrence\nof physical force. Which is a mistake. I would rather be kicked with\na foot, ... (I, for one woman!...) than be overcome by a loud voice\nspeaking cruel words. I would not yield before such words—I would not\ngive you up if they were said ... but, being a woman and a very weak one\n(in more senses than the bodily), they would act on me as a dagger would,\n... I could not help _dropping_, dying before them. I say it that you may\nunderstand. Tyranny? Perhaps. Yet in that strange, stern nature, there\nis a capacity to love—and I love him—and I shall suffer, in causing him\nto suffer. May God bless you. You will scarcely make out these hurried\nstraggling words—and scarcely do they carry out my meaning. I am for ever\nyour\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 13, 1846.]\n\nDearest, all dearest beyond my heart’s uttering, will you forgive me\nfor that foolish letter, and the warmth, and—FOR ALL,—more than ever\nI thought to have needed to ask forgiveness for! I love you in every\nimaginable way. All was wrong, absurd, in that letter—do you forgive—now,\nwhile I kiss your feet, my own, own Ba?\n\nFor see why it was wrong ... my father and mother will NOT BE PAINED IN\nANY DEGREE: they will believe what I say, exactly what I say. I wrote on\nand on in a heat at the sudden ridiculous fancy of the matter’s taking\nplace some fine morning, without a word of previous intimation,—‘I am\ngoing away, never mind where,—with somebody, never concern yourselves\nwhom,—to stay, if for ever, is it any business of yours to enquire?’\nAll which was ... _what_ was it? a method of confirming you in your\ncomplimentary belief in my ‘calmness’—or that other in my ‘good practical\nsense’—oh, Ba, Ba, how I deserve you! I will only say, I agree in all you\nwrite—it will be clearly best, and I can obviate every untowardness here\n... show that all is pure kindness and provident caution ... so easy all\nwill be! And for the other matters, I will fear nothing.\n\nBut you do—you do understand what caused the sudden fancy ... how I\nthought ‘not show them my pride of prides, my miraculous, altogether\npeerless and incomparable Ba!’ It was not flying from your counsel,—oh,\nno!\n\nSo, is your hand in mine, or rather mine in yours again, sweetest, best\nlove? All will be well. Follow out your intention, as you spoke of it\nto me, in every point. _Do not for God’s_ sake run the risk, or rather,\nencounter the certainty of hearing words which most likely have not\nanything like the significance to the speaker that they would convey\nto the hearer—and so let us go quietly away. I will care nothing about\ndiplomatism or money-getting extraordinary—why, my own works sell and\nsell and are likely to sell, Moxon says. And I mean to write wondrous\nworks, you may be sure, and sell them too,—and out of it all may easily\ncome some fifty or sixty horrible pounds a year,—on which one lives\nfamously in Ravenna, I dare say: think of Ravenna, Ba!—it seems the place\nof places, with the pines and the sea, and Dante, and _no_ English, and\nall Ba.\n\nMy Ba, I see you on Monday, do I not? You let me come then, do you not?\nI am on fire to see you and know you love me ... _not as_ I love you ...\nthat can never be! I am your own\n\n                                                                        R.\n\nI resolve, after a long pause and much irresolution, to write down as\nmuch as I shall be able, of an obvious fact.... If the saddest fate I can\nimagine should be reserved for me ... I should wish, _you_ would wish to\nlive the days out worthily,—not end them—nor go mad in them—to prevent\nwhich, I should need distraction, the more violent the better,—and it\nwould have to be _forced_ on me in the only way possible—therefore,\n_after my death_, I return nothing to your family, be assured. You will\nnot recur to _this_!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 15, 1846.]\n\nI wrote last night when my head was still struggling and swimming between\ntwo tides of impressions received from the excitement and fatigue of\nthe day. Mr. Kenyon (dear Mr. Kenyon in his exquisite kindness!) took\nme to see the strange new sight (to _me_!) of the Great Western ... the\ntrain coming in: and we left the carriage and had chairs—and the rush\nof the people and the earth-thunder of the engine almost overcame me\n... not being used to such sights and sounds in this room, remember!!\nand afterwards I read and answered your letter with a whirling head.\nI cannot be sure _how_ I answered it, my head whirled so. I only hope\n... hope ... hope ... that it did not seem unworthy of your goodness\nand generosity—for _that_ would be unworthy of my perception of them\nand reverence for them, besides. You do not, in particular, I do hope,\nmisunderstand my reasons for refusing to improve what you call my\n‘advantages,’ by turning them into disadvantages for _you_. Really it\nstruck me at the moment and strikes me new every time I think of it,\nthat it would be monstrous in me to stop at such an idea long enough\nto examine it. To do such a thing would complete the ‘advantages’ of\nmy alliance—if _that_ is a desire of yours. And if I were to be ill\nafterwards, there would be the crown of the crown. Now ask yourself if _I\nought_—\n\nI cannot conceive of the possibility of a ‘calumny’ on such a\npretext—there seems no room for it. You will however have it in your\npower hereafter, without injury to either of us, to do yourself full\njustice in this particular— —only neither now nor hereafter shall I\nconsent to let in sordid withering cares with your life. God has not made\nit so and it shall not be so by an act of mine.\n\nAnd after all, shall we be so much ... so much too rich? do you fancy\nthat Miss Kilmansegg is made of brass compared to me? It is not so bad,\nbe very sure. If Arabel should not offend Papa, she will be richer\nhereafter than we are ... yet not rich even so. Why are you fanciful in\n_that_ way? People are more likely to say that _I have taken you in_. The\nsign of the Red Dragon! as you suggested once yourself!\n\nI could make you laugh, if it were not too hot to laugh, with telling you\nhow I really do not know what my ‘advantages’ are—specifically—so many,\nand so many. I am not ‘allowed’ to spend what I might—but the motive\nis of course a kind one— —there is no mistaking _that_. Poor Papa! He\nattends just to those pecuniary interests which no one cares for, with a\nscrupulous attention. Nearly two hundred a year of ship shares I never\ntouch. Then there is the interest of six thousand pounds (not _less_\nat any rate) in the funds—and I referred to the principal of _that_,\nwhen I said yesterday, that when we had ceased to need it, it might\nreturn to my family, since it came from them, if you chose. But this is\nall air—and _nothing shall be said of it now_—and whatever may be said\nhereafter, shall come from _you_, and be your word rather than mine. So I\nbeseech you, by your affection for me, to speak no more of this hateful\nsubject, which I have entered for a _moment_ lest you should exaggerate\nto yourself and mistake me for the least in the world of an heiress.\nAs to Lord Monteagle, we can do without him, _I_ think—and unless he\nwould give us a house to keep, or something of that sort, at Sorrento or\nRavenna, I do not exactly see what he can do for us. To make an agreement\nwith a periodical, would be more a possibility perhaps—but it is not\na necessity—there is no sort of need, in fact—and why should you be\ntormented ‘in the multitude of the thoughts within you,’ utterly in vain?\n\nAs to your family ... I understand your natural desire of giving your\nconfidence at the fullest to your father and mother, who deserve and\nclaim it ... I understand that you should speak and listen to them,\nand cross no wish of theirs, and in nothing displease and pain them.\nBut I do not understand the argument by which you involve the question\nwith other questions ... when you say, for instance, that I ‘ought not\nto countenance the preposterousness and tyranny.’ How do I seem to\ncountenance what I revolt from? Do you mean that we ought to do what we\nare about, _openly_? It is the only meaning I can attach to your words.\nWell—If you choose it to be so, knowing what I have told you, _let_ it be\nso. I can however, as I said yesterday, answer only for my will and mind,\nand not for my strength and body—and if the end should be different from\nthe end you looked for, you will not blame me, being just, ... any more\nthan I shall blame myself. May God bless you, ever dearest!—\n\n                                                    I am your own as ever.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 15, 1846.]\n\nMay I venture to speak to dearest Ba as if I had seen her or heard from\nher since I wrote yesterday,—and that seeing or that hearing had brought\nthe usual comfort and assurance,—and forgiveness when needed, but delight\nat all times? Do you forgive me indeed, Ba?\n\nI shall know to-morrow—which ‘to-morrow’ is your _to_-day. I am soon to\nbe with you _to-day_. I trust there is [no] occasion to exercise fancy\nand say—‘When we meet on your return from Tunbridge a month hence,’ or\ntwo, or three ... to go on fancying! What should I do,—be able to do? and\nif I understood you rightly the letter-communication would be hindered,\nif not stopped altogether. Thus is one the sport of one’s own wishes.\nFine weather is desired ... fine enough to drive people out of town into\nthe country!\n\nAs it is, I have been sufficiently punished for that foolish letter,\nwhich has lost me the last two or three days of your life and deeds, my\nBa. You went to Mr. Kenyon’s—may have gone elsewhere (and gathered roses\nI did not deserve to receive)—but I do not know, and shall not recover my\nloss—not ever ... because if you tell me _now_, you exclude something new\nyou would say otherwise ... if you write it on Tuesday, what becomes of\nTuesday’s own stock of matter for chronicling?\n\nWell, the proper word in my mouth is—I am sorry to the heart, and will\ntry never to offend so again. How you wrote to me, also! How you rise\nabove yourself while I get no nearer where you were first of all, no\nnearer than ever! But so it should be! so may it ever be!\n\nI believe the fault comes from a too-sweet sense of the freedom of\nbeing _true_ with you, telling you all, hiding nothing. Carlyle was\nsaying in his fine way, he understood why the Romans confined acting to\ntheir slaves ... it was no employment for a free man to amuse people\n... be bound to do that, and if other faculties interposed, tending\nto other results on an audience than amusement, be bidden suppress\nthem accordingly ... and so, he thought, it would be one day with our\n_amusers_, writers of fun, concocters of comic pieces. _I_ feel it\ndelicious to be free when most bound to you, Ba,—to be able to love on\nin all the liberty of the implied subjection ... so I am angry _to_ you,\ndesponding sometimes _to_ you, as well as joyous and hopeful—well, well,\nI _love_, at any rate,—do love you with heart and soul, my Ba,—ever shall\nlove you, dearest above all dearness: God bless you!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 16, 1846.]\n\nAs to ‘practical sense’ I never saw, I confess, much to praise you\nfor—but you began by making a great profession of it, please to\nremember—and, otherwise, you certainly ought to know more of the world\nand the wisdom thereof than I, or you are _dull_, dearest mine, and one\nmight as well call the sun so on this burning dazzling morning, when\neverything is at a white heat. Then for the ‘calmness’ ... I did not call\nyour eyes ‘green’ after all ... nor did I mean what you would force on\nme for a meaning in the other way:—you pretend to misunderstand? Eyes,\nat least, that had the mastery with me from the beginning! and it was so\nlong, so long (as you observed yourself), that I could not lift up mine\nagainst them—they were the mystic crystal walls, so long!\n\nAfter you were gone yesterday and I had done with the roses (exquisite\nroses!) and had my coffee, I saw my uncle Hedley who had been inquiring\nabout me, said my sisters, all the afternoon, ... for it was he who came\nwhen we heard the greetings on the stairs—and he told me that his wife\nand daughter were to be in London early in July ... so that we shall have\nthe whole squadron sooner than we thought—drawn up like a very squadron\n... my other aunt, Miss Clarke, coming at the same time, and my cousin\nwith her, Arlette Butler. But only those two will be in the house here,\nand they will not be for very long, nor will they be much in the way, I\nhope.\n\nShall I tell you? I repented yesterday ... I repented last night ... I\nrepent to-day, having made the promise you asked of me. I could scarcely\nsleep at all last night, through thinking that I ought not to have made\nit. Be generous, and free me from that promise. To be true to you in\nthe real right sense, I need no promises at all—and if an argument were\naddressed to me _in order_ to _separate us_, I should see through the\npiteous ingenuity of it, I think, whatever ground it took, and admit\nno judgment and authority over your life to be higher than your own.\nBut I have misgivings about that promise, because I can conceive of\ncircumstances.... Loose me from my promise, and let me be grateful to\nyou, my beloved, in all things and ways, and hold you to be generous in\nthe least as in the greatest. What _I_ asked of _you_, was as different\nas our positions are—different beyond what you see or can see. No third\nperson can see,—no second person can see ... what my position is and has\nbeen ... I do not enter on it here. But there is just and only _one_ way\nin which I may be injured by you, ... and _that_ is, in being allowed to\n_injure you_—so remember, remember, ... to the last available moment.\n\nThen ... I have lived so in a dream for very long!—and everything, all\nundertakings, all movements, seem easy in dream-life. The sense of\nthis has lately startled me. To waken up suddenly and find that I have\nwronged you—what more misery?—and I feel already that I am bringing you\ninto a position which will by some or many be accounted unworthy of\nyou. Well—we will not talk of it—not now! there is time for the grave\nconsideration which _must be_. Let us both think.\n\nAnd may God bless you, ever dearest! You are the best and most generous\nof all in the world! Whatever my mistake may be, it is not concerning\n_that_. Also I love you, love you. Premature things I say sometimes,\nwhich are foolish always. Tell me how you are ... tell me how your\nmother is— —but speak of your own head ... tam chari ... particularly.\nOvercoming, the heat is—and I do hope that Mrs. Jameson won’t come after\nall.\n\n                                   Your\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 16, 1846.]\n\nI have just returned from Town—some twelve miles at least I must have\nwalked in this extreme heat ... so what has become of the headache? And\nnow I sit down to write what Ba will read ... what has become of the heat\nand fatigue? In this sense Ba ‘looks cool at me!’\n\nI shall just write that I love, and love you, and love you again—my own\nBa—just this, lest you learn the comfort of a respite from hearing what\nyou are doomed to hear, with variations, all the days of your life. But\nnot much more than this shall I write, because the love lies still in\nme, and deep, as water does,—cannot run forth in rivulets and sparkle,\nthis hot weather; but then how I love her when I can only say so,—how I\nfeel her ... as in an old opera’s one line that stays in my recollection\nthe tropical sun is described on the ocean—‘fervid on the glittering\nflood’—so she lies on me.\n\nSee the pure nonsense, my own Ba, and laugh at it, but not at what lies\nat bottom of it, because that is true as truth, true as Ba’s self in its\nway.\n\nI called on Forster this morning: he says Landor is in high delight at\nthe congratulatory letters he has received—so you must write, dearest,\nand add the queen-rose to his garland. F— talks about some 500 copies—or\ndid he say 300?—being sold already ... so there is hope for Landor’s\nlovers.\n\nSo I should have written once ... but like Virgil’s shepherd ... ‘know\nI now what love is!’—Do you remember that the first word I ever wrote\nto you was ‘I love you, dear Miss Barrett?’ It was so,—could not but be\nso—and I always loved you, as I shall always.\n\nTell me all you can about your dearest self, my own love. I am so happy\nin you, in your perfect goodness and truth,—in all of you.\n\nBe careful this fatiguing weather ... the evenings and mornings are the\nonly working time of the day, as in the beginning of things. But all day\nlong is rest-time to love you, dear, and kiss you, as now—kisses\n\n                                                                 Your own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday. 6 o’clock.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 17, 1846.]\n\nBeloved, this weather, which makes Flush cross, perhaps helped to make\nme depressed this morning. I had not slept well, and ought not to have\nwritten to you till the effect of it had gone off. Now I feel more as if\nI had been with you yesterday. Ah well! I don’t, can’t remember what I\nwrote ... and some of it was _wise_ ... for I ought not to have promised\n_that_, ... and you must loose me, that I may be loosed in Heaven, from\nthe bands of it. Only you are not to go to Greenwich (you go to Greenwich\nto-morrow, do you not?) thinking that I wanted to teaze you. There is\njust one meaning to all my words, let them be sad or gay ... and it is,\nthat _your happiness is precious_. For myself, if we were to part now\nand for ever, I should still owe you the only happiness of my life. But\nnobody is talking of parting, you know—I am yours, and cannot be put away\nfrom you except by your own hand. Which is decided! What I ask of you, is\nto spare me the pang of causing you to suffer on my account, ... and you\nmay suffer sometimes, I fear, through all your affection for me, ... and\nindirectly, if not directly.\n\nTwo visitors I have had to-day—dear Mr. Kenyon, and Lady Margaret Cocks.\nShe is going to Italy—(oh, of course!) to Rome. He came to tell me that\nthe books came to me from Landor himself, and that I must write to him to\nthank him properly. Mrs. Jameson I do not see, nor Miss Bayley.\n\nHow hot it will be for you to-morrow! Try to be amused and not too tired,\ndearest beloved, and tell me in your letters how the head is.\n\nWhile the heart beats (mine!) I am your own.\n\nI am going in the carriage presently and shall write again to-night.\nWon’t that be _three times in a day_ according to order?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 17, 1846.]\n\nBest, ... best, you are, to write to me when you were tired, and _so_!\nWhen _I_ am tired and write to _you_, it is too apt to be what may\ntrouble you. With _you_, how different! In nothing do you show your\nstrength more than in your divine patience and tenderness towards me,\ntill ... not being used to it, I grow overwhelmed by it all, and would\ngive you my life at a word. Why did you love _me_, my beloved, when you\nmight have chosen from the most perfect of all women and each would have\nloved you with the perfectest of her nature? That is my riddle in this\nworld. I can understand everything else ... I was never stopped for the\nmeaning of sorrow upon sorrow ... but that you should love me I do not\nunderstand, and I think that I never shall.\n\nDo I remember? Yes indeed, I remember. How I recurred and wondered\nafterwards, though at the moment it seemed very simple and what was to\nbe met with in our philosophy every day. But there, you see, there’s\nthe danger of using _mala verba_! The Fates catch them up and knit them\ninto the web! Then I remember all the more (though I should at any\nrate) through an imprudence of my own (or a piece of ill-luck rather\n... it shall not be called an imprudence) of which I will tell you. I\nwas writing to Miss Mitford and of you—we differed about you often, ...\nbecause she did not appreciate you properly, and was fond of dwelling on\nthe ‘obscurity’ when I talked of the light,—and I just then writing of\nyou, added in my headlong unreflecting way that I had had a real letter\nfrom you which said that you loved me—‘Oh—but,’ I wrote on, ‘you are not\nto mistake this, not to repeat it—for of course, it is simply the purest\nof philanthropies’ ... some words to that effect—and if yours was the\npurest of philanthropies, mine was the purest of innocences, as you may\nwell believe, ... for if I had had the shadow of a foresight, I should\nnot have fallen into the snare. So vexed I was afterwards! Not that she\nthought anything at the time, or has referred to it since, or remembers\na word now. Only I was vexed in my innermost heart ... and _am_ ... do\nyou know? ... that I should have spoken lightly of such an expression of\nyours—though you meant it lightly too. Dearest! It was a disguised angel\nand I should have known it by its wings though they did not fly.\n\nBut I foresaw nothing, ... looked to you for nothing, ... nothing can\nprove better to myself, than my having mentioned the quaint word at all.\nFor I know, and I hope you know, how impossible it always has been to me\nto choose for a subject of conversation and jest, things which never\nshould be spoken to friend or sister. But how was I to foresee? So the\nquaintness passed as quaintness with me. And never from that time (you\ngrew sacred too soon!), never again from that moment, did I mention\nyou to Miss Mitford—oh yes, I did, when she talked of introducing Mr.\nChorley, and when I replied that, being a woman, I would have my wilful\nway, and that my wilful way was to see _you_ instead. But except _then_\n... and when I sent her Mr. Landor’s verses on you ... not a word have\nI spoken ... except in bare response. She thinks perhaps that my old\nfervour about you has sunk into the socket—she suspects nothing—in fact\nshe does not understand what _love_ is ... and I never should think of\nasking her for sympathy. She is one of the Black Stones, which, when I\nclimb up towards my Singing Tree and Golden Water, will howl behind me\nand call names.\n\nYou had my second letter to-day, speaking of Landor, and of Mr. Kenyon’s\nvisit. At half-past six came Miss Bayley, talking exceeding kindnesses of\nItaly, and entreating me to use her ... to let her go with me and take\ncare of me and do me all manner of good. What kindness, really, in a\nwoman whom I have not seen six times in all! I am very grateful to her.\nShe held my hands, and told me to write to her if ever I had need of\nher—she would come at a moment, go for a year!—she would do anything for\nme I desired! And this woman to believe of herself that she has no soul!\nHelp me to thank her in your thoughts of her! She said, by the way, that\nMrs. Jameson had talked to her of wishing to take me, ... but she thought\n(Miss Bayley thought) that she (Mrs. Jameson) had too many objects and\ntoo much vivacity ... it would not do so well, she thought. In reply—I\ncould just thank her, and scarcely could do _that_, ... only I am sure\nshe saw and felt that I was grateful to her aright, let the words come\never so wrong. To-morrow she leaves London for an indefinite time.\n\nShe told me too that a friend of hers, calling on Mrs. Jameson, had\nfound her on the point of coming to me to-day, to drive out ... but she\nsuffered from toothache and was going to Cartwright’s first ... and last,\nI suppose. I dare say he put her to torture, to be classified with ‘the\nthumbscrew and the gadge’ ... some disabling torture, for I have not\nseen her at all. So as at half-past seven Henrietta was going out to\ndinner, Lizzie and I and Flush took our places by her in the carriage,\nand went to Hyde Park ... drove close by the Serpentine, and saw by\nthe ruffling of the water that there was a breath of wind more than we\nfelt. The shadows were gathering in quite fast, shade upon shade; and\nat last the silvery water seemed to hold all the light left, as on the\nflat of a hand. Very much I liked and enjoyed it. And, as we came home,\nthe gas was in the shops ... another strange sight for me—and we all\nliked everything. Flush had his head out of the window the whole way ...\nexcept when he saw a long whip, ... or had a frightful vision at the\nwater of somebody washing a little dog ... which made him draw back into\nthe carriage with dilated eyes and quivering ears, and set about licking\nmy hands, for an ‘Ora pro nobis.’ And Lizzie confided to me, that, when\nshe is ‘grown up,’ she never will go out to dinners like Henrietta, but\ndrive in the park like Ba, instead ... unless she can improve upon both,\nand live in a cottage covered with roses, in the country. I, in the\nmeantime, between my companions, thought of neither of them more than was\nnecessary, but of somebody whom I had been teazing perhaps ... dearest,\nwas it so, indeed? ... but I avenge you by teazing myself back again!\nA long rambling letter, with nothing in it! ‘Passages, that lead to\nnothing’—and staircases, too! May I be loved nevertheless, as usual? and\nforgiven for my ‘secret faults?’ You are the whole world to me—and the\nstars besides!\n\n                          And I am your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 17, 1846.]\n\nMy own Ba, I release you from just as much as you would easily dispense\nme from observing in that mutual promise. Indeed, it has become one\nunnecessary for our present relation and knowledge: it was right at the\nbeginning for either to say to the other, using calm words, ‘It is your\ngood I seek, not mine,’ and as if it were demonstrated that I should\nsecure yours at the expense of mine by leaving you I would endeavour to\ndo it—so, you assure me, you would act by me. The one point to ascertain\ntherefore, is—what will amount to a demonstration; and I for my part\napprize you that no other person in the world can by any possibility know\nso much of me as to be entitled to pronounce in the matter—to say ‘it is\nfor good or for evil’—therefore, you will no more be justified in giving\nup to _that_ kind of demonstration what I consent you shall give up to\none clearly furnished by _myself_ the only authentic one—than you would\nbe justified in paying my money, entrusted to you, on the presentation\nof a cheque signed by somebody else ... somebody who loves me better\nthan himself, my best of friends, truest of advisers &c. &c. It skills\nnot, boots not—‘John Smith’ is not R.B., nor B.A. and because R.B. or\nB.A. shall be instantly attended to,—the counterfeit must be refused.’\nJust this, so rational and right, I understood you to bid me promise—and\nso much you have promised me, a proper precaution for the earlier time\nwhen the friend might seem to argue with some plausibility ‘really I\nunderstand my friend’s interests better than you can.’ But now, who dares\nassure me that? I disbelieve it—one only knows better, can ever know\nbetter—yourself; and I will obey yourself. So with me—I know better my\nown good than you do yet, I think. When I tell you that good requires\nsuch a step as you speak of, you shall acquiesce; I will tell you on\nthe instant, as you, in your own case, should tell me on the instant. I\nneeded not ask you to promise, as I foolishly did, that you would not\nact in the saddest of ways—professing to see what could never be, and\nbelieve what must be untrue. At the beginning, at the first day, suppose\nMr. Kenyon had said—you prevent his getting such a place, which brings\nin so much honour and wealth—or marrying such a person who would effect\nthe same—you might have assented then, in your comparative ignorance,\njust as you could not have objected had he said, ‘If you hold Mr. B. to\nhis engagement to come here on the Derby Day you will ruin him assuredly,\nfor his heart and soul are on “the turf” and his betting-book will go to\nwreck.’ To this you could never bring yourself to pretend an assent—it\nwould be no argument if he went on saying—‘Why, A and B and C go to\nraces and bet on them’—_you know_ I _do not_—so you know my estimate of\nhonour and wealth and the rest, apart ... I will not say from the love\nof you,—but from my own life as I had traced it years ago, and as it is\nstill traced for me to its end,—your love coming to help it in every\nsmallest particular, to supply the undreamed-of omissions in the plan of\nit, and remove the obstructions best seen now that they are removed or\nremovable. There is a calmest ‘of calm’ statements of the good of you to\nme.\n\nMy dearest Ba, you say ‘let us both think’—think of this, you! Do not\nfor God’s sake introduce an element of uncertainty and restlessness and\ndissatisfaction into the feeling whereon _my_ life lies. To speak for\nmyself, this matter is concluded, done with,—I am yours, you are mine,\nand not to give use to refinements upon refinements as to what is the\nbeing most of all each other’s, which might end in your loving me best\nwhile I was turned a Turk in the East, or my—you know the inquisition\ndoes all for the pure love of the victim’s soul. Let us have common\nsense—and think, in its most ordinary exercise, what would my life\nbe worth now without you—as I,—putting on your own crown, accepting\nyour own dearest assurance,—dare believe your life would be incomplete\nnow without mine—_so_ you have allowed me to believe. Then our course\nis plain. If you dare make the effort, we will do as we propose,—if\nnot, not: I have nothing to do but take your hand ... there is not one\ndifficulty in my path,—nor in yours on my account,—that is for me. If\nI change my views, and desire hereafter what I altogether turn from\nnow,—in what conceivable respect will your being my wife hinder me? If\nI accept the Embassy which Young England in the person of Milnes has\npromised me—you shall offer no impediment. If I rather aspire to ‘dine\nout’ here in London, you shall stay at home and be good-natured. I shall\nattain to all these delights just as easily with you as without you,\nI suppose; ‘No, I cannot marry some other woman and by her means and\nconnections and connexions’—No—because—first and least of all, I begin by\ndrawing on myself the entire cataract of shame and disgrace in the mouth\nof the world,—direct accusation or rather condemnation, against which\nnot a word can be urged in mitigation, because all would be the pure\nsimple truth—_I_ do this, who have been fretfully wincing under the mere\napprehension of catching a mere spatter or two of gossiping scandal—which\na very few words would get rid of, seeing that, in fact, the falseness of\nthe imputation will be apparent to everybody with eyes to see—for after\nall, here I am, living to my own pleasure and my father and mother’s, and\nat liberty to do so for ever, as mortals say. Well, and _so_ having gone\nunder the whole real cataract instead of the sprinkling impertinence of\nthe half a dozen sprinklings from the mop at the nursery-window which an\nupward look and cry will stop at once,—_so_ having mended the matter, I\ncommit a sin which I turn and ask you, should you be ever at peace with\nGod and yourself if you sate still and suffered me to commit,—not on\naccount of me and my harm to follow in both worlds,—but in mere justice\nto your ‘neighbour,’—on whom you would see inflicted this infamous wrong?\n\nDear, dear, dear Ba, I kiss you, kiss my heart out unto you,—best love,\none love! _I_ see above what I will not think over again, look over\nagain—but what then? Can I be quiet when I hear the least, least motion\nabout my treasure, and my heart that is there, with it? Then _no more_, I\nbeseech you, love, never one word more of all that! Whenever I can hear\nsuch words calmly, I shall be fit for agreeing to them,—let all be now.\nThese two kindest of letters both come in together to my blessing—my\nentire blessing! I was writing the last line when they came—I will just\nsay now, that the Greenwich affair is put off till Friday. Do not I\nunderstand Miss Bayley! And do I understand you, my Ba, when I venture\nthis time——because of the _words_ and the pain I shall not hide that they\n_did_ give me,—to feel that, even beyond my kissing you, you kiss this\none time your own R.B.\n\nMy mother is much better, and out—she is walking with my sister. I am\nvery well—in the joy perhaps ... but really much better—and have been so.\n\n_My two hundredth letter from her!_ I, _poor_?",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 18, 1846.]\n\nDearest and ever dearest, try to forgive me when I fall so manifestly\nshort of you in all things! It is the very sense of this which throws\nme on despairs sometimes of being other than a bane to your life—and\nthen ... by way of a remedy ... I begin to be a torment to it directly.\n_Forgive me._ Whatever I may say I am as wholly yours as if you held me\nin your hand, and I would do for you any extravagance, as if it were a\ncommon thing, at a word—and what is before us is _only_ a common thing,\nsince I have looked to it from the beginning. Oh—I may talk when I am\nout of spirits—but you know, and _I_ know best of all, that I could not\nwithdraw myself from you, unless you said ‘Go’—could not—I have no\npower. Fine talking, it is of me, to talk of withdrawing myself from you!\nYou know I could not at all do it, let ever so many special pleaders come\nto prove to me that you would be more prosperous and happy without me.\n‘Then’ I would say ... ‘let him put me away. I can’t put myself away,\nbecause I am not mine but his.’ Assuredly I would say just that, and no\nmore. So do you forget that I have teazed you and pained you ... _pained_\nyou!... I will try not to pain you, my own, own dearest, any more. I have\ngrown to love you instead of the whole world; and only one thing ...\n(you understand what _that_ is ...) is dreadful and intolerable to me to\nimagine. But now it is done with; and you shall teach me hereafter to\nmake you happy instead of the contrary. So ... yes—you are kissed this\ntime! upon both eyes, ... that they may not see my faults. And afterwards\nI will tell you a paradox ... that if I loved you a hundred times less,\nI should run into such offences less in exact proportion. And finally\nI will give you a promise ... not to teaze you for a week—which were a\nwonderful feat for _me_! the teazer _par excellence_.\n\nTo-day I deserved to hear of your head being worse—but it is better, I\nthank God—and your mother is better—all such comforting news! But it was\nno news that you did not go to Greenwich to-day,—for Mrs. Jameson came\nfor me to drive at about six, and she and I were in Regent’s Park until\nnearly eight. Then she went somewhere to dinner, and I, who had had tea,\ncame home to supper! I like her very much—more and more, certainly—and\nwe need not be mysterious up to the usual mark of mystery, because I\ntold her ... told her ... what might be told—and she was gracious to\nthe uttermost—not angry at all,—and said that ‘Truth was truth, and\none could breathe in the atmosphere of it, and she was glad I had told\nher.’ Of you, she said, that she admired you more than ever—yes, more\nthan ever—for the ‘manner in which as a man of honour you had kept the\nsecret’—so you were praised, and I, not blamed ... and we shall not\ncomplain, if our end is as good as our beginning. Also we talked of your\npoetry and of you personally, and I was _pleased_, ... which proves a\nlittle what was said—and I heard how you were invited as a ‘celebrity’\nfor the Countess Hahn-Hahn to see you, and how you effaced yourself\nwith ever so much gracefulness; yet not too much, to omit charming the\nwhole room. Mrs. Jameson praises you always, as nobody does better. And\nto-morrow ... will you be surprised to hear that to-morrow at half-past\nfour, I am to go again with her, ... to see Rogers’s pictures? Is it\nwrong? shall I get into a scrape? She promised laughingly that I should\nbe _incognita_ to the only companion she thought of taking ... a Mrs.\nBracebridge, I think ... and Mr. Rogers himself is not to be visible—and\nshe herself will mention it to nobody. It was hard to say ‘_no_’—yet\nperhaps ‘no’ would have been better. Do you think so? Mrs. Bracebridge is\nan artist and lives or lived on _Mount Hymettus_!—and she is not to hear\nmy name even.\n\nNow—good night, very dear!—most dear of all! I will not teaze you for\na fortnight, I think. Ah—if ever I can do that again, you shall not be\n_pained_, ... you shall think that my heart and life are in you, and\nthat, if they seem to flatter, it is that they go deeper. All I _am_ is\nyours—which is different from ... all I _have_. ‘All I _have_,’ is when I\nmay lean my head down on the shoulder—\n\n                          So let me be your own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nOf those two letters, one was in the post before seven the evening\nbefore. Now, is it not too bad?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 18, 1846.]\n\nDid you really kiss me on the two eyes, my Ba? I cannot say ‘perhaps at\nthe very time I was thinking of you,’—more than ‘when I was breathing’—I\nbreathe always, think of you always,—kiss you almost always. You dear,\ndearest Ba! Do _pain_ me so again and again,—if you will _so_ cure me\nevery time! But you should not imagine that I can mistake the motive,—as\nif you loved me less and therefore wrote—oh, no—but there is no getting\nrid of these mistakings before the time: they bear their fruit and die\naway naturally ... the hoe never cuts up all their roots. I shall trust\nto hear you say one day I am past such mistaking—but—at Amalfi?\n\nI am very glad, _love_, you go to Mr. Rogers’ to-day—what harm _can_\nfollow? The evil in the other case was a very precise and especial one.\nThey say his pictures are well worth seeing. Tell me, make me see _you_\nseeing! I am glad, too, Mrs. Jameson knows ... but her graciousness I\nexpected, because the causes you were able to give her would really\noperate just in that manner: indeed they _are_ the sole causes of the\nsecresy we have observed. I cannot help liking Mrs. Jameson more, much\nmore since her acquaintance with you. Hazlitt says somewhere that the\nmisery of consorting with country-people is felt when you try for their\nsympathy as to favourite actors—‘Liston?’ says the provincial, ‘never\nheard of him’—but—whoever knows Miss Barrett ... ‘Ba,’ they are not going\nto be let know ... of such a person _I_ know something more than of any\nother.\n\nTalking of Hahn-Hahn, read this note of Mrs. Carlyle’s—although to my\nmortification I find that the wise man is not so peremptory on the virtue\nof one of Ba’s qualities as I, the ignorant man, must continue to be.\nNever mind,—perhaps ‘in the long run’ I may love you as if you were\nexactly to Mrs. Carlyle’s mind!\n\nI want to tell you a thing not to be forgotten about Florence as a\nresidence for any time. You spoke of the _bad water_ at Ravenna ... which\nif a serious inconvenience anywhere is a very plague in Italy; well, the\nmedical people, according to Valléry, attribute the black hollow cheeks\nand sunk eyes and general ill health of the Florentines to their vile\nwater; impregnated with lead, I think. There is only one good fountain in\nthe city—that opposite Santa Croce; I religiously abstained from drinking\nwater there—and felt the privation the more from having just left Rome,\nwhere the water is the most perfectly delicious and abundant and, they\nsay, wholesome—in the world. That one objection is decisive against\nRavenna—but then, why do the English all live at Florence?\n\nIt makes me happy to hear of your achievements and _not_ of any ill\nresult—_happy_! Is it quite so warm to-day? If it were to rain to-morrow\n(!), IF—our party would be postponed till the next day, Saturday, I\nbelieve ... there was a kind of understanding to that effect—now, in\nthat case, might I go to you to-morrow? In the case of real heavy rain\nonly——the letter to-morrow will tell me perhaps....\n\n               Goodbye, dearest dearest; I love you wholly—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 19, 1846.]\n\nBut I have not been to Mr. Rogers’s to-day, after all. I had a note from\nMrs. Jameson, to put off our excursion to Saturday ... if I consented\nto Saturday! but of course I would not consent to Saturday—and as she\nintimated that another day would do as well, we shall have another day\nfixed, I suppose. What a good fruit it would be of the confession I made\nin the park, if she were to ask _you_ to go!!! Oh, I should like _that_—I\nshould like it notwithstanding the drawbacks. It would be a fair gain\nupon the usual times of meeting—only that I could not care quite as much\nfor the pictures—yet, those too, I should like to see with you, rather\nthan apart from you. And _you_ never saw them ... _you_! Is there a hope\nof her asking you when you are at Greenwich together? Now I have got this\ninto my head, it will not go out again—oh, you must try and enchant her\nproperly at Greenwich and lead her into asking you. Yet, with you or\nwithout you in the body, the spirit of you and the influence of you are\nalways close to my spirit when it discerns any beauty or feels any joy;\nif I am happy on any day it is through you wholly, whether you are absent\nor present, dearest, and ever dearest!\n\nAnd so, instead of Mr. Rogers’s pictures, I have been seeing you in my\nthoughts, as I sate here all alone to-day. When everybody was at dinner I\nremembered that I had not been out—it was nearly eight ... there was no\ncompanion for me unless I called one from the dinner-table; and Wilson,\nwhom I thought of, had taken holiday. Therefore I put on my bonnet, as\na knight of old took his sword,—aspiring to the pure heroic,—and called\nFlush, and walked down-stairs and into the street, all alone—_that_ was\nsomething great! And, with just Flush, I walked there, up and down in\nglorious independence. Belgium might have felt so in casting off the\nyoke. As to Flush, he frightened me a little and spoilt my vain-glory—for\nFlush has a very good, stout vain-glory of his own, and, although\nperfectly fond of me, has no idea whatever of being ruled over by me!—(he\nlooks beautiful scorn out of his golden eyes, when I order him to do\nthis or this) ... and _Flush_ chose to walk on the opposite side of the\nstreet,—he _would_,—he insisted on it! and every moment I expected him to\ndisappear into some bag of the dogstealers, as an end to _his_ glory, _à\nlui_. Happily, however, I have no moral with which to point my tale—it’s\na very immoral story, and shows neither Flush nor myself punished for our\nsins. Often, I am not punished for my sins, ... am I? _You_ know _that_\n... dearest, dearest! But then, even _you_ are not punished for your sins\n... when you flatter so! Ah, it is happy for you, and for your reputation\nin good taste and sense, that you cannot very well say such things except\nto me, who cannot believe them. For the rest, the eyes were certainly\nblinded, ... being kissed too hard.\n\nHow I like Mrs. Carlyle’s note! You will go of course. But it will _not_\nrain to-morrow, and you shall _not_ have the advantage of coming through\nit to me, ... for this reason (among others far better), that I have\nengaged to see, at three or four perhaps, a friend of ours from the\ncountry. She is in London for only two days and wrote to beg me to see\nher, and to-day I escaped by half a rudeness, and, if I do to-morrow, it\nwill be by a whole rudeness. So, not to-morrow! And, if Saturday should\nbe taken from us, we must find three days somehow next week—it will be\neasily done.\n\nAs to Florence, the flood of English is the worst water of all in the\nargument. And then Dr. Chambers ‘warned me off’ Florence, as being too\ncold for the winter. It would be as well not to begin by being ill; and\nhalf I am afraid of Ravenna—though Ravenna may _not_ be cold, and though\nShelley may belie it altogether. ‘A miserable place’ he calls it in the\n‘Letters.’ Still I observe that his first impressions are apt to be\ndarker than remain. For instance, he began by hating Pisa, and preferred\nit to most places, afterwards. There is Pisa by the way! Or your Sorrento\n... Salerno ... Amalfi ... you shall consider if you please—find a new\nplace if you like.\n\nIt is my last letter perhaps till I see you. May God bless you, I lift\nup my heart to say. How happy I ought to be, ... and am, ... with your\nthoughts all round me, _so_, as you describe! Let them call me your very\nown\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 19, 1846.]\n\nI shall hardly be able, I am afraid, to get your letter ... if one should\ncome through your dear goodness, my own Ba ... before I go out ... having\nto meet the Procters’ party in Town: so I will just write my joy at its\nbeing little more now than twenty-four hours before I shall see you, I\ntrust. The day is cool and nearer rain than I fancied probable—but, oh\nthe task-work, Egyptian bondage, that _much_ going-out would be to me,\nwho am tired (_unreasonably_) beforehand on this first and most likely\nlast occasion during the year. It is a pity that I am so ignorant about\nHahn-Hahn’s books—one, ‘Faustina,’ I got last night, but have neither\nheart nor time to ‘get it up’ in a couple of hours.\n\nSomething you said on Mrs. Jameson’s authority amused me—the encomium on\nmy grace in sitting still to see the play and not jumping on the stage to\nact too—as if it were not the best privilege one finds in being ‘known’\nnever so little, that it dispenses one from having to make oneself\nknown. When you are shipwrecked among Caribbee Indians you are forced\nto begin professing ‘I can make baskets, and tell fortunes, and foresee\neclipses—so don’t eat me!’ And even there if they threatened nothing of\nthe kind, I should be content to live and die as unhonoured as one of\ntheir own cabbage-trees.\n\nI must go now—the day gets hotter, but then our day draws nearer—All my\nheart is yours, best of dearest loves, my own Ba, as I am your own—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 22, 1846.]\n\nWhat I told you yesterday is very often in my thoughts, my own Ba—that\nwith respect to the love for you ‘I see what I know and testify what I\nhave seen.’ I know what _is_, and _why_ it is—so far as my faculties of\nperception allow, of course—I rest on you just as I sate on the grass in\nthe garden this morning with the very earth’s immensity beneath: that is\nvery different from trusting to this chair which is firm enough now, but\nmight break down from a thousand causes. How entirely I believe in you,\nBa! When you praise me, I believe that you are in error, yet believe it\nnone——I know I am not so truthful to you—not so invariably, in the least\nas in the greatest matters—in the _greatest_, in the ordinary even, I\nspeak pure truth,—but the old conventional habits cling, as I find out on\nreflection sometimes—but I aspire no less to become altogether open to\nyour sight as you are to me,—I in my degree,—like a smallest of lake’s\nface under the sky’s: and for this also I shall have to bless you, my\nonly Ba,—my only Ba!\n\nI ought never ... I think I will not again ... attempt to write down why\nI love you.... (not, NOT that it is done here, but alluded-to, touched\nupon ...) The elements of the love ... (I say ‘the’ love, _mine_, because\nI _will_ not know, nor hear, nor be taught anything by anybody else about\n‘love,’ the one love everybody knows, it seems, and lives and dies by)—my\nlove’s elements are so many that the attempt to describe them is to bring\nabout this failure ... the first that comes is taken up and treated of\nat length ... as that element of ‘_trust_’ just now ... and then, in the\nfeeling of incompetence which makes the pen sink away and turns the mind\noff, the others are let pass by unnamed, much less described, or at least\nacknowledged for the undeniable elements they are. What were all the\n_trust_ without—and thus I could begin again! Let me say no more now—and\nforgive all the foolishness ... it is not for my wisdom you are to love\nme, Ba! Except that if you agreed too heartily with me on that point, I\nshould very likely be found turning round on you with ‘not wise, when I\nadore you _so_?’ Wise or unwise, I _do_ adore you, my Ba! And more and\nevermore! But see how I need your letters to _train_ mine, to lead them\ninto something more like the true way ... and to-morrow the letter will\ncome—will it not? And mine shall be less about myself and more about\nyou—whom may God bless, prays your own\n\n                                                                        R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 22, 1846.]\n\nI write to you in the drawing-room, and have brought down with me, I\nfind, no smaller paper—but it can’t be filled, can it? though I have to\ntell you the great news about the lilies ... that all, except _two_, are\nin full blow ... and that the two are unfolding ... I can almost see the\nleaves move. I told you how it would be. They will live, ... and last\nlonger than the roses, ... which I shall have to tell you by history as\nwell as prediction, presently. The next news is not so good,—for I have\nhad a note from Mrs. Jameson to the effect that she will come to take me\nto the pictures to-morrow, Monday—so that there will be no time to be\ndiplomatic. My hope was of your meeting her at Mr. Carlyle’s, before she\ncould arrange anything finally,—and really I do feel as disappointed as\nif I had had a reason for the hope. Now, unless we have another miracle,\nthere’s an end, I suppose.\n\nThink of my having left Flush behind me fast asleep. He dashes at the\ndoor in the most peremptory way, and nearly throws me backward when I\nopen it, with his leaping-up-joy ... if it is not rather his reproach.\n\nNow I am here all alone, except Flush—sitting, leaning against the open\nwindow with my feet curled up, and, at them, Flush curled up too; and I\nwriting on my knee _more meo_. Rather cooler it seems, but rather too hot\nstill it is, I think. How did you get home? how are you, dearest? And\nyour mother? tell me of her, and of you! You always, you know (_do_ you\nknow?), leave your presence with me in the flowers; and, as the lilies\nunfold, of course I see more and more of you in each apocalypse. Still,\nthe Saturday’s visit is the worst of all to come to an end, as always I\nfeel. In the first place stands Sunday, like a wall without a door in\nit! no letter! Monday is a good day and makes up a little, but it does\nnot prevent Tuesday and Wednesday following ... more intervening days\nthan between the other meetings—or so it seems. I forgot to tell you\nthat yesterday I went to Mr. Boyd’s house ... not to see him, but as a\npreliminary step to seeing him. Arabel went to his room to tell him of\nmy being there—we are both perhaps rather afraid of meeting after all\nthese years of separation. Quite blind he is—and though scarcely older\nthan Mr. Kenyon (perhaps a year or two or three), so nervous, that he has\nreally made himself infirm, and now he refuses to walk out or even to\ngo down-stairs. A very peculiar life he has led ever since he lost his\nsight, which he did when he was quite a young man—and a very peculiar\nperson he is in all possible ways. His great faculty is ... _memory_ ...\nand his great passion ... Greek—to which of late he has added _Ossian_.\nOtherwise, he talks like a man of slow mind, which he is, ... and with\na child’s way of looking at things, such as would make you smile—oh, he\ntalks in the most wonderfully childish way! Poor Mr. Boyd. He cares for\nme perhaps more than he cares for any one else ... far more than for\nhis own only daughter; but he is not a man of deep sensibility, and,\nif he heard of my death, would merely sleep a little sounder the next\nnight. Once he said to me that whenever he felt sorry about anything,\nhe was inclined to go to sleep. An affectionate and grateful regard ...\ngrateful for many kindnesses ... I bear him, for my part. He says that\nI should wear the crown in poetry, if I would but follow Pope—but that\nthe dreadful system of running lines one into another ruins everything.\nWhen I talk of _memory_, I mean merely the mechanical faculty. The\n_associative_, which makes the other a high power, he wants. So I went\nto his house in St. John’s Wood yesterday, and saw the little garden.\nPoor Mr. Boyd. There, he lives, all alone—and never leaving his chair!\nyet cheerful still, I hear, in all that desolation. As for you and\nTennyson, he never heard of you ... he never guesses at the way of modern\nliterature ... and it is the intense compliment to me when he reads\nverses of mine, ‘notwithstanding my corrupt taste,’ ... to quote his own\nwords.\n\nDearest, do you love me to-day? I think of you, which is quite the same\nthing. Think of _me_ to-morrow at half-past four when Mrs. Jameson comes,\nand I shall have all that exertion to go through without the hope of you.\nOnly that you are always _there_ ... _here_!—and I, your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 22, 1846.]\n\nIf I only thought for myself in this instance, I should at once go and\nmount guard before your house so as to see you, at least, for a moment as\nyou leave it.\n\nTo hope for a word would never do ... you might be startled, or simply\nnot like such a measure, and _in simili incontri_ I will not run risks,\nbut I should be able to _see_ you, my Ba ... why do I not go then? People\nat doors and windows are also able, alas, to see _me_ too—so I stay ...\nif this _is_ staying away when I can see the curled-up feet and kiss them\nbeside,—ever-dear feet!\n\nDo _you_ know the days and the times and the long interval,—you, as _I_\nknow? How strange that you should complain, and I become the happier! If\nI could alter it, and make you feel no subject for complaint any longer,\nI _would_,—surely I would, and be happy in that too, I hope ... yet the\nother happiness needs must be given up in that case ... I cannot reason\nit out. I excuse my present selfish happiness by feeling I would not\nexchange the sadness of being away from you for any imaginable delight\nin which you had no part. But I will have this delight, too, my Ba, of\nimagining that you are gratified by what you will see to-day. Tell me\nall, and what is said, and how you are at the end.\n\nThank you meanwhile for the picture of poor Mr. Boyd ... then he\nnever _has_ seen you, since he was blind so long ago! How strange and\nmelancholy—you say he is ‘cheerful,’ however. In that case—think of\nunhappy Countess Faustina with her ‘irresistible longings,’ and give\nher as much of your commiseration as she ought to get. What a horrible\nbook ... how have I brought in what I prescribed to myself ‘silence\nabout.’ Such characters as Faustina produce the very worst possible\neffect on me—I don’t know how they strike other people—but I am at\nonce incited ‘debellare superbos’—to try at least and pull down the\narrogant—_contempt_ would be the most Christian of all the feelings\npossible to be called forth by such a woman. Let me get back to you,\nmy own dearest-dearest,—I _do_ ‘love you to-day,’ if you must ask,—and\nbidding me think of you is all very well—never bid me not think of\nyou!—and so never find out that there could be a bidding I am unable to\nobey. But what is mere ‘_thinking_’? I kiss your hand, and your eyes, and\nnow your lips,—and ask for my heart back again, to give it and be ever\ngiving it. No words can tell how I am your own.\n\nMy mother is much better,—observably so, to-day. Oh, dearest,—I want you\nto read Landor’s Dialogue between Tasso and his Sister, in the second\nvolume,—with the exquisite Sorrentine scenery—do read it. I see your\nTasso with his prominent eyes as if they were ever just brightening out\nof a sorrow that has broken over them.\n\nHow I like (‘love’ is not my word now) but like Landor, more and more!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 23, 1846.]\n\nWell—I did look everywhere for you to-day,—but not more than I always\ndo—always I do, when I go out, look for you in the streets ... round\nthe corners! And Mrs. Jameson came _alone_ and she and I were alone\nat Mr. Rogers’s, and you must help me to thank her some day for her\nunspeakable kindness to me, though she did not leap to the height of the\ninspiration of managing to let us see those pictures together. Ah—if\nshe had, it would have been too much. As it is, she gave me a great\ndeal of pleasure in the kindest of ways ... and I let it _be_ pleasure,\nby mixing it with enough thoughts of you—(otherwise how could it be\npleasure?)—and she showed the pictures, and instructed me, really taking\npains and instructing me ... and telling me how Rubens painted landscapes\n... as how should my ignorance guess? ... and various other unknown\nthings The first word as we reached the door, frightened me—for she\nsaid that perhaps we might see Mr. Rogers ... which was a little beyond\nour covenant—but we did not see him, and I suppose the Antinous on the\nstaircase is not at all like him. Grand it is, in its serene beauty. On\na colossal scale, in white marble. For the pictures, they are full of\nwonder and divinity—each giving the measure of a man’s soul. And think\n... sketches from the hand of Michael Angelo and Raphael! And a statuette\nin clay, alive with the life of Michael Angelo’s finger—the blind eyes\nlooking ... seeing ... as if in scorn of all clay! And the union of\nenergy and meditation in the whole attitude! You have seen the marble of\nthat figure in Florence. Then, a divine Virgin and child, worn and faded\nto a shadow of Raphael’s genius, as Mrs. Jameson explained to me—and the\nfamous ‘Ecce Homo’ of Guido ... and Rubens’ magnificent ‘_version_,’\nas she called it, of Andrea Mantegna’s ‘Triumph of Julius Cæsar.’ So\ntriumphing to this day! And Titian, and Tintoretto ... and what did not\nstrike me the least, ... a portrait of Rembrandt by himself, which if\nhis landscapes, as they say, were ‘dug out of nature,’ looks as if it\nwere dug out of humanity. Such a rugged, dark, deep subterraneous face,\n... yet inspired—! seeming to realize that God took clay and breathed\ninto the nostrils of it. There are both the clay, and the divinity! And\nthink! I saw the agreement between the bookseller and Milton for the\nsale of Paradise Lost! with Milton’s signature and seal! and ‘_Witnessed\nby William Greene, Mr. Milton’s servant._’ How was it possible not to\nfeel giddy with such sights! Almost I could have run my head against the\nwall, I felt, with bewilderment—and Mrs. Jameson must have been edified,\nI have thought since, through my intense stupidity. I saw too the first\nedition of ‘Paradise Lost.’ The rooms are elegant, with no pretension to\nsplendour ... which is good taste, a _part_ of the good taste everywhere.\nOnly, on the chimney-piece of the dining-room, were two small busts,\nbeautiful busts, white with marble, ... and representing—now, whom,\nof gods and men, would you select for your Lares ... to help your\ndigestion and social merriment?... Caligula and Nero in _childhood_! The\n‘_childhood_’ is horribly suggestive to me! On the side-board is Pope’s\nbust, by Roubillac—a too expressive, miserable face—drawn with disease\nand bitter thoughts, and very painful, I felt, to look at. These things\nI liked least, in the selection and arrangement. Everything beside was\nadmirable: and I write and write of it all as if I were not tired—but I\nam ... and most with the excitement and newness. Mrs. Jameson breakfasted\nwith Mr. Rogers yesterday, she said, and met the Countess Hahn-Hahn, who\nwas talking of modern literature when her host suddenly stopped her with\na question ... ‘Did you ever read Addison?’\n\nHow late it is. Must I have done, before I have half done?\n\nWhat I did _not_ tell you yesterday is very much in my thoughts ... do\nyou know? _I_, too, ‘see what I know and testify what I have felt ...\nand, as far as my faculties of perception go!’ I am confident that you\nhad better not look for a single reason for loving me. Which is worst?\nA bad reason, or no reason at all? A bad reason, _I_ think—and accept\nthe alternative. Ah ... my own only beloved. And how you write to me\nto-night! I will read what you tell me in Landor ... but no words of\ninspired lips or pen ... no poet’s word, of the divinest, ... ever\nwent to my heart as yours in these letters! Do I not love you? am I\nnot your own? And while deserving nothing of all of it, I _feel_ it at\nleast—respond to it—my heart is in your hand. May God bless you ... ‘_and\nme in that_,’—because even He could not bless me without _that_. Which He\nknows.\n\n                                                                 Your own.\n\nBut there is much beauty in Faustina—oh, surely!\n\nThe lilies, all in blow except one ... which is blowing.\n\nAre we going to have a storm to-night? It lightens ... lightens!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning\n                                               [Post-mark, June 23, 1846.]\n\nI was just on the point of answering your dear letter, in all the good\nspirits it might be expected to wake in me, when the sad news of poor\nHaydon’s death stopped all; much I feel it, for the light words of my own\nabout his extravagance, as I had been told of it, but very much more on\nyour account, who were so lately in communication with him. I earnestly\nhope,—I will trust—you have not been rudely apprised of this—I am happy\nto remember that you do not see the newspaper in the morning,—others will\nsee it first; perhaps there may be no notice in the _Chronicle_ at all,\nor on the other hand, a more circumstantial one than this in the _Times_\nwhich barely says—‘that B.R.H. died suddenly at his residence—yesterday\nmorning. He was in his usual health on the previous evening, and it is\nbelieved that his decease was hastened by pecuniary embarrassment’—and\nhe is called ‘the unfortunate gentleman’—which with the rest implies\nthe very worst, I fear. If by any chance _this_ should be the first\nintimation you receive of it ... do not think me stupid nor brutal,—for\nI thought again and again as to the right course to take ... whether it\nwould not be best to be silent altogether and wait and see ... but in\nthat case I should have surprised you more by my cold letter,—such an\none as I could bring myself to write,—for how were it possible to speak\nof pictures and indifferent matters when you perhaps have been shocked,\nmade ill by this news? If I have done wrong, forgive me, my own best,\ndearest Ba—I would give the world to know how you are. The storm, too,\nand lightning may have made you even more than ordinarily unfit to be\nstartled and grieved. God knows and must help you! I am but your devoted—\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHow glad I am you told me you had never seen him. And perhaps he may be\nafter all a mere acquaintance ... anything I will fancy that is likely to\nrelieve you of pain! Dearest dearest!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 24, 1846.]\n\nEver tenderest, kindest and most beloved, I thank you from the quick\nof my heart, where the thought of you lives constantly! In this world\nfull of sadness, of which I have had my part ... full of sadness and\nbitterness and wrong ... full of most ghastly contrasts of life and\ndeath, strength and weakness side by side ... it is too much, to have\n_you_ to hold by, as the river rushes on ... too much good, too much\ngrace for such as I, ... as I feel always, and cannot cease to feel!\n\nOh yes—it has shocked me, this dreadful news of poor Mr. Haydon—it\nchilled the blood in my veins when I heard it from Alfred, who, seeing\nthe _Times_ at the Great Western Terminus, wrote out the bare extract and\nsent it to me by the post. He just thought that the _Chronicle_ did not\nmention it, ... and that I had not seen Mr. Haydon ... he did not perhaps\nthink how it would shock me.\n\nFor, _this_ _I_ cannot help thinking. Could anyone—_could my own hand\neven ... have averted what has happened_? My head and heart have ached\nto-day over the inactive hand! But, for the moment, it was out of my\npower, without an application where it would have been useless—and\nthen, I never fancied this case to be more than a piece of a continuous\ncase ... of a habit fixed. Two years ago he sent me boxes and pictures\nprecisely so, and took them back again—poor, poor Haydon!—as he will not\nthis time. And he said last week that Peel had sent him fifty pounds ...\nadding ... ‘I do not however want _charity_, but employment.’ Also, I\nhave been told again and again (oh, never by _you_ my beloved!) that to\ngive money _there_, was to drop it into a hole of the ground.\n\nBut if to have dropped it so, dust to dust, would have saved a living\nman—what then?\n\nYet of the three notes I had from him last week, the first was written\nso lightly, that the second came to desire me not to attribute to him a\n‘want of feeling.’ And who could think ... contemplate ... this calamity?\nMay God have mercy on the strongest of us, for we are weak. Oh, that a\nman so high hearted and highly endowed ... a bold man, who has thrown\ndown gauntlet after gauntlet in the face of the world—that such a man\nshould go mad for a few paltry pounds! For he was _mad_ if he killed\nhimself! of that I am as sure as if I knew it. If he killed himself, he\nwas mad first.\n\nSome day, when I have the heart to look for it, you shall see his last\nnote. I understand now that there are touches in it of a desperate\npathos—but never could he have meditated self-destruction while writing\nthat note. He said he should write six sets of lectures more ... six more\nvolumes. He said he was painting a new background to a picture, which\nmade him ‘feel as if his soul had wings.’ And then he hoped his brain\nwould not turn. And he ‘gloried’ in the naval dangers of his son at sea.\nAnd he repeated an old phrase of his, which I had heard from him often\nbefore, and which now rings hollowly to the ears of my memory ... that he\n_couldn’t and wouldn’t die_. Strange and dreadful!\n\nIt is nearly two years since we had a correspondence of some few\nmonths—from which at last I receded, notwithstanding the individuality\nand spirit of his letters, and my admiration for a certain fervour and\nmagnanimity of genius, no one could deny to him. His very faults partook\nof that nobleness. But for a year and a half or more perhaps, I scarcely\nhave written or heard from him—until last week when he wrote to ask for\na shelter for his boxes and pictures. If you had enquired of me the\nweek before, I might have answered that I did not _wish to renew the\nintercourse_—yet who could help being shocked and saddened? _Would_ it\nhave availed, to have dropped something into that ‘hole in the ground?’\nOh, to imagine _that_! Yet a little would have been but as nothing!—and\nhe did not ask even for a little—and I should have been ashamed to have\noffered but a little. Yet I cannot turn the thought away—_that I did not\noffer_.\n\nHenry went to the house as I begged him. His son came to the door, and to\na general enquiry ‘after the family,’ said that ‘Mr. Haydon was dead and\nthat his family were quite as well as could be expected.’ That horrible\nbanality is all I know more than you know.\n\nYesterday at Rogers’s, Mrs. Jameson led me to his picture of Napoleon at\nSt. Helena. At the moment we looked at it, his hand was scarcely cold,\nperhaps. Surely it was not made of the commonest clay of men—that hand!\n\nI pour out my thoughts to you, dearest dearest, as if it were right\nrather to think of doing myself that good and relief, than of _you_ who\nhave to read all. But you spoil me into an excess of liberty, by your\ntenderness. Best in the world! Oh—you help me to live—I am better and\nlighter since I have drawn near to you even on this paper—already I am\nbetter and lighter. And now I am going to dream of you ... to meet you\non some mystical landing place ... in order to be quite well to-morrow.\nOh—we are so selfish on this earth, that nothing grieves us very long,\nlet it be ever so grievous, unless we are touched in _ourselves_ ... in\nthe apple of our eye ... in the quick of our heart ... in _what_ you are,\nand _where_ you are ... my own dearest beloved! So you need not be afraid\nfor _me_! We all look to our own, as I to _you_; the thunderbolts may\nstrike the tops of the cedars, and, except in the first start, none of\nus be moved. True it is of _me_—not of _you_ perhaps—certainly you are\nbetter than I, in all things. Best in the world, you are!—no one is like\nyou. Can you read what I have written? Do not love me less! Do you think\nthat I cannot _feel_ you love me, through all this distance? If you loved\nme less, I should know, without a word or a sign. Because I live by your\nloving me! I am your\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 24, 1846.]\n\nBut, dearest love—I have just come in later than I expected, I am happy\nto say ... for your note only just arrives too, they say ... and I should\nhave been frightened more than I need say. All blessing on you, Ba. I\nhave seen no paper.—but Countess Hahn-Hahn said across Carlyle’s table\nthat poor H. had attempted to shoot himself and then chosen another\nmethod—too successful. Horrible indeed—All to say now is, I shall be with\nyou to-morrow,—my very own, dearest of all dear created things—my life\nand pride and joy—(Bless you).\n\n                                                                        R.\n\nThere is nothing in to-day’s _Times_ I find—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 26, 1846.]\n\nI drew the table to the fire before I wrote this. Here is cool weather,\ngrateful to those overcome by last week’s heat, I suppose!—much as\none conceives of a day’s starvation being grateful to people who were\noverfeasted some time back. But the coolness (that is, piercing cold as\nthe north wind can make) sets me to ponder on what you said yesterday,—of\nconsidering summer as beginning next Wednesday, or there about, and\nending by consequence with September. Our time is ‘at the Summer’s end’:\nand it does strike me that there may be but too many interpositions\nbeside that of ‘my own will’ ... far too many. If those equinoctial\nwinds disturb the sea, the cold weather adds to the difficulties of the\nland-journey ... then the will may interpose or stand aloof ... I cannot\ntake you and kill you ... really, inevitably kill you! As it is ... or\nrather, as it might be, I should feel during a transit under the most\nfavourable circumstances possible, somewhat as the performer of that\ntrick by which a full glass of water resting in the open hand is made\nto describe a circle from above to below and back without spilling a\ndrop—through some good-natured suspension, in the operator’s interest,\nof just a fundamental law of the universe, no more! Therefore if any\nSeptember weather shall happen in September ... let us understand and\nwait ... another year! and another, and another.\n\nNow, have I ever, with all those askings, asked you once too often, that\nis, unnecessarily—‘if this should be,’—or ‘when this should be?’ What is\nmy ‘will’ to do with it? Can I keep the winds away, alas? My own will has\nall along been annihilated before you,—with respect to you—I should never\nbe able to say ‘she shall dine on fish, or fruit,’ ‘She shall wear silk\ngloves or thread gloves’—even to exercise in fancy that much ‘will _over\nyou_’ is revolting—I _will this_, never to be ‘over you’ if I could!\n\nSo, you decide here as elsewhere—but _do_ decide, Ba, my own only Ba—do\n_think_, to decide. I _can_ know nothing here as to what is gained or\nlost by delay or anticipation—I only refer to the few obvious points\nof the advantage of our ‘flight not being in the winter’—and the\nconsideration that the difficulty in another quarter will never be less\nnor more,—therefore is out of the question.\n\nI will tell you something I meant to speak of yesterday. Mrs. Jameson\nsaid Mr. Kenyon had assured her, with the kindest intentions, that it\nwas quite vain to make those offers of company to Pisa or elsewhere, for\nyour Father would never give his consent, and the very rationality of the\nplan, and probability of the utmost benefit following the adoption of it,\nwould be the harder to forego the more they were entertained—whereupon,\n‘having the passions of his kind he spoke some certain things’—bitter\nand unavoidable. Then Mrs. J. spoke too, as you may imagine; apparently\nfrom better knowledge than even I possess. Now I repeat this to your\n_common-sense_, my Ba—it is not hard to see that _you_ must be silent\nand suffering, where no other can or will be either—so that if a verdict\nneeds must be pronounced on our conduct, it will be ‘the world’s’ and\nnot an individual’s—and for once a fair one. Mrs. Jameson’s very words\nwere ... (writing from what _has been_, observe—what is irrevocably past,\nand not what _may_ be)—‘I feel unhappy when in her presence ... impelled\nto do her some service, and impeded. _Can_ nothing be done to rescue\nher from this? _ought_ it to continue?’ So speaks—not your lover!—who,\nas he told you, _did_ long to answer ‘someone with attempt, at least!’\nBut it was best, for Mrs. Jameson would be blamed afterward, as Mr. K.\nmight be abused, as ourselves will be vituperated, as my family must be\ncalumniated ... by _whom_.\n\nDo you feel me kiss your feet while I write this? I think you must, Ba!\nThere is surely,—I trust, surely no impatience here, in this as in the\nother letter—if there is, I will endeavour to repress it ... but it will\nbe difficult—for I love you, and am not a stock nor a stone.\n\nAnd as we are now,—another year!\n\nWell, kissing the feet answers everything, declares everything—and I kiss\nyours, my own Ba.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 26, 1846.]\n\nArabel insists on my going out in the carriage, but I will not, I say,\nbefore I have written my letter—and while we talk, the rain comes down\nlike a guardian angel, and I _cannot_ go out before I have written my\nletter, as is apparent to all. Dearest, you did me such good yesterday\nwith seeing you and hearing you, that I slept better and am better\naltogether, and after a little change into the air, shall be well—and how\nis your head? Now do not forget to tell me particularly. Say too whether\nyou found your friend and had the right quantity of talk and got home\nwithout being the worse for him ... or _me_!\n\nI have not had the heart to look at the newspapers, but hear that Sir\nRobert Peel has provided liberally for the present necessities of the\npoor Haydons. And do you know, the more I think the more I am inclined\nto conclude that the money-distress was merely an additional irritation,\nand that the despair leading to the revolt against life, had its root\nin disappointed ambition. The world did not recognize his genius, and\nhe punished the world by withdrawing the light. If he had not that\nthought in him, I am wrong. The cartoon business, and his being refused\nemployment in the Houses of Parliament ... _that_ was bitter: and then\ncame his opposition with Tom Thumb and the dwarfs triumph ... he talked\nbitterly of _that_ in a letter to me of last week. He was a man, you\nsee, who carried his whole being and sensibility on the outside of him;\nnay, worse than _so_, since in the thoughts and opinions of the world.\nAll the audacity and bravery and self-exultation which drew on him\nso much ridicule were an agony in disguise—he could not live without\nreputation, and he wrestled for it, struggled for it, _kicked_ for it,\nforgetting grace of attitude in the pang. When all was vain, he went mad\nand died. Poor Haydon! He measures things differently now! and let _us_\nnow be right and just in our admeasurement of what he was—for, with all\nhis weaknesses, he was not certainly _far_ from being a great man.\n\nIt is hope and help, to be able to look away from all such thoughts, to\n_you_, dearest beloved, who do not partake of the faults and feeblenesses\nof these lower geniuses. There is hope and help for the world in you—and\nif for the world, why for me indeed much more. You do not know ... ah,\nyou do not know—how I look up to you and trust perfectly in you. You\nare above all these clouds—your element is otherwise—men are not your\ntaskmasters that you should turn to them for recompense. ‘Shall I always\nthink the same of you,’ you asked yesterday. But I _never_ think the same\nof you; because day by day you look greater and feel dearer. Only there\nis a deep gulph of another question, close beside _that_, which suggests\nitself, and makes me shudder to look down.\n\nAnd now, the rain is over, and I shall dine briefly, and go out in the\ncarriage.\n\nMay God bless you ... très bon!—très cher, pour cause.\n\nToute à toi—pour toujours.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 27, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest, I send you a bare line to-night, for it is late and I am\nvery tired; having ... while you were sitting by the fire ... been, for\nmy part, driving to Highgate ... now think of _that_! Also it has done\nme good, I think, and I shall sleep for it to-night perhaps, though I am\ntired certainly.\n\nYour letter shall be answered to-morrow—and here is a green answer\nto your leaves![3]—what leaves? whence and how? My green little\nbranch, I gathered myself out of the hedge, snatching at it from the\ncarriage-window. The roses were gone, or nearly gone, and the few left,\nquite out of reach; and the leaves keep behind to assure you that they\ndo not look for snow-storms in _September_. No! it was not _that_, they\nsaid. I am belying what they said.\n\nI gathered them in the hedge of the pretty close green lane which you go\nthrough to Hampstead. Were you ever there, I wonder?\n\nDearest, I will write to-morrow. Never are you ‘impatient,’\ninconsiderate—and as for selfishness, I have been uneasy sometimes,\nprecisely because you are so _little_ selfish. I am not likely to mistake\n... to wrench the wrong way ... any word of yours. As for mine, it was\nnot a _mere_ word, when I said that you should decide everything. Could I\nhold out for November, or October, or for September even, if _you_ choose\nagainst? Indeed I could not. We—you will think—I am yours, and if _you_\nnever repent _that_, _I_ shall not—I am too entirely yours.\n\nAnd so good-night—dearest beloved! Because you have a fire in June, is\nthe snow to fall in September, and earth and ocean to become impassable?\nAh well! we shall see! But you shall not see that I deceive you—\n\n                            I am your very own\n\n                                                                     _Ba_.\n\nDear brown leaves! where did they come from, besides from _you_?\n\n_Not_ a north wind. Only a north-west wind, as I could have proved to you\nif you had been with me! Yet it is a detestable climate, this English\nclimate, let us all confess. Say how your head is.\n\n[3] [A sprig from rose-tree enclosed. R.B.’s previous letter contained\nsome leaves.]",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 27, 1846.]\n\nYour dear gentle laugh, as I seem to hear it, makes all well again for\nthe moment undoubtedly. I cannot help trusting you implicitly ... so\nwhenever I seem able to reason a little, and set you reasoning for me,\nought I not to try,—and then give up, and sink my head over you ...\ndearest! In fact, I was a little frightened by what I heard and saw ...\nfor _you_, if you please, began by saying ‘it was too cold to go out’—and\nyou were paler, I thought. The news of Highgate and the green leaves are\nre-assuring indeed—but my brown leaves might be sent to you by myriads\nfor all that, for all the light laugh,—all roses fast going, lilies going\n... autumnal hollyhocks in full blow ... and now to count three months\nover before summer is to end! These rains may do something, or hinder\nsomewhat—and certainly our fire was left alone early yesterday morning.\nWell, I have not been presumptuous except ... ah, the exception!\n\nHow could I presume, for one thing, to hope for last evening’s letter\n... a pure piece of kindness in you, Ba! And all your kindness is pure,\nentire, pearl-like for roundness and completeness ... there is no one\nrough side as when a crystal is broken off and given: do you think it\nno good augury of our after life in what must be called, I suppose,\nanother relation,—that _this_ has been so perfect ... to me ... this last\nyear, let me only say? In this relation there are as many ‘écueils’ as\nin the other,—as many, though of a different nature,—lovers quarrel on\nas various grounds as the wedded—and though with the hue and softness\nof love the most energetic words and deeds may change their character;\nyet one might write savage sentences in Chinese celestial-blue ink,\nwhich after a powdering with gold-dust should look prettier than the\ntruest blessing in ordinary black. But you have been PERFECT to me\nhitherto—perfect! And of course only to _you_ is the praise ... for I\nhave to be entirely confided in by you, seeing that you cannot keep an\neye on me after I leave your room ... whereas,—not I, but a gross, stupid\nfool who conceived of no liberty but that of the body, nor that the soul\nmay be far more unfaithful—such an one might exult in the notion of the\nclosed door and the excluded world of rivals.\n\nBless you, darling—Monday is not very far off now! And I am to hear\nagain. I am much better,—my mother much better too. I saw my French\nfriend and talked and heard him talk. Yesterday, the whole day, (after\nthe fire went out) was given to a cousin of mine, a girl, just married,\nand here from Paris with her husband—these two had to be amused somehow.\nEver your very own—\n\n                                                                        R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 27, 1846.]\n\nI said I would answer your letter to-day, my beloved, but how shall I\nsay more than I have said and you know? _Do_ you not know, you who will\nnot will ‘over’ me, that I _cannot_ will against you, and that if you\nset yourself seriously to take September for October, and August for\nSeptember, it is all at an end with me and the calendar? Still, seriously\n... there is time for deciding, is there not? ... even if I grant to\nyou, which I do at once, that the road does not grow smoother for us by\nprolonged delays. The single advantage perhaps of delay is, that in the\nsummer I get stronger every week and fitter to travel—and then, it never\nwas thought of before (that I have heard) to precede September _so_. Last\nyear, was I not ordered to leave England in October, and _permitted_ to\nleave it in November? Yet I agree, November and perhaps October might\nbe late—might be running a risk through lingering ... in our case; and\nyou will believe me when I say I should be loth to run the risk of\nbeing forced to the further delay of a year—the position being scarcely\ntenable. Now for September, it generally passes for a hot month—it\nripens the peaches—it is the figtime in Italy. Well—nobody decides for\nSeptember nevertheless. The end of August is nearer—and at any rate we\ncan consider, and observe the signs of the heavens and earth in the\nmeanwhile—there is so much to think of first; and the end, remember, is\nonly too frightfully easy. Also you shall not have it on your conscience\nto have killed me, let ever so much snow fall in September. If the sea\nshould be frozen over, almost we might go by the land—might we not? and\napart from fabulous ports, there are the rivers—the Seine, the Saône, the\nRhone—which might be cheaper than the sea and the steamers; and _would_,\nI almost should fancy. These are things among the multitude, to think\nof, and you shall think of them, dearest, in your wisdom. Oh—there is\ntime—full time.\n\nNo—there is not, in a sense. I wanted to write so much more, so much—and\nI went out to walk first, and, on returning, met Mr. Kenyon, who came\nup-stairs with me.\n\nNow it is too late to add a word.\n\nMay God bless you. I shall see you on Monday. I am better for Highgate—I\nwalked longer to-day than usual. How strong you make me, you who make me\nhappy!\n\n                                                            I am your own.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 29, 1846.]\n\nMy last letter will have answered this of yours, my dearest,—I agree\nin all you say; and sooner or later comes to the same thing, if to any\npossible increase of difficulty is brought a proportionate increase of\nstrength to undergo it—as let us hope will be the case! So you see you\nhave to ‘understand’ and understand me,—I keep your faculty in constant\nexercise, now with seeming to wish for postponement, and now, for\nanticipation! And all the time do I really ‘grow greater’ in your eyes? I\nmight grow less woefully,—‘for reasons—for reasons’—\n\nThe sea will not be frozen, beside ... which makes me think to tell you\nthat Carlyle is wanting to visit only one foreign country—_Iceland_.\nThe true cradle of the Northmen and their virtues ... all that is worth\na Northman’s caring to see is there, he thinks, and nowise in Italy.\nPerhaps! Indeed, so I _reason_ and say—Did I not once turn on myself and\nspeak against the Southern spirit, and even Dante, just because of that\nconviction?—(or _imperfect_ conviction, whence the uneasy exaggeration).\nCarlyle thinks modern Italy’s abasement a direct judgment from God. ‘Here\nis a nation in whose breast arise men who _could_ doubt, examine the\nnew problems of the reformation &c.—trim the balance at intervals, and\nthrow overboard the accumulation of falsehood—all other nations around,\nless favoured, are doing it laboriously for themselves ... now is the\ntime for the acumen of the Bembos, the Bentivoglios and so forth ...\nand these and their like, one and all, turn round, decline the trouble,\nsay ‘these things _may_ be true, or they may not, meantime let us go on\nverse-making, painting, music-scoring’—to which all the nation accedes\nas if relieved of a trouble—upon which God bids the Germans go in and\npossess them; pluck their fruits and feel their sun after their own hard\nwork.’ Carlyle said the _sense_ of this, between two huge pipe-whiffs,\nthe other afternoon.\n\n‘Pluck their fruits’—some four years ago I planted ... or held straight\nwhile my mother planted, a fig-tree,—for love of Italy! This year it\nbears its first fruit ... a single one! what does that bode?\n\nSince I wrote the last paragraph, the wind took my thoughts away, as it\nalways does, and I saw you again as I used to see, _before_ I knew you,\nso very substanceless, faint, unreal—when I was struck by the reality\nagain,—by this paper,—by to-morrow’s visit I shall pay ... it was as if\nsomeone had said ‘but that star is your own.’\n\nI fancied you just what I find you—I knew you from the beginning.\n\nLet me kiss you dearest dearest—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 30, 1846.]\n\nThe gods and men call you by your name, but I never do—never dare. In\ncase of invocation, tell me how you should be called by such as I? not to\nbe always the ‘inexpressive _He_’ which I make of you. In case of courage\nfor invocation!—\n\nDearest ... (which is a name too) read on the paper inside what I have\nbeen studying about Salerno since we parted yesterday. Forsyth is too\nsevere in his deductions, perhaps, from the apothecaries, but your Naples\nbook will not help me to contradict him, saying neither the one thing nor\nthe other. The word we could not read in the letter yesterday, was _La\nCava_—and La Cava is a town on the way between Naples and Salerno, which\nMrs. Stark describes as ‘a large town with porticoes on each side of the\nHigh Street, like those at Bologna.’ To which the letter adds, remember\n‘enchantingly beautiful, very good air and no English. Then there is\nVietri, mentioned by Forsyth, between La Cava and Salerno, and _on the\nbay_. It is as well to think of all three. Were you ever at either?\nAmalfi itself appears to be very habitable. Oh—and your Naples book says\nof Salerno, that it is illuminated by fireflies, and that the chanting\nof frogs covers the noises of the city. You will like the frogs, if you\ndon’t the apothecaries, and I shall like the fireflies if I don’t the\nfrogs—but I _do_ like frogs, you know, and it was quite a mistake of\nyours when you once thought otherwise.\n\nNow I am going out in the carriage, to call on Mr. Kenyon, and perhaps to\nsee Mr. Boyd. Your flowers are more beautiful than they were yesterday,\nif possible: and the fresh coolness helps them to live, so, that I hope\nyou may see some of them on Saturday when you come. On Saturday! What a\ntime to wait! if not for _them_, yet for _me_. Of the two, it is easier\nfor them, certainly. _They_ only miss a little dew and air.\n\nI shall write again to-night,—but I cannot be more then than now, nor\nless _ever_ than now\n\n                                 Your own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nHere is a coincidence. Hardly had you left me, when, passing near the\ntable at the end of the room, I saw a parcel there. Remember your\nquestion about the ‘_Year of the World_’ Precisely that! With a note, the\ncounterpart of yours—desiring an opinion!\n\nMay God bless you, dear, _dear_!—Did I ever think I should live to thank\nGod that I did not die five years ago?—Not that I quite, quite dare to do\nit yet. I must be sure first of something.\n\nWhich is not your _love_, my beloved—it is a something still dearer and\nof more consequence.\n\n                                SALERNO.\n\n    ‘Though placed between the beauties of sea and land, of\n    cultivated and rude nature, the city is _so unhealthy_ that its\n    richer inhabitants remove to Vietri during the hot months. In\n    proof of its bad air, I remark here a number of apothecaries!’\n\n                                                            FORSYTH.\n\n    ‘Its white houses curving round the haven at the water’s brink,\n    the mountains crowding close behind the city, the ruins of\n    its Gothic castle on the olive-covered hill above, together\n    mirrored on the waveless water, itself alternate shine and\n    shadow—’tis a noble sight.\n\n    ‘The view from Salerno is one of the loveliest pictures in\n    Italy. A clear-complexioned, open-eyed, and bright-faced city\n    is modern Salerno,—and its streets and piazza were all astir.’\n\n                                              _Letters from Naples._\n\n    ‘This town, the approach to which is enchanting, boasts a\n    tolerably good _inn_!!’\n\n                                                        MRS. STARKE.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                               [Post-mark, June 30, 1846.]\n\nI have looked in the map for ‘L——,’ the place praised in the letter, and\nconclude it must be either Ceva, (La Ceva, between Nocera and Salerno,\nabout four miles from the latter, and on the mountain-side, I suppose ...\nsee a map, my Ba!)—or else _Lucera_, (which looks very like the word ...\nand which lies at about sixty miles to the N.E. of Naples, in a straight\nline over the mountains and roadless country, but perhaps twice as far\nby the mainway through _Avellino_, _Ariano_, _Bovino_, and Savia—exactly\n120 Italian miles now that I count the posts). So that there would be\nsomewhat of a formidable journey to undertake after the sea voyage. I\ndaresay at Ceva there is abundance of quietness, as the few who visit\nSalerno do not go four miles inland,—can you enquire into this?\n\nHow inexpressibly charming it is to me to have a pretext for writing thus\n... about such approaches to the real event—these business-like words,\nand names of places! If at the end you should bring yourself to say ‘But\nyou never seriously believed this would take place’—what should I answer,\nI wonder?\n\nLet me think on what is real, indisputable, however ... the improvement\nin the health as I read it on the dear, dear cheeks yesterday. This\nmorning is favourable again ... you will go out, will you not?\n\nMr. Kenyon sends me one of his kindest letters to ask me to dine with him\nnext week—on Wednesday. I feel _his_ kindness, just as you feel in the\nother case, and in its lesser degree, I feel it,—and then I know,—dare\nthink I know whether he will be so sorry in the end,—loving you as he\ndoes. I will send his letter that you may understand here as elsewhere.\n\nI think my head is dizzy with reading the debates this morning—Peel’s\nspeech and farewell. How exquisitely absurd, it just strikes me, would\nbe any measure after Miss Martineau’s own heart, which should introduce\nwomen to Parliament as we understand its functions at present—how\nessentially retrograde a measure! Parliament seems no place for\noriginating, creative minds—but for second-rate minds influenced by\nand bent on working out the results of these—and the most efficient\nqualities for such a purpose are confessedly found oftener with men than\nwith women—physical power having a great deal to do with it beside. So\nwhy shuffle the heaps together which, however arbitrarily divided at\nfirst, happen luckily to lie pretty much as one would desire,—here the\ngreat flint stones, here the pebbles—and diamonds too. The men of genius\nknew all this, said more than all this, in their way and proper place\non the outside, where Miss M. is still saying something of the kind—to\nbe taken up in its time by some other Mr. Cobden and talked about,\nand beleaguered. But such people cannot or will not see where their\noffice begins and advantageously ends; and that there is such a thing\nas influencing the influencers, playing the Bentham to the Cobden, the\nBarry to a Commission for Public Works, the Lough to the three or four\nindustrious men with square paper caps who get rules and plummets and dot\nthe blocks of marble all over as his drawings indicate. So you and I\nwill go to Salerno or L—— (not to the L—akes, Heaven forefend!) and if we\n‘let sail winged words, freighted with truth from the throne of God’—we\nmay be sure——\n\nAh, presumption all of it! Then, you shall fill the words with their\nfreight, and I will look on and love you,—is that too much? _Yes_—for any\nother—_No_—for one you [know] is _yours_—\n\n                                                            Your very own.\n\nFor the quick departing yesterday our day was not spoken of ... it is\nSaturday, is it not?",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 1, 1846.]\n\nThank you for letting me see dear Mr. Kenyon’s letter. He loves you,\nadmires you, trusts you. When what is done cannot be undone, then he will\nforgive you besides—that is, he will forgive both of us, and set himself\nto see all manner of good where now he would see evil if we asked him to\nlook. So we will not, if you please, ask him to look on the encouragement\nof ever so many more kind notes, pleasant as they are to read, and worthy\nto trust to, under certain conditions. Dear Mr. Kenyon—but how good he\nis! And I love him more (shall it be _under-love_?) because of his right\nperception and understanding of _you_—no one among men sets you higher\nthan he does as a man and as a poet—even if he misses the subtle sense,\nsometimes.\n\nSo you dine with him—don’t you? And I shall have you on Wednesday instead\nof Thursday! yes, certainly. And on Saturday, of course, next time.\n\nIn the carriage, to-day, I went first to Mr. Kenyon’s, and as he was\nnot at home, left a card for a footstep. Then Arabel and Flush and I\nproceeded on our way to Mr. Boyd’s in St. John’s Wood, and I was so\nnervous ... so anxious for an excuse for turning back ... that ... can\nyou guess what Arabel said to me? ‘Oh Ba’; she said, ‘such a coward as\n_you_ are, never will be ... married, while the world lasts.’ Which made\nme laugh if it did not make me persevere—for you see by it what her\nnotion is of an heroic deed! So, there, I stood at last, at the door of\npoor Mr. Boyd’s dark little room, and saw him sitting ... as if he had\nnot moved these seven years—these seven heavy, changeful years. Seeing\nhim, my heart was too full to speak at first, but I stooped and kissed\nhis poor bent-down forehead, which he never lifts up, his chin being\nquite buried in his breast. Presently we began to talk of Ossian and\nCyprus wine, and I was forced, as I would not have Ossian for a god, to\ntake a little of the Cyprus,—there was no help for me, nor alternative:\nso I took as little as I could, while he went on proving to me that\nthe Adamic fall and corruption of human nature (Mr. Boyd is a great\ntheologian) were never in any single instance so disgustingly exemplified\nas in the _literary controversy about Ossian_; every man of the Highland\nSociety having a lost soul in him; and Walter Scott ... oh, the woman\nwho poisoned all her children the other day, is a saint to Walter Scott,\n... so we need not talk of him any more. ‘Arabel!—how much has she taken\nof that wine? not half a glass.’ ‘But Mr. Boyd, you would not have me be\nobliged to carry her home.’\n\nThat visit being over, we went into the Park, Hyde Park, and drove close\nto the Serpentine, and then returned. Flush would not keep his head out\nof the window (his favourite pleasure) all the way, because several\ndrops of rain trickled down his ears. Flush has no idea of wetting his\nears:—his nose so near, too!\n\nRight you are, I think, in opposition to Miss Martineau, though your\nreasons are too gracious to be right ... except indeed as to the physical\ninaptitude, which is an obvious truth. Another truth (to my mind) is,\nthat women, as they _are_ (whatever they _may be_) have not mental\nstrength any more than they have bodily; have not instruction, capacity,\nwholeness of intellect enough. To deny that women, as a class, have\ndefects, is as false I think, as to deny that women have wrongs.\n\nThen you are right again in affirming that the creators have no business\n_there_, with the practical men—_you_ should not be _there_ for\ninstance. And _I_ (if I am to be thought of) would be prouder to eat\ncresses and maccaroni (Dearest—there is a manufactory of maccaroni and\nwriting-paper at Amalfi close by—observe that combination! maccaroni\nand writing-paper!) _I_ would be prouder to eat cresses and maccaroni\nwith _you_ as _you_, than to sit with diamonds in my ears, under the\nshelter of the woolsack, _you_ being a law-lord and parliamentary maker\nof speeches! By the way, I _couldn’t_ have diamonds in my ears: they\nnever were _bored_ for it ... as I never was _born_ for it. A physical\ninaptitude, here too!\n\nShall I say what you tell me ... ‘You never seriously believed’ ... shall\nI? I will, if you like. But it is not _Ceva_, if you like—it is Cava ...\nLa Cava ... in my map, and according to my authorities. Otherwise, the\nplace is the same—four miles from Salerno, I think, and ‘enchantingly\nbeautiful.’ It is worth an enquiry certainly, this enchanting place which\nhas no English in it, with porticoes like Bologna, and too little known\nto be spelt correctly by the most accomplished geographers.\n\nAh—your head is ‘_dizzy_,’ my beloved! Tell me how it is now. And tell me\nhow your mother is. I think of you—love you. I, who am discontented with\nmyself, ... self-condemned as unworthy of you, in all else ... am yet\nsatisfied with the _love_ I have for you—it seems worthy of you, as far\nas an abstract affection can go, without taking note of the personality\nloving.\n\nDo you see the meaning through the mist? Do you accept\n\n                              Your very own\n\n                                                                       BA?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 1, 1846.]\n\nDearest—dearest, you _did_ once, one time only, call me by my\nname—Robert; and though it was to bid ‘R. not talk extravagances’ (your\nvery words) still the name so spoken became what it never had been before\nto me. I never am called by any pet-name, nor abbreviation, here at home\nor elsewhere.... Oh, best let it alone ... it is one of my incommunicable\nadvantages to have a Ba of my own, and call her so—indeed, yes, my Ba!\nI write ‘dearest,’ and ‘most dearest,’ but it all ends in—‘Ba,’ and the\n‘my’ is its framework,—its surrounding arm—Ba—my own Ba! ‘Robert’ is in\nSaxon, (_ni fallor_), ‘famous in counsel,’ so let him give a proof of his\nquality in counselling you to hold your good, happy inspiration about La\nCava (my French map-maker must have had _Ceva in Piedmont_ in his head)\nfor at such a place, so situate, we renounce not one sight at Salerno,\nnor Amalfi, nor Sorrento ... four miles ... the distance between your\nhouse and Highgate, perhaps! Cava,—the hollow of a hill; and such hills\nand such hollows are in that land! Oh, let it be La Cava—or Seven Dials,\n_with you_!\n\nI passed through Seven Dials this morning—and afterward, by your\nhouse,—with a heart full of thoughts,—not fuller than usual, but they\nwere more stirring and alive, near their source. I called at Mrs.\nProcter’s door (proceeding from Forster’s) and then on Mrs. Jameson whom\nI found and talked with pleasantly till a visitor came. I do extremely\nappreciate her, delight in her ... to avoid saying ‘love’—I was never\njust to her before, far from it. I saw her niece, a quiet earnest-looking\nlittle girl. But did it not please me to call in at Moxon’s and hear that\n(amongst other literary news dexterously enquired after) Miss Barrett’s\npoems were selling very well and would ere long be out of print? And,\nafter that pleasure, came the other of finding dear, generous, noble\nCarlyle had sent his new edition of ‘Cromwell,’ three great volumes,\nwith his brave energetic assurance of ‘regards’ and ‘many’ of them, in\nblack manly writing on the first page. So may he continue to like me\ntill he knows you; when it will be ‘mine’ instead of me, that he shall\nlove—‘love’? I let the whole world love you—if they can overtake my love.\nAs I read on, about the visit to Mr. Boyd, I thought, ‘I trust she will\nkiss his forehead,’—and I kiss yours—thus—for _that_, too,—in gratitude\nfor that. You dear, good, blessing of a Ba, how I kiss you!—\n\n                                                                      R.B.\n\nI am quite well to-day, and my mother is quite well—The good account\nof the visit is enough to make me happy on a Wednesday—leading to a\nSaturday! Then my two letters!\n\nI did not see Moxon—only the brother—who tells odd stories drily; one\nmade me laugh to-day. Poor Mr. Reade, Landor’s love, sent a book to\nCampbell the Poet, and then called on him ... to discover him in the very\nact of wiping a razor on a leaf torn out of the book, laid commodiously\nby his toilet-table for the express purpose.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 2, 1846.]\n\nNo, No! indeed I never did. If you heard me say ‘Robert,’ it was on a\nstair-landing in the House of Dreams—never anywhere else! Why how could\nyou fancy such a thing? Wasn’t it rather your own disquieted Conscience\nwhich spoke instead of me, saying ‘Robert, don’t be extravagant.’\nYes—just the speech _that_ is, for a ‘good _un_easy,’ discerning\nConscience—and you took it for my speech! ‘Don’t be extravagant’ I may\ncertainly have said. Both I and the Conscience might have said so obvious\na thing.\n\nAh—and now I have got the name, shall I have courage to say it? tell me,\nbest councillor! I like it better than any other name, though I never\nspoke it with my own lips—I never called any one by such a name ...\nexcept once when I was in the lane with Bertha. One uncle I have, called\nRobert—but to me he is an ‘uncle Hedley’ and no more. So it is a white\nname to take into life. Isn’t this an Hebraic expression of a preferring\naffection ... ‘_I have called thee by thy name._’? And therefore, because\nyou are the best, only dearest!——_Robert._\n\nYou passed by and I never knew! How foolish—but really it quite strikes\nme as something wonderful, that I should not have known. I knew however\nof your being in London, because ... (don’t expect supernatural evidence)\nMrs. Jameson told me. She was here with me about five, and brought her\nniece whom I liked just for the reasons you give; and herself was feeling\nand affectionate as ever:—it is well that you should give me leave to\nlove her a little. Once she touched upon Italy ... and I admitted that\nI thought of it, and thought it probable as an event ... on which she\npressed gently to know ‘on what I counted.’ ‘Perhaps on my own courage,’\nI said. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed ‘now I see clearly.’\n\nWhich made me smile ... the idea of her seeing clearly, but earnestly\nand cordially she desired me to remember that to be useful to me in any\nmanner, would give her pleasure. Such kindness! The sense of it has sunk\ninto my heart. You cannot praise her too much for _me_. She was so kind,\nthat when she asked me to go to see her in Mortimer Street on Friday,\nI could not help agreeing at once: and I am to have the sofa and no\ncompany—that’s a promise. She asked me to go at twelve o’clock, and to\nbring Mr. Kenyon for an escort—but I would not answer for Mr. Kenyon’s\ngoing, only half promising for myself. Now I must try to fix a later\nhour, because....\n\nListen to the _because_. My aunt, Miss Clarke, and my cousin, her\nadopted daughter and niece, come to-morrow evening, and stay in this\nhouse ... oh, I cannot tell you how long: for a whole week as a\nbeginning, certainly. I have been sighing and moaning so about it that\nArabel calls it quite a scandal—but when one can’t be glad, why should it\nbe so undutiful to appear sad? If she had but stayed in Paris six months\nlonger! Well!—and to-morrow morning Miss Mitford comes to spend the day\nlike the kind dear friend she is; and I, not the least in the world glad\nto see her! Why have you turned my heart into such hard porphyry? Once,\nwhen it was plain clay, every finger (of these womanly fingers) left a\nmark on it—and now, ... you see! Even Mrs. Jameson makes me grateful to\nher chiefly (as I know in myself) because she sees you as you are in\npart, and will forgive me for loving you as soon as she hears of it ...\nhowever she may, and must consistently, expect us to torment one another,\naccording to the way of the ‘artistic temperament,’ evermore, and ever\nmore and more. But for the rest, the others who do not know you and\nvalue you ... _I hate to see them_ ... and there’s the truth! There is\nsomething too in the concealment, the reserve, the doubleness enforced on\noccasion! ... which is painful and hateful. Detestable it all is.\n\nAnd _I_ like La Cava too! Think of a hollow in the mountain ... something\nlike a cave, do you think? At least it must be a hollow in the mountains.\nI wrote to my friend this morning to ask if the place is considered\nwarm, and if she knew any more of it. The ‘_porticoes as at Bologna_’\nlook attractive too by the dreamlight we look at them by; and _Baba_ may\nescape the forty thieves of English in the _Cave_, with a good watchword\nlike Sesame—now that’s half _my_ nonsense and half yours, I beg you to\nobserve. I won’t be at the charge of it all.\n\nI was out to-day—walked up, walked down, in my old fashion—only I do\nimprove in walking, I think, and gain strength.\n\nMay God bless you dear dearest! I am your own.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 2, 1846.]\n\nDear, you might as well imagine you had never given me any other of the\ngifts, as that you did not call me, as I tell you. You spoke quickly,\ninterrupting me, and, for the name, ‘I can hear it, ’twixt my spirit and\nthe earth-noise intervene’; do you think I forget one gift in another,\neven a greater? I should still taste the first freshness of the vinegar,\n(or whatever was the charm of it)—though Cleopatra had gone on dissolving\npearl after pearl in it. I love you for these gifts to me now—hereafter,\nit seems almost as if I must love you even better, should you choose to\ncontinue them to me in spite of complete knowledge: I feel this as often\nas I think of it, which is not seldom.\n\nDo you know, Mrs. Jameson asked _me_ to go and see her on Friday\nmorning—would you like me to go? What _I_ like ... do not fancy,—because\nyour own pleasure is to be consulted. Should you fear the eyes, which\n_can_, on occasion, wear spectacles? If not ... and if our Saturday will\nnot be interfered with ... and if you can tell me the hour ‘later than\ntwelve’ you mean to appoint, ... so that my call may be neither too early\nnor too late ... why, then, Ba, dearest, dearest—\n\nLa Cava—is surely our cave, Ba—early in October will be vintage-time,—no\nfire flies. There will be the advantage in the vicinity of Naples,\nthat through the Rothschilds’ House there we can, I believe, receive\nand dispatch letters without any charge, which otherwise would be an\nexpensive business in Italy. The economy of the Post Office there is\nastounding. A stranger goes to a window and asks for ‘A’s’ or ‘Z’s’\nletters ... not even professing himself to be ‘A,’ or ‘Z’—whereupon the\nofficial hands over sundry dozens of letters, without a word of enquiry,\nout of which the said stranger picks what pleases him, and paying for\nhis selections, goes away and there an end. At Venice, I remember, they\noffered me, with other letters, about ten or fifteen for the Marquis\nof Hastings who was not arrived yet—I had only to say ‘I am sent for\nthem’.... At Rome a lady lamented to me the sad state of things ‘A letter\nmight contain Heaven only knew what and lie at the office and’—‘_I_ might\ngo and get it,’ I said—‘You? Nay, my husband might!’ she answered as one\nmightily wronged.\n\nBut of your dear self now—the going out will soon and effectually cure\nthe nervousness, we may be sure. I am most happy, love, to hear of the\nwalking and increased strength. So you used to like riding on a donkey?\nThen you shall have a mule, un bel mulo, and I will be your muleteer,\nwalk by your side—and you will think the moment you see him of the wicked\nshoeing of cats with walnut-shells, for they make a mule’s shoes turn\nup, for all the world like large shells—those on his forefeet at least.\nWill the time really come then? Meanwhile, your visitors ... let us hope\nthey will go sight-seeing or call-making, do anything but keep the house\non our days.... The three hours seem as a minute ... if they are to be\ncurtailed,—oh, no, no, I hope. Tell me all you can, dearest ... and let\nme tell you all I can, little as it is, in kissing you, my best and\ndearest Ba, as now kisses your very own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 3, 1846.]\n\nBut, ever dearest, I do so fear that I shall not be able to get to Mrs.\nJameson’s to-morrow at all! not at twelve, I fear, I fear. Our visitors\nare to arrive late to-night, too late for me to see them: and for me to\ngo away at twelve in the morning, just about the hour when they might\nreasonably expect to have and to hold me, ... seems altogether unlawful,\naccording to my sisters. Yet the temptation is strong. Would half-past\ntwelve be too early for you, if I could manage to go at twelve? Ah—but\nI shall not be able, I do fear. Just see how it becomes possible and\nimpossible at once for us to touch hands! I could almost wring mine, to\nsee! For I _could_ dare the spectacles, the hypothetical spectacles, and\nthe eyes discerning without them: she has no idea to begin with—and you\nwould not say ‘Ba, let us order the mules,’ I suppose. If I went, it\nwould be _alone_—but probably I shall not be able—so you had better not\nthink of me, and pay your visit at your own hour ‘after the devices of\nyour heart.’\n\nIn the meanwhile, quite you make me laugh by your positiveness about\nthe name-calling. Well—if ever I did such a thing, it was in a moment\nof unconsciousness all the more surprising, that, even to my own soul,\nin the lowest spirit-whisper, I have not been in the _habit_ of saying\n‘Robert,’ speaking of you. You have only been The One. No word ever stood\nfor you. The Idea admitted of no representative—the words fell down\nbefore it and were silent. Still such very positive people must be right\nof course—they always are. At any rate it is only one illusion more—and\nsome day I expect to hear you say and swear that you saw me fly out of\none window and fly in at another. So much for your Cleopatra’s Roman\npearls, oh my famous in council!—and appreciation of sour vinegar!\n\nDear Miss Mitford came at two to-day and stayed until seven, and all\nthose hours you were not once mentioned—_I_ had not courage—and she\nperhaps avoided an old subject of controversy ... I do not know. It is\nsingular that for this year past you are not mentioned between us, while\nother names come up like grass in the rain. No single person will be more\nutterly confounded than she, when she comes to be aware of what you are\nto me now—and _that_ I was thinking to-day, while she talked to never a\nlistener. She will be confounded, and angry perhaps—it will be beyond\nher sympathies or if they reach so far, the effort to make them do so\nwill prove a more lively affection for me, than, with all my trust in\nher goodness, I dare count on. Yet very good and kind and tender, she\nwas to me to-day. And very variously intelligent and agreeable. Do you\nknow, I should say that her _natural_ faculties were stronger than Mrs.\nJameson’s—though the latter has a higher aspiration and, in some ways, a\nfiner sensibility of intellect. You would certainly call her superior to\nher own books—certainly you would. She walks strongly on her two feet in\nthis world—but nobody shall see her (not even _you_) fly out of a window.\nToo closely she keeps to the ground, I always feel. Now Mrs. Jameson can\n‘aspire’ like Paracelsus; and believes enough in her own soul, to know a\npoet when she sees one. Ah—but all cannot be all.\n\nMiss Mitford wrung a promise from me—that ‘if I were well enough and in\nEngland next summer, I would go to see _her_.’ So remember. Isn’t it a\npromise for two?\n\nOnly we shall be mule-riding in those days—unless I shall have tired you.\n_Shall_ you be tired of me in one winter, I wonder? My programme is, to\nlet you try me for one winter, and if you are tired (as I shall know\nwithout any confession on your side) why then I shall set the mule on a\ncanter and leave you in La Cava, and go and live in Greece somewhere all\nalone, taking enough with me for bread and salt. Is it a jest, do you\nthink? Indeed it is not. It is very grave earnest, be sure. I believe\nthat I never could quarrel with you; but the same cause would absolutely\nhinder my living with you if you did not love me. We could not lead\nthe abominable lives of ‘married people’ all round—you _know_ we could\nnot—_I_ at least know that _I_ could not, and just because I love you so\nentirely. Then, you know, you could come to England by yourself—and ...\n‘Where’s Ba?’—‘Oh, she’s somewhere in the world, I suppose. How can _I_\ntell?’ And then Mrs. Jameson would shake her head, and observe that the\nproblem was solved exactly as she expected, and that artistical natures\nsmelt of sulphur and brimstone, without any exceptions.\n\nAm I laughing? am I crying? who can tell. But I am not _teazing_, ...\nRobert! because, my Robert, if gravely I distrusted your affection, I\ncould not use such light-sounding words on the whole—now could I? It is\nonly the supposition of a _possible_ future ... just possible ... (as the\nend of human affections passes for a possible thing)—which made me say\nwhat I would do in such a case.\n\nBut I am yours—your own: and it is impossible, in my _belief_, that I can\never fail to you so as to be less yours, on this side the grave or across\nit. _So_, I think of _im_possibilities—whatever I may, of possibilities!\n\nWill it be possible to see you to morrow, I wonder! I ask myself and not\nyou.\n\nAnd if you love me only nearly as much (instead of the prodigal ‘more’)\n_afterward_, I shall be satisfied, and shall not run from you further\nthan to the bottom of the page.\n\n                       Where you see me as your own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 3, 1846.]\n\nI am forced to say something now which you will not like and which I, for\nmy part, hate to say—but you shall judge how impossible it is for me to\nsee you to-morrow.\n\nThe visitors did not come last night; and as this morning we expected\nthem hourly, the post brought a letter instead, to the effect that they\nwere to arrive just _on Saturday_ ... leaving us to calculate the time\nof arrival between one p.m. to five or six. If at one, ... Papa will be\nin the house and likely to stay in it all day after ... which would be\na complication of disadvantages for us, and if at three ... why even\nso, my aunt would ‘admire’ a little the reason of my not seeing her at\nonce, and there would be questions and answers a faire frémir. So dearest\ndearest, I must try to live these two days more without seeing you—and\nindeed it will be hard work—the very light of the sun to-morrow, let it\nbe ever so bright a sun, will only reproach the day with what it _ought_\nto have been ... _our_ day, instead of everybody’s day or nobody’s day,\na poor, blank, dreary day. What, when the clock is at three ... oh\n_what_ will keep me, I wonder, from being sullen to my aunt and sulky\nto my cousin? They will think me (if my ministering angel should not\nthrow me some hallowing thought of _you_, best beloved!) considerably\nfallen off in the _morale_, however the improvement may be of the bodily\nhealth—I shall be as cross, as cross ... well, if I am less than cross,\nyou must be right after all, and I, ‘une femme miraculeuse’ without\nillusion! It is too bad, too bad. The whole week—from Monday to Monday!\nAnd I do not positively fix even Monday, though I hope for Monday:—but\nMonday may be taken from us just as Saturday is, and the Hedleys are to\ncome on _Tuesday_ ... only not to this house. I wish they were all at\nSeringapatam.\n\nDo not mind it however. Yes, mind it a little, ... Robert! but not\novermuch—because the day shall not be lost utterly—I shall take care. I\nwill be on the watch for half-days when people go out to shop ... that\nsolemn business of life, ... and we will have our lost day back again\n... you will see. But I could not get to Mrs. Jameson’s this morning,\nnot being quite well enough. It is _nothing_ as illness,—I tell you the\ntruth, dear—and even now I feel better than I did in the early morning.\nIt was only just enough to prevent my going. And if I had gone I should\nnot have seen you—you would not go in time—you would not perhaps even\nhave my letter in time. The stars are against us for the moment, it seems.\n\nWrite to me, think of me, love me. You shall hear on Saturday and on\nSunday, and we will settle about Monday.\n\nAfter all, it would have been difficult to have met you at Mrs.\nJameson’s, observing the ‘fitness of things’: ... and as I am subject to\nthe madness of saying ‘Robert’ without knowing it...!\n\nMay God bless you. Say how you are! Don’t let me slide out of your mind\nthrough this rift in the rock. I catch at the jutting stones.\n\n                                                         I am your own BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 3, 1846.]\n\nNo, dear, dear Ba, I shall not see you to-day in spite of all the hoping\nand fancying ... for I could not, as I calculate, reach Mrs. Jameson’s\nbefore 1 o’clock or a little later ... and there would be the worst of\nvexations, to know you had been and gone again! I persuade myself you may\nnot pay the visit to-day, ... (‘it is impossible’ you say), and that it\nmay be paid next week, the week in which there is only one day for us ...\nhow do you say, dearest? all complaining is vain—let to-morrow make haste\nand arrive!\n\nBa, there is nothing in your letter that shocks me,—nothing: if you\nchoose to imagine _that_ ‘possibility,’ you are consistent in imagining\nthe proper step to take ... it is all imagining. But I feel altogether\nas you feel about the horribleness of married friends, mutual esteemers\n&c.—when your name sounds in my ear like any other name, your voice\nlike other voices,—when we wisely cease to interfere with each other’s\npursuits,—respect differences of taste &c. &c., all will be over _then_!\n\nI cannot myself conceive of one respect in which I shall ever fall from\nthis feeling for you ... there never has been one word, one gesture\nunprompted by the living, immediate love beneath—but there have been\nmany, many, _so_ many that the same love has suppressed, refused to be\nrepresented by! I say this, because I can suppose a man taking up a\nservice of looks and words, which service is only to last for a time, and\nso may be endured,—after which the ‘real affection,’ ‘honest attachment’\n&c. &c. means to go to its ends by a shorter road, saving useless\nceremony and phrases ... do you know what I mean? I hardly do ... except\nthat it is, whatever it is, opposed, as heaven to earth, to what I feel\nis. I count confidently on being more and more able to find the true\nwords and ways (which may not be _spoken_ words perhaps), the true rites\nby which you should be worshipped, you dear, dear Ba, my entire blessing\nnow and ever—and _ever_; if God shall save me also.\n\nLet me kiss you now, and long for to-morrow—I shall bring you the poorest\nflowers——all is brown, dry, autumnal. The sun shines and reproves me....\nAfter all, there would have been some rocks in the pleasant water of\nto-day’s meeting ... ‘Oh, hardness to dissemble’!\n\nHere is no dissembling.... I kiss you, my very own!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Night,\n                                                [Post-mark, July 4, 1846.]\n\nAh! ‘to-morrow, make haste and arrive.’ And what good will to-morrow do\nwhen it comes?\n\nDearest, with your letter to-night, I have a note from Mrs. Jameson, who\nproposes that I should go to her just on this to-morrow, between twelve\nand one: she will wait for me till one and then go out. Moreover she\nleaves town on Tuesday. Now I think I ought to try to be with her this\ntime, therefore, on the hour she mentions, and I will try ... I mean to\ntry. But as for seeing you even _so_, and for a moment, ... I understand\nthat it scarcely is possible—no, _not_ possible—you cannot have time, I\nthink. Thinking which, understanding which, I shall yet, in spite of\nreason, listen for the footstep and the voice: certainly I shall not help\ndoing _that_.\n\nOur to-morrow!—How they have spoilt it for us! In revenge, I shall love\nyou to-morrow twice as much, looking at my dead flowers. Twice as much!!\n‘_Ba, never talk extravagances._’ _Twice as much_ is a giant fifty feet\nhigh. It is foolish to be fabulous.\n\nBeing better this evening (almost as if I were sure to see you in\nthe morning) I went out to drive with Arabel and Flush, about six\no’clock,—and we were not at home until eight, after having seen a mirage\n(as it appeared) of green fields and trees. Beyond Harrow cemetery we\nwent, through silent lanes and hedgerows—so silent, so full of repose!\nQuite far away over the tops of the trees, was ‘_London_,’ Arabel said\n... but I could see only a cloud:—it seemed no more, nor otherwise. Once\nshe got out and went into a field to give Flush a run—and I, left to\nmyself and you, read your last letter in the carriage, under the branches\nwhich were dropping separate shadows of every leaf they had. The setting\nsun forced them to it. Oh—but I send you no leaves, because I could not\nreach any, and did not get out to walk to-day where I might have gathered\nthem. Arabel tried hard to persuade me to go into the cemetery—but let\nme deserve all she said to me about weakness and foolishness, ... really\nthat sort of thing does sadden me—my spirits fall flat with it: it is the\ndark side of death. So I begged her to go by herself and to leave me....\nI would wait for her—and she should have as long a pleasure in that\npleasure-ground of the Dead, as she liked. ‘Very pretty,’ it is said to\nbe—the dissenters and the churchpeople planted in separate beds; and the\nRoman Catholics conspicuous for their roses! Oh that ghastly mixture of\nhorror and frivolity! The _niaiserie_ of their divisions and subdivisions\ntaken down so carefully into the dust! But Arabel did not go at last, and\nwe were at home quite late enough.\n\nMay God bless you, dear, dear! Give me all my thoughts (those that belong\nto me) to-morrow. Poor disinherited to-morrow.\n\nI will _write_ to-morrow, at any rate—and _hear_—let me hear.\n\nAnd you are the best, best! When I speak lead, you answer gold. Because I\n‘do not shock’ you, you melt my heart away with joy.\n\nYet I can love you enough, even I!\n\n                                                                  Your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 4, 1846.]\n\nDearest Ba, I am at Mrs. Jameson’s ... to hear you cannot come; most\nproperly. She wants me to go and see an Exhibition, and I cannot refuse\n... so this is my poor long letter (with kisses in the words), that was\nto have been! But on Monday, dearest, dearest, I shall see you? All\nthanks for your letter.... I dare write no more, as there _must_ be some\ndifference in my way of writing to you from other ways.\n\nBless you, ever, as I am ever yours—\n\n                                                                        R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 4, 1846.]\n\nAh, this Saturday! how heavily the wheels of it turn round! as if ‘with\nall the weights of sleep and death hung at them.’ After all it was not\npossible for me to get to Mrs. Jameson’s this morning ... not that I was\nunwell to _signify_, mind—but unfit for the exertion—and it would not\nhave been agreeable to anybody if I had gone there and fainted. So here\nI am, the picture of helpless indolence, stretched out at full length\nbetween the chair and the high stool, thinking how you will not to-day\nsit on the low one, nor in your old own place by me——oh how I think,\nthink, think of you, to make imperfect amends! Are you disappointed ...\n_you_? I hope you are, and I fear you are. My generosity does not carry\nme through the hope of it to the end. I love your love too much. And\n_that_ is the worst fault, my beloved, I ever can find in my love of\n_you_.\n\nLook, what Miss Mitford has sent me from the _Daily News_—Mr. Horne’s\nlament for poor Haydon. Tell me if you do not like it. It has moved\nme much, and as a composition it is fine, I think,—worthy of ‘Orion.’\nI shall write to Mr. Horne to thank him, as one reader of many, for\ntouching that solemn string into such a right melody. To my mind, it is\nworth, and more than worth, twenty such books as his ballad-book—tell me\nif it isn’t. It has much affected me.\n\nPapa went out early—so we should have escaped the ‘complication’—but\nevery half-hour we are expecting our visitors. And for Monday ... I\nscarcely dare say yet ‘Come on Monday.’ Only we will find our lost\nPleiads ... of that, be very sure—_I_ am very sure. Still to miss one for\na moment draws me into darkness—or ... do you not know that you are _all_\nmy stars? yes, and the sun, besides! The thing which people call a sun\nseems to shine quite coldly to-day, because you are not on this side of\nmy window. ‘All complaining is vain,’ do you say?\n\nLet me pass the time a little, then, by confessing to you that what you\nsaid, some letters ago, about the character of our intercourse, in our\npresent relation, being a sort of security for the future, ... that\n_that_ did strike me as a true and reasonable observation as far as it\ngoes. I think, at least, that if I were inclined to fear for my own\nhappiness apart from yours (which, as God knows, is a fear that never\ncomes into my head), I should have sense to reason myself clear of it all\nby seeing in you none of the common rampant man-vices which tread down\na woman’s peace—and which begin the work often long before marriage.\nOh, I understand perfectly, how as soon as ever a common man is sure of\na woman’s affections, he takes up the tone of right and might ... and\nhe _will_ have it so ... and he _won’t_ have it so! I have heard of the\nbitterest tears being shed by the victim as soon as ever, by one word of\nhers, she had placed herself in his power. Of such are ‘Lovers’ quarrels’\nfor the most part. The growth of power on one side ... and the struggle\nagainst it, by means legal and illegal, on the other. There are other\ncauses, of course—but for none of them could it be possible for _me_ to\nquarrel with _you_ now or ever. Neither now nor ever do I look forward\nto the ordinary dangers. What I have feared has been so different! May\nGod bless you my own ... own! For my part, you have my leave to make me\nunhappy if you please. It only would be just that the happiness you have\ngiven, you should take away—it is yours, as I am yours.\n\nSay how your head is—say how your mother is. Think of me with the\nthoughts that do good.\n\n                                 Your own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\n    TO THE MEMORY OF B. R. HAYDON\n\n    _By the Author of ‘Orion’_\n\n    Mourn, fatal Voice, whom ancients called the Muse!\n    Thy fiery whispers rule this mortal hour,\n    Wherein the toiling Artist’s constant soul\n    Revels in glories of a visioned world,—\n    Power, like a god, exalting the full heart;\n    Beauty with subtlest ravishment of grace\n    Refining all the senses; while afar\n    Through vistas of the stars where strange friends dwell.\n    A temple smiles for him to take his seat\n    Among the happy Dead whose work is done.\n    Mourn, fatal Voice, whom ancients called the Muse!\n    Thou lead’st the devotee through fruitful bowers\n    Wherein Imagination multiplies\n    Divinely, and, with noblest ecstasy,\n    To nature ever renders truth for truth.\n\n    Mourn, fatal Voice, whom ancients called the Muse!\n    Thou teachest to be strong and virtuous;\n    In labour, patient; clear-eyed as a star,\n    Self-truthful; vigilant within; and full\n    Of faith to be, and do, and send it forth;—\n    But teachest no man how to know himself,\n    His over-measures or his fallings short,\n    Nor how to know when he should step aside\n    Into the quiet shade, to wait his hour\n    And foil the common dragon of the earth.\n\n    O fatal Voice! so syren-sweet, yet rife\n    With years of sorrow, deathbeds terrible!\n    Mourn for a worthy son whose aims were high,\n    Whose faith was strong amidst a scoffing age.\n    No warning giv’st thou, on the perilous path,\n    To those who need the gold thy teaching scorns,\n    Heedless if other knowledge hold due watch.\n    Thou fill’st with heavenly bliss the enraptured eyes,\n    While the feet move to ruin and the grave.\n    Therefore, O voice, inscrutably divine,\n    Uplifting sunward, casting in the dust,\n    Forgetting man as man, and mindful only\n    Of the man-angel even while on earth,—\n    Mourn now with all thine ancient tenderness,\n    Mingled with tears that fall in heavy drops,\n    For One who lost himself, remembering thee!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 6, 1846.]\n\nYou will have known by my two or three words that I received your letter\nin time to set out for Mrs. J.’s—she said to me, directly and naturally,\n‘you have missed a great pleasure’—and then accounted for your absence.\nDo not be sorry, Ba, at my gladness ... for I was, I hope, glad ... yes,\nI am sure, glad that you ran no risk, if you will not think of _that_,\nthink of _my_ risk if you had ‘_fainted_’ ... should I have kept the\nsecret, do you suppose? Oh, dearest of all dreamt-of dearness,—incur\nno unnecessary danger now, at ... shall I dare trust,—the end of the\nadventure! I cannot fear for any mischance that may follow, once let\nmy arms be round you ... I mean, the blow seems then to fall on both\nalike—now, what dismal, obscure months might be prolonged between us,\nbefore we meet next, by a caprice where the power is! When have I been\nso long without the blessing of your sight! Yet how considerately you\nhave written, what amends you make, all that the case admits of! If I\nwere less sure of my own mind, and what it knows for _best_, I might\nunderstand the French lover’s fancy of being separated from his mistress\nthat he might be written to and write ... but the _very best_ I know, and\nhave ever in sight, and constantly shall strive after ... to see you face\nto face, to live so and to die so—which I say, because it ends all, all\nthat can be ended ... and yet seems in itself so encountered—no death, no\nend.\n\nAfter all, I _may_ see you to-morrow, may I not? There is no more than a\ndanger, an apprehension, that we may lose to-morrow also, is there? You\ncannot tell me after this is read ... I shall know before. If I receive\n_no_ letter, mind, I go to you ... so that if the Post is in fault after\nits custom, and your note arrives at 3 o’clock, you will know why I seem\nto disobey it and call ... and I shall understand why you are not to be\nseen—but I will hope.\n\nWhen you say these exquisitely dear and tender things, you know Ba, it is\nas if the sweet hand were on my mouth—I cannot speak ... I try to seem\nas if I heard not, for all the joy of hearing ... you give me a jewel\nand I cannot repeat ‘you, you _do_ give me a jewel.’ I am not worthy of\nany gift, you _must_ know, Ba,—never say you do not—but what you press\non me, let me feel and half-see, and in the end, carry away, but do not\nthink I can, in set words, _take_ them. At most, they are, and shall be,\nhalf-gift half-loan for adornment’s sake,—mine to wear, yours to take\nback again. Even this, all this ungracefulness, is proper, appropriate in\nits way—I am penetrated with shame thinking on what you say, and what my\nutmost devotion will deserve ... so infinitely less will it deserve! You\nare my very, very angel.\n\nMrs. Jameson showed me the lines you had sent her, Horne’s very beautiful\npoem,—very earnest, very solemn and pathetic,—worthy of Horne and the\nsubject—and you will do well to reward him as you propose. I think I will\nalso write two or three lines,—telling him that you called my attention\nto the poem,—so that he may understand the new friend does not drive out\nthe old, as the old proverb says. I will wait a day or two and write. And\nyou are herein, too, a dear good Ba,—to write me out the verses in the\ncharacters I love best of all! I may keep them, I hope.\n\nThe weather is hot as ever: Ba, remember how I believe in you—is the\nindisposition ‘nothing to signify’? And remember the confidence I make\nyou of every slightest headache or what looks like it—tell me frankly as\nBa should, and will if she loves me! I am very well ... and my mother\nmuch better. I observe while I write, the clouds gather propitiously for\ncoolness if not rain—may all be as is best for you—‘and for me?’ Then\nkiss me, really, through the distance, and love me, my sweetest Ba!\n\n                                                            I am your own—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 6, 1846.]\n\nWill it do if you come on Wednesday, dearest? It will be safer I\nthink—and, with people staying in the house, it is necessary, you see,\nto consider a little. My aunt is so tired with her journey that she is\nnot likely to go out at all to-morrow—and when I remember that you dine\nwith Mr. Kenyon on that Wednesday, it seems marked out for our day. Still\nI leave it to you. Never have we been so long parted, and perhaps by\nWednesday you may forget me—ah no! Now I will not make the time longer by\nbeing unkind ... or even unjust.\n\nI meant to write you a long letter to-day,—but first my aunt and\ncousin were here telling me all the statistics of Arabella Hedley’s\nmarriage,—and then Mr. Kenyon came, ... and on such a very different\nsubject, _his_ talk was, that he has left me quite depressed. It\nappears that poor Mr. Haydon, in a paper entering into his reasons for\nself-destruction, says that he has left his manuscripts to _me_, with a\ndesire for me to arrange the terms of their publication with Longman.\nOf course it has affected me naturally ... such a proof of trust when\nhe had so many friends wiser and stronger to look to—but I believe the\nreference to be simply to the _fact_ of his having committed to my\ncare all his private papers in a great trunk ... one of three which he\nsent here. Two years ago when we corresponded, he made me read a good\npart of his memoirs, which he thought of publishing at that time; and\nthen he asked me (no, it was a year and a half ago) to speak about\nthem to some bookseller ... to Longman, he said, I remember, then. I\nexplained, in reply, how I had not any influence with any bookseller\nin the world; advising him besides not to think of printing, without\nconsiderable modification, what I had read. In fact it was—with much that\nwas individual and interesting,—as unfit as possible for the general\nreader—fervid and coarse at once, with personal references blood-dyed at\nevery page. At the last, I suppose, the idea came back to him of my name\nin conjunction with Longman’s—I cannot think that he meant me to do any\n_editor’s_ work, for which (with whatever earnestness of will) I must be\ncomparatively unfit, both as a woman and as personally and historically\nignorant of the persons and times he writes of. I should not know how\none reference would fall innocently, and another like a thunderbolt,\non surviving persons. I only know that without great modification, the\nMemoirs should not appear at all ... that the scandal would be great if\nthey did. At the same time you will feel with me, I am sure, you who\nalways feel with me, that whatever is clearly set for me to do, I should\nnot shrink from under these circumstances, whatever the unpleasantness\nmay be, more or less, involved in the doing. But if Mr. Serjeant Talfourd\nis the executor ... is he not the obviously fit person? Well! there is no\nneed to talk any more. Mr. Kenyon is to try to see the paper. It was Mr.\nForster who came to tell him of this matter and to get him to communicate\nit to me. Poor Haydon!\n\nDearest, I long for you to come and bring me a little light. Tell me how\nyou are—now tell me. Tell me too how your mother is.\n\nMy aunt’s presence here has seemed to throw me back suddenly and\npainfully into real life out of my dream-life with you——into the old\ndreary flats of real life. She does not know your name even—she sees in\nme just _Ba_ who is not your Ba—and when she talks to me ... seeing me so\n... I catch the reflection of the cold abstraction as _she_ apprehends\nit, and feel myself for a moment a Ba who is not your Ba ... sliding\nback into the melancholy of it! Do you understand the curious process, I\ntalk of so mistily? Do you understand that she makes me sorrowful with\nnot talking of _you_ while she talks to _me_? Everything, in fact, that\ndivides us, I must suffer from—so I need not treat metaphysically of\ncauses and causes ... splitting the thinner straws.\n\nOnce she looked to the table where the remains of your flowers are, ...\nand said, ‘I suppose Miss Mitford brought you those flowers.’ ‘No,’ I\nanswered, ‘she did not.’ ‘Oh no,’ began Arabel with a more suggestive\nvoice, ‘not Miss Mitford’s flowers.’ But I turned the subject quickly.\n\nRobert!—how did you manage to write me the dear note from Mrs. Jameson’s?\nhow could you dare write and direct it before her eyes? What an audacity\nthat was of yours. Oh—and how I regretted the missing you, as you proved\nit was a missing, by the letter! Twice to miss you on one day, seemed\ntoo much ill-luck ... even for _me_, I was going to write ... but _that_\nwould have been a word of my old life, before I knew that I was born to\nthe best fortune and happiest, which any woman could have, ... in being\nloved by _you_.\n\nDearest, do not leave off loving me. Do not forget me by Wednesday. Shall\nit be Wednesday? or must it be Thursday? answer _you_.\n\n                              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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 6, 1846.]\n\nWhen I read, after the reasons for not seeing you to-day, this—‘still I\nleave it to you,’—believe, dearest, that I at once made the sacrifice and\ndetermined to wait till Wednesday,—as seemed best for you, and therefore\nfor me: but at the letter’s very end, amid the sweetest, comes ‘Wednesday\n... or must it be Thursday?’ What is _that_? What ‘_must_’ is mine? Shall\nyou fear, or otherwise suffer, if we appoint Wednesday?\n\nOh, another year of this! Yet I am not, I feel, ungrateful to the Past\n... all the obstacles in the world can do nothing now, nothing: earlier\nthey might have proved formidable annoyances. I have seen enough of you,\nBa, for an eternity of belief in you ... and you, as you confess, you\ncannot think ‘I shall forget.’\n\nAll you can, you compensate me for the absence—that such letters,\ninstead of being themselves the supremest reward and last of gains,\nshould be—compensation, at the best! Am I really to have you, all of you\nand altogether, and always? If you go out of your dream-life, can I lie\nquietly in mine? But I hold your hand and hear your voice through it all.\n\nHow do these abrupt changes in the temperature affect you? Yesterday at\nnoon, so oppressively hot—this morning, a wind and a cold. Do you feel\nno worse than usual? If you do not tell me,—you know, I cannot keep\naway. Then, this disinspiriting bequest of poor Haydon’s journal ... his\n‘writings’—from which all the harm came, and, it should seem, is still to\ncome to himself and everybody beside—let us all forget what came of those\ndescriptions and vindications and explanations interminable; but as for\nbeginning another sorrowful issue of them,—it is part and parcel of the\ninsanity—and to lay the business of editing the ‘twenty-six’ (I think)\nvolumes, with the responsibility, on _you_—most insane! Unless, which one\nwould avoid supposing, the author trusted precisely to your ignorance of\nfacts and isolation from the people able to instruct you. Take one little\ninstance of how ‘facts’ may be set down—in the _Athenæum_ was an account\nof Haydon’s quoting Waller’s verse about the eagle reached by his own\nfeather on the arrow,—which he applied to Maclise and some others, who\nhad profited by their intimacy with him to turn his precepts to account\nand so surpass him in public estimation: now, Maclise was in Haydon’s\ncompany for the first time at Talfourd’s on that evening when I met your\nbrother there,—so said Talfourd in an after-supper speech,—and Forster,\nto whom I mentioned the circumstance, assured me that Maclise ‘called\non Haydon for the first time only a few months ago’ ... I suppose,\nshortly after. Now, what right has Maclise, a fine generous fellow, to\nbe subjected to such an imputation as that? With an impartial prudent\nman, acquainted with the artists of the last thirty years, the editing\nmight turn to profit: I do hope for an exercise of Mr. Kenyon’s caution\nhere, at all events. And then how horrible are all these posthumous\nrevelations,—these passions of the now passionless, errors of the at\nlength better-instructed! All falls unfitly, ungraciously—the triumphs or\nthe despondencies, the hopes or fears, of—whom? He is so far above it all\nnow! Even in this life—imagine a proficient in an art or science, who,\nafter thirty or sixty years of progressive discovery, finds that some\nbookseller has disinterred and is about publishing the raw first attempt\nat a work which he was guilty of in the outset!\n\nAll of which you know better than I—what do you not know better? Nor as\nwell?—that I love you with my whole heart, Ba, dearest Ba, and look up\ninto your eyes for all light and life. Bless you.\n\n                                                            Your very own—\n\nI am going to Talfourd’s to-morrow (to dine)—and perhaps to Chorley’s\nin the evening. If I can do any bidding of yours at Talfourd’s ... but\nthat seems improbable,—with Mr. Kenyon, too! But (_this between our very\nselves_) the Talfourds, or at least Mrs. T., please to take one of their\nunimaginably stupid groundless dislikes to him.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 7, 1846.]\n\nBut I meant to ‘leave it to you,’ not to come before Wednesday but after\nWednesday, in case of some Wednesday’s engagement coming to cross mine.\n‘Ba’s old way’ ... do you cry out! Perhaps—only that an engagement is a\npossible thing always. Not meaning an engagement with Miss Campbell. I\nhope, hope, then, to be able to see you, dearest Robert, on Wednesday. On\nWednesday, at last!\n\nHere is a letter which I had this morning from Mr. Landor, than which\ncan anything be more gracious? It appears ... I forgot to tell you\nyesterday after I heard it from Mr. Kenyon ... it appears that my note\nof thanks had my signature affixed to it in such a state of bad writing,\nthat Mr. Landor, being sorely puzzled, sent the letter up to Mr. Forster\nto be read. Mr. Forster read it (so it _could_ be read!) and then took it\nto Mr. Kenyon, who read it too, and afterwards came to scold me for being\nperfectly illegible. It was signed at full length too, Elizabeth Barrett\nBarrett ... and really I couldn’t believe that I was very guilty till\nMr. Landor’s own letter persuaded me this morning of its being so much\npleasanter to be guilty than innocent, for the nonce.\n\nAh—you use the right word for the other subject. _If_ a bequest, it is\nindeed a ‘_dispiriting_ bequest,’ this of poor Haydon’s. But I hope to\nthe last that he meant simply to point to _me_ as the actual holder of\nthe papers—and certainly when he sent the great trunk here, it was with\nno intention of dying; Mr. Kenyon agreed with me to that effect—I showed\nhim the notes which I had found and laid aside for you, and which you\nshall take with you on Wednesday. Still, there must be an editor found\nsomewhere—because the papers cannot go as they are to a publisher’s\nhands from mine, if I _only hold_ them. Does any one say that I am a fit\neditor? Have I _the power_? the knowledge of art and artists? of the\nworld? of the times? of the persons? All these things are against me—and\nothers besides.\n\nNow I will tell you one thing which he told me in confidence, but which\nis at length perhaps in those papers—I tell you because you are myself,\nand will understand the need and obligation to silence—and I want you\nto understand besides how the twenty-six volumes hang heavily on my\nthoughts. He told me in so many words that Mrs. Norton had made advances\ntowards him—and that his children, in sympathy towards their mother, had\ndashed into atoms the bust of the poetess as it stood in his painting\nroom.\n\nIf you can say anything _safely_ for me at Mr. Talfourd’s, of course I\nshall be glad ... and Mr. Kenyon will speak to Mr. Forster, he said.\nI want to get back my letters too as soon as I can do it without\ndisturbing anyone’s peace. What is in those letters, I cannot tell, so\nimpulsively and foolishly, sometimes, I am apt to write; and at that\ntime, through caring for nobody and feeling so loose to life, I threw\naway my thoughts without looking where they fell. Often my sisters have\nblamed me for writing in that wild way to strangers—and I should like to\nhave the letters back before they shall have served to amuse two or three\nexecutors—but of this too, I spoke to Mr. Kenyon.\n\nStill it is not of _me_ that we are called to think—and I would not for\nthe world refuse any last desire, if clearly signified, and if the power\nshould be with me. He was not a common man—he had in him the stuff of\ngreatness, this poor Haydon had; and we must consider reverently whatever\nrent garment he shall have left behind. Quite, in some respects, I think\nwith you but your argument does appear to me to sweep out too far on one\nside, so that if you do not draw it back, Robert, you will efface all\nautobiography and confession—tear out a page bent over by many learners—I\nmean when you say that because he is above (now) the passions and\nfrailties he has recorded, we should put from us the record. True, he is\nabove it all—true, he has done with the old Haydon; like a man outgrowing\nhis own childhood he will not spin this top any more. Oh, it is true—I\nfeel it all just as you do. But, after all, a man outgrowing his\nchildhood, may leave his top to children, and no one smile! This record\nis not for the angels, but for _us_, who are a little lower at highest.\nThree volumes perhaps may be taken from the twenty-six full of character\nand interest, and not without melancholy teaching. Only some competent\nand sturdy hand should manage the selection; as surely as mine is unfit\nfor it. But where to seek _discretion_? _delicacy_?\n\nDearest, I speak the truth to you—I am not ill indeed. When I was at\nbest in health I used sometimes to be a little weak and faint, and it\nhas only been _so_ for this last day or two. By Wednesday the cloud will\nhave passed. And, do you know, I have found out something from our long\nparting, ... I have found out that I love you better than even I thought.\nThere’s a piece of finding out! My own dearest—what would become of me\nindeed, _if_ I could not see you on Wednesday nor on Thursday nor on\nFriday?—no breath I have, for going on. No breath I should have, for\nliving on. I do kiss you through the distance——since you tell me. I love\nyou with my soul.\n\n                                                            Your own I am.\n\nThree of the flowers and nearly all the little blue ones stay with me all\nthis while to comfort me!! isn’t it kind of them?\n\nTwo letters to-day—and such letters! Ah—if you love me always but half\nas much—I will agree with you now for half! Yet, O Hesiod, half is not\nbetter than the whole, by any means! Yet ... if the whole went away, and\ndid not leave me half!—\n\nWhen I was a child I heard two married women talking. One said to the\nother ... ‘The most painful part of marriage is the first year, when the\nlover changes into the husband by slow degrees.’ The other woman agreed,\nas a matter of fact is agreed to. I listened with my eyes and ears, and\nnever forgot it ... as you observe. It seemed to me, child as I was, a\ndreadful thing to have a husband by such a process. Now, it seems to me\nmore dreadful.\n\n    Si l’âme est immortelle\n    L’amour ne l’est-il pas?\n\nBeautiful verses—just to prove to you that I do not remember _only_ the\ndisagreeable things ... only to teaze you with, like so many undeserved\nreproaches. And you so good, so best—Ah—but it is _that_ which frightens\nme! so far _best_!\n\nYou were foolish to begin to love me, you know, as always I told you, my\nbeloved!—but since you _would_ begin, ... go on to do it as long as you\ncan ... do not leave me in the wilderness. God bless you for me!—\n\n                                                             I am your BA.\n\nThink if people were to get hold of that imputation on poor Mrs.\nNorton—think!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning in haste.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 7, 1846.]\n\nDearest, I am uncertain whether I can see you to-morrow. To-night I will\nwrite again—you shall hear. You tell me to _risk nothing_ ... which is\nwhat I feel. But I long, long to see you. You shall hear in the morning.\n\nRead the note which Mr. Kenyon sends me from Mr. Forster. Very averse I\nfeel, from applying, in the way prescribed, to Mr. Serjeant Talfourd.\nTell me what to do, Robert ... my ‘famous in council!’ Sick at heart, it\nall makes me. Am I to write to Mr. Talfourd, do you think?\n\nOh, _you_ would manage it for me—but to mix _you_ up in it, will make\na danger of a worse evil. May God bless you, my own. I may see you\nto-morrow perhaps after all—it is a ‘_perhaps_’ though ... and I am surely\n\n                                                                  Your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 7, 1846.]\n\nDearest, the first thing to say is the deep joyfulness of expecting\nto see you, really, to-morrow—mind, the engagement with Mr. Kenyon is\nnothing in the way. If you cannot let me stay the usual time—I can call,\npass away the interval easily ... this is a superfluous word to your\ngoodness which is superfluous in these ‘old ways of Ba’s’—dear Ba, whom\nI kiss with perfect love—and shall soon kiss in no dream! Landor is all\nwell enough in one sentence ... happily turned _that_ is,—but I am vexed\nat his strange opinion of Goethe’s poem,—and the more, that a few years\nago he wrote down as boldly that nothing had been written _so_ ‘Hellenic’\nthese two thousand years—(in a note to the ‘Satire on the Satirists’)—and\nof these opinions I think the earlier much nearer the truth. _Then_ he\nwrote so, because Wordsworth had depreciated Goethe—now, very likely,\nsome maladroit applauder has said Landor’s own ‘Iphigenia’ is worthy of\nGoethe,—or similar platitudes.\n\nYes, dearest, you are quite right—and my words have a wrong sense, and\none I did not mean they should bear, if they object to confessions\nand autobiographies in general. Only the littleness and temporary\ntroubles, the petty battle with foes, which is but a moment’s work\nhowever the success may be, all _that_ might go when the occasion,\nreal or fancied, is gone. I would have the customary ‘habits,’ as we\nsay, of the man preserved, and if they were quilted and stiffened with\nsteel and bristling all over with the offensive and defensive weapons\nthe man judged necessary for his safety,—they should be composed and\nhung up decently—telling the true story of his life. But I should not\npreserve the fretful gesture,—lift the arm, as it was angrily lifted to\nkeep off a wolf—which now turns out to have been only Flush in a fever\nof vigilance—half-drew the sword which—Ah, let me have done with this!\nYou understand, if I do not. For the bad story,—the telling _that_, if\nit were true, is nearly as bad as inventing it. That poor woman is the\nhack-block of a certain class of redoubtable braggarts—there are such\nstories by the _dozen_ in circulation. All may have been misconception\n... ‘advances’—to induce one more painter to introduce her face in his\nworks.\n\nMy time is out ... I had much to say, but this letter of mine arrived by\nthe afternoon post,—shame on the office! To-morrow!\n\n                     Bless you, ever dearest dearest—\n\n                                                                 Your own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening\n                                                [Post-mark, July 8, 1846.]\n\nYes—I understand you perfectly—and it should be exactly as you say—and it\nis just _that_, which requires so much adroitness,—and such decision and\nstrength of hand, to manage these responsibilities. Somebody is wanted\nto cut and burn, and be silent afterwards. I remember that bitter things\nare said of Shelley and Leigh Hunt beyond all the bitterness of alcohol.\nOlives do not taste so, though steeped in salt. There are some curious\nletters by poor Keats about Hunt, and _they_ too are bitter. It would\nbe dreadful to suffer these miseries to sow themselves about the world,\nlike so much thistle-down ... the world, where there are thistles enough\nalready, to make fodder for its wild asses!\n\nAs to Landor ... oh, I did not remember the note you speak of in the\nsatire you speak of—but you remember everything ... even _me_. Is it\nnot true that Landor, too, is one of the men who carry their passions\nabout with them into everything, as a boy would, pebbles ... muddying\nevery clear water, with a stone here and a stone there. The end is, that\nwe lose the image of himself in the serene depth, as we might have had\nit—and the little stone comes to stand for him. How unworthy of such a\nman as Landor, such weakness is! To _think_ with one’s temper!! One might\nas well be at once Don Quixote, and fight with a warming-pan.\n\nBut I did not remember the _former_ opinion. I took it for a\nconstitutional fancy of Landor’s, and did not smile much more at it than\nat my own ‘profundity in German,’ which was a matter of course ... of\ncourse ... of course. For have I not the gift of tongues? Don’t I talk\nSyriac ... as well as Flush talks English—and Hebrew, like a prophetess\n... and various other languages and dialects less familiarly known to\npersons in general than these aforesaid? So, profound indeed, must be the\nGerman and the Dutch! And perhaps it may not be worth while to answer Mr.\nLandor’s note for the mere purpose of telling him anything about it.\n\nDearest!—I have written all this before I would say a word of your\ncoming, just to think a little more—and down all these pages I have\nbeen thinking, thinking, of _you_ ... of your possible coming ... what\nnonsense they must be! Well! and the end is that, let it be wise or\nunwise, I _must and will see you to-morrow_—I cannot do otherwise. It is\njust as if Flush had been shut up in a box for so many days. My spirits\nflag ... and I could find it in my heart to grow cross like Landor and\ndeny Goethe. So come, dearest dearest—and let the world bark at our heels\nif it pleases. I will just turn round and set Flush at it.\n\nFor two or three days I have not been out—not for two days ... not out of\nthis room. This evening at seven, when they were all going to dinner, I\ntook Wilson with me and drove into the park for air. It will do me good\nperhaps—but your coming will, certainly. So come, my dearest beloved!—At\nthree, remember.\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "PRIVATE\n\n                                                Wednesday 7 A.M.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 8, 1846.]\n\nMy own Ba, I received your note on my return from Talfourd’s last night.\nI am anxious to get the first post for this, so can only use the bare\nwords,—if those. After dinner, Forster put a question to our host about\nthe amount of the subscription; and in a minute the paper-bequest was\nintroduced. Talfourd had received a letter from Miss Mitford, enclosing\none from you (or a copy of one ... I did not hear)—whereat he pronounced\nso emphatically upon H.’s conduct in making you,—‘who could never have\nknown the nature of the transaction nor the very serious consequences\nit involved’—the depositary of his pictures &c. on such occasions,—the\nwords, ‘H. it seems, has been in the habit of using Miss B’s house &c.’\n(or to that effect) had so offensive an implication,—that I felt obliged\nto say simply, you had never seen Haydon and were altogether amazed\nand distressed at his desire,—and that, for the other matter, what he\nchose to send, you could not, I supposed, bring yourself to refuse\nadmittance to the house. I gave no particular account of my own means of\nknowledge, nor spoke further than to remove the impression from the minds\nof the people present that you must have ‘known’ Haydon, as they call\n‘knowing’—and Forster, for one, expressed surprise at it. I ventured to\nrepeat what I mentioned to you—‘that it seemed likely you were selected\nfor the Editorship precisely on account of your isolation from the world.’\n\nSoon after, Forster went away—and, up-stairs, I got Talfourd alone, and\njust told him that I was in the habit of corresponding with you, that you\nhad made me acquainted with a few of the circumstances, and that you had\nat once thought of _him_, Talfourd, as the proper source of instruction\non the subject. Talfourd’s reply amounted to this,—(in the fewest words\npossible). The _will_ &c. is of course an absurdity. The papers are the\nundoubted property of the creditors ... any attempt to publish them\nwould subject you to an action at law. They were given prospectively to\nyou _exactly for the reason I suggested_: they having been in the first\ninstance offered to Talfourd. Haydon knew that T. would never print them\nin their offensive integrity, and hoped that _you would_—being quite\nof the average astuteness in worldly matters when his own vanity and\nselfishness were not concerned. They might, these papers, be published\nwith advantage to Mrs. Haydon at some future time if the creditors\npermit—or without their permitting, if woven into a substantially new\nframework; as some ‘Haydon and his Times,’ or the like ... but there\nis nothing to call for such a step at present, even in that view of\nadvantage to the family ... the subscription and other assistances being\nsufficient for their necessities. Therefore the course T. would recommend\nyou to adopt is to let the deposit (_if_ you have one ... for he did not\n_know_, and I said nothing)—lie untouched—not giving them up to anybody,\nany creditor, to Mrs. H’s prejudice.\n\nNow, can you do better than as Forster advises? Talfourd goes on circuit\n_to-morrow_—he said, ‘I can hear, or arrange anything with Miss B’s\nbrother’—so that, if there should be no time, you can write by him, and\nentrust explanations &c. But would it not be best to get done with this\nmatter directly—to write a BRIEF note in the course of to-day, mentioning\nthe facts, and requesting advice? In order to leave you the time to do\nthis,—should the post presently bring me a letter allowing me to see you\nat three ... unless the allowance is _very_ free, _very_ irresistible ...\nI will rather take to-morrow ... a piece of self-denial I fear I should\nnot so readily bring myself to exhibit, were I not really obliged to pass\nyour house to-day; so that even Ba will understand!\n\nMiss Mitford’s note appears to have been none of the wisest—indeed a\nphrase or two I heard, were purely foolish: H. was said to have practised\n‘Ion’s principle’!\n\nT. had known Haydon most intimately and for a long time: he does not\nbelieve H. was mad—of a mad vanity, of course. His _last_ paper ...\n‘Haydon’s Thoughts’ ... was a dissertation on the respective merits of\nNapoleon and Wellington—how wrong Haydon felt he had been to prefer the\nformer ... and the why and the wherefore. All this wretched stuff, in a\nroom theatrically arranged,—here his pictures, there ... God forgive us\nall, fools or wise by comparison! The debts are said to be £3,000 ... he\nhaving been an insolvent debtor ... how long before? His landlord, a poor\nman, is creditor for £1,200.\n\nHere I will end, and wait: this is written in _all_ haste ... and is so\naltogether no proper letter of _mine_ that I shall put the necessary\n‘Private’ at the top of it. _My_ letter shall go presently, if _I_ do not\ngo, to my own Ba—\n\n                                                                      R.B.\n\nShould you write to your brother ... will he need reminding that Talfourd\nis only to know we correspond,—not that we are personally acquainted? Had\nyou not better mention this in any case?\n\nGod bless you, dearest,—what a letter from me to you—to Ba! _Time_, Time!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 9, 1846.]\n\nMy own darling, my Ba, do you know when I read those letters (as soon\nas I remembered I had got them,—for you hold me long after both doors,\nup and down stairs, shut) when I looked through them, under a gateway\n... I was pricked at the heart to have thought so, and spoken so, of\nthe poor writer. I will believe that he was good and even great when\nin communication with you—indeed all men are made, or make themselves,\ndifferent in their approaches to different men—and the secret of goodness\nand greatness is in choosing _whom_ you will approach, and live with, in\nmemory or imagination, through the crowding obvious people who seem to\nlive with you. That letter about the glory of being a painter ‘if only\nfor the neglect’ is most touching and admirable ... there is the serene\nspot attained, the solid siren’s isle amid the sea; and while _there_,\nhe was safe and well ... but he would put out to sea again, after a\nbreathing time, I suppose? though even a smaller strip of land was\nenough to maintain Blake, for one instance, in power and glory through\nthe poor, fleeting ‘sixty years’—then comes the rest from cartooning and\nexhibiting. But there is no standing, one foot on land and one on the\nwaves, now with the high aim in view, now with the low aim,—and all the\nstrange mistaken talk about ‘prestiges,’ ‘Youth and its luck,’ Napoleon\nand the world’s surprise and interest. There comes the low aim between\nthe other,—an organ grinds Mr. Jullien’s newest dance-tune, and Camoens\nis vexed that the ‘choral singing which brought angels down,’ can’t also\ndraw street-passengers round.\n\nI take your view of H.’s freedom, at that time, from the thoughts of what\nfollowed.\n\nHe was weak—a strong man would have borne what so many bear—what were\nhis griefs, as grief _goes_? Do you remember I told you, when the news\nof Aliwal and the other battles came to England, of our gardener, and\nhis son, a sergeant in one of the regiments engaged ... how the father\ncould learn nothing at first, of course ... how they told him at the\nHorse Guards he should be duly informed in time, after his betters,\nwhether this son was dead, or wounded. Since then, no news came ...\n‘which is _good_ news’ the father persuaded himself to think ... so the\napprehensions subside, and the hope confirms itself, more and more,\nwhile the old fellow digs and mows and rakes away, like a man painting\nhistorical pictures ... only without the love of it. Well, this morning\nwe had his daughter here to say ‘the letter’ had arrived at last ...\nher brother was killed in the first battle, so there’s an end of the\nthree months’ sickness of heart,—and the poor fellow must bear his loss\n‘like a man’—or like a woman ... for I recollect another case, of an\nold woman whom my mother was in the habit of relieving,—who brought a\nletter one day which she could hardly understand—it was from her son,\na sailor, and went on for a couple of pages about his good health and\nexpectations,—then, in a different handwriting, somebody, ‘your son’s\nshipmate’ ‘took up his pen to inform you that he fell from the masthead\ninto the sea and was drowned yesterday,—which he therefore thought it\nright to put in the unfinished letter.’ All which the old woman bore\nsomehow,—seeing she lives yet.\n\nWell,—ought not I to say Mr. Kenyon was as kind as usual, and his party\nas pleasant? No, for you know—what you cannot by possibility know, it\nseems, is, that I am not particularly engaged next Saturday! Ba, shall I\nreally see you so soon? Bless you ever, my very, very own! I shall not\nhear to-day ... but to-morrow,—do but not keep me waiting for _that_\nletter, and the mules shall be ready hours and hours, for any sign I will\nhave, at La Cava!\n\n                                                              Ever your R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                                [Post-mark, July 9, 1846.]\n\nSee what an account we have this morning of La Cava ... ‘quite impossible\nfor the winter.’ What does ‘quite impossible’ quite mean, I wonder? I\nfeel disappointed. As to Palermo, you would rather be in Italy, and so\nwould I, perhaps. Salerno seems questionable too; and Vietri ... what of\nVietri? I don’t at all see why we should receive the responses of this\nfriend of my friend who is not so very much my friend, as if they were\noracular and final. There must be the right of appeal for us to other\nauthorities. Will you investigate and think a little? For my part I shall\nnot care to what place we go, except for the climate’s sake—the cheapness\ntoo should be considered a little: and, for the rest, every place which\nyou should like, I should like, and which you liked most, I should like\nmost—everything is novelty to _me_, remember.\n\nMy uncle Hedley has just come now, and I must quicken my writing. Oh—to\nbe so troubled just now ... just now!—But I wrote to Mr. Serjeant\nTalfourd last night, and told him as fully and as briefly as I could the\nwhole position ... and _that_ vexation I shall try now to throw behind\nme, after the fashion of dear Mr. Kenyon’s philosophy. I put the thought\nof you, beloved, between me and all other thoughts—surely I _can_, when\nyou were here only yesterday. So much to think of, there is! One thing\nmade me laugh in the recollection. Do you mean to tell Mrs. Jameson that\nyou are going to marry me, ‘because it is intolerable to hear me talked\nof?’ That would be an original motive. ‘So speaks the great poet.’—\n\nAh Flush, Flush!—he did not hurt you really? You will forgive him for me?\nThe truth is that he hates all unpetticoated people, and that though he\ndoes not hate _you_, he has a certain distrust of you, which any outward\nsign, such as the umbrella, reawakens. But if you had seen how sorry and\nashamed he was yesterday! I slapped his ears and told him that he never\nshould be loved again: and he sate on the sofa (sitting, not lying) with\nhis eyes fixed on me all the time I did the flowers, with an expression\nof quite despair in his face. At last I said, ‘If you are good, Flush,\nyou may come and say that you are sorry’ ... on which he dashed across\nthe room and, trembling all over, kissed first one of my hands and then\nanother, and put up his paws to be shaken, and looked into my face with\nsuch great beseeching eyes that you would certainly have forgiven him\njust as I did. It is not savageness. If he once loved you, you might pull\nhis ears and his tail, and take a bone out of his mouth even, and he\nwould not bite you. He has no savage caprices like other dogs and men I\nhave known.\n\nWriting of Flush, in my uncle comes, and then my cousin, and then my aunt\n... _by relays!_ and now it is nearly four and this letter may be too\nlate for the post which reaches you irregularly. So provoked I am!—but I\nshall write again, to-night, you know.\n\nDearest, you did me so much good yesterday! Say how your head is—and\nremember Saturday. Saturday will be clear through Chiswick—may the sun\nshine on it!—\n\n                                                              Your own BA.\n\nThink of the dreadful alternative as set forth in this MS.!—The English\n... or a bad climate!—_Can_ it be true?\n\n\nENCLOSURE\n\n[La Cava is _impossible_ for the winter owing to the damp and cold. At\nno season should any person remain out at the hour of sunset. An hour\n_afterwards_ the air is dry and healthy—[Is this at La Cava? Ba] This\napplies to all Italy, and is a precaution too often neglected. Salerno\nhas bad air too near it, to be safe as a residence. Besides, it is\ntotally without the resources of books, good food, or medical advice.\nPalermo would be agreeable in the winter, and not _very_ much frequented\nby English. _However, where good climate exists, English are to be\nfound._ Murray’s ‘Southern Italy’ would give every particular as to the\ndistance of La Cava from the sea.]",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 10, 1846.]\n\nHow I have waited for your letter to-night,—and it comes nearly at\nten!—It comes at last—thank you for it, ever dearest.\n\nAnd I knew—quite understood yesterday, that you were sorry for _me_,\nwhich made you angry with another ... but, as to poor Haydon, you are too\ngenerous and too pitiful to refuse him any justice. I was sure that the\nletters would touch you. The particular letter about the ‘back-ground’\nand the ‘neglect’ and Napoleon, ... _that_, you will observe, was the\nlast I had from him. Every word you say of it, I think and feel. Yes,\nit was just _so_! His conscience was not a sufficient witness, ... nor\nwas God. He must also have the Royal Academy and the appreciators of\nTom Thumb. A ‘weak man,’ of course he was,—for all vain men are weak\nmen. They cannot stand alone. But that he had in him the elements\nof greatness—that he looked to noble aims in art and life, however\ndistractedly, ... that his thoughts and feelings were not those of a\ncommon man, ... it is true, it is undeniable,—and you would think so\nmore and more if you read through the packets of letters which I have\nof his—so fervid, so full of earnestness and individuality ... so alive\nwith egotism which yet seemed to redeem itself. Mr. Kenyon said of the\nletter we have spoken of, that it was scarcely the production of a sane\nmind. But I who was used to his letters, saw nothing in it in the least\nunusual—he has written to me far wilder letters! That he ‘never should\ndie,’ he had said once or twice before. Then Napoleon was a favourite\nsubject of his ... constantly recurred to. He was not mad _then_!\n\nPoor Haydon! Think what an agony, life was to him, so constituted!—his\nown genius a clinging curse! the fire and the clay in him seething and\nquenching one another!—the man seeing maniacally in all men the assassins\nof his fame! and, with the whole world against him, struggling for the\nthing which was his life, through night and day, in thoughts and in\ndreams ... struggling, stifling, breaking the hearts of the creatures\ndearest to him, in the conflict for which there was no victory, though he\ncould not choose but fight it. Tell me if Laocoon’s anguish was not as an\ninfant’s sleep, compared to this? And could a man, suffering _so_, stop\nto calculate very nicely the consideration due to A, and the delicacy\nwhich should be observed toward B? Was he scrupulously to ask himself\nwhether this or that cry of his might not give C a headache? Indeed no,\nno. It is for _us_ rather to look back and consider! Poor Haydon.\n\nAs to grief as grief—of course he had no killing grief. But he _suffered_.\n\nOften it has struck me as a curious thing (yet it is not perhaps curious)\nthat suicides are occasioned nearly always by a mortified self-love ...\nby losses in money, which force a man into painful positions ... and\nscarcely ever by bereavement through death ... scarcely ever. The wound\non the vanity is more irritating than the wound on the affections—and\nthe word _Death_, if it does not make us recoil (which it does I think\nsometimes, ... even from the graves of beloved beings!), yet keeps us\nhumble ... casts us down from our heights. We may despond, but we do not\nrebel—we feel God over us.\n\nAh—your poor gardener! All that hope is vain—and the many, many hopes\nwhich in a father’s heart must have preceded it! How sorry I am for\nhim.[4]\n\nYou never can have a grief, dearest dearest, of which I shall not have\nhalf for my share. That is my right from henceforth ... and if I could\nhave it _all_ ... _would_ I not, do you think, ... and give my love to\nyou to keep instead? Yes, ... indeed yes! May God bless you always.\nI have walked out to-day, you did me so much good yesterday. As for\nSaturday, it certainly is our day, since you are not ‘particularly\nengaged’ to Miss Campbell. Saturday, the day after to-morrow! But\nthe mules may wait long at La Cava for us, if the tradition, which I\nsent you, is trustworthy—may they not? I feel as disappointed ... as\ndisappointed—\n\n                                                    Your own, very own BA.\n\n[4] [Some months later the discovery was made that there had been a\nmistake in the War Office in the name, and that the son was\nunharmed.—R.B.B.]",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 10, 1846.]\n\nAnd _I_ am disappointed, dearest, in this news of La Cava—after which\nit would be madness to think of going there: the one reason we have to\ngo at all is simply _for your health_—I mean, that if the seclusion\nwere the main object, we might easily compass _that_ here. All places\nare utterly indifferent to me if I can inhabit them with you—why should\nPalermo please me less than Italy proper? The distance is considerable,\nhowever, and the journey expensive—I wonder whether the steamer will\nsail for Leghorn as last year. As for the travelling English, they are\nhorrible, and at Florence, unbearable ... their voices in your ear at\nevery turn ... and such voices!—I got to very nearly hate the Tribune for\ntheir sakes. Vietri is close to Salerno and must be obvious to the same\ncondemnation. Your friend speaks from personal experience, I presume—she\nmay well say that the baneful effects of the hour of sunset (_i.e._ the\nAve-maria) are too much overlooked ‘in all Italy’—I never heard of them\nbefore—but an infinity of ‘crotchets’ go from Italian brain to brain\nabout what, in eating or drinking or walking or sleeping, will be the\ndeath of you: still, they may know best. The most dreadful event that\ncould happen to me would be your getting worse instead of better.... God\nknows what I should do! So whatever precaution we _can_ take, let us take.\n\nOh, poor Flush,—do you think I do not love and respect him for his\njealous supervision,—his slowness to know another, having once known\nyou? All my apprehension is that, in the imaginations down-stairs, he\nmay very unconsciously play the part of the dog that is heard to ‘bark\nviolently’ while something dreadful takes place: yet I do not sorrow over\nhis slapped ears, as if they ever pained him very much—you dear Ba!\n\nAnd to-morrow I shall see you. Are you, can you be, really ‘better’ after\nI have seen you? If it is not truth ... which I will not say ... such an\nassurance is the most consummate flattery I can imagine ... it may be\nrecorded on my tombstone ‘R.B.—to whom this flattery was addressed, that,\nafter the sight of him, Ba was better, she said.’ If it is truth ... may\nyou say _that_, neither more nor less, day by day, year by year through\nour lives—and I shall have lived indeed!\n\nHow it rains—how it varies from hot to cold! a pretty vantage-ground\nwhence we English can look and call other climates bad or indifferent!\nNow if to-morrow resembles to-day, will the Chiswick expedition hold\ngood? I shall consider that I may go unless a letter comes to-morrow ...\nwhich would have to be written to-day. How pleasant it would be to make\nour days _always_ Wednesday and Saturday ... could not that be contrived?\nSo much for considerateness and contentedness!\n\nI want, now, to refer as little as possible to the sad subject ... but I\nam glad you have written,—glad too that you are not severe on me for some\nhasty speeches—which did, indeed, mean as you say ... vexation at your\nhaving been vexed. And, I will just add, you remark excellently on the\nwound to self-love making itself that remedy, rather than the wound to\nthe affections ... yet there are instances ... Romilly loses his wife ...\nso does poor Laman Blanchard.\n\nSo I go on writing, writing about all but what my heart is full of! Let\nme kiss you, ever dearest—to-morrow will soon arrive—meanwhile, and\nforever I am your own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 12, 1846.]\n\nWhen I made you promise to refer no more to that subject in your letter\n(which I must wait a day and a night for, alas!), I did not engage\nmyself to the like silence ... perhaps because I was not bidden—or,\nno! there is a better reason; I want to beg your pardon, dearest, for\nall that petulancy,—for the manner of what I said rather than the\nmatter,—there is a rationality in it all, if I could express trulier what\nI feel—but the manner was foolish and wrong and unnecessary to _you_—so\ndo forgive and forget it. You would understand and sympathize if you\nknew—not me, whom you do know in some degree,—but so much of my early\nlife as would account for the actual horror and hatred I have of those\nparticular doctrines of the world—and the especially foolish word about\nthe ‘travelling’ meant something like the not unnatural thought that if\nin this main, sole event for all good and all evil in my life,—if _here_\nthe world plucked you from me by any of the innumerable lines it casts,\nwith that indirectness, too,—_then_, I should simply go and live the rest\nof my days as far out of it as I could.\n\nThe simple thing to say is, that I who know you to be above me in all\ngreat or good feelings and therefore worship you, must be without excuse\nto talk inconsiderately as if I, sitting by you and speaking of the same\nsubject, must needs feel more acutely, more strongly in one respect\nwhere, indeed, it wants very little pre-eminence in heart or brain\nto feel entirely the truth—a simplest of truths. It would have been\nlaughable if I had broken out on Mrs. Proctor’s bitterness of speech,\nfor instance ... just as though you were the slower of us two to see the\nnature of it! So I do again ask your pardon, dearest Ba! You said you\nloved me no less yesterday than ever—how must I love you and press closer\nto you more and more, and desire to see nothing of the world behind you,\nwhen I hear how the world thinks, and how you think! You only, only\nadorable woman, only imaginable love for me! And all the hastiness and\npetulancy comes from that ... someone seems to come close (in every such\nmaxim of the world’s) and say ‘What is _she_—to so much a year? Could\nyou be happy with her except in Mayfair—and there whom could you not be\nhappy with!’\n\nIt is as I expected—Rachel plays on Wednesday in ‘Phèdre,’ and our friend\nwrites to say he has secured places. May nothing overcast the perfect\nthree hours on Tuesday,—those dear, dear spaces of dear brightness—why\ncannot a life be made up of these ... with the proper interposition\nof work, to justify God’s goodness so far as poor mortality and its\nendeavours can,—a week of Tuesdays—then a month—a year—a life! I\nmust long to see you again,—always by far the most I long, the _next\nday_—the very day after I have seen you—when it is freshest in my mind\nwhat I did _not_ say while I might have said it,—nor ask while I might\nhave been answered—nor learn while you would have taught me—no, it is\nindescribable. Did I call yesterday ‘unsatisfactory’? Would I had it back\nnow! Or better, I will wish you here when I write, with the trees to see\nand the birds to hear through the open window—I see you on this old chair\nagainst the purple back ... or shall you lie on the sofa? Ba, how I love\nyou, my own perfect unapproachable mistress.\n\nLet me kiss your feet—and now your hands and your eyes—and your lips now,\nfor the full pardon’s sake, my sweetest love—\n\n                                                            Ever your own—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday. 6 P.M.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 13, 1846.]\n\nEver, ever dearest, I have to _feel_ for you all through Sunday, and\nI hear no sound and see no light. How are you? how did you get home\nyesterday? I thought of you more than usual after you went, if I did not\nlove you as much as usual.... What could _that_ doubt have been made of?\n\nDearest, I had a letter last night from Mrs. Jameson, who says that on\n_Tuesday or Wednesday_ at about four o’clock (though she is as little\nsure of the hour apparently as of the day), she means to come to see me.\nNow you are to consider whether this _grand peutêtre_ will shake our\nTuesday, ... whether you would rather take Thursday instead, or will\nrun the risk as it appears. I am ready to agree, either way. She is the\nmost uncertain of uncertain people, and may not come at all ... it’s a\ncase for what Hume used to call sceptical scepticism. Judge! Then I have\nheard (I forgot to tell you) from Mr. Horne—and ... did _you_ have two\nletters last week from your Bennet? ... because _I_ had,—flying leaves of\n‘Mignonette,’ and other lyrical flowers.\n\nWhen you had gone Arabel came to persuade me to go to the park in a\ncab, notwithstanding my too lively recollections of the last we chanced\nupon,—and I was persuaded, and so we tumbled one over another (yet not\nall those cabs are so rough!) to the nearest gate opening on the grass,\nand got out and walked a little. A lovely evening it was, but I wished\nsomehow rather to be at home, and Flush had his foot pinched in shutting\nthe cab-door, ... and altogether there was not much gain:—only, as for\nFlush’s foot, though he cried piteously and held it up, looking straight\nto me for sympathy, no sooner had he touched the grass than he began\nto run without a thought of it. Flush always makes the most of his\nmisfortunes—he is of the Byronic school—_il se pose en victime_.\n\nNow I will not write any more—I long to have my letter of to-morrow\nmorning—I _long_ to have it.... Shall I not have it to-morrow morning?\nThis is posted by my hand.\n\nI loved you yesterday ... I love you to-day ... I shall love you\nto-morrow.\n\n                          Every day I am yours.\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 13, 1846.]\n\nMy own Ba, your letter kisses me in its entire kindness—and I kiss it and\nyou.—Mrs. Jameson may come or keep away ... (since you let me speak and\ndecide, which is like you) ... she may appoint and reappoint, but Tuesday\nwas given me and I will have it if her visit is the only obstacle—for\nwhat was all the confessing worth if not to account for such a phenomenon\nas my presence in your room when by any chance she might discover it?\nBeside, as you say, she is the most uncertain of engagement-holders\n... no, indeed,—no Tuesday ought to be given up for _her_! Therefore,\nunless fresh orders arrive,—at three on Tuesday ... which is happily,\nhappily to-morrow! You are my own sweetest to reach a letter to me with\nyour own hand, as you tell me,—and the drive, and the walk to the Post\nOffice—thank you, Ba! Perhaps ... dare I say ... you will answer that\nletter I sent yesterday ... because now I remember there is no prayer\nat the end to prevent you ... that is, from answering the main part of\nit—the reverting &c.\n\nI wrote to Mr. Horne, but shall not hear from him—on Saturday I wrote.\nAnd Mr. Bennett’s two letters are considerately written,—directed, I\nmean,—in a hand and with a blue ink that I recognise,—consequently\nthe contents give me no trouble. I wrote two or three lines to the\n‘year of the world’ poet,—did you take the pains? Once on a time some\nunknown author sent me a Tragedy, ‘not published,’ called ‘Alessandro\nde’ Medici,’ with some striking scenes ... I wonder who could be the\nwriter—did it ever fall in your way?\n\n... As if I care!—can I care about anything that is not Ba? All else\nseems as idle as ... as,—now you shall have a real instance in point—as\nmy dream last night. This morning at breakfast my mother asked me, the\nfirst thing, what could so amuse me as to make me call loudly ‘Bravo’\nagain and again, with abundance of laughter? (My room is next to hers and\nthe door is left ajar). Whereupon I tried to recall my dream—and all that\nI can seize is a passage through a gallery of _Haydon’s_ pictures, one\nof which was a portrait of his wife; nor did a suspicion once cross my\nmind that the artist was not well and working somewhere in the vicinity\nall the time—How strange! I never dream if _quite_ well—and I suppose the\npresent state of my head just amounts to _not_ being quite well. (It is\nbetter at any rate, and to-morrow—ought to be worse, that—Ba may prove\nher potency as of old).\n\nNow I will kiss you and wait as well as I can till the full blessing.\nDearest—dearest I am your own—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 14, 1846.]\n\nI must write ... even if you come to-morrow. Dearest, if I told you\nall that nonsense on Saturday, it was for the sake of telling you all\nand of hearing you say ‘What nonsense’ afterwards. I never began by\ndisguising anything from you ... did I? I always wished you to see how\nthe arrows would strike out at us from that bush and this bush. At _us_.\nFor, granting that you seriously thought it possible for such motives to\ndivide me from you, ... ah, _granting_ it, ... and _you may well ask my\npardon_!\n\nThe world! the world could as soon catch me with a ‘line’ so baited, as\nyou could catch a trout with a silver sixpence at the end of a string.\nNot only do I think with you entirely on that subject, but I always\nthought like you. Always I have hated all their worldly systems, and\nnot merely _now_, and since I _have loved you_. With a hundred a year\nbetween us, I would have married you, if _you_ had not been afraid. And\nso, think whether directly or ‘indirectly’ I am likely to be frightened\ninto the breach of an engagement by what I repeated to you or by what is\nlike unto it. No—my weaknesses are of a different class altogether.\n\nThe talk I talked over again to you, seemed to burn in my ears the\nlonger on that Saturday, because, while it was being originally talked\nbetween Papa and my aunt (touching Arabella Hedley’s marriage), he had\nbrought a paper for me to sign about some money placed on a railway,\n(not speculatively) ... and my aunt, by way of saying a lively thing,\nexclaimed, ‘Is that your marriage-settlement, my dear?’ ... which made me\nso nervous that I wrote my name wrong and vexed Papa into being almost\ncross with me. So one word got entwined with another, and all seemed to\nhang around me—Do you understand?\n\nBut you _do not_, how you pained me when you said _that_. Ah—I thought I\nsaw you gone ... ‘so far, so far,’ as you said ... and myself left.\n\nYet I should deserve it of course, if I were to give you up for the sake\nof _that_! ... or for any other motive, ... except your advantage ...\nyour own. I should deserve everything in such a case, but should feel\nnothing ... not even my punishment. _Could_ I? ... _being without a\nheart_?\n\nAh—after all my mistrust, did I ever mistrust you _so_? I have doubted\nyour power to love me as you believed you loved me, perhaps—but your will\nto be true to one you loved, without reference to worldly influences, I\nnever doubted, nor _could_. I think I will let you beg my pardon; you\nunjust, dearest....\n\nTo so much over-praise, there should be a little wronging, too ... and\ntherefore you are not, after all, ‘unjust’ ... only ‘dearest’!...\n\nSuch a letter, besides, you have written, ... and there are two of them\nto-day! You will not go from me, I think, ‘so far, so far.’ You will not\nleave me behind, with the harpoon in me, to make red the salt wilderness\nof waters.\n\nAltogether, then, I forgive you, Robert—and it is glorious for me to have\nsomething to forgive you for, who are the _best_ so out of measure!—I\nseize the opportunity.\n\nAnd you come to-morrow! Which is right ... right! I was afraid that you\nwould not come—And Mrs. Jameson is perfectly uncertain as you may read in\nthis new note which reached me with yours to-night.\n\nAll the Hedleys have dined here. To-morrow will be clear of them ...\n_pure_ of them, I was going to write ... but I thought of Mrs. Hedley’s\nbeaming affectionate face ... (so still lovely, she looked this evening,\nwhen she came up-stairs to kiss me!) ... and could not say such a\nwronging word. You would like her—you could not help it.\n\nI was in the carriage to-day in Oxford Street ... and a sealed letter\nwas thrown exactly at my head, my aunt and cousin and Henrietta being\nwith me—a sealed letter sealed with arms (not of Agincourt!) and directed\n‘For your perusal.’ Guess the meaning of that!—why just a tract by the\nRev. Villiers of that parish, upon the enormous wickedness of frequenting\nplays and balls! Perhaps I looked as if my soul had entered into the\nsecret of the Polka-dancers—who can say?\n\nSo, good-night, dearest dearest!—\n\nI cannot give myself again to you,\n\n                             being your own.\n\nOf course this was written with the poker, as you will see by the\ncalligraphy.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 15, 1846.]\n\nAnd is it true of to-day as you said it would be, ever dearest, that you\nwish to be with me? Let me have the comfort, or luxury rather, of the\nthought of it, before to-morrow takes you a step farther off.\n\nAt dinner my aunt said to Papa ... ‘I have not seen Ba all day—and when\nI went to her room, to my astonishment a gentleman was sitting there.’\n‘Who was _that_?’ said Papa’s eyes to Arabel—‘Mr. Browning called here\nto-day,’ she answered—‘And Ba bowed her head,’ continued my aunt, ‘as\nif she meant to signify to me that I was not to come in’—‘Oh,’ cried\nHenrietta, ‘_that_ must have been a mistake of yours. Perhaps she meant\njust the contrary.’ ‘You should have gone in,’ Papa said, ‘and seen the\n_poet_.’ Now if she really were to do that the next time!—Yet I did\nnot, you know, make the expelling gesture she thought she saw. Simply I\nwas startled. As to Saturday we must try whether we cannot defend the\nposition ... set the guns against the approaches to right and left ... we\nmust try.\n\nIn speaking too of your visit this morning, Stormy said to her ... ‘Oh\nMr. Browning is a _great_ friend of Ba’s! He comes here twice a week—is\nit twice a week or once, Arabel?’\n\nWhile I write, the Hedleys come—and Mrs. Hedley is beseeching me into\nseeing Mr. Bevan, whom perhaps I must see, notwithstanding Flush’s wrongs.\n\nBy the way, I made quite clear to Flush that you left the cakes, and they\nwere very graciously received indeed.\n\nDearest, since the last word was written, Mrs. Hedley came back leading\nMr. Bevan, and Papa who had just entered the room found the door shut\nupon him.... I was nervous ... oh, so nervous! and the six feet, and\nsomething more, of Mr. Bevan seemed to me as if they never would end,\nso tall the man is. Well—and he sate down by me according to my aunt’s\narrangement; and I, who began to talk a thousand miles from any such\nsubject, with a good reason for the precaution, found myself thrown\nhead-foremost into ecclesiastical architecture at the close of about\nthree minutes—how he got there all his saints know best! It’s his subject\n... par excellence. He talks to Arabella about arches and mullions—he\ncan’t talk of anything else, I suspect. And because the Trinity is\nexpressed in _such_ a form of church-building, the altar at the east,\nand the baptistery at the door, ... there’s no other lawful form of a\nchurch, none at all! Not that he has an opinion! he ‘adopts opinions,’\nbut would not think for himself for the world at the risk of ultimate\ndamnation! Which was the amount of his talk to-day ... and really it does\nnot strike me as wisdom, now that I set it down so. Yet the man expressed\nhimself well and has a sensible face—he is a clever third-class man, I\nthink—better than the mass for sense, but commonplace essentially. Only,\ninasmuch as ecclesiastical architecture is not _my_ subject, I may think\notherwise of him when I know him otherwise. I do not dislike him now.\nAnd then I am conscious how you spoil me for common men, dearest! It is\nscarcely fair on them.\n\nMy aunt (Mrs. Hedley) said when she introduced him: ‘You are to\nunderstand this to be a great honour—for she never lets anybody come here\nexcept Mr. Kenyon, ... and a few other gentlemen’ ... (laughing). Said\nPapa—‘Only _one_ other gentleman, indeed. Only Mr. Browning, the poet—the\nman of the pomegranates.’ Was _that_ likely to calm me, do you think?\nHow late it is—I must break off. To-night I shall write again. Dearest\nbeloved,\n\n                                                     I am your own always.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 15, 1846.]\n\nDearest Ba, I am anxious to know what cannot yet be told me, how that\nunforeseen visit has worked—tell me the moment you can,—and fully,\nwhatever happens.\n\n‘Suspicious’—anything in the world rather than _that_, you are! When\nyou have mistrusted your own power over me, I believed always in the\nmistrust ... which, indeed, matters little except to yourself. For if I\nwould, certainly, have the truth seen as the truth, and our true position\nunderstood,—yet ... there is,—ought I not to be ashamed at saying?—an\nexquisite, _final_ grace and _endearingness_ in the ignorance, strange as\nI must account it. You doubly trust me,—with the treasure, and then, with\nthe knowledge that it is a treasure, or _such_ a treasure.\n\nBa, when I think of it all, my whole heart becomes one gratitude to\nyou,—I am only yours, grateful for ever. It is the only kind of thoughts\nin which you _shall_ not share (there are many in which you _cannot_) the\nthoughts to my inmost self as I go over what you say and do and try to\nclear up to myself the precise fascination in each: you shall not know\nwhat you do ... but shall continue to do and to let _me know_. I love\nyou entirely. Where can you change so that I shall not love you more\nand more as I grow more able and worthier? I cannot sit for twenty-four\nhours by you as I sit for three—as it is, I take myself to task for not\ndoing something here at home to justify in some measure my privilege and\nblessing—and the only thing that keeps conscience quiet comparatively\nis ... the old expedient that the Future engages to do for me what the\nPresent cannot. Under your eyes, I will hope to work and attain your\napproval. _I know_ that when you were only the great Poet and not my Ba,\nI would have preferred _your_ praise, as competent to praise, to that\nof the whole world—I remember distinctly, and _know_ I should have done\nso. And now, if I put aside the Poet and only (what an ‘only’) see my\ndearest, dearest lady of that hair and eyes, and hands, and voice, and\nall the completeness that was trusted to my arms yesterday—why I feel\nthat if she, never having written a line, said ‘What Miss Barrett may\nthink I do not know, but _I_ am content with what you show me’—then,\ndearest, should not _I_ be content—?\n\nI called on Moxon—and called at Carlyle’s to no purpose. He was out,\nand will leave town (said the servant) next Saturday. Mrs. Carlyle has\nalready left it. So, no Rag Fair for the present, or probably ever! This\nwas my fault,—I having let several Sundays go by—I must write to Mr.\nKenyon and try if he will come on his own account. Moxon tells me that he\nhas sold fifteen hundred of Tennyson’s Poems in a year—and is about to\nprint another edition in consequence. If that is the case, and Tennyson\ngets, say, only half a crown by the sale of each copy, expenses deducted,\nhe will have received 178_l._,—little enough, as payments are made to\n_Punch_-literature, but enough to live upon, whatever the awful fiat\ndecides! Tennyson ‘is going’ to Switzerland presently with Moxon—but is\nliable to fits of indecision. He did talk of going to Italy (of course),\nbut the other day, time being up, his brother was forced to proceed\nalone. Moxon is coming here first.\n\nNow I will kiss you, dearest, and hope that Wimpole Street stands where\nit did, unhurt by explosions of any-kind. I have got a letter from\nProcter asking me to go to-day, which I cannot do. Ever your own, very\nown R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 16, 1846.]\n\nWell! I anticipated your asking, I think, and told you _fully_ this\nmorning. It was a chronicle I sent you, rather than a letter. And\nnothing is left to tell you—for I did not go out all day ... nor\nyesterday. Which was wrong. But I had visitor on visitor to-day, ... my\nold maid coming to bring me her baby to look at, to Flush’s infinite\ndelight. Whenever she comes he devotes himself to her, stays with her\ndown-stairs, lies on the corner of her gown, and, for the most part,\nforbears going to sleep. To-morrow I mean to go out ... to-morrow,—when\nyou are beginning to think rather less of me.\n\nIsn’t it ungrateful of me? _I think so._\n\nI am glad, at least, that I do not appear to you ‘suspicious.’ Because\nI dislike suspicious people myself, and it has struck me often in the\nmidst of the dislike.... ‘_That_ is how I must appear to _him_.’ Ah—but\nyou are too indulgent to me, my own dearest ... too dearest! ... and\nyou draw crooked inferences for me, shutting _both_ the eyes ... the\nnear-sighted eye and far-sighted eye. Or is it, in that strange sight of\nyours, that I walk between the far and the near objects, in an invisible\nsecurity? Or is it (which were best) that I am too near to be seen even\nby the near-sighted eye, ... like a hand brought close to the eyelashes,\nwhich, for over-closeness, nobody can see? _Let_ me be too near to be\nseen—always too near!—dearest, dearest! Never will I complain that you do\nnot see me! Be sure of that, now.\n\nOnce I used to be more uneasy, and to think that I ought to _make_ you\nsee me. But Love is better than Sight, and Love will do without Sight.\nWhich I did not understand at first. I knew it was enough for _me_,\nthat you should love me. That it was enough for _you_, I had to learn\nafterwards.\n\nAnd ‘_Grateful_’ is my word and not yours. I am grateful to you,\nif to owe you all the sense of life, all the renewal of hope, all\nthe possibility of happiness ... if to owe these things to another,\nconsciously, feelingly, shall pass for gratitude, ... then _I_ am\ngrateful to _you_, Robert. Do you not know it, that I should say it\nagain? For me, it seems to me that I can do nothing in return. To love\nyou! Why no woman in the world could do less.\n\nI am glad, both for the public and Tennyson, that his poems sell so\nwell—and presently you will do as well or better—and I, half as well\nperhaps; so that we shall be too rich, which will spoil it all ... won’t\nit?\n\nMr. Horne sent me the _Daily News_ to-day, ... the number containing\nhis verses on Haydon ... and I cut from it an advertisement, for the\npurpose of bidding you observe that the land journey, or river-voyage,\nis very much cheaper than the sea-voyage by the steamers—unless the\ndirect vessel to Leghorn should go as last year, and I fear it will\nnot. The steamer-charges of the Oriental company are immense. Nineteen\nguineas to Gibraltar even! Twenty-eight, I think, to Naples. As for the\nadvertisement, I send it only for what it suggests. And there is time\nenough for calculations, all ways suggestible.\n\nMay God bless you, dear, _dear_! How is the head? Shall it be better,\nwithout me, until Saturday? Say how it is.\n\nAmong all my visitors, the only one I expected, never came! No Mrs.\nJameson again to-day!—\n\n                       Dearest, I am your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 16, 1846.]\n\nI should be doing your own dear face (which I see so perfectly through\nthe distance)—too great a wrong if I so much as answered the charge of\n‘not remembering.’ I see the face smile above the hand that writes! As if\none may not say that a division, a wound, smarts more on the first day,\nand aches more on the next! As if I do not prefer the fresh sharp regret\nto the settling of ... what I trust in God and you I never shall feel!\nHowever, if it will please you to know, I _do_ feel to-day as earnest a\nlonging to be with you again as if your two letters were not here,—as if\nTuesday lay only an hour behind instead of the two long days!\n\nI think your Father’s words on those two occasions, very kind,—very!\nThey confuse,—perhaps humble me ... that is not the expression, but it\nmay stay. I dare say he is infinitely kind at bottom—I think so, that\nis, on my own account,—because, come what will or may, I shall never see\notherwise than with your sight. If he could know me, I think he would\nsoon reconcile himself to all of it,—know my heart’s purposes toward\nyou. But that is impossible—and with the sincere will to please him by\nany exertion or sacrifice in my power, I shall very likely never have\nthe opportunity of picking up a glove he might drop. In old novels, the\nimplacable father is not seldom set upon by a round dozen of ruffians\nwith blacked faces from behind a hedge,—and just as the odds prove too\nmany, suddenly a stranger (to all save the reader) leaps over an adjacent\nditch, &c. ‘Sir, under Providence, I owe you my life!’ &c. &c. How\ndoes Dumas improve on this in ‘Monte Cristo’—are there ‘new effects?’\nAbsurdity! Yet I would fain ... fain! you understand.\n\nTo talk about my ‘spoiling you for other conversers’ is ... oh, leap\nover hedge and ditch, somebody, to the rescue! If I praise myself for\nanything in our intimacy it is that I never ... but I won’t go into it.\nAnd putting my own experience aside and in its place, it strikes me that\nwhat Ba ranks as a ‘third-rate man’ may pass justly for a paragon and\nmarvel among men as the world has a right to class them. I am quite sure\nif I had been present and much had uttered itself about mullions ...\n_somebody_ would have looked a very babe in knowledge, and perhaps made\nBa blush for him and her own waste of love and praise—So he retreats\nwhere he may keep it all in virtue of being what he _is_ ever is, and\nshall be, her own R.\n\nThe river-voyage is not only the cheaper but by far the more interesting\n... _all_ to consider is the fatigue to you; what else?\n\nI am very well to-day. Rachel’s ‘Phèdre’ was admirable last night; quite\n_through_ Racine up to Euripides—the declaration-scene with Hippolytus\nexquisite ... I must tell you—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 17, 1846.]\n\nDearest, if _you_ feel _that_, must I not feel it more deeply? Twice or\nthree times lately he has said to me ‘my love’ and even ‘my puss,’ his\nold words before he was angry last year, ... and I quite quailed before\nthem as if they were so many knife-strokes. Anything but his _kindness_,\nI can bear now.\n\nYet I am glad that you feel _that_ ... The difficulty, (almost the\ndespair!) has been with me, to make you understand the two ends of truth\n... both that he is _not_ stone ... and that he _is_ immovable _as_\nstone. Perhaps only a very peculiar nature could have held so long the\nposition he holds in his family. His hand would not lie so heavily,\nwithout a pulse in it. Then he is upright—faithful to his conscience. You\nwould respect him, ... and love him perhaps in the end. For me, he might\nhave been king and father over me _to_ the end, if he had thought it\nworth while to love me openly enough—yet, even _so_, he should not have\nlet you come too near. And you could not (so) have come too near—for he\nwould have had my confidence from the beginning, and no opportunity would\nhave been permitted to you of proving your affection for me, and I should\nhave thought always what I thought at first. So the night-shade and the\neglantine are twisted, twined, one in the other, ... and the little pink\nroses lean up against the pale poison of the berries—we cannot tear this\nfrom that, let us think of it ever so much!\n\nWe must be humble and beseeching _afterwards_ at least, and try to get\nforgiven—Poor Papa! I have turned it over and over in my mind, whether\nit would be less offensive, less _shocking_ to him, if an application\nwere made first. If I were strong, I think I should incline to it at all\nrisks—but as it is, ... it might ... would, probably, ... take away the\npower of action from me altogether. We should be separated, you see,\nfrom _that moment_, ... hindered from writing ... hindered from meeting\n... and I could evade nothing, as I am—not to say that I should have\nfainting fits at every lifting of his voice, through that inconvenient\nnervous temperament of mine which has so often made me ashamed of myself.\nThen ... the positive disobedience might be a greater offence than the\nunauthorised act. I shut my eyes in terror sometimes. May God direct us\nto the best.\n\nOh—do not write about this, dearest, dearest?—I throw myself out of it\ninto the pure, sweet, deep thought of you ... which is the love of you\nalways. I am yours ... your own. I never doubt of being yours. I feel too\nmuch yours. It is might and right together. You are more to me, beside,\nthan the whole world.\n\nWrite nothing of this, dearest of all!—it is of no use. To-day ... this\nmorning ... I went out in the carriage, and we drove round the Park; and\nMrs. Jameson did not come afterward. Will she put it off till Saturday?\nI have heard nothing against Saturday, by the way, worse than that\nconjecture of mine.\n\nAnd I have written you, perhaps, a teazing, painful letter ... I, who\nlove you to-day ‘as much as ever.’ It is my destiny, I sometimes think,\nto torment you. And let me say what I will, remember how nothing that I\nsay can mean _a doubt_—you never shall have reason to reproach me for the\nfalseness of cowardice—that double falseness ... both to me and to you.\nOnly I wish this were Christmas-Day, and we ... even at Salerno ... in\nthe ‘bad air’! There’s no harm in such a wish—now _is_ there?\n\n                       Ever and ever 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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 17, 1846.]\n\nDid you ever see a more uncongenial, colourless day than this—that\nbrings me no letter! I do not despair yet, however—there will be a post\npresently. When I am without the sight of you, and the voice of you,\nwhich a letter seems ... I feel very accurately the justice of that\nfigure by which I am represented as ‘able to leave you alone—leaving you\nand following my pleasure elsewhere’—so you have written and spoken!\nWell, to-day, I may follow my pleasures.\n\nI will follow you, Ba,—the thoughts of you, and long for to-morrow.\n\nNo letter for me,—the time is past. If you are well, my own Ba, I will\nnot mind ... more than I can. You had not been out for two days—the wind\nis high, too. May God keep you at all times, ever dearest!\n\nThe sun shines again—now I will hope to hear at six o’clock.\n\nI can tell you nothing better, I think, than this I heard from Moxon\nthe other day ... it really ought to be remembered. Moxon was speaking\nof critics, the badness of their pay, how many pounds a column the\n_Times_ allowed, and shillings the _Athenæum_,—and of the inevitable\neffects on the performances of the poor fellows. ‘How should they be at\nthe trouble of reading any _difficult_ book so as to review it,—Landor,\nfor instance?’ and indeed a friend of my own has promised to write\na notice in the _Times_—but he complains bitterly,—he shall have to\n_read_ the book,—he can do no less,—and all for five or ten pounds’!\nAll which Moxon quite seemed to understand—‘it will really take him\nsome three or four mornings to read _enough_ of Landor to be able to do\nanything effectually.’ I asked if there had been any notices of the Book\nalready—‘Just so many,’ he said ‘as Forster had the power of _getting\ndone_’—Mr. White, a clergyman, has written a play for Macready, which\neverybody describes as the poorest stuff imaginable,—it is immediately\nreviewed in _Blackwood_ and the _Edinburgh_ ‘Because’ continues M, ‘he\nis a _Blackwood_ reviewer, and may do the like good turn to any of the\nconfraternity.’\n\nSo—here I will end,—wanting to come to the kissing dearest Ba, and\nbidding her remember to-morrow how my heart sinks to-day in the silence.\n\n                                     Ever, dearest dearest, your very own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 18, 1846.]\n\nIt is out of time to-night to write to you, since to-morrow we are to\nmeet—but the letter which did not reach you, has been recoiling on me\nall day. Perhaps you have it by this time ... an uncomfortable letter,\nbetter away from you, notwithstanding all the kindness you speak, about\nmy silence and the effect of _that_. So I write just a few words—The post\noffice was in fault as usual. May it do perfecter duty to-morrow.\n\nSaturday!—our day! At least if anything should be against it, you shall\nhear at the door by a note, when you come at three o’clock. I have\nput away my Thursday night’s melancholy ... except the repentance of\ntroubling you with it——understand that I have!\n\nMrs. Jameson was here to-day, and her niece, ... and _you_, never\nnamed,—but she is coming another day, she says, to pay me a longer visit.\nI like her ... I like her. Then, there came another visitor, ... my uncle\nHedley, who began, as usual, to talk of Italy—he advises me to go this\nyear.—‘If you don’t go this year, _you never will go_ ... and you ought\nat once to make an effort, and go.’ We talked of places and of ways,\nand after he had said many words in favour of Pisa, desired, if I went\nthrough Paris, that I would pay him a visit. ‘Ah,’ said I, ‘uncle Hedley,\nyou are very good to me always, but when that day arrives, you may be\ninclined, perhaps, to cast me off.’ ‘Cast you off, Ba,’ he cried in the\nmost puzzled astonishment—‘why what _can_ you mean? what words to use!\nCast you off! now do explain what you mean.’ ‘Ah, no one can tell,’ said\nI musingly. ‘Do you mean,’ he insisted, ‘because you will be a rebel and\na runaway?’ ... (laughing!) ‘no, no—_I_ won’t cast you off, I promise\nyou! Only I hope that you may be able to manage it quietly’ &c. &c.\n\nHe is a most amiable man, so gentle and tender; and fond of me;\n_exclusively_ of the poetry. I am certain that he never can make out how\nanyone in the world can consent to read my verses. But Ba, as Ba, is a\ndecided favourite of his, beyond all in the house—not that he is a real\nuncle ... only the husband of my aunt, and caring more for me than both\nmy real uncles, who, each of them, much prefer a glass of claret,—thank\nyou! The very comparison does me too much honour for either of them.\nClaret is a holy thing. If I had said half a glass, and mixed it with\nwater, I should have been more accurate by so much.\n\nNow, dearest, dearest, I say good-night and have done.\n\n                                             I am wholly yours and always.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 20, 1846.]\n\nDearest Ba’s face of yesterday, with the smiles and perfect\nsweetness,—oh, the comfort it is to me through this day of my especial\nheaviness! I don’t know when I have felt more stupid, and I seem to keep\nthe closelier to you, Ba. Is that one of my felicities of compliment?\nI think if you were here I should lay my head on your bosom, my own\nbeloved, and never raise it again. In your last letter, you speak of\nthose who care less for you than for a ‘glass of claret’—there is\nsomething sublime,—at all events, astounding, in the position we occupy\neach of us,—I, and those less-carers,—standing in respect to each other\nso like England and Owhyhee, at which, they told me when I was a boy, I\nshould be pretty sure to arrive if I dug a hole just through the earth,\ndropped to the centre and then, turning round, climbed straight up!\n\nI left here, yesterday, without taking the prints of Dumas and\nHugo—_there_ is a head ‘for remembering!’ and justifying your\ncommodations! Chorley says, you see, my acquisitions are rather\naccumulated than digested—or words to that effect—I am sure at this\nmoment the stupid, heavy head _knows_ not one thing,—as a clear point\nof knowledge, taken in and laid by, orderly and separately. So let me\nsay here, while I _do_ remember, that a letter from Forster puts off his\nvisit and Moxon’s till Monday—should any reason therefore, prevent your\nconfirming to me the gift of Tuesday, this other day will lie open—but\n_only_ in that case, I trust—because Tuesday objects not to Saturday,\ndoes it? while Wednesday looks grave, and Thursday frowns downright on\nthe same! _Friday_, remember, is Mr. Kenyon’s day.\n\nI wish, dearest, you would tell me precisely what you have written—all my\naffectionate pride in you rises at once when I think of your poetry, that\nis and that is to be—you dear, dear Ba, can you not write on my shoulder\nwhile my head lies as you permit?\n\nI found at home on my return yesterday my friend Pritchard, who brought\nme an old notice of Rachel by Jules Janin—of course there is no believing\na word—but he _does_ say that she was,—at the time he wrote,—perfectly\nignorant of the most ordinary rules of grammar,—that, for instance,\non meeting him she remarked (alluding to her having played previously\nat another theatre than the T. Français)—‘C’était moi que j’était\nau Gymnase!’—to which he ought to have answered, he thinks, ‘Je le\nsavions!’—I will bring her portrait, too, if you please—and this memoir,\nuntrustworthy as it is.\n\nI will go now and walk about, I think—did you go out, as you promised,\nlove? Ah, dearest,—_you_ to wonder I could look up to you for ever as you\nstand,—you who once wrote to me that, in order to verify a date about\nShelley in a book I lent you, ‘You had accomplished a journey to the\nother end of the room, even’! And _now_! I thankfully _know_ this to be\nmiraculous—nor have I to ask my spiritual director’s opinion thereon—to\nwhom, how on earth can one surrender one’s private right of judgment when\nit is only by the exercise of that very right that I select him from\nthe multitude of would-be directors of me and the whole world? What but\na deliberate act of judgment takes up Dr. Pusey of Oxford rather than\nMrs. Fox of Finsbury—and is it for _that_ pernicious first step that I\ndetermine on never risking a second?\n\nBless you, ever dearest—and do you bless your\n\n                                                               very own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 20, 1846.]\n\nDearest, the leaf of yesterday was folded down quite smoothly and softly.\nA dinner party swept the thought of you out of people’s minds. Otherwise\nI was prepared to be a little afraid,—for my aunt said to Arabel, upon\nbeing dispensed with so cavalierly from this room, ... (said in the\npassage, Arabel told me, with a half-laugh,) ‘Pray which of Ba’s lovers\nmay _this_ be?’ So Arabel had to tell the name of the visitor. But the\ndinner-party set all right, and this morning I was asked simply whether\nit had been an agreeable visit, and what you had written, and banalities\nafter such a fashion.\n\nOh, and I went out ... remembering your desire ... was it not a desire,\ndearest, dearest? I went out, any way—but the wind blew, and I had to\nhold my veil against my mouth, doubled, and trebled ... with as many\nfolds, indeed, as Ajax’s shield ... to keep myself in breathing order.\nThe wind always gives me a sort of strangling sensation, which is the\neffect, I suppose, of having weak lungs. So it was not a long walk, but I\nliked it because you seemed to be with me still,—and Arabel, who walked\nwith me, was ‘sure, without being told, that I had had a happy visit,\njust from my manner.’ The wisest of interpreters, I called her, and _pour\ncause_.\n\nIf ever I mistake you, Robert, doing you an injustice, ... you ought\nto be angry, I think, _rather_ and _more_ with me than with another—I\nshould have far less excuse it appears to me, for making such a mistake,\nthan any other person in the world. I thought so yesterday when you\nwere speaking, and now upon consideration I think so with an increasing\ncertainty. Is it your opinion that the members of our family, ... those\nwho live with us always, ... know us best? They know us on the side we\noffer to them ... a bare profile ... or the head turned round to the\near—yes!—they do not, except by the merest chance, look into our eyes.\nThey know us in a conventional way ... as far from God’s way of knowing\nus, as from the world’s—mid-way, it is—and the truest and most cordial\nand tender affection will not hinder this from being so partial a\nknowledge. Love! I love those who at the present moment, ... who love me\n(and tenderly on both sides) ... but who are so far from _understanding_\nme, that I never think of speaking myself into their ears ... of trying\nto speak myself. It is wonderful, it is among the great mysteries of\nlife, to observe how people can love one another in the dark, blindly\n... loving without knowing. And, as a matter of general observation, if\nI sought to have a man or woman revealed to me in his or her innermost\nnature, I would not go to the _family_ of the person in question—though I\nshould learn there best, of course, about personal habits, and the social\nbearing of him or her. George Sand delights me in one of her late works,\nwhere she says that the souls of blood relations seldom _touch_ except at\none or two points. Perfectly true, _that_ is, I think—perfectly.\n\nRemember how you used to say that I did not know you ... which was true\nin a measure ... yet I felt I knew you, and I did actually know you, in\nanother larger measure. And if _now_ you are not known to me altogether,\nit is my dulness which makes me unknowing.\n\nBut I know you—and I should be without excuse if ever I wronged you with\na moment’s injustice. I do not think I ever could depreciate you for a\nmoment,—_that_ would not be possible. There are other sins against you\n(_are_ they against you?) which bring their own punishment! You shall\nnever be angry with me for those.\n\nWhile I was writing, came Mr. Kenyon. As usual he said that there was no\nuse in his coming—that you had taken his place, and so on. He was in a\nhigh good humour, though, and spirits, and I did not mind much what he\nwas pleased to say. More I minded, that he means ‘to stay in London all\nthe summer’ ... which I can’t be glad of, ... though I was glad at his\nnot persisting in going to Scotland against his own wishes. But he might\nlike to go somewhere else—it would be a pleasure, _that_, in which I\nshould sympathize! The more shame for me!\n\nMr. Chorley pleases me more _than he ever pleased me before_! Only,\nas an analysis, he has done curiously with ‘Pippa.’ But it is good\nappreciation, good and righteous, and he has given me, altogether, a\ngreat, great deal of pleasure. As to the letter, I liked that too in its\ndegree—and the advice is wise for the head, if foolish for the work. How\n_can_ wise people be so foolish?\n\nI am going out to walk now with Henrietta, and shall put this letter into\nthe post with my own hand. It is seven p.m. May God bless you. Do say how\nyou are, dear, dearest!\n\n                                                    I am your very own BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 20, 1846.]\n\nCertainly you _do_ know me, my own Ba, beyond all other knowledge\npossible to relatives,—_that_ I know—in fact, I found myself speaking\nunwarily on a subject where speech is obliged to stop abruptly—the fault\nwas mine for bringing up terms, remarks &c. quite inapplicable out of\nthis house,—where all, as you understand, have seen me so long that they\ndo not see differences in me,—increases or diminutions; I am twice as\nblind, most likely, to _them_, after the same fashion. Still, one is slow\nto concede an excuse to such blindness—hence the ‘hasty words’ I told you\nthey charge me with uttering.\n\nI apprehend no danger from _that_, to your feeling for me—it is your\nown speech my Ba, which I will take from you, and use—my own general\nshort-comings, you will inevitably see and be sorry for—but there will\nbe the more need of your love, which I shall go on asking for daily and\nnightly as if I never could have enough—which is the exact fact; and\nalso, I shall grow fitter through the love to be what you would have me,\nso the end may be better than the beginning, let us hope.\n\nWill you not do what you can with me who am your very own? as you are my\nown too, but for a different end—I am yours to operate on, as you are my\nonly lady to dispose of what belongs to you. Dear, dearest Ba, it _is_\nso; will ever be so!\n\nYes, that notice by Chorley is very kind and gratifying. I\nwanted—(_quite_ apart from the poor good to me or my books—but for\nChorley’s own sake, I rather wanted)—some decided streak of red, or spot,\nor spark,—some life in the increasing grey of the ashes—this is true,\n_live_ lovingness of him—I will tell him so.\n\nFor Domett’s letter,—he means, by all that nonsense, that my health is\nmore in his estimation than any works producible at its expense. All the\ncalculation about so many lines a day, so many a month &c., _he_ knows\nto be absurd ... you _can’t_ write ‘so many lines to-day,’ and add next\nday’s complement, and so ‘grow to an end’—any more than you can paint\na picture by thumb-breadths. The other paragraph about intelligibility\nlaughs at itself all the time ... is not to be taken for serious.\n\nIndeed I _did_ desire with a great desiring that you should go out, and\nnow I thank you for all the good account of the walk, and victory over\nthe wind: and how kind that sister is!—I shall never forget it.\n\nMy own head, since you _will_ be teazed with intelligence about it, was\nnot very well yesterday, but is better decidedly this morning—_I_, too,\nwill go and put this letter in the post and think of to-morrow ... for do\nnot I keep to-morrow? I shall be with you unless another order comes ...\nmay it be averted! And may you be happy always _with_ me, as I shall be\nthrough you ... nay, but half as happy, dearest Ba, my very own!\n\n                                                                   Your R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 22, 1846.]\n\nHow I long, my sweetest Ba, to know whether any heavy price is to be paid\nfor our three hours yesterday,—if your Aunt knew or has discovered since?\nI shall not murmur in any case, I hope ... they are too delicious, these\nthree-hour visits—and if _I_ could pay for them by myself, Ba,—what\nwould I not pay?\n\nWill you let me write something, and forgive me? Because it is, I\nknow, quite unnecessary to be written, and, beside, may almost seem an\ninterference with your own delicacy,—teaching it its duty! However, I\nwill venture to go on, with your hand before my two eyes. Then,—you\nremember what we were speaking of yesterday,—house-rents and styles of\nliving? You will never overlook, through its very obviousness, that to\nconsult my feelings on the only point in which they are sensitive to the\nworld you must endeavour to live as simply and cheaply as possible, down\nto my own habitual simplicity and cheapness,—so that you shall come and\nlive with me, in a sense, rather than I with Miss Campbell! You see, Ba,\nif you have more money than you want, you shall save it or spend it in\npictures or parrots or what you please ... you avoid all offence to _me_\nwho never either saved money nor spent it—but the large house, I should\nbe forced to stay in,—the carriage, to enter, I suppose. And you see\ntoo, Ba, that the one point on which I desire the world to be informed\nconcerning our future life, will be that it is ordered _so_—I wish they\ncould hear we lived in one room like George Sand in ‘that happy year—’\n\nNo, there I have put down an absurdity—because, I shall have to confess\na weakness, at some time or other, which is hardly reconcilable to that\nmethod of being happy—why may I not tell you now, my adored Ba, to whom I\ntell everything as it rises to me? Now put the hand on my eyes again—now\nthat I have kissed it. I shall begin by begging a separate room from\nyours—I could never brush my hair and wash my face, I do think, before my\nown father—I could not, I am sure, take off my coat before you _now_—why\nshould I ever? The kitchen is an unknown horror to me,—I come to the\ndining-room for whatever repast there may be,—nor willingly stay too\nlong there,—and on the day on which poor Countess Peppa taught me how\nmaccaroni is made,—_then_ began a quiet revolution, (indeed a rapid one)\nagainst ‘tagliolini, ‘fettucce, ‘lasagne,’ etc., etc., etc.—typical,\ntypical!\n\nWhat foolishness ... spare me, my own Ba, and don’t answer one word,—do\nnot even laugh,—for I _know_ the exceeding unnecessary foolishness of it!\n\nChorley has just sent me a note which I will send you because it is most\ngraceful in its modesty—but you must not, if you please, return it to me\nin an envelope that ought only to hold your own writing,—and so make my\nheart beat at first, and my brows knit at last! (Toss it into ‘my room,’\nat Pisa!!)\n\nThus it is to be made happy and unwise! Never mind—make me happier still\nby telling me you are well and have been out, and where, and when, and\nhow—the footsteps of you, Ba, should be kissed if I could follow them.\n\nBless you, ever dearest, dearest, as yesterday, and always you bless me—I\nlove you with all my heart and soul—_yes_ Ba!\n\n                                                       Your own, very own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 22, 1846.]\n\nI did not go out yesterday, and was very glad not to have a command laid\non me to go out, the wind blew so full of damp and dreariness. Then it\nwas pleasanter to lie on the sofa and think of you, which I did, till\nat last I actually dreamed of you, falling asleep for that purpose. As\nto Flush, he came up-stairs with a good deal of shame in the bearing of\nhis ears, and straight to me—no indeed! I would not speak to him—then he\nwent up to Arabel ... ‘naughty Flush, go away’ ... and Wilson, ... who\nhad whipped him before, ‘because it was right,’ she said ... in a fit of\npoetical justice, ... did not give him any consolation. So he lay down\non the floor at my feet looking from under his eyebrows at me. I did\nnot forgive him till nearly eight o’clock however. And I have not yet\ngiven him your cakes. Almost I am inclined to think now that he has not\n_a soul_. To behave so to you! It is nearly as bad as if I had thrown the\ncoffee-cup! Wicked Flush!—Do you imagine that I scolded Wilson when she\nconfessed to having whipped him? I did not. It was done with her hand,\nand not very hardly perhaps, though ‘he cried,’ she averred to me—and\nif people, like Flush, choose to behave like dogs savagely, they must\ntake the consequences indeed, as dogs usually do! And _you_, so good and\ngentle to him! Anyone but _you_, would have said ‘hasty words’ at least.\nI think I shall have a muzzle for him, to make him harmless while he\nlearns to know you. Would it not be a good plan?\n\nBut nobody heard yesterday of either your visit or of Flush’s misdoings\n... so Wilson was discreet, I suppose, as she usually is, by the instinct\nof her vocation. Of all the persons who are _not_ in our confidence, she\nhas the most certain knowledge of the truth. Dearest, we shall be able to\nhave Saturday. There will be no danger in it.\n\nPerhaps in the days to come we shall look back on these days as covetable\nthings. Will _you_ do so, because you were loved in them as a beginning,\nor because you were _free_? (Am _I_ not as bad as Flush, to ask such\nquestions?) _I_ shall look back on these days gratefully and gladly,\nbecause the good in them has overcome the evil, for the first time in\ndays of mine. Yet my position is worse than yours on some accounts—_now_.\nHenrietta has had a letter from Capt. Surtees Cook who says in it, she\nsays, ... ‘I hope that poor Ba will have courage to the end.’ There’s a\ngenerous sympathy! Tell me that there is none in the world!\n\nWill you let me know how you are? Such a letter you wrote to me on\nSunday! Ah!—to _be anything to you_ ... what is the colour of _ambition_\nafterwards? When I look forwards I can see no work and no rest, but what\nis for you and in you. Even Duty seems to concentrate itself into one\nDebt—Dearest!\n\nYet it will be a little otherwise perhaps!—not that ever I shall love you\notherwise or less—No.\n\nYou shall see some day at Pisa what I will not show you now. Does not\nSolomon say that ‘there is a time to read what is written.’ If he\ndoesn’t, he _ought_.\n\n                                                         Your very own BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 23, 1846.]\n\nDearest, what you say is unnecessary for you to say—it is in everything\n_so_ of course and obvious! You must have an eccentric idea of _me_ if\nyou can suppose for a moment such things to be necessary to say. If they\nhad been _unsaid_, it would have been precisely the same, believe me, in\nthe event.\n\nAs to the way of living—now you shall arrange _that_ for yourself. You\nshall choose your own lodging, order your own dinner ... and if you\nchoose to live on locusts and wild honey, I promise not to complain\n... I shall not indeed be _inclined_ to complain ... having no manner\nof ambition about carriages and large houses, even if they were within\nour possibilities,—which they may not be, according to Mr. Surtees’s\ncalculation or experience. The more simply we live, the better for _me_!\nSo you shall arrange it for yourself, lest I should make a mistake! ...\nwhich, in _that_ question, is a just possible thing.\n\nOne extravagance I had intended to propose to you ... but it shall be\nexactly as you like, and I hesitate a little as I begin to speak of it.\nI have thought of taking Wilson with me, ... for a year, say, if we\nreturned then—if not, we might send her home alone ... and by that time,\nI should be stronger perhaps and wiser ... rather less sublimely helpless\nand impotent than I am now. My sisters have urged me a good deal in this\nmatter—but if you would rather it were otherwise, be honest and say so,\nand let me alter my thoughts at once. There is one consideration which I\nsubmit to yours, ... that I cannot leave this house with the necessary\nnumber of shoes and pocket handkerchiefs, without help from somebody. Now\nwhoever helps me, will suffer through me. If I left her behind she would\nbe turned into the street before sunset. Would it be right and just of\nme, to permit it? Consider! I must manage a sheltering ignorance for my\npoor sisters, at the last, ... and for all our sakes. And in order to\n_that_, again, I must have some one else in my confidence. Whom, again, I\nwould unwillingly single out for an absolute _victim_.\n\nWilson is attached to me, I believe—and, in all the discussions about\nItaly, she has professed herself willing to ‘go anywhere in the world\nwith me.’ Indeed I rather fancy that she was disappointed bitterly last\nyear, and that it would not be a pure devotion. She is an expensive\nservant—she has sixteen pounds a year, ... but she has her utilities\nbesides, and is very amiable and easily satisfied, and would not add\nto the expenses, or diminish from the economies, even in the matter\nof room—_I_ would manage _that_ for her. Then she would lighten your\nresponsibilities ... as the Archbishop of Canterbury and company do Mr.\nBevan’s. Well—you have only to consider your own wishes. I shall not care\nmany straws, if you decide this way or that way. Let it be as may seem to\nyou wisest.\n\nI like Mr. Chorley’s note. I began to write so late that _I_, too, must\nsend you a bare note to-night. May God bless you, ever dearest. I am\ntired ... so tired—yet I have not a long story to tell you of myself\nfor the day’s chronicle I was just out for the few minutes my walking\noccupies, and came home and had coffee at half-past four; and scarcely\nwas the cup empty, when Mrs. Jameson arrived—she stayed while you might\ncount to a hundred—and your name was not once mentioned. And now,\ngood-night. I hope the ‘testimonials’ may be ‘satisfactory,’ in this\nnote which will not wait to be a letter! Dearest, say how your head is—do.\n\n                                                     I am your Ba, always!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 23, 1846.]\n\nI have just returned from Town and Mr. Kenyon’s, my own Ba. I called,\naccording to compact, to point out the precise way he must go to reach\nus. He seemed to make sure I was going to Wimpole Street—‘Oh, no!’\n\nSo, losing Wimpole Street, I made haste home, and gain my letter,—my dear\nletter: yesterday night, too, the first letter arrived duly—you perfect\nin kindness!\n\nMy dearest—dearest,—you might go to Pisa without shoes,—or feet to wear\nthem, for aught I know, since you may have wings, only folded away from\nme—but without your Wilson, or some one in her capacity, you ... no,\nI will not undertake to speak of _you_; then, _I_, should be simply,\nexactly, INSANE to move a step; I would rather propose, let us live on\nbread and water, and sail in the hold of a merchant-ship; THIS CANNOT be\ndispensed with! It is most fortunate, most providential, that Wilson is\ninclined to go—I am _very_ happy; for a new servant, with even the best\ndispositions, would never be able to anticipate your wants and wishes\nduring the voyage, at the very beginning. Yet you write of this to me\n_so_, my Ba! I think I will, in policy, begin the anger at a good place.\nYes, all the anger I am capable of descends on the head—(not in kisses,\nwhatever you may fancy).\n\nAnd so poor Flush suffered after all! Dogs that are dog-like would\nbe at no such pains to tell you they would not see you with comfort\napproached by a stranger who might be—! A ‘muzzle’? oh, no,—but suppose\nyou have him removed next time, and perhaps the next, till the whole\noccurrence is out of his mind as the fly bite of last week—because, if\nhe sees me and begins his barking and valiant snapping, and gets more\nand heavier vengeance down-stairs, perhaps,—his transient suspicion of\nme will confirm itself into absolute dislike, hatred, whereas, after an\ninterval, we can renew acquaintance on a better footing. Dogs have such\nmemories! My sister told me last week she saw in a provincial newspaper\nan anecdote of one,—a miller’s dog, that was a good fellow in the main,\nbut chose to take an especial dislike to one of his master’s customers,\nwhom he invariably flew at and annoyed—so much so that the man declared\nhe must carry his custom elsewhere unless the dog was parted with:\nthis the miller was unwilling to do; so he hit on an expedient—by some\ncontrivance, the dog was suffered to fall into a deep well, and bark\nhimself hoarse there in vain—no help came—till the obnoxious individual\narrived, let himself down and brought up the prisoner. From which time\nnothing could exceed the devotion of the dog to his rescuer; whom he\nalways insisted henceforth on accompanying as far as his home, for one\ninstance of it.\n\nI wonder whether I have anywhere one of the sketches my father made of my\nbulldog’s face.\n\nWhat ‘tired’ you, dearest? You are not _less_ well, I trust? Pray tell\nme,—and remember there are three days before our Saturday. I am very much\nbetter—the walking and riding of this morning did me good, too—and what\nprofits it, if you are not better also? Love me in caring for yourself,\nwhich is _my_ truest self! And I will go on and try to love you more than\nI do—for what may happen?\n\n                                                          Ever your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 24, 1846.]\n\nNo letter for me to-night! not a word!—Perhaps the post is sinning again.\nIf so, I shall hear to-morrow morning, if not ... may it be anything\nrather than that you are more unwell than usual! anything!\n\nThere is not much to say on my part. I had a letter from Miss Mitford\nthis morning, and she encloses to me ... you will not guess what—a lyric\nof the ubiquitous Bennett—the ‘Mignonette.’ Are you not amused? That’s\nthe way to ‘agitate’ for readers and praisers. She sees something in\nBennett. He is to be ‘heard of in our literature.’ She shed tears over\nthe ‘Mignonette,’ herself—\n\nYour portrait of Victor Hugo, I like less and less—there is something\nignoble in the face—and even the forehead is rather big than large. _He_\ndoes not ‘look like a poet’ in any case—now does he?\n\nDearest, did I annoy you ... frighten you, ... about Wilson yesterday?\nDid _that_ prevent you from writing to me to-day—if really you did not\nwrite to me to-day? It yet was the merest _question_, ... I wished you\nto understand—the merest question for a yes or a no—and I shall not\nmind, _however_ you may answer, be certain. I have been thinking to-day\nthat it would be possible enough to leave a direction which might supply\neverything, and so escape inflicting the injury apprehended—yes, and as\nfor myself, I shall manage perfectly. Observe how I pinned your coat,\nmiraculously pricking you at the same moment. I shall do for myself and\nby myself, as well as possible. And therefore, judge, speak your thoughts\nout to the purpose and without drawback. I shall always feel to thank you\nfor speaking the _truth_, even where it goes against me. But _this_ will\nnot go against me, _however_ you speak it, ... understand.\n\nAnd as for what my sisters think, it is nothing to the purpose. Say\nyour ‘no,’ and they never shall hear it. I will avoid the subject from\nhenceforth, with them ... _that_ is all.\n\nAnd take care of Mr. Kenyon to-morrow. I feel afraid of Mr. Kenyon. But\ntake care of yourself most—look well that you never let me do, in the\nleast or greatest matter, what would seem better undone hereafter. Not\nin the least, not in the greatest. For me, if I am to be thought of,\nremember that you _kill_ me, if you suffer me to injure you. That is for\n_me_.\n\nSee how I exhort people who do not write to me!... Ah no! It must be the\npost’s fault. You could not be very much vexed with me, I think, for a\nmere proposal about Wilson. And the rest of my letter was all made up\nof assent and agreement. You could not be vexed about Wilson. And you\n_shall_ not be ill, because I cannot bear to think of it—which, dearest,\nis a good reason and irrefragable.\n\nThe Hedleys dine here, and others. I hear the voices and the laughing. I\nwish I could, your voice, as near. May God bless you ... bless you—\n\n                                                              Your own BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 24, 1846.]\n\nSweet, sweet, sweet Ba, look to be kissed to-morrow till it hurts\nyou,—punished you ought to be for such a letter! When the ancients were\nin doubt about a man’s identity (the ancient fathers) they called him\n‘aut Erasmus (or whoever it might be) aut—diabolus!’—no gradation, no\nmean between best and worst! Or do you think Flush bit me and inoculated\nme with super-cynical snappishness? Well, I _do_ think I should not have\nconducted myself as you consider highly possible,—even if you _had_\nmade, let me say at once, the _most_ preposterous of proposals, even\nthat of going _without_ Wilson, or her substitute. I think and am sure I\nshould, like a rational being, write all the faster to try and get you\nto reconsider the matter—convinced as I should be that your perfect good\nsense would, after a few minutes examination, see that I could no more\ntake you away without such assistance than desire you to perform the\npassage of the Mont Cenis on foot. Do I not remember that you intended\nto be thus accompanied even when your sister was to be of the party? But\nthe absolute necessity of what you fancy I may object to ... it is not\n_that_, I complain about—but of the strange notion, that whenever Fate\nshall decree that you say, or do, or think anything, from which I shall\nbe forced to differ,—my proceedings will needs take this fashion and\ncolour—I shall ‘sulk’ and _say_ nothing,—or perhaps turn aside grandly\noffended and meditative of noble vengeance! Oh, Ba, dearest, dearest\nbeyond all words, come for _once_ and always _into_ the heart which is\nyour own, and see how full it is of you, and if you say, _that_ does\nnot prevent the head being weak and acting accordingly, I will begin\nexemplifying the very point I want to convince you of by at once writing\nand speaking and by every imaginable means making you know, that the\nheart _does_ teach the head better than such foolishness—ought to do it,\nand _does_ do it!\n\nDo you believe me, Ba, my own? Or, what nonsense! Did you _wonder_\nat my letter when it did come? Or _did_ it come? It was duly\nposted at Deptford—moreover the ‘Thursday’ at the top was written\n‘Wednesday’—because all day long I was in that error—having been used to\nsee you on Mondays, and to calculate my time by the number of days since\nI saw you—whence, knowing to my cost that two days had gone by since such\nan event, I thought what I wrote.\n\nNow kiss me, my very own, for an end to every thing—your doubt and my\nimpudent making the most of it,—for I do not doubt _you_, sweetest,\ntruest, best love!\n\nTo-morrow brings me to you, Ba, I trust—I will be careful to-day, never\nfear your\n\n                                                            own devoted R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 27, 1846.]\n\nWhy should you ask such a question of me yesterday, as to whether I loved\nyou as much then as ever? Love you as much? Why should I not love you\n_more_? ... to give question for question. And it does seem to me, too,\nthat _my_ question is more reasonable than yours. ‘Is it afternoon at\nsix o’clock,’ you might have asked in the same breath with yours, and\ntouched, _so_, as questionable a matter.\n\nTell me how the evening passed at Mr. Kenyon’s. I have seen nobody\nyet—not him, not Mrs. Jameson.\n\nSeen nobody? Except all the Hedleys, who have just left my room. Do you\nknow, the pomp and circumstance, the noise and fuss and publicity of\nthis marriage of theirs happen just in time to make me satisfied with\n‘quite the other principle’ as you said. The system they are carrying\nout is detestable to its own extreme. Fifty or sixty people are to\nbreakfast at Fenton’s Hotel, ... with processions to and fro! ... which\naltogether, though the bride will bear it very well, (for she has been\nused to be a Belle _ex-officio_, and this business has been arranged by\nher and for her—otherwise they would have all been in Paris) is likely,\nI think, to half kill the bride’s mother. My poor aunt wonders how she\nwill get through it. To have to part with her daughter in that crowd! So\nbarbarous a system it is, this system of public marriages, under whatever\nlight considered. Both my sisters are invited; and so was _I_! (in vain)\nand Henrietta officiates as a bridesmaid. Did I tell you that Arabella\nHedley is a glorious convert to Puseyism, as might have been expected,\nand talked here like a theologian a few days since, and ‘considered the\ndissenters in a most dangerous position,’ much to the amusement of my\nbrothers.\n\nWhat am I writing of all this time? Dearest, how did you get home\nyesterday through the ambush at Mr. Kenyon’s? Tell me everything. And\n_know_ that I love you ‘as much,’ my own beloved!—you may know it.\n\nWhen Flush came into the room and had spoken to me (in the\nFlush-language) and had examined your chair, he suddenly fell into a\nrapture and reminded me that the cakes you left, were on the table. So I\nexplained thoroughly to him that _you_ had brought them for him, and that\nhe ought to be properly ashamed therefore for his past wickedness, and\nmake up his mind to love you and not bite you for the future—and then he\nwas allowed to profit from your goodness to him. How _over_-good of you!\nIt is an encouragement to throw coffee-cups, ... such over-goodness!\n\nNobody knew of your being here yesterday—at least, not that _I_ know!\nSo Tuesday looks brightly, at a distance. At a distance! The day after\nto-morrow! Ah, it seems too near! Too near, in the sense of saying ‘_Too\ngood_ ... to be true.’\n\nI will write the paper as you bid me. Only, in the face of all that is\nto come, I solemnly tell you that neither I nor mine ... certainly not\nI ... will consent to an act of injustice, disinheriting my last hours\n(whenever they shall come) of a natural satisfaction. You are noble in\nall things—but this will not be in your power—I will not discuss it so as\nto teaze you. Your reputation is dear to me of course ... the thoughts\nwhich men shall have of you in the least matter, I would choose to keep\nclean ... free from every possible taint. But it will be obvious to all,\nthat if you pleased, you might throw out of the windows everything called\nmine, the moment after our marriage—interest and principal—why not? And\nif you abstain from this, and after your own death allow the sum which\noriginally came from my family, to relapse there ... why it is all of\npure generosity on your part—and they will understand it as I do, ... as\ngenerosity ... as more than justice. Well—let _that_ be! It is your act,\nand not mine, letting it be—and I have no objection to show you what my\nwishes are, (mere wishes), so helping you to carry out such an act in the\nbest way. I send you the paper therefore—to that end—and only that end.\nThere, you must stop—I never will consent to the extravagance you propose\nabout yourself. You shall not, _if you love me_, think of carrying it\nout. If I thought you _could be so hard on me_, ... do you know, I would\nrather throw it all up now into the hands of my sisters, and be poor\nwith you at once—I could bear _that_ so much better than the thoughts of\n_leaving_ you to be poor. Or, would you be easier, dearest—if a _part_\nwere relinquished _now_? would it make you easier ... and would you\npromise me, _so_, that what is mine should be accepted as yours to the\nend? The worst is that if I were ill, I should be a burden to you, and\nthus we might have reasons for regret. Still it shall be as pleases you\nbest. But _I_ must be pleased a little too. It is _fair_ that I should.\n\nCertainly you exaggerate to yourself the position. What would have become\nof you if you had loved a real heiress instead? That _would_ have been\na misfortune. As it is, while you are plotting how to get rid of these\npenny-pieces, everybody will be pitying you for having fixed yourself\nin such conditions of starvation. _You_, who _might_—_have married Miss\nBurdett Coutts_!\n\nSee how I teaze you!—first promising not to teaze you! But always I am\nworse than I meant to be. Wasn’t it your fault a little for bringing\nup this horrible subject?—but here is the paper, the only sort of\n‘settlement’ we shall have! Always I have said and sworn that I never, if\nI married, would have a settlement—and now I thank God to be able to keep\nmy word so. _This_ only is a settlement of the question.\n\nBeloved, how is your head? I love you out of the deepest of my heart, and\nshall not cease.\n\n                              Your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nIs this what is called a _document_? It seems to me that I have a\nsort of legal genius—and that I should be on the Woolsack in the\nMartineau. Parliament. But it seems, too, rather _bold_ to attach such a\nspecification to your name. Laugh and pardon it all!\n\n    In compliance with the request of Robert Browning, who may\n    possibly become my husband, that I would express in writing my\n    wishes respecting the ultimate disposal of whatever property I\n    possess at this time, whether in the funds or elsewhere, ... I\n    here declare my wishes to be ... that he, Robert Browning, ...\n    having, of course, as it is his right to do, first held and\n    used the property in question for the term of his natural life,\n    ... should bequeath the same, by an equal division, to my two\n    sisters, or, in the case of the previous death of either or\n    both of them, to such of my surviving brothers as most shall\n    need it by the judgment of my eldest surviving brother.\n\n                                          ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT.\n\n    Wimpole Street: July, 1846.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 27, 1846.]\n\nMr. Kenyon said nothing,—except a few words at dinner about the mistake\nof Talfourd, to Forster,—nothing whatever, though we sat together and\ntalked for some time before the arrival of the company. And all that I\nheard about Mrs. Jameson, was her return to Ealing and some wish she\nmeant to express in a letter, of seeing me there. So you will have to\ntell me and tell me, dearest, when you know anything—to-day perhaps.\n\nMy own Ba, _do not refer to what we spoke of_—the next vile thing to\nthe vilest is, being too conscious of avoiding _that_,—painfully,\nostentatiously, protesting and debating—only it seemed absolutely\nnecessary to say thus much at some time, and early:—now it is done\nwith,—you understanding what I expect at your hands.\n\nMr. Longman was of the party yesterday—speaking of Haydon, he remarked\non his omitting to mention in the list of his creditors, ‘the House’—to\nwhich he owed about 100_l._ being the loss consequent on publishing his\n‘Book’—the Lectures, I suppose—then, in a break, he said, in answer to a\nquestion from Forster, that the Book in question had gone into a second\nedition, but ‘Oh, no—the Author had received nothing for it!’ And he\nlost the money, poor fellow, besides! Is not that inexplicable to all\nsave booksellers? Also, what could be his need for another person’s\nintermediation with the Longmans since he knew them so well and so long!\n\nI hope there is nothing to prevent our meeting on Tuesday. Do you think\nI am any longer able to appreciate properly the additional gift of the\nday in the week? I only know that I do not see you _now_, my Ba—and\nI feel as if I were—the words must not be written! I need _all_ of\nyou,—utterly dearest dearest that you are! My next day, _my_ ‘Sunday’\nis the forlornest imaginable. I never wasted time (in the worldly sense\nof not working in it) as at present,—I read books and at the turning of\nevery page go back again for shame ... the words only before the eyes,\nthe thoughts of you before the mind.\n\nI found a new litter of poetry in a letter of our indefatigable\nBennett,—the happy man! By the way (a very roundabout one), someone\nmentioned yesterday as an agreeable, or at least characteristic trait in\nSydney Smith, that after dinner, or during dinner, he would occasionally\npour water down, or _up_, as we say, his coat-sleeves, for coolness’\nsake. Nobody made a remark—nor spoke of such a feat’s disqualifying its\nperformer from going into good society. Now do you remember poor Horne\nand the censorship of his manners?—were not his more rational libations\nfound abominable? See the association—Bennett—Miss Mitford—Horne? But\nI cannot write sensibly to-day, nor _in_sensibly, which would be more\namusing perhaps—I can only know I am—_here_, on Sunday!—and whatever the\npen may force itself to put down, my one thought is, that you are not\nhere. To-morrow I shall hear, and get fresh strength in the anticipation\nof Tuesday,—if the letter tells me you are well—the ‘headache for two\ndays,’—tell me, my own Ba!\n\nBless you, ever best and dearest.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 27, 1846.]\n\nThat is sufficient, ever dearest: now dismiss the matter from your\nthoughts, as I shall—having forced myself once to admit that most\ndreadful of possibilities and to provide for it, I need not have\ncompunction at dwelling on the brighter, better chances which God’s\nprevious dispensations encourage me to expect. There may be even a\n_claimant_, instead of a recipient, of whatever either of us can\nbequeath—who knows? For which reason, but most of all for the stronger\nyourself adduce—the contingency of your illness—I do not ask you to\n‘relinquish a part’—not as our arrangements now are ordered: for I have\nnever been so foolish as to think we could live without money, if not of\nmy obtaining, then of your possessing, and though, in certain respects\nI should have preferred to try the first course,—at the beginning\nat least, when my faculties seemed more my own and that ‘end of the\nsummer’ had a less absorbing interest (as I perceive now)—yet, as that\nis not to be, I have only to be thankful that you are not dependent on\nmy exertions,—which I could not be _sure_ of,—particularly with this\nuncertain head of mine. I hope when we once are together, the world will\nnot hear of us again until the very end—it would be horrible to have to\ncome back to it and ask its help.\n\nI wish Mr. Kenyon had paid his visit—our Tuesday would be safer—I shall\nbe with you _unless_ a letter forbids. I can only say this now, because I\nexpect my visitors nearly directly,—Moxon and Forster, do you remember?\nAnd the post is always late in arriving on Mondays. But I should fill\nsheets of paper to no purpose if I thought to tell you how I love\nyou—‘more than ever’—I am wholly your own, dearest dearest.\n\nPat Flush for me—after having let me kiss you, Ba!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 28, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest, your ‘Hush’ came too late. I had spoken. Do not blame\nme however,—for I do not blame myself. It was not very possible that\nI should allow your fine schemes to lie unmolested by a breath.\nNevertheless we will not carry on this discussion any farther: my simple\nprotest is enough for the present,—and we shall have time, I hope, in\nthe future, for your nobleness to unteach itself from being too proud.\nAt any rate, let the subject _be_, now! I mentioned my ‘eldest surviving\nbrother’ in that way in the paper, because he is put out of the question\nby the estates being entailed ... the Jamaica estates, I mean. And now,\nto have done! Unless I could _make you easier_—!\n\nDearest, you may come to-morrow, Tuesday ... for my aunt goes out and we\nshall have a clear ground. Ah—can it be true that you wish me to be with\nyou _so_—dearest, dearest? That you miss me as you say, the day after?\nYet I am with you in my thoughts, in my affections, always. Let them\ncount for something, that it may not be entirely an absence.\n\nBennett to Bennett. When Wilson brought up my coffee on the little tray\non Saturday, there was a Bennett ready on one corner. Then I must not\nforget to tell you how Mrs. Paine (you remember Mrs. Paine?) writes of\nyou to _me_, ... speaking what she little knows the effects of ... ‘I\nhope,’ she says, ‘that you admire “Luria” greatly. I don’t know whether\nyou will call it a sweeping conclusion, but I feel inclined to call\nBrowning the greatest dramatic genius we have had for hundreds of years.’\nCan anybody be more than the ‘greatest’ to anybody? Half inclined I\nmight be to be jealous of my prerogative of knowing you—yet no. Dearest\nis greater than Greatest ... even if one Greatest were not greater than\nanother.\n\nAs to my headache, you might as well enquire about Troy—_Fait_. It was\nthe air, perhaps—the heat or the cold ... the causes are forgotten with\nthe effects. And, since I began this letter, I have been out with my\naunt and Henrietta, the former having visits to pay in all the noisiest\nstreets of the town, as appeared to me. The stone pavements seemed to\naccumulate on all sides to run to meet us, and I was stunned and giddy,\nand _am_ so tired that I shall finish my letter in a hurry, looking to\nto-morrow. We were out nearly three hours. Think of travelling three\nhours in a ‘Diligence,’ with a Clap of Thunder! It may be something like\n_that_! And as we were coming homeward ... there was Mr. Kenyon! He\nshook hands through the window and declared that he was on the point of\npaying a visit to me, holding up as witness, his lump of sugar for Flush\n... which Flush leapt from the other side of the carriage to accept,\n_ore rotundo_. Then the next word was ... ‘Did you see our friend B.’\n... (pronounced Bee) ... ‘on Saturday.?’ ‘No,’ said I ... saying no\nfor yes in the confusion ... ‘but I shall to-morrow.’ ‘He dined with\nme,’ continued Mr. Kenyon. The sound of which struck me into a fit of\nclairvoyance and I had to unsay myself with an ‘Oh yes—I _did_ see him on\nSaturday.’ Mr. Kenyon must have thought me purely stupid or foolish or\nsomething of the sort—and really I agree with him. To imagine my telling\nin that unsolicited way, too, both to my aunt and himself, that you were\ncoming here to-morrow! So provoking! Well—it can’t be helped. He won’t\ncome to-morrow in any case.\n\nAnd _you_ will! Dearest, how glad I am that you are coming!\n\n                              Being your own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 29, 1846.]\n\nDearest, as I lost nearly an hour of you to-day, I make amends to myself\nby beginning to write to you as if I had not seen you at all. A large\nsheet of paper, too, has flown into my hands—the Fates giving ample room\nand verge enough, my characters ... not ‘of _Hell_’ ... to trace, _as_ I\nam not going to swear at Mr. Kenyon, whatever the provocation! Dear Mr.\nKenyon!\n\nIt appears that he talked to my sisters some time before he let himself\nbe announced to me—he said to them ‘I want to talk to you ... sit down\nby me and listen.’ Then he began to tell them of Mrs. Jameson, repeating\nwhat _you_ told me, of her desire to take me to Italy, ... and of her\nearnestness about it. To which, he added, he had replied by every\nrepresentation likely to defeat those thoughts—that only a relative\nwould be a fit companion for me, and that no person out of my family\ncould be justified in accepting such a responsibility, on other grounds,\nentering on the occurrences of last year, and reasoning on from them to\nthe possibility that if I offended by an act of disobedience, I might\nbe ‘cast off’ as for a crime. Oh—poor Papa was not spared at all—not to\nMrs. Jameson, not to my sisters. Mr. Kenyon said ... ‘It is painful to\nyou perhaps to hear me talk so, but it is a sore subject with me, and I\ncannot restrain the expression of my opinions.’ He ‘had told Mrs. Jameson\neverything—it was due to her to have a full knowledge, he thought ... and\nhe had tried to set before her the impossibility she was under, of doing\nany good.’ Then he asked my sisters ... if I ever spoke of Italy ... if\nthey thought I dwelt on the idea of it. ‘Yes,’ they answered ‘in _their_\nopinion, I had made up my mind to go.’ ‘But _how_? what is the practical\nside of the question? She can’t go alone—and which of you will go with\nher? You know, last year, she properly rejected the means which involved\nyou in danger.’ Henrietta advised that nothing should be said or done.\n‘Ba must do everything for herself. Her friends cannot help her. She must\nhelp herself.’ ‘But she must not go to Italy by herself. Then, _how_?’\n‘She has determination of character,’ continued Henrietta—‘She will\nsurprise everybody some day.’\n\n‘_But how?_’—Mr. Kenyon repeated ... looking uneasy. (And how imprudent\nof Henrietta to say _that_! I have been scolding her a little.)\n\nThe discussion ended by his instructing them to tell _me_ of Mrs.\nJameson’s proposal; ‘because it was only right that I should have the\nknowledge of her generous kindness, though for his part, he did not like\nto agitate me by conversing on the subject.’\n\nYes, one thing more was said. He mentioned having had some conversation\nwith my uncle Hedley, who was ‘very angry’—and he asked if my aunt Hedley\nhad no influence with the highest authority. My sisters answered in the\nnegative. And this is all. He appears to have no ‘plan’ of his particular\nown.\n\nWhat do you say, Robert, to all this? Since I am officially _informed_ of\nMrs. Jameson’s goodness, I must thank her certainly—and in what words?\n‘_How_’!——as Mr. Kenyon asks. Half I have felt inclined to write and\nthank her gratefully, and confide to her, not the secret itself, but the\nsecret of _there being a secret_ with the weight of which I am unwilling\nto oppress her at this time. Could it be done, I wonder? Perhaps not.\nYet how hard, how very difficult, it seems to me, to thank her worthily,\nand be silent wholly on my motives in rejecting her companionship! And a\n_whole confidence_ now is dangerous ... would torment her with a sense of\nresponsibility. Think which way it should be.\n\nOnce you asked me about joining travelling-company, with Mrs. Jameson.\nShould you like it? prefer it for any cause? ... if it could be done\nwithout involving her in trouble, of course.\n\nAh, dearest ... what a loss the three quarters of an hour were to me!\nlike the loss of four quarters of a moon on a dark night! When dear Mr.\nKenyon came to me, he found me with my thoughts astray—following you\nup the street! He asked how long you had been here.... ‘Some time,’ I\nsaid—by an answer made to fit anything. The rest of my answers were\nnot so apt!—were more like ‘cross-questions,’ perhaps, than answers\nof the common. But he roused me a little by telling me that he wanted\nyou to ‘make an excursion’ with Landor and himself, and that you did\nnot ‘encourage the idea’—and by proceeding to tell me further, that at\na dinner the other day at his house, your poetry being taken up and\npraised to the right measure, before that wretched Mr. Reade, he wrote\na letter by the morning’s post to Mr. Kenyon, to express a regret that\nhe (Mr. Reade) should have found it impossible to join in the plaudits\n‘of a brother-bard,’ but that Edmund Reade _could not_ recognize Robert\nBrowning as a master-mind of the period, for reasons, which were given\nat length. ‘_He_, (Robert Browning) had never rushed, with a passionate\ngenius, into the production of long poems’ ... (like ‘Italy’) ‘and long\ndramas’ ... (like ... like ... what’s the name of Mr. Reade’s last?)\nPoor, wretched man! Mr. Kenyon tore up the letter in compassion too\ntender toward humanity! Also he told me your excellent story on the\nstairs.\n\nOn the stairs! I heard the talking and the laughing, and felt ready to\ncry out the burden. Well—, Saturday will come, as surely as _you_ could\ngo. May God bless you, my own!—are you my own? and not rather, yes,\nrather, far rather, _I_ am your own, your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nI doubt your being able to read what is written. Only don’t send the\n‘manuscript’ to Mr. Forster, to be interpreted ... after the fashion of\nothers!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 29, 1846.]\n\nThis is just the way, the only way, my ever, ever dearest, you make\ncares for me—it _is_ hard to dare to settle whether the pain of the\nlost quarters of the hour yesterday be not balanced by the gladness\nand gain of this letter; as it is hard saying whether to kiss your\nhand (mind, only the hand!) with shut eyes, be better than seeing you\nand only seeing: you cause me abundance of _such_ troubles, dearest,\nbest, divinest that you are! Oh, how _can_ you, blessing me so, speak\nas you spoke yesterday—for the _first_ time! I thought you would only\nwrite such suppositions, such desires—(for it was a desire) ... and\nthat along with you I was safe from them,—yet you are adorable amid\nit all—only I _do_ feel such speaking, Ba, lightly as it fell—no, not\n_now_ I feel it,—this letter is before my heart like the hand on my\neyes. I feel this letter, only—how good, good, good of you to write it!\nYes, I _did_ meet Mr. Kenyon on the stairs—with a half opened door that\ndiscovered sundry presences, and _then_ had I to speak of a sudden—put\nit to my credit on one side that I _did_ speak and laugh; and on the\nother side, that I did neither _too à propos_. He most kindly (SEEING\nIT ALL) began asking about Forster and Moxon—and I remember some kind\nof stammering remark of the latter which I retailed ... to the effect\nthat ‘now would be a favourable time to print a volume of poems’—this I\ndid, to _seem_ to have something on my mind calling for a consultation\nwith you! Then he made that proposal about Landor and Mr. Eagles ...\nwhether I ‘encouraged the idea,’ or no, it encouraged me, and helped\nme a good deal this morning,—for Eliot Warburton sent two days ago a\npressing letter to invite me to go to Ireland,—I should have yachting\nand other delights,—and I was glad to return for an answer, that I had\nan engagement, ‘conditional on my accepting any.’ As for my ‘excellent\nstory on the stairs’—you _alarm_ me! Upon my honour, I have not the least\nrecollection of having told one, or said another word than the above\nmentioned. So people are congratulated on displaying this or the other\nbravery in battle or fire, when their own memory is left a blank of all\nsave the confusion! Let me say here, that he amused me also with the\ncharacteristic anecdote of poor Mr. Reade, on Saturday.\n\nAnd—now! now, Ba, to the subject-matter: whatever you decide on writing\nto Mrs. Jameson will be rightly written—it seems to me _nearly_\nimmaterial; (putting out of the question the confiding the whole secret,\nwhich, from its responsibility, as you feel, must not be done) whether\nyou decline her kindness for untold reasons which two months (Ba?)\nwill make abundantly plain,—or whether you farther inform her that\nthere _is_ a special secret—of which she must bear the burthen, even\nin that mitigated form, for the same two months,—as I say, it seems\nimmaterial—but it is most material that you should see how the ground is\ncrumbling from beneath our feet, with its chances and opportunities—do\nnot talk about ‘four months,’—till December, that is—unless you mean\nwhat _must_ follow as a consequence. The next thing will be Mr. Kenyon’s\napplication to me—_he certainly knows everything_ ... how else, after\nsuch a speech from your sister? But his wisdom as well as his habits\nincline him to use the force that is in kindness, patience, gentleness:\nyour father might have entered the room suddenly yesterday and given vent\nto all the passionate indignation in the world. I dare say we should have\nbeen married to-day: but I shall have the quietest, most considerate\nof expositions made me (with one arm on my shoulder), of how I am sure\nto be about to kill you, to ruin you, your social reputation, your\npublic estimation, destroy the peace of this member of your family, the\nprospects of that other,—and the end will be?\n\nBecause I _can_ not only die for you but live without you _for you_—once\nsure it is for you: I know what you once bade me promise—but I do not\nknow what assurances on assurance, all on the ground of a presumed\nknowledge of your good above your own possible knowledge,—might not\neffect! _I do not know!_\n\n_This_ is _through you_! You _ought_ to know now that ‘it would _not_\nbe better for me to leave you’! That after this devotion of myself\nto you I cannot undo it all, and devote myself to objects so utterly\ninsignificant that yourself do not venture to specify them—‘it would be\nbetter—people will say such things’ ... I will never _force_ you to know\nthis, however—if your admirable senses do not instruct you, I shall never\nseem to, as it were, threaten you, by prophecies of what my life would\nprobably be, disengaged from you—it should certainly not be passed where\nthe ‘people’ are, nor where their ‘sayings’ influenced me any more—but I\nask you to look into my heart, and into your own belief in what is worthy\nand durable and _the better_—and then _decide_:—for instance, to speak of\nwaiting for four months will be a decision.\n\nSee, dearest—I began lightly,—I cannot end so. I know, after all, the\nwords were divine, self-forgetting words—after all, that you _are_ mine,\nby the one tenure, of your own free gift,—that all the _other_ words have\nnot been mere breath, nor the love, a playful show, an acting, an error\nyou will correct. I believe in you, or what shall I believe in? I wish I\ncould take my life, my affections, my ambitions, all my very self, and\nfold over them your little hand, and leave them there—then you would see\nwhat belief is mine! But if you had _not_ seen it, would you have uttered\none word, written one line, given one kiss to me? May God bless you, Ba—\n\n                                                                      R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 30, 1846.]\n\n‘Such desires—(for it was a desire—’)\n\nWell put into a parenthesis _that_ is!—ashamed and hiding itself between\nthe brackets!\n\nBecause—my own dearest—it was _not_ a ‘desire’—it was the farthest\npossible from being a ‘desire’ ... the word I spoke to you on Tuesday ...\nyesterday!\n\nAnd if I spoke it for the first time instead of writing it——what did\n_that_ prove, but that I _was able_ to speak it, and that just it was so\nmuch less earnest and painfully felt? Why it was not a proposition even—.\nI said only ‘You had better give me up!’ It was only the reflection,\nin the still water, of what _had been_ a proposition. ‘Better’\nperhaps!—‘Better’ for you, that you should desire to give me up and do\nit—my ‘Idée fixe’ you know. But _said_ with such different feelings from\nthose which have again and again made the tears run down my cheeks while\nI wrote to you the vexatious letter ... that I smile at you seeing no\ndifference. You, blind!—Which is wrong of me again. I will not smile for\nhaving vexed you ... teazed you. Which is wrong of _you_, though ... the\nbeing vexed for so little! because ‘you _ought_ to know by this time’ ...\n(now I will use your reproachful words)—you ought certainly to know that\nI am your own, and ready to go through with the matter we are upon, and\nwilling to leave the times and the seasons in your hand! Four months!\nmeant nothing at all. Take September, if you please. All I thought of\nanswering to you, was, that there was no need yet of specifying the exact\ntime. And yet—\n\nAh—yes!—I feel as _you_ feel, the risks and the difficulties which close\naround us. And _you_ feel _that_ about Mr. Kenyon? Is it by an instinct\nthat I tremble to think of _him_, more than to think of others? The\nhazel-rod turns round in my hand when I stand _here_. And as you show\nhim speaking and reasoning ... his arm laid on your shoulder ... oh,\nwhat a vision, _that_ is! before _that_, I cannot stand any longer!—it\ntakes away my breath—the likelihood of it is so awful that it seems to\n_promise_ to realise itself, one day!\n\nBut _you promised_. I have your solemn promise, Robert! If ever you\nshould be moved by a single one of those vain reasons, it will be an\nunfaithful cruelty in you. You will have trusted _another_, against _me_.\nYou would not do it, my beloved.\n\nFor I have none in the world who will hold me to make me live in it,\nexcept only you. I have come back for you alone ... at your voice and\nbecause you have use for me! I have come back to live a little for you—.\nI see _you_. My fault is ... not that I think too much of what people\nwill say. I see you and hear you. ‘People’ did not make me live for\n_them_. I am not theirs, but yours. I deserve that you should believe in\nme, beloved, because my love for you is ‘_Me_.’\n\nNow tell me again to ‘decide’—and I will tell you that the words are not\n‘breath,’ nor the affection ‘a show.’ Dearest beyond words, did I deserve\nyou telling me to ‘decide’?\n\nLet it be September then, if _you_ do not decide otherwise—I would not\nlean to dangerous delays which are unnecessary—I wish we were at Pisa,\nrather!\n\nSo try to find out if and how (certainly) we can get from Nevers to\nChâlons ... _I_ could not to-day, with my French travelling-book, find a\nway, either by the _chemin de fer_ or _coche d’eau_.—All the rest is easy\nand direct ... and very cheap. We must not hesitate between the French\nroute and the sea voyage.\n\nNow I will tell you your good story. You said that you had only heard\nsix words from Mr. Reade—but that they were characteristic. Someone was\ntalking before him and you of the illness of Anacreon Moore—‘He is very\nill’ said the someone. ‘_But he is no poet_’ said Mr. Reade.\n\nIsn’t it a good story? Mr. Kenyon called it ‘exquisite.’ It is what your\nman of science would have called ‘A beautiful specimen’—now isn’t it?\n\nMay God bless you, dearest, dearest!—I owe all to you, and love you\nwholly—I am your very own—",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 30, 1846.]\n\nNow you are my very own best, sweetest, dearest Ba—Do you think after\nsuch a letter as mine any amount of confidence in my own intentions,\nor of the reasonableness of being earnest on such a subject, can avail\nto save me from mortal misgivings? I should not have said those words,\ncertainly I should not—but you forgive them and me, do you not?\n\nIt was through seeing the peril about Mr. Kenyon just as you see it;\nbut do not suppose I could break my promise,—to every point urged after\nthat sad irresistible fashion, my answer would be,—would in the end\namount to,—‘provided she consents.’ And then he would return to you, put\naway altogether the arguments just used to me, take up in their stead\nthe corresponding ones founded on _my_ interests as he would profess to\nunderstand them, and the result would be that a similar answer would be\nobtained from you,—which he would call your ‘consent.’ This is not what\nI fear _now_,—oh, no!—but the fancy that I was frightened by, yesterday,\nwhile I wrote. Now, I seem to have my powers about me, and could get to\nthe truth and hold by it through every difficulty,—and if I, how much\nmore you!\n\nThen, this is expecting the _worst_ of Mr. Kenyon,—and the best is\nat least as likely. In any case, one may be sure of cautions and\nwarnings and a wise, good, shaking of the head—he is none of the ardent\nanticipators of exuberant happiness from any scheme begun and ended here\nbelow. But after that,—why, ours is the only thoroughly rational match\nthat ever came under my notice, and he is too clever not to see some\njustification in it. At all events, he will say ‘we shall see!’—whether\nhe sigh or smile in the saying—and if he waits, he _will_ see.\n\nAnd we will ‘decide’ on nothing, being sure of the _one_ decision—I\nmean, that, if the summer _be_ long, and likely to lead in as fine an\nAutumn, and if no new obstacles arise,—September shall go as it comes,\nand October too, if your convenience is attained thereby in the least\ndegree,—afterward, you will be all my own, all your days and hours and\nminutes. I forgot, by the way, to reply to your question concerning Mrs.\nJ.—_if there is good to you_, decided or even not impossible good—of\ncourse, let her be with us if she will, otherwise, oh let us be alone,\nBa! I find by the first map, that from Nevers the Loire proceeds S.E.\ntill the _Arroux_ joins it, and that just below it communicates with the\nCanal du Centre, which runs N.E. from _Paray_ to _Chagny_ and thence\nto Châlons sur Saône. It is a roundabout way, but not more so than the\npost-road by Autun—the Canal must be there for something, and in that\ncase, you travel from Orleans to Leghorn by water and with the least\nfatigue possible. I observe that steam-boats leave St. Katherine’s Wharf\nevery Thursday and Sunday morning at 8 o’clock for Havre, Rouen and\nParis—would that way be advisable? I will ascertain the facts about\nNevers and Châlons by the time we meet.\n\nDearest Ba, my very own, I love you with a love—not to die before any\nsorrow! perhaps that is the one remaining circumstance of power to\nheighten it! May God bless you for me—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 31, 1846.]\n\nWell, then,—it wasn’t, after all, so extravagant of me to make the\nproposition about ‘four months?’ How innocent people may be treated like\nguilty ones, through no _mistake_ even, of theirs!\n\nBut I hold to my first impression about Mr. Kenyon, whatever your second\nones may be. I know him entirely, and his views of life, and his terrors\nof responsibility ... his irresolution, his apprehensiveness. He never\nwould ‘shake his head’ good-naturedly, ... until he could do nothing\nelse. Just in proportion to the affection he bears each of us, would he\nlabour to drive us apart. And by the means you describe! And we who can\nforesee and analyze those means from this distance, would not, either of\nus, resist the actual process! There ... do not suffer yourself, ever\ndearest, to be drawn into any degree of confidence _there_! It would\nend miserably, I know ... see ... am confidently sure. Let him, on the\ncontrary, see the thing done, before he sees it at all, and _then_ he\nwill see the best of it ... the good in it ... _then_ we shall stand on\nthe sunshiny side of his philosophy and have all the benefit of _that_,\ninstead of having to endure, as we should now, the darkness of his\nirresolution and the weight of his over-caution. Observe of dear Mr.\nKenyon, that, generous and noble as he is, _he fears like a mere man of\nthe world_. Moreover he might find very rational cause for fearing, in\na distant view of this ... ‘most rational’ of marriages!—oh, but I am\nwrong in my quotation!—this only rational marriage that ever was heard\nof!—!!—it is _so_, I think.\n\nWhere did you guess that I was to-day? In Westminster Abbey! But we were\nthere at the wrong hour, as the service was near to begin ... and I was\nso frightened of the organ, that I hurried and besought my companions out\nof the door after a moment or two. Frightened of the organ!—yes, just\nexactly _that_—and you may laugh a little as they did. Through being so\ndisused to music, it affects me quite absurdly. Again the other day, in\nthe drawing room, because my cousin sang a song from the ‘Puritani,’\nof no such great melancholy, I had to go away to finish my sobbing by\nmyself. Which is all foolish and absurd, I know—but people cannot help\ntheir nerves—and I was ready to cry to-day, only to _think_ of the organ,\nwithout hearing it—I, who do not cry easily, either! and all Arabel’s\njests about how I was sure of my life even if I _should_ hear one note,\n... did not reassure me in the least. We walked within the chapel ...\nmerely within ... and looked up and looked down! How grand—how solemn!\nTime itself seemed turned to stone there! Then we stood where the poets\nwere laid—oh, it is very fine—it is better than Laureateships and\npensions. Do you remember what is written on Spenser’s monument—‘Here\nlyeth, in expectation of the second coming of Jesus Christ, ... Edmond\nSpenser, having given proof of his divine spirit in his poems’—something\nto that effect; and it struck me as being earnest and beautiful, and as\nif the writer believed in him. We should not dare, nowadays, to put such\nwords on a poet’s monument. We should say ... the author of such a book\n... at most! Michael Drayton’s inscription has crept back into the brown\nheart of the stone ... all but the name and a date, which somebody has\nrenewed with black lines ... black as ink.\n\nDearest, it will not do at all ... the going at eight o’clock in the\nmorning. I could not leave this house—it would not be possible. And then,\nwhy should we _wish_ even, for that long passage to no end; Southampton\nor Brighton being, each of them, accessible and unobjectionable. As for\nthe expense, it is nearly equal, by railway or sea.\n\nFor Mrs. Jameson, I mentioned her because you did once, and because her\nbeing so kind reminded me of it. I thought perhaps you might like her\nbeing with us (how should _I_ know?), in which case ... Well—but you do\nnot wish it, ... and indeed _I_ do not. Therefore she shall go by herself\n... dear Mrs. Jameson ... I will however write to her, which I have not\ndone yet. It is not so easy as you think, perhaps, to write at once so\nmuch and so little.\n\nWhy not tell me how you are, Robert? When you do not, I fancy that\nyou are not well! Say how you are, and love me till Saturday—and even\nafterwards.\n\n                                                         Your very own BA.\n\nAs to forgiveness—_ought_ I to have been angry when I was not? All I felt\nin that letter, was, that you loved me—and as to your pretending to think\nthat it was ‘show and acting’ on my part, I knew you did not really,\nand could not:—but at any rate I was the farthest possible from being\nangry—and the _very_ farthest possible, peradventure!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                               [Post-mark, July 31, 1846.]\n\nDearest Ba, the love _was_ as you admit, beneath all the foolish\nwords—I will lay your pardon to my heart with the other blessings.\nAll this missing of instant understanding—(for it does not amount\nto _mis_understanding)—comes of letters, and our being divided. In\nmy anxiety about a point, I go too much on the other side from mere\nearnestness,—as if the written words had need to make up in force what\nthey want in sound and promptness—and assuredly if I _had_ received such\nan impression _directly_ from your suggestion (since not a ‘desire,’—you\ndear, dear Ba!) I should have begun at once to ask and argue ... whereas,\nit _was_ only to the memory of what you said, an after impression, that I\nwrote in answer. Well, I will certainly ‘love you till Saturday,—and even\nafter.’\n\nDid you indeed go to the Abbey? How right to go! Every such expedition is\nthe removal of a world of apprehension. And why not accept Mrs. Jameson’s\noffer now, stipulating for privacy, and go and see the Museum,—the\nMarbles? And the National Gallery, and whatever you would wish to see.\nAt Pisa, Ba, the Cathedral will be ours, wholly—divinely beautiful it\nis—more impressive in itself than the Florence Duomo—and then the green\ngrass round, over the pavement it hides.\n\nAnd considerably more impressive than the party at Mrs. Milner Gibson’s\nlast night—whereof I made one through a sudden goodnatured invitation\nwhich only came yesterday—so I went ‘for reasons.’ Chorley was there,\nlooking very tired as he said he was. I left very early, having\naccomplished my purpose.\n\nYou know you are right, and that I knew you to be right about Mr.\nKenyon—no _confidence_ shall I make to him, be assured—but in the case\nof a direct application, with all those kind apologies in case his\nsuspicion should be wrongly excited, what should I say?—to Mr. Kenyon,\nwith his kindness and its right, mind—not to any other inquirer—think\nof the facilities during the week among the Quantock Hills! But no\nmatter,—nothing but your own real, unmistakable consent, divides us—I\nbelieve _nothing_ till that comes. The Havre voyage was of course merely\na fact noted—all courses, ways, routes are entirely the same to me.\n\nThank you, dearest—I am very much better, well, indeed—so said my doctor\nwho came last evening to see my father, whose eye is a little inflamed—so\nshall Ba see, but not take the trouble to say, when I rejoice in her\npresence to-morrow. Dearest, I love you with my whole heart and soul—may\nGod bless you—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Morning and Evening.\n                                              [Post-mark, August 3, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest, you were wet surely? The rain came before you reached the\nfront door; and for a moment (before I heard it shut) I hoped you might\nreturn. Dearest, how I blame myself for letting you go—for not sending\nyou a cab in despite of _you_! I was frightened out of all wisdom by the\nidea of who was down-stairs and listening perhaps, and watching—as if\nthe cab would have made you appear more emphatically you! And then you\nsaid ‘the rain was over’—and I believed you as usual. If this isn’t a\nprecedent of the evils of too much belief...!!\n\nAltogether, yesterday may pass among the ‘unsatisfactory days,’ I\nthink—for if I was not frightened of the storm, and _indeed_ I was not,\nmuch—of the state of affairs down in the provinces, I was most sorely\nfrightened—uneasy the whole time. I seem to be with you, Robert, at this\nmoment, more than yesterday I was ... though if I look up now, I do not\nsee you sitting there!—but when you sate there yesterday, I was looking\nat Papa’s face as I saw it through the floor, and now I see only yours.\n\nDearest, he came into the room at about seven, before he went to dinner—I\nwas lying on the sofa and had on a white dressing gown, to get rid of\nthe strings ... so oppressive the air was, for all the purifications of\nlightning. He looked a little as if the thunder had passed into him, and\nsaid, ‘Has this been your costume since the morning, pray?’\n\n‘Oh no’—I answered—‘Only just now, because of the heat.’\n\n‘Well,’ he resumed, with a still graver aspect ... (so displeased he\nlooked, dearest!) ‘it appears, Ba, that _that man_ has spent the whole\nday with you.’ To which I replied as quietly as I could, that you had\nseveral times meant to go away, but that the rain would not let you,—and\nthere the colloquy ended. Brief enough—but it took my breath away ... or\nwhat was left by the previous fear. And think how it must have been a\nterrible day, when the lightning of it made the least terror.\n\nI was right too about the message—he took up the fancy that I might be\nill perhaps with fear ... ‘and only Mr. Browning in the room’!! which was\nnot to be permitted. He was _peremptory_ with Arabel, she told me.\n\nWell—we need not talk any more of it—it has made one of us uncomfortable\nlong enough. Shall you dare come on Tuesday after all? He will be out.\nIf he is not—if my aunt should not be ... if a new obstacle should occur\n... why you shall hear on Tuesday. At any rate I shall write, I think.\nHe did not see you go yesterday—he had himself preceded you by an hour\n... at five o’clock ... which if it had been known, would have relieved\nme infinitely. Yet it did not prevent ... you see ... the appalling\ncommentary at seven—No.\n\nWith all the rest I am afraid besides of Mr. Chorley and his idea about\nyour ‘mysteriousness.’ Let Mr. Kenyon hold that thread in one hand, and\nin the other the thread Henrietta gave him so carelessly, why he need\nnot ask you for information—which reminds me of the case you put to me,\nRobert—and certainly you could not help a confession, in such possible\ncircumstances. Only, even granting the circumstances, you need not\nconfess more than is wrung from you—need you? Because Mr. Kenyon would\nundo us.\n\nBefore yesterday’s triple storms, I had a presentiment which oppressed me\nduring two days ... a presentiment that it would all end _ill_, through\nsome sudden accident or misery of some kind. What is the use of telling\nyou this? I do not know. I will tell you besides, that it cannot ...\nshall not ... be, by my fault or failing. I may be broken indeed, but\nnever bent.\n\nIf things should go smoothly, however, I want to say one word, once for\nall, in relation to them. Once or twice you have talked as if a change\nwere to take place in your life through marrying—whereas I do beg you to\nkeep in mind that not a pebble in the path changes, nor is pushed aside\nbecause of me. If you should make me feel myself in the way, should I\nlike it, do you think? And how could I disturb a single habit or manner\nof yours ... as an unmarried man ... though being within call—I? The best\nof me is, that I am really very quiet and not difficult to content—having\nnot been spoilt by an excess of prosperity even in little things. It will\nbe prosperity in the greatest, if you seem to be happy—believe that,\nand leave all the rest. You will go out just as you do now ... when you\nchoose, and as a matter of course, and without need of a word—you will be\nprecisely as you are now in everything,—lord of the house-door-key, and\nof your own ways—so that when I shall go to Greece, you shall not feel\nyourself much better off than before I went. That shall be a reserved\nvengeance, Robert.\n\nWhile I write, comes Mr. Kenyon,—and through a special interposition\nof guardian-angels, he has broken his spectacles and carries them in\nhis hand. On which I caught at the opportunity and told him that they\nwere the most unbecoming things in the world, and that fervently (and\nsincerely) I hoped never to see them mended. The next word was ... ‘Did\nyou see Browning yesterday?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I thought so, I intended to come\nmyself, but I thought it probable that he would be here, and so I stayed\naway—’\n\nNow——I confess to you that that thought carries me a good way over to\nyour impression. It is at least ‘suspicious,’ that he who knew you\nwere with me on Saturday and Tuesday should expect to find you again\non the next Saturday. ‘Oh—how uncomfortable’—the miracle of the broken\nspectacles not saving one from the discomfort of the position open to the\nbare eyes!—\n\nHe talked of you a little—asked what you were doing—praised you as usual\n... for inexhaustible knowledge and general reasonableness, this time.\nDid I not think so? Yes—of course I thought so.\n\nPresently he made me look aghast by just this question—‘Is there an\nattachment between your sister Henrietta and Capt. Cook?’—(put as\nabruptly as I put it here).\n\nMy heart leapt up—as Wordsworth’s to the rainbow in the sky—but there was\na recoil in my leap. ‘Why, Mr. Kenyon?’—I said ... ‘what extraordinary\nquestions, opening into unspeakable secrets, you do ask.’\n\n‘But I did not know that it was a secret. How was I to know? I have seen\nhim here very often, and it is a natural enquiry which I might have put\nto anybody in the house touching a matter open to general observation. I\nthought the affair might be an arranged one by anybody’s consent.’\n\n‘But you ought to know,’ I answered, ‘that such things are never\npermitted in this house. So much for the consent. As for the matter\nitself you are right in your supposition—but it is a great secret,—and\nI entreat you not to put questions about it to anybody in or out of the\nhouse.’ Something to that effect I believe I said—I was frightened ...\nfrightened ... and not exactly for Henrietta. What did he mean?—Had _he_\ntoo in his mind....\n\nHe touched on Mrs. Jameson ... just _touched_ ... He had desired my\nsisters to tell me. He thought I had better write a note to thank her for\nher kindness. He had told her that if I had any thoughts of Italy they\ncould be accomplished only by a sea-voyage, which was impossible to her.\n\nI briefly expressed a sense of the kindness and said that I meant to\nwrite. On which the subject was changed in mutual haste, as seemed to me.\n\nIs not this the book of the chronicles?... And you shall hear again on\nTuesday, if the post should be faithful to me that morning. I might be\ninclined to put off our Tuesday’s meeting, but Mrs. Hedley remains in\nLondon for a few days after her daughter’s marriage, and ‘means to see\na great deal’ of me—therefore Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,’ ... where\nshould we look, from Tuesday? but I must consider and will write. May God\nbless you! Do say how you are after that rain. The storm is calm,\n\n                                       and ever and ever I am your own BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                              [Post-mark, August 3, 1846.]\n\nWhat can I tell you, ever dearest, while I am expecting all you are to\ntell _me_? I will not conjecture, nor be afraid (for you) before the\ntime—I felt your dear hand press mine closer while the thunder sounded—so\nit will always be, I know, in life, in death—and when a thunder shall\nbreak, of a kind that I can fear, I will hold _your_ hand, my Ba. Perhaps\nthere is nothing formidable here ... indeed there can hardly be—tell me\n_all_. I got to your Hodgson’s, waited a few minutes till a cab passed,\nand then was properly deposited at the Haymarket. The streets, at least\nthe roads out of Town, were flooded—very canals. Here, at home our\nskylight was broken,—and our chimneys behaved just as yours.\n\nAnd now—shall I see you really on Tuesday after this Saturday of perils?\nAnd how will your head be,—your health in general be, you sweetest Ba? Is\nit the worse for the storm and the apprehension,—to say nothing of what\nmay have followed? Oh, if but a ‘sign’ might be vouchsafed me—if I might\ngo to Wimpole Street presently, and merely know by the disposition of a\nblind or of a shutter, that you were better, or no worse! I ought to have\ncontrived something of the kind yesterday—but ‘presence of mind’!\n\nBa, I have been reading those poems—now to speak soberly—I had no\nconception, Mrs. Butler could have written anything so mournfully\nmediocre ... to go as near flattery as I can. With the exception of three\nor four pieces respectable from their apparent earnestness, all that\nalbum writing about ‘sprites,’ and the lily-bell, and ‘wishes’—now to be\ndead and now alive,—descriptions without colour, songs without tune,—why,\nBennett towers above it! _Either_ Bennett—for the one touch you recorded,\n‘I will not be forgot’—seems grandly succinct contrasted with\n\n    Yet not in tears remembered be my name—\n    Weep over those ye loved—for me, for me,\n    Give me the wreath of glory and let fame\n    Over my tomb spread immortality.\n\nHow many of these unfortunate Sundays are in store for me, I wonder—eight\nor nine, then the two months ... ‘when constant faith and holy hope shall\ndie,’ one lost in certainty and one in the deep deep joy of the ever\npresent ever dearest Ba! Oh, Ba, how I love you!\n\n                                                               Your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                              [Post-mark, August 3, 1846.]\n\nOh, the comfort you are to me, Ba—the perpetual blessing and sustainment!\nAnd what a piece of you, how instinct with you, this letter is! I will\nnot try to thank you, but my whole life shall.\n\nSee! _Now_ talk of ‘three or four months’! And is not the wonder, that\nthis should wait for the eighty-second visit to happen? Or could anything\nbe more fortunate, more _mitigating_ than the circumstances under which\nit _did_ happen at last? The rain and thunder,—the two hours (see the\naccounts—nothing like it has been known, for years), at most, _proved_\nagainst us,—the ignorance of the visits last week—in spite of all which,\nsee what comes and is likely to come!\n\nLet me say at once that, at the worst, it _may_ come! You have had time\nto know enough of me, my Ba,—and I, who from the first knew you, have\ntaken one by one your promises from your lips,—I _believe_ what you write\nhere; I accept it as the foundation of all my future happiness—‘you will\nnever fail me’—I will never fail you, dearest dearest.\n\nHow you have mistaken my words, whatever they may have been, about the\n‘change’ to be expected in my life! I have, most sincerely I tell you,\nno one habit nor manner to change or persevere in,—if you once accept\nthe general constitution of me as accordant to yours in a sufficient\ndegree,—my incompleteness with your completeness, dearest,—there is no\nfurther difficulty. I want to be a Poet—to read books which make wise in\ntheir various ways, to see just so much of nature and the ways of men as\nseems necessary—and having done this already in some degree, I can easily\nand cheerfully afford to go without any or all of it for the future,\nif called upon,—and so live on, and ‘use up,’ my past acquisitions\nsuch as they are. I will go to Pisa and learn,—or stay here and learn\nin another way—putting, as I always have done, my whole pride, if that\nis the proper name, in the being able to work with the least possible\nmaterials. There is my scheme of life _without_ you, _before_ you existed\nfor me; prosecuted hitherto with every sort of weakness, but always\nkept in view and believed in. Now then, please to introduce Ba, and\nsay what is the habit she changes? But do not try to say what divinest\nconfirmation she brings to ‘whatever is good and holy and true’ in this\nscheme, because even She cannot say that! All the liberty and forbearance\n... most graceful, most characteristic of you, sweet! But why should I\nplay with you, at taking what I mean to give again?—or rather, what\nit would be a horror to have to keep—why make fantastic stipulations\nonly to have the glory of not abiding by them? If I may speak of my own\ndesires for a moment unconnected with your happiness,—of what I want _for\nmyself_ purely—what I mean by marrying you,—it is, that I may be with\nyou forever—I cannot have enough of you in any other relation: why then\nshould I pretend to make reservations and say ‘Yes, you shall deprive me\nof yourself (of your sympathy, of your knowledge, and good wishes, and\ncounsel) on such and such occasions? But I feel your entire goodness,\ndear angel of my life,—ever more I feel it, though all seems felt and\nrecorded.\n\nAnd now of your ‘chronicling’—of course Mr. Kenyon _knows_—and this is\nthe beginning of his considerate, cautious kindness—he has determined to\nhurry nothing, interfere abruptly in no case, to make you _infer_ rather\nthan pretend to instruct you—as you must,—for ‘if the visits of Captain\nCook _have_ that appearance &c., must not those of R.B. &c., &c.,’ So,\nthis is not from Chorley’s information, mind, but from his own spectacled\n_acumen_.\n\nAfter this, it seems very natural to remark that the Havre packets leave\nnow at nine instead of eight o’clock on Thursdays and Sundays—while the\ndepartures from Southampton are on Tuesdays and Fridays. My presentiment\nis that suddenly you will be removed to Devonshire or Sussex or—. In\nwhich case, our difficulties will multiply considerably—be prepared for\nsuch events!\n\nAnd for to-morrow—only think of yourself, _lest_ you should forget my\ninterests: _pray write to-night_, if but two or three words. If I am\nallowed to call, I will bring Mrs. Butler’s book in a cover, and, if I\nfind a note from you, leave _that_, as an excuse for the knock. Will you\ncontrive that a note shall be ready—in case of your Aunt’s presence &c.\nIf it saves you from a danger, let me stay away—until the letters stop,\nI can bear absence _till_ the _two months end_—any such journey as I\napprehend would be most annoying, deplorable indeed.\n\nWould you not if the worst came,—_what_ would you do?\n\nMay God bless you, infinitely bless you, ever dearest dearest, prays ever\nyour very own—\n\n                                                                        R.\n\nMrs. Procter wants me to go to her on Thursday—is there anything to get\nout of _that_ arrangement?—probably not—but write!\n\nDo _re_consider, Ba,—had I better stay away to-morrow? You cannot\nmisunderstand me,—I _only_ think of you—any man’s anger to me is\nFlushie’s barking, without the respectability of motive,—but, once the\ndoor shut on me, if he took to biting you! Think for us both! Is there\nany possibility of a suspicious sudden return _because_ of the facilities\nof the day? Or of the servant being desired to mention my visits—or to\n‘deny you,’ as unwell &c.? Ah my soul revolts at the notion of a scene\nin your presence—my own tied tongue, and a system of patience I can well\n_resolve_ upon, but not be _sure_ of, as experience makes sure.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                              [Post-mark, August 4, 1846.]\n\nTwo precious letters to make amends for yesterday! and in return only\njust two or three words to say ... ‘yes, come.’ And I meant to have\nproposed to you something like what you suggest when you talk of the book\nand the note. If the ground is not clear at three, and Papa (above all)\nstill in the house, you shall have a note, instead of admittance, ... and\nyou will understand by the sign that it is wise for us not to meet. My\nhope and expectation are, however, that no obstacle will occur—that _he_\nwill be in the city, and _she_ at Fenton’s Hotel, engaged in some office\nof consolation beside her sister. I seriously exhorted her to remain\nthere the rest of the day to wipe away the tears of the bride’s mother\n... as an appendix to the breakfast:—ah, and seriously I thought she\nought to stay, as well as seriously wishing it. And thus, altogether, we\nshall probably have open ground when it is desirable. If not, the note!—\n\nFor the rest, dearest, do not exaggerate to yourself my report of what\npassed on Saturday. It was an unpleasant impression, and that is all,\n... and nothing, I believe, has been thought of it since. Once before,\nremember, your apparition made an unpleasant impression, which was\nperfectly transitory then as now. Now as then, do not suffer such things\nto vex you beyond their due import. There will be no coming back, no\ndirections to servants, nothing of the sort. Only it would not do to\ndeepen Saturday’s impression with to-morrow’s—we must be prudent a little.\n\nAnd you see me, my prophet, sent to Sussex or Devonshire, in a flash\nof lightning? That is your presentiment, do you say? Well! Sussex\nis possible, Kent is not impossible. This house, ... _vox populi\nclamat_,—wants cleaning, painting, papering—the inhabitants thereof, too,\ncry aloud for fresh air. Nevertheless, summer after summer, there have\nbeen the same reasons for going, and nobody goes. We shall see.\n\nSo, till to-morrow! Dear, dearest! you are always best—to justify the\n_dearest_, I suppose! I remember your having said before some of this ...\nwhich, never could I forget, having once heard. But think how Alfred the\nking divided his days—and how Solomon the king would tell you of ‘a time’\nfor sitting with _me_. ‘Bid me ... not ... discourse’ however—we shall\nboth know what is right presently—and I in the meanwhile perfectly do now\nthat I could not consent to your shutting yourself up for my sake—no,\nindeed!\n\nShall I fail to you? Could I? Could it be needful for me to say ‘_I will\nnot fail._’\n\n                                                           Your own, I am.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                              [Post-mark, August 5, 1846.]\n\nOne word or two to-night and no more, let the paper spread itself as it\nmay. Dearest, it was wise of you, perhaps, to go to-day. Wisdom was the\nfirst to wear sackcloth. My aunt, who had just had time to hear of your\nbeing in the house, found my door open, and you were noticed by a passing\njest ... too passing to meet ears in authority—and I was made to put on\nmy bonnet and go out in the carriage with _our_ department of the bridal\nparty, who had come home first, in order to change their costume into\nsomething wearable for comfort ... into gowns which had not a devil,\ntorturing the wearers with a morbid sense of flounces. So they came\nhome for _that_, and we were vexed and frightened for _that_ reason—and\nI was taken to Kensington Gardens to leave some walkers there, and\nthen to Fenton’s Hotel, to leave my aunt as comforter for the evening.\nAltogether, oh, how provoked I was! But it was wise perhaps. I will not\nsay that it was not very wise indeed. Papa knows nothing of your having\nbeen here, and Saturday is not far off. Still, to think of two hours\nbeing cut off; and of the long journey from New Cross, just for the one\nhour! Shall I hear to-morrow _fully_, to make up for it, Robert? And tell\nme if you accept Mrs. Jameson’s invitation. And _your head_?\n\nFlush thanks you! I asked him if he loved you even, and he wagged his\ntail. Generally when I ask him that question he won’t answer at all,—but\nyou have overcome him with generosity ... as you do me!\n\nI forgot to tell you—There is a letter from Mr. Horne which makes me\nvexed a little. He is coming to England, and says, that, if still I will\nnot see him, he shall bring his guitar to play and sing for my sisters,\nleaving the door open that I may hear up-stairs. What a vexation! How\nshall I escape a checkmate now? He castles his king, and the next move\nundoes me. There’s a bishop though to be played first, for he wants an\nintroduction to Whately, which I am to write for to Miss Mitford, if I\n_don’t know him myself_.\n\nMy consolation for to-day, is, that to-morrow is not Sunday. In the\nmeanwhile, nothing is talked except of the glories of Fenton’s Hotel. The\nbride behaved with the most indisputable grace, and had words and smiles\nfor everybody. The bridegroom appears to have been rather petrified\n(he was saying orisons to St. James, I dare say) and was condemned by\nthe severer critics, for being able to produce no better speech at the\nbreakfast, when his health was drunk with ever so much elaboration of\neloquence, than ‘I thank you—I propose yours.’ For my part I sympathize\nmore with him in that point of specific stupidity, than on any other\nI have yet heard of. If he had said as little about ecclesiastical\narchitecture, he would have been unobjectionable, wholly. They went away\nwith four horses, in disdain of the railroads.\n\nBut poor Mrs. Hedley was dreadfully affected—I knew she would be. This is\nthe only grown-up daughter, you see,—the others being all children, the\nyoungest three years old—and she loses a constant companion, besides the\nhourly sight of a very lovely girl, the delight of her eyes and heart.\n\nDearest, you understood why I told you to-day of Mr. Kenyon’s professed\nopinions? It was to make you know _him_. The rest, we know alike. And for\n_him_ even, when he looks back on a thing instead of looking forward to\nit (where the Bude Light of the world is in his eyes and blinds them) he\nwill see aright and as we do. Only you frightened me by your idea about\nhis application to you. May God forbid!\n\nMay God bless you, rather, in the best way! Why should I choose how? I\n_‘ought’ not_, I think, to fancy that I know the best for you, enough to\nuse such words.\n\nBut I am your own. That, we both know! _May_ I be yours, not to do you\nharm, my beloved! Good-night, now!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                              [Post-mark, August 5, 1846.]\n\nIf I had felt, as you pleased to feel yesterday, that it had been ‘only\none hour’ which my coming gained—I should richly deserve to find out\nto-day, as I do fully, what the precise value of such an hour is. But\nI never act so ungratefully and foolishly—you are more than ever you\nhave been to me,—yet at any time I would have gone for the moment’s\nsight of you,—one moment’s—and returned happy. You never doubt this\nbecause I do not waylay you in your walks and rides? I consider your\nsisters, and your apprehension for them, and other reasons that make\nsuch a step objectionable. Do you remember what I said yesterday—what\nI have told myself so often? It is one proof how I love you that I am\njealous of any conversation with you which should be too interesting _for\nitself_, apart from the joy of your presence—it is better to sit and see\nyou, or hear you, or only say something which, in its insignificance,\nshall be obviously of no account beside the main and proper delight—as\nat wine-feasts you get the wine and a plate of thin dry tasteless\nbiscuits—(observe, for instance, that this noble simile was not set\nbefore you yesterday—no, my Ba!)\n\nAnd you _did_ understand also why I left, on that mere chance of danger\nto you,—for it was not, do you think it was only the irksomeness to\nmyself I sought to escape—though that would have been considerable.\nThere is no unstable footing for me in the whole world except just\nin your house—which is _not_ yours. I ought not to be in that one\nplace—all I could do in any circumstances (were a meeting to happen)\nwould be _wrong_, unfortunate. The certainty of misconception would spoil\neverything—so much of gentleness as is included in _gentle_manliness\nwould pass for a very different quality—and the _manliness_ which one\nobserves there too, would look like whatever it is farthest from. This is\na real avowal of weakness—because, being in the right, as I dare trust\nI am, so far as I can see through the involvement, I ought to be able\nto take my stand upon it,—and so I shall be able, and easily—but not\n_here_, just here. With Mr. Kenyon, in spite of a few misgivings, I shall\nknow what to say—I can justify myself, if not convince him. Never fancy,\ndearest, that he has any ‘clay’ in his composition—he may show a drop of\nwater at the heart of the else entire chrystal he is—did you ever see\nthat pretty phenomenon—of which Claudian wrote so prettily? ‘Non potuit\ntoto mentiri corpore gemmam, sed medio latuit proditor orbe latex.’\nOur Druids used to make balls for divining out of such _all-but-solid_\ngems with the central weakness—I have had them in my hand. Such doubts\nand fears are infinitely more becoming in him, situated as he is than\ntheir absence would be—if he said for instance, ‘Oh yes,—I am used to\na certain style of living, which of course I do not change for _no_\nreason at all,—but who doubts that I _could_ do so, without difficulty or\nregret? I shall hardly bestow any sympathy on what I am sure must be the\neasiest life in the world!’ One would rather hear an epicure say frankly\nhe cannot conceive how people can end a dinner without Tokay, than ask\nover his Tokay (as Sheridan’s Abbot in the ‘Duenna’) of the poor starved\nwistful attendant monk, ‘Haven’t you the chrystal spring?’\n\nIn this case, he is directly looking to your possible undertakings,\nnot merely expressing his general ‘remembrance that we are dust’ and\nneed gilding—and certainly if in some respects you have, as I believe,\nless use, fewer uses for money than ordinary women,—you also have an\nabsolute _necessity_ for whatever portion you _do_ require,—such a\nnecessity as _they_ have not, neither. I shall never grieve over the lace\nhandkerchiefs you cannot get—but whatever you possess already in this\nroom of yours, or might possess on the contingency of such illness, you\nmust _keep_,—to your life’s end. I would not take you away on any other\ncondition. Now listen Ba—not think for a moment that it puts me to the\nleast, least pain imaginable to talk on this subject, while I know you\nwholly, as _there_ I am sure I do, and while you too know me, as I also\nam sure,—we may discuss this, as we do the better or worse routes to\nItaly, in the fullest confidence of our aims and desires being absolutely\nidentical,—so that it is but a prize for the ingenuity of either,—a\nprize from the common stock of our advantage,—whenever a facility is\ndiscovered or a difficulty avoided. So listen,—will you, at once, or as\nsoon as practicable, ascertain what you certainly possess—what is quite\nyours, and in your sole power, to take or to let remain—what will be just\nas available to you in Italy as in England? I want to know, being your\npossible husband. My notion of the perfection of money arrangements is\nthat of a fairy purse which every day should hold _so_ much, and there an\nend of trouble. Houses and land always seem like a vineyard to a man who\nwants a draught of wine for present thirst: so tell me how much will be\nfound in the purse—because when we are in Italy or halfway there telling\nwill be superfluous or beyond remedy,—easy remedy at least.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSince writing the above I have been down-stairs—and now return to tell\nyou, a miracle has just happened, which my father, mother and sister\nare at this moment engaged in admiring—I hear their voices in the\ngarden. We have a fig-tree which I planted four years ago—this year it\nproduces its first fruit, a small fig, ‘_seule et unique_,’ which is\nstill on the tree—not another fig, ripe or unripe, living or dead, has\never been carried into the garden—yet this morning is discovered in the\nexact centre of the garden, and parallel with the fig-tree aforesaid,\nanother indubitable seedling fig-tree,—‘how begot, how nourished?’ _Ipse\nvidi_—does that prognosticate, my own Siren, my soothsayer and wise lady?\n\nAnd now, have you been incommoded by the storm,—and thunder, which was\nloud and lasting here? I thought of you with such thoughts.\n\nAnd what came of my visit? Was it really your Aunt—did my precipitation\nimprove matters? Will Saturday have to fear?\n\nYesterday I was not in a mood to go quietly home—‘for my soul kept\nup too much light under my eyelids for the night, and thus I _went_\ndisquieted’ till at Charing Cross it struck me that going home by water\n(to Greenwich, at least) would be a calmative—so I went on board a\nsteamer. Close by me sate three elderly respectable men,—I could not help\nhearing them talk rationally about the prospects of the planters, the\n‘compensation there is to be in the article of Rum,’—how we ‘get labour,’\nwhich is the main thing, and may defy, with that, Cuba, the Brazils &c.\nOne who talked thus was a fat genial fellow, ending every sentence in a\nlaugh from pure good-nature—his companions somehow got to ‘the Church,’\nthen Puseyism, then Dissent—on all which this personage had his little\nopinion,—when one friend happened to ask ‘you think so?’—‘I do,’ said the\nother ‘and indeed I _know_ it.’ ‘How so?’—‘Because it was revealed to me\nin a vision.’ ‘A ... vision?’—‘Yes, a vision’—and so he began to describe\nit, quite in earnest, but with the selfsame precision and assurance, with\nwhich he had been a little before describing the effect of the lightning\non an iron steamboat at Woolwich as he witnessed it. In this vision he\nhad seen the devil cast out of himself—which he took for an earnest\nof God’s purposes for good to the world at large—I thought, ‘we mad\npoets,—and this very unpoetical person!’ who had also previously been\nentering on the momentous question ‘why I grow fatter than of old, seeing\nthat I eat no more—’\n\nCome, Ba, say, is not this too bad, too far from the line?—I may _talk_\nthis _by_ you,—but _write_ this _away_ from you,—oh, no! Be with me then,\ndearest, for one moment, for many moments, in spite of the miles, while I\nkiss your sweetest lips, as now—Beloved!\n\n                                                   I am ever your very own\n\nOh,—I determine not to go _yet_ to Mrs. J’s ‘for reasons’—a phrase which\nought to be ready stereotyped.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Night.\n                                              [Post-mark, August 6, 1846.]\n\nDearest, you did not have my letter, I think—the letter I wrote on\nTuesday, yesterday. These iniquitous postpeople—who are not likely to see\nin a vision (like your fat prophet) the devil cast out of them for the\ngood of the world! Indeed it is too bad.\n\nTo answer first the question—(You are wise beyond me in all things\n... let me say _that_ in a parenthesis!) I will tell you what I know.\nStormie told me the other day that I had eight thousand pounds in the\nfunds; of which the interest comes to me quarterly, the money being in\ntwo different per cents ... (do you understand better than I do?) and\nfrom forty to forty-five pounds Papa gives me every three months, the\nincome tax being first deducted. It may be eight thousand pounds, or more\nor less, ... it is difficult to ask about it ... but what comes to me\nevery three months, I know certainly. Then there is the ship money ... a\nlittle under two hundred a year on an average ... which I have not used\nat all (but must for the future use), and the annual amount of which\ntherefore, has been added to the Fund-money until this year, when I was\ndirected to sign a paper which invested it (_i.e._ the annual return) in\nthe Eastern Railroad. That investment is to yield a large percentage, I\nheard, and Stormie tried to persuade me to ask Papa to place everything\nI had, on the same railroad. Papa had said down-stairs the other day\nthat it would be best so—and I ought to remind him to do it, repeated\nStormie, as it would very much increase ... increase by doubling almost\n... the available income; and without the slightest risk of any kind. But\nI could not take the advice under the circumstances—I could not mention\nsuch a word as money to him, giving the appearance even of trouble about\nmy affairs, now. And he would wonder how I should take a fancy suddenly\nto touch such matters with the end of my finger. Then there are the ten\nshares in Drury Lane Theatre—out of which comes nothing.\n\nYou wonder how I can spend, perhaps, the quarterly forty pounds and\nupward that come to me? I _do spend_ them. Yet let me hold you from\nbeing frightened, and teach you to consider how easy it is to spend\nmoney, and not upon oneself. Never in any one year of my life, even when\nI was well, have my expenses in dress (as I told Mr. Kenyon the other\nday) exceeded twenty pounds. My greatest personal expense lately has\nbeen _the morphine_. Still the money flows out of window and door—you\nwill understand how it flows like a stream. I have not the gift (if it\nis a gift) of making dresses ... in my situation, here. Elsewhere, all\nchanges, you know. You shall not call me extravagant—you will see. If I\nwas ‘surprised’ at what you told me of Mrs. Norton, it was only because\nI had had other ideas of her—for my own gown cost five shillings ... the\none I had on when you spoke. So she was better than I by a mere sixpence.\nAh—it came into my head afterwards that my being ‘surprised’ about Mrs.\nNorton, might argue my own extravagance. See!—\n\nBut the Goddess Dulness inspires me to write about it and about it, to\nno end. I say briefly at last, that whatever I have, is mine ... and for\nuse in Italy, as in England. Papa has managed ... has taken a power of\nattorney, to manage for me kindly ... but everything is in my name—and\nif it were not, he could not for a moment think of interfering with an\nincontestable right of property. Still, I do see a difficulty at the\nbeginning—I mean that, _as I am here_, I could not put my hand out for a\nlarge sum, such as would be necessary perhaps. I have had a great deal to\npay and do lately,—and the next quarter will not be until the middle of\nOctober. Still there would be something, but less than is necessary. We\nmight either wait on the road till the required sum were called for and\nsent—or get a hundred pounds advanced by someone for a few weeks until\neverything was settled ... which would be pleasanter, if possible. Poor\nPapa’s first act will be to abandon his management. Ah, may God grant him\nto do it rather angrily than painfully.\n\nA letter, I have written to you, like the chiming of two penny pieces—a\nmiserable letter! And there is much to tell you ... but nothing painful\n... do not fear. The Hedleys dined here, and Mrs. Hedley has been sitting\nwith me ... keeping me from writing. Good-night now it must be! When you\nwrite so of caring to be with me, my heart seems to _rock_ with pleasure.\nShouldn’t this letter have been written on ’Change, and isn’t it unworthy\nof all you are to me ... and even of all I am to _you_? But such things\nmust be, after a fashion. Have I told you right, dearest? does it make\nany sense, altogether? You are wise in little subjects as in great ones,\nand I will let you make me wiser if you can. And there _is_ no clay in\ndear Mr. Kenyon ... but just the drop in the chrystal you tell me of—only\nyou shall not divine by him, my Druid, or you will sit by yourself under\nthe oak tree to the end of the day!\n\nWholly yours and ever—in the greatest haste—",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n                                              [Post-mark, August 6, 1846.]\n\nNo, dearest,—the post brought me no letter till early this morning, a few\nhours before the second arrival: so, in case of any unexpected stoppage\nin our visit-affairs, if the post _can_ have been to blame, always be\nsure it _is_; if I do not arrive at any time when I ought to arrive,\nhaving been sent for—there is the great instance and possibility, which\nyou are to remember! However at present, _post naufragia tutus sum_ with\nmy two treasures.\n\nThank you, dearest, for all that kind care of answering—will you now\nlet me lay it all quietly up in my head to mature, before I ... really\n_think_ upon it, much more, speak of it? If one can do both _once\nfor all_, what a blessing! But a little leaven of uncertainty and\napprehension, just enough to be tasted bitterly in the whole lump of our\nlife,—that cannot be too diligently guarded against while there is time.\n\nWell, love, your excursion to Kensington was a real good, well purchased\nby my early going—and I am glad the great event stood before all eyes and\nmouths. I seem to notice that you do not leave the house quite so often\nas, say, a month ago; and that you are not the better for it. Of course\nyou cannot go out in storm and rain. Will you do what is best for _my_\nBa, you who say you love me,—that is, love her?\n\nDon’t I sympathize with Horne, and see with his eyes, and want with\nhis senses! But why can he not want after the two months, I ask\nselfishly—seeing, or fancying I see, this inconvenience ... that, as\nhis _report_ will probably be the _latest_ to the world, it would be\nadvisable for you to look as well as possible,—would it not? It would\nnot do for him to tell people ‘All I can say is, that a few weeks only\n_before it happened_, she appeared to me thus and thus’—while, on\nthe other hand, if you receive him in the drawing room,—_there_ are\ndifficulties too.\n\nYou never told me how yesterday’s thunder affected you—nor how your\ngeneral health is—yet I will answer you that I am very well to-day—about\nto go to Mrs. Procter’s, alas—it is good that this letter cannot reach\nyou before night or nine o’clock—I should fail to deny myself the\nmoment’s glance at the window—if you could be prayed to stand there! But\nit is past praying for now. I told you that I have excused myself to Mrs.\nJameson on the ground of some kind of uncertainty that rules the next\nfortnight’s engagements—who shall say what a fortnight may not bring\nforth? I shall not mind Mr. Kenyon being of the party to-night, should\nit be so ordered ... for, if he asks me, I can say with dignity—‘No,—I\ndid not call to-day,—meaning to call on Saturday, perhaps’—‘Well, there\nis _some_ forbearance,’ he will think! However, he will not be present,\nI prophesy, and Chorley _will_ ... or no, perhaps, Rachel’s Jeanne D’Arc\nmay tempt him. Important to Ba, very! almost as much as to me—so at once\nto the really, truly, exclusively important thing, by comparison—Love me\never, dearest dearest, as I must ever love you,—and take my heart, as if\nit were a better offering. Also write to me and tell me that Saturday is\nsafe ... will it be safe? Your aunt may perhaps leave you soon—and one\nobservation of hers would be enough to ruin us—consider and decide!\n\nSince these words were written, my mother, who was out, entered the\nroom to confirm a horrible paragraph in the paper. You know our light\nmomentary annoyance at the storm on Saturday; it is over for _us_. The\nnext day, Mr. Chandler, the cultivator of camellias at Wandsworth,\ndied of grief at the loss from the damage to his conservatories and\nflowers—which new calamity added to the other, deprived his eldest son,\nand partner—of his senses ... ‘he was found to be raving mad on Monday’\nare the words of the _Times_. My mother’s informant called theirs ‘the\nmost amicable of families.’\n\nHow strange—and a few weeks ago I read, in the same paper, a letter from\nConstantinople—wherein the writer mentioned that he had seen (I think,\nthat morning) Pacha somebody, whose malpractices had just drawn down\non him the Sultan’s vengeance, and who had been left with barely his\nlife,—having lost his immense treasures, palaces and gardens &c., along\nwith his dignity,—the writer saw this old man selling slices of melon\non a bridge in the city; and on stopping in wonderment to praise such\nconstancy, the Turk asked him with at least equal astonishment, whether\nit was not fitter to praise Allah who had lent him such wealth for forty\nyears, than to repine that he had judged right to recall it now?\n\nCould we but practise it, as we reason on it!—May God continue me that\nblessing I have all unworthily received ... but not, I trust, insensibly\nreceived!\n\n                     May he keep you, dearest dearest\n\n                                                                        R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                              [Post-mark, August 7, 1846.]\n\nI told you nothing yesterday; but the interruption left me no time, and\nthe house was half asleep before I had done writing what I was able to\nwrite. Otherwise I wanted to tell you that Mrs. Jameson had been here ...\nthat she came yesterday, and without having received my note. So I was\nthrown from my resources. I was obliged to thank her with my voice ... so\nmuch weaker than my hand. If you knew how frightened I was! The thunder,\nthe morning before, (which I did not hear holding _your_ hand!) shook me\nless, upon the whole. I thanked her at least ... I could do _that_. And\nthen I said it was in vain ... impossible.\n\n‘Mr. Kenyon threw cold water on the whole scheme. But _you_! Have _you_\ngiven up going to Italy?’\n\nI said ‘no, that I have not certainly.’ I said ‘I felt deeply how her\ngreat kindness demanded every sort of frankness and openness from me\ntowards her,——and yet, that at that moment I could not be frank—there\nwere reasons which prevented it. Would she promise not to renew the\nsubject to Mr. Kenyon? not to repeat to him what I said? and to wait\nuntil the whole should be explained to herself?’\n\nShe promised. She was kind beyond imagination—at least, far beyond\nexpectation. She looked at me a little curiously, but asked no more\nquestions until she rose to go away. And then——\n\n‘But you will go?’ ‘Perhaps—if something unforeseen does not happen.’\n‘And you will let me know, and when you can,—when everything is settled?’\n‘Yes.’ ‘And you think you shall go?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And with efficient\ncompanionship?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And happily and quietly?’ ... ‘Ye ...’ I could\nnot say the full ‘Yes,’ to _that_—If it had been utterable, the idea of\n‘quiet’ would have been something peculiar. She loosened her grasp of her\ncatechumen, therefore——nothing was to be done with me.\n\nI forgot, however, to tell you that in the earlier part of the discussion\nshe spoke of having half given up her plan of going herself. In her\ninfinite goodness she said, ‘she seemed to want an object, and it was in\nthe merest selfishness, she had proposed taking _me_ as an object’—‘And\nif you go even without me, would it not be possible to meet you on the\nroad? I shall go to Paris in any case. _If_ you go, _how_ do you go?’\n\n‘Perhaps across France—by the rivers.’\n\n‘Precisely. That is as it should be. Mr. Kenyon talked of a long\nsea-voyage.’\n\nNow I have recited the whole dialogue to you, I think, except where my\ngratitude grew rhetorical, as well it might. She is the kindest, most\naffectionate woman in the world! and you shall let me love her for you\nand for me.\n\nAs for me, my own dearest, you are fanciful when you say that I do not\ngo out so much, nor look so well. Now I will just tell you—Henrietta\ncried out in loud astonishment at me to-day, desiring Treppy to look at\nmy face, when we were all standing together in this room—‘Look at Ba,\nTreppy!—Did you ever see anyone looking so much better; it really is\nwonderful, the difference within these few weeks.’ That’s Henrietta’s\nopinion! She quite startled me with crying out ... as if suddenly she had\nmissed my head!—And _you_!\n\nThen I have been out in the carriage to-day, just to Charing Cross, and\nthen to Mr. Boyd’s in St. John’s Wood. I am as well at this moment as\nanyone in the world. I have not had one symptom of illness throughout\nthe summer—perfectly well, I am. At the same time, being _strong_ is\ndifferent; and sometimes for a day or two together, when I do not feel\nthe strongest, it is _right_ to be quiet and not to walk up and down\nstairs. So as I ‘love _Ba_,’ (quite enough, I assure you!) I am quiet.\nThere’s the only meaning of not going out every day! But the health\nis perfectly unaffected, I do assure you,—so keep yourself from every\nvexing thought of me, _so_ far at least. Are you getting frightened for\nme, my beloved? Do not be frightened, I would not deceive you by an\nexaggeration, for the sake even of your temporary satisfaction—you may\ntrust what I say.\n\nFor the thunder ... if you thought of me during it, as _you_ say, ... why\nit did me just so much good. Think of me, dearest, in the thunder and\nout of the thunder; the longest peal’s worth of your thought would not\ncontent me now, because you have made me too covetous.\n\nAs to Mr. Horne, you write _Sordelloisms_ of him—and you shall tell me\nyour real meaning in a new edition on Saturday. Might your meaning be\nthat I _look worse_ in this room than in the drawing-room? Have you an\nobjection to this room as a room? I rub my eyes and look for a little\nmore light—(but can’t be more impertinent!—can I?)\n\nSo, till Saturday—yes, Saturday! To-morrow there is a clearance of\naunts—one going at nine in the morning, and one at five in the afternoon:\nand uncles and cousins do not stay behind. You are glad, I think—and I,\nnot sorry.\n\nHow striking your two stories are! Wonderful it is to me, when mere\nworldly reverses affect men _so_—I cannot comprehend it—I stand musing\n_there_. But the sublime sentiment of the Melon-seller applies to the\ngriefs I _can_ understand—and we may most of us (called Christians) go to\nhim for his teaching.\n\nMay God bless you for _me_! Your BA.\n\n(I want to say one word more and so leave the subject. Stormie told me\nthis morning, in answer to an enquiry of mine, that certainly I did not\nreceive the whole interest of the fund-money, ... could not ... making\never so much allowance for the income-tax. And now, upon consideration, I\nseem to see that I cannot have done so. The ship-shares are in the ‘David\nLyon,’ a vessel in the West Indian trade, in which Papa also has shares.\nStormie said ‘There must be three hundred a year of interest from the\nfund-money—even at the low rate of interest paid there.’ Now it would be\nthe easiest thing in the world (as I saw even in to-day’s newspaper) to\nhave money advanced upon this—only there is a risk of its being known\nperhaps, which neither of us would at all like.) _Burn this._",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                                              [Post-mark, August 7, 1846.]\n\n(First of all, let me tell you that the whole story about that death\nthrough grief, madness &c., turns out to be a vile fabrication,—false\nfrom beginning to end. My mother’s informant, I now find, had derived\nthe knowledge from newspaper also—I hope the _other_ tale, of the Turk,\nis true at least.)\n\nAnd now, love, I can go on to say that no letter comes—is it the post’s\nfault? Yes—I think,—so does your goodness spoil me—you have to tell me\nabout to-morrow, beside. I shall wait hopefully till 2 or 3 o’clock.\n\nMr. Kenyon was there last evening, for all my prognostications—he had\nalready twice passed this place in the course of the day on his way to\nLewisham. He soon asked me as I expected—or something that sounded like\nit—for, in the half whisper of his tone, I can only hope he did not\nput the question thus ‘Have you seen Miss Barrett _since Saturday_,—or\nhave you called to-day?’ My mind misgives a little—at all events I only\nanswered the last part of the sentence—and now, mark you!—after dinner he\nproposed that I should go to him on Wednesday, and make one of a party he\nis organising. I tried some faint excuse or other—‘You know,’ interposed\nhe, ‘you can pay a visit to Wimpole Street and I shall know and keep\naway from troubling you’—or words to that effect. I thought it really\nbetter to simply (in every sense of the word) smile, and attempt to say\nnothing. Now, I feel sure that if I were to remark, ‘I will call on\nMrs. Jameson’—for instance—he would say, ‘So will I, then, if I can’—on\nthat day, rather than any other—unless some special business had been\nmentioned as the object of my visit. And here is another inconvenience\nhe will perhaps consider ‘As he means to call on Wednesday,—there is no\nreason I should keep away to-morrow—Saturday—’\n\nIt will be, however, a justification in his eyes at the end—‘he knew her\nso well, saw so much of her,—who could wonder?’\n\nI sate by a pleasant chatting Jewess, Goldsmid, or whatever the name\nis,—also by Thackeray—and Milnes came in the evening,—yet the dulness was\nmortal, and I am far from my ordinary self to-day. I am convinced that\ngeneral society depresses my spirits more than any other cause. I could\nkeep by myself for a month till I recovered my mind’s health. But you\nare part or all of that self now,—and would be, were you only present in\nmemory, in fancy. As it is, oh, to be with you, Ba?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThree o’clock, no letter! I will put my own philosophy in practice and\nbe consoled that you are not in any circumstances to justify and require\nanxiety—not unwell—nor have any fresh obstacles arisen _necessarily_....\nAny alleviations so long as I am allowed to keep a good substantial\nmisfortune at the end!\n\nOnce you said in your very own way ... when I sent you some roses in a\nbox, and no letter with them, ‘Now I shall write no more to-day, not\nhaving been written to!’ I cannot write more—I see! Ah, Ba, here the\nletter comes!! and I will wait from reading it to kiss my gratitude to\nyou, you utterly best and dearest! And I repeat my kisses while I write\nthe few words there is time for—what a giver you are of all good things\nall together. Let me take the best first, not minding ingratitude to the\nrest, and say _yes_, to-morrow I will see you—even if Mr. Kenyon comes,\nit will be easy saying—‘I cannot go on Wednesday.’ Did you manage so well\nwith Mrs. Jameson? As for Horne,—why, there may have been Sordelloisms,\nI daresay—I only meant, ‘if you look an invalid to him,—he will say so,\njust when your improved health is my one excuse for the journey and its\nfatigues—and if you look plainly no longer an invalid’—Oh, I don’t know\n... I thought he might talk of that too, and bring in a host! There is\nthe secret, rendered more obscurely perhaps! As for the room, the dearest\nfour walls that I ever have been enclosed by—I only thought of the\npossible phrase—‘Still confined to her room’—or the like—and as—that is\nthe fact,—I rather understood the whole tone in which you spoke of the\ncircumstance, as of slight dissatisfaction at the notion of the intended\nvisit ... _in tuam sententiam discedens_, I sordelloized!\n\nThe words about your health reassure me, beloved! I had no positive\nfears _quite_ as you suppose ... but I coupled one circumstance with\nanother, do you see, and _did_ get to apprehend what you now show me to\nbe groundless, thank God!\n\nOh, my time! Bless you, ever, ever, beloved!\n\n                                                               Your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 10, 1846.]\n\nJust now I tore the few words I had begun of the letter to you, Ba—they\nall went away, strangely afar from the meaning begun in them, through\nmy mind taking up the thought that you were ‘waiting’ for what I should\nwrite—‘waiting all day’—and ready to call the poor joyful service of\nlove, ‘goodness’ in me! When such thoughts arise, I am not fit to pay\neven that imperfect service—I have only arms to receive you, kisses to\ngive you—the words seem too cold, indeed! I sincerely believe this I am\nto write now, will be the shorter because of the intervention of you,—and\nthat, like Flush, I shall behave best when not looked at too much!\n\nThen, in our life,—what I do earnestly in intention and from love of\nyou, _that_ you will always accept and make the best of! How happy you\nmake me, _now_ and _ever_—in the present happiness, in the assurance of\nthe future’s even greater happiness, I am obliged to believe! It seemed\nlike a dream as I walked home last night and thought of all over again,\nafter a few hours’ talk with my old friends, on subjects from which\nyou were excluded, and of a kind that brought my former feelings back\nagain; so as to be understood, at least, and recognised as mine. ‘All\nwhich is changed now,’ I thought going home in the moonlight. Chorley\nwas apprised of my being there and came good-naturedly—and we discussed\ndelinquencies political and literary: he says, times were never so bad\nas now—people come without a notion of offending a critic, and offer him\nmoney—‘will you do this for so much’—praise this or blame this! He was\nin a bad humour, he said; at least teazed and tired—and really looked\nboth, so that: I asked ‘had you not better throw away a day on our green\ndulness at Hatcham, strolling through it with me?’—‘Yes—this day next\nweek, if you like’—he answered at once ... so that our Saturday will be\ngone ... so that our Tuesday _must_ be secured, my own Ba, and after it\nthe Friday, at an equal interval of time—do you let it be so? Saturday\nwould seem to be his only available day, poor Chorley—he walked through\nthe park with me and over the Bridge, at one in the morning—in return\nfor my proving, (I don’t quite think _that_, however!)—proving, to\n_Arnould’s_ great satisfaction at least, that Mr. Horne _was a poet_, and\nmoreover a dramatic one,—Chorley sees no good in him beyond talent with\nan abundance of ‘crotchets,’ and ‘could not read “Orion” for his life.’ I\nproved another thing too—that Forster was not a whit behind his brethren\nof the faculty, in literary morals—that the _Examiner_, named, was quite\nas just and good as another paper, unnamed. Whereat Chorley grew warm and\nlost his guard, and at last; declaring I forced him into corners and that\nspeak he _must_; _instanced the ‘Examiner’s’ treatment of myself as not\ngenerous_ ... ‘Luria’ having been noticed as you remember a week after\nthe publication, and _yet_, or never, to be reviewed in the Unnamed:—_Ces\nMisères!_\n\nA fortnight ago when Rachel played in ‘Andromaque’ ‘for the last\ntime’—Sarianna and I agreed that if she did ever play again in it, we\nwould go and see ... and lo, contrary to all expectation she _does_\nrepeat Hermione to-morrow night, and we are to go. And you, Ba, you\ncannot go—ought I to go? One day, one not distant day, and ‘cannot’ will\napply to us both—_now_, it seems to do me good, with the crowd of its\nsuggestions, this seeing Rachel; beside, Sarianna has just this only\nopportunity of going.\n\nI am anxious to let the folly of that person spend itself unaggravated\nby any notice of mine—I mean _to you_; any notice which should make\nyou think it—(the folly)—affected _me_ as well as you; but I do trust\nyou will not carry toleration too far in this case, nor furnish an\nungenerous, selfish man with weapons for your own annoyance. ‘_Insolent_\nletters’ you ought to put up with from _no one_—and as there is no need\nof concealment of my position now, I think you will see a point when\nI may interfere. Always rely on my being _quietly_ firm, and never\nviolent nor exasperating: you alluded to some things which I cannot let\nmy fancy stop upon. Remember you are mine, now,—my own, my very own.\nI know very well what a wretched drunkenness there is in that sort of\nself-indulgence—what it permits itself to do, all on the strength of its\n‘strong feeling’ ‘earnestness’—stupid in execrable sophistry as it is!\nI have too a strong belief that the man who would _bully_ you, would\ndrop into a fit at the sight of a man’s uplifted little finger. Can this\nperson be the ‘old friend in an ill humour’ who followed me up-stairs one\nday? I _trust_ to you—that is the end of all.\n\nNow I will kiss you, my own Ba, and wait for my letter, and then,\nTuesday. Dearest, I am your own, your very own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 10, 1846].\n\nEver dearest, I shall write to you a little this morning and try to\nmanage to post myself what shall be written, too early to permit the\npossibility (almost) of your being without a letter to-morrow. Dearest,\nhow you were with me yesterday, after you went away!—I thought, thought,\nthought of you,—and the books I took up one by one ... (I tried a\nromance too ‘Les Femmes’ by a writer called Desnoyers ... quite new, and\nweak and foolish enough as a story, but full of clever things about shoe\ntyes ... philosophy in small:) the books were all so many _lorgnons_\nthrough which I looked at you again and again. Did you ever hear a story\nof the late Lord Grey, that he was haunted by a head, a head without a\nbody? If he turned to the right or left there it was—if he looked up in\nthe air, there it hung ... or down to the floor, there it lay—or walked\nup or down stairs, there it bounded before him—flop ... flop ... just\non its chin. ‘Alas, poor ghost?’ And just such another, as far as the\nhaunting goes, were you to me, dearest, yesterday—only that _you_ were of\nthe celestial rather than ghastly apparitionery, and bore plainly with\nyou airs from Heaven full against my forehead. How did I ever deserve\nyou—how ever? Never indeed! And how can it seem right to submit to so\nmuch happiness undeservedly, as the knowledge of your affection gives,\nyou who are ‘great in everything,’ as Mr. Kenyon said the other day!\nShall I tell you how I reconcile myself to the good? Thus it is. First I\nthink that no woman in the world, let her be ever so much better than I,\ncould quite be said to deserve you—and that therefore there may not be\nsuch harm in your taking the one who will owe you most with the fullest\nconsciousness! If it may not be merit, it shall be gratitude—_that_ is\nhow I look at it when I would keep myself from falling back into the old\nfears. Ah! you may prevent my rising up to receive you ... though I did\nnot know that I did ... it was a pure instinct!—but you cannot prevent my\nsinking down to the feet of your spirit when I think of the love it has\ngiven me from the beginning and _not_ taken away. Dearest, dearest—I am\ncontent to owe all to you—it is not too much humiliation!\n\nWhile I was writing, came Mr. Kenyon ... the spectacles mended, and\nlooking whole catechisms from behind them. The first word was, ‘Have you\nseen Browning lately?’ I, taken by surprise, answered _en niaise_, ‘Yes,\nyesterday.’ ‘And did he tell you that he was coming on Wednesday, next\nWednesday?’ ‘He said something of it.’\n\nA simpleton would have done better—to call me one were too much\nhonour!—yet it seemed impossible to be adroit under the fire of the full\nface, spectacles included. The words came without the will. And now,\nwhat had we better do? Take Tuesday, that you may be able to say on\nWednesday, ‘I was not there to-day’...? or be frank for the hour and let\nit all pass? Think for us, Robert—I am quite frightened at what I have\ndone. It seemed to me too, afterwards, that Mr. Kenyon looked grave.\nStill he talked of Miss Mitford and Mr. Buckingham, and Landor, and of\ngoing to the Lakes himself for a few days, and laughed and jested in\ngreat good humour, the subject being turned—he asked me too if I had ever\ndiscussed your poetry with Miss Mitford, on which I said that she did\nnot much believe in you—‘Not even in “Saul”?’ said he. I don’t know what\nto think. I am in a fog off the Nore. And he proposed coming to-morrow\nwith a carriage, to drive me up the Harrow road to see the train coming\nin, and then to take me to his house, and, so, home,—all in his infinite\nkindness. He comes at half-past three—let me have your thoughts with me\nthen—and the letter, farther on. Two letters, I am to have to-morrow. If\nSunday is the worst day, Monday is the best,—of those I mean of course,\non which I do not see you. May God bless you, my own beloved. I love you\nin the deepest of my heart; which seems ever to grow deeper. I live only\nfor you; and feel that it is worth while.\n\n                                                                  Your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 10, 1846.]\n\nYou dearest Ba, do you write thus to put all thoughts of fear out of my\nhead, and make me confident nothing can go ill with us if you feel so for\nme? I seem to have a presentiment that this afternoon, before this letter\nreaches you, Mr. Kenyon will have spoken—and if the whole world spoke\nits loudest, your words would be all I should hear. Or are they trials,\nevery such word, of my vanity and weakness,—do you think, ‘if anything\ncan call them up, this will?’ No, I very well know your entire truth\nin this and the other assurances I make my life bright with,—through\nany darkness that can come. What you choose to assert of yourself, _I_\nfeel of myself every hour. But there must be this disproportionateness\nin a beloved object—before I knew you, women seemed not so much better\nthan myself,—therefore, no love for them! There is no love but from\nbeneath, far beneath,—that is the law of its nature—and now, no more of\nwords—will there indeed be need of no more,—as I dare hope and believe,\nwill the deeds suffice?—not in their own value, no! but in their plain,\ncertain intention,—as a clear advance beyond mere words? We shall soon\nknow—if you live, you will be mine, I must think—you have put these dear\narms too surely round my neck to be disengaged now. I cannot presume to\nsuggest thoughts to you resolutions for the future—you must impart to me\nalways,—but I do lift up my heart in an aspiration to lead the life that\nseems accorded by your side, under your eyes.—I cannot write on this,\ndear Ba,—to say, I will live and work as I ought, seems too presumptuous.\nUnderstand all, and help me with your dearest hand, my own love!\n\nAs I say, I fancy Mr. Kenyon will speak—I only hope, the caution will\nact both ways, and that he will see as much inexpediency in altogether\nopposing as in encouraging such a step. That you should pass another\nwinter and the risk of it—and perhaps many—_that_ seems the _worst_ fate.\nCan he apprehend any worse evil than that?\n\nI observe in the _Times_ to-day that the Peninsular & Oriental Steam\nCompany have advertised a ship from Southampton to Genoa, Leghorn, Civita\nVecchia and Naples on the 30th September, and that ‘thenceforth the\ncompany will despatch a first-class steamer to those ports on the 15th of\nevery month. One more facility, should circumstances require it. Are you\nsure that the France journey with the delays and fatigue is preferable to\nthis—where if the expenses are greater, yet the _uncertain_ expenses are\nimpossible? You are to think, beloved.\n\nNow, will you write to-night? I may come to-morrow? Say one word—you\nhave heard why I wanted to come, even if Mr. Kenyon’s questions had not\nbeen put—otherwise, Friday will be impossible—I can say, ‘I called on\nSaturday, and think of doing so next Friday—’ I must see you to-morrow\nindeed, love!\n\nLet me leave off here—I love you wholly, and bless you ever as now—Your\nown R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 11, 1846.]\n\nThen let it be Tuesday. It will correct, too, my stupidity to Mr. Kenyon,\nfor easily you may reply to his certain question, that you had not been\nhere on Wednesday but meant to go on Friday instead. Ah well! By the\ntime all this is over we shall be fit to take a degree in some Jesuits’\ncollege—we shall have mastered all the points of casuistry. To wash one’s\nhands of it, and then throw away the water, will be something gained at\nleast.\n\nDearest, no, indeed!—there is nothing for your goodness to do in that\nbadness I told you of, and which you describe so precisely in your\nword, ‘drunkenness’ of mind. It is precisely _that_, and no more nor\nless—a throwing off of moral restraint ... a miserable degradation.\nOne may get angry, frightened, disgusted—but, after all, compassion\ncomes in:—and who would think of fighting a delirious man with a sword?\nIt would be a cruelty, like murder. There is a fine nature too, under\nthese ruins of the will; and a sensibility which strikes inwards and\noutwards—(no one else should have any sensibility, within a thousand\nmiles.) Think of a sort of dumb Rousseau,—with the ‘Confessions’ _in_\nhim, pining evermore to get out! A miserable man, first by constitution\nand next by fortune—seeing only the shadow, for the sun,—the nettles\nin the field,—and breathing hard when he stands among garden-roses, to\nattain to smelling the onions over the wall. I have told him sometimes\nthat he had a talent for anger!—‘indignatio facit orationes’ and _that_\nis his pleasure, ‘par excellence,’—to be let talk against this abuse\nor that abuse, this class of men or that class of men, this or that\nworld’s misery or offence:—he will rise up in it and be eloquent and\nhappy. Otherwise ... mécréants we must be, he thinks, who dare to be\nhappy in this vale of tears. Life is a long moan to him. And is not such\na man enough punished? For me, I have not had the heart to take quite\nthe position I ought to have done, looking only to his most outrageous\nbearing towards myself—although he talks of my scorn and sarcasms, as\nif I had shown myself quite equal to self-defence. An old, old friend,\ntoo!—known as a friend these twelve or thirteen years! And then, men\nare nearly all the same in the point of _wanting generosity to women_.\nIt is a sin of sex, be sure—and we have our counter-sins and should be\nmerciful. So I have been furiously angry, and then relented—by turns;\nas I could. Oh yes—it was he who followed you up-stairs. There was an\nexplosion that day among the many—and I had to tell him as a consequence,\nthat if he chose to make himself the fable and jest of the whole house,\nhe was the master, but that I should insist upon his not involving\nmy name in the discussion of his violences. Wilson said he was white\nwith passion as he followed you, and that she in fear trembled so she\ncould scarcely open the door. He was a little ashamed afterwards, and\napologized in a manner for what sufficiently required an apology. Before\na servant too!—But that is long ago—and at that time he knew nothing for\na certainty. Is it possible to be continuously angry with any one who\nproves himself so _much the weaker_? The slave of himself ... of his own\npassions—is too unhappy for the rod of another—man or woman.\n\nMr. Chorley—Mr. Chorley!—how could he utter such words! Men seem imbecile\nsometimes—understandings have they, and understand not.\n\n                                                             Monday Night.\n\nDearest, I have your last letter. Thank you out of my heart—though you\nare not a prophet, dear dearest—not about Mr. Kenyon at least. See how\nfar you are from the truth-well, with that divining hazel which you wave\nto and fro before my eyes. Mr. Kenyon, instead of too much remembering\nus, has forgotten me to-day. I waited an hour with my bonnet on, and he\ndid not come. And then came a note! He had had business—he had forgotten\nme—he would come to-morrow. Which I, thinking of you, wrote back a word\nagainst, and begged him to come rather on Thursday or Saturday, or\nMonday. Is _that_ right, dearest? Your coming to-morrow will be very\nright.\n\nBut when you say that there can be no love except ‘_from beneath_’ ...\nis it right? is it comforting to hear of? No, no—indeed! How unhappy\nI should be if I accepted your theory! So I accept rather your love,\nbeloved....\n\n                                                     Trusting to be yours.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 12, 1846.]\n\nI have been putting all the letters into rings—twenty together—and they\nlook now as they should—‘infinite treasure in a little room’—note, that\nthey were so united and so ranged from the beginning, at least since\nI began to count by twenties—but the white tape I used (no red tape,\nthank you!) was vile in its operation,—the untying and retying (so as to\npreserve a proper _cross_ [Illustration]) hard for clumsy fingers like\nmine:—these rings are perfect. How strange it will be to have no more\nletters! Of all the foolishnesses that ever were uttered that speech of\nmine,—about your letters strewing the house,—was the most thoroughly\nperfect! yet you have nothing to forgive in me, you say!\n\nJust now I took up a periodical and read a few lines of a paper on the\ncharm that there is in a contrariety of tempers and tastes, for friends\nand lovers—and there followed platitudes in a string—the clever like\nthe stupid, the grave choose the lively, and so forth. Now, unless,\nthe state of the liker and chooser is really considered by him as a\nmisfortune,—what he would get rid of if he could in himself, so shall\nhardly desire to find in another—except in this not very probable case,\nis there not implied by every such choice, an absolute despair of any\nhigher one? The grave man says (or would if he knew himself)—‘except\non my particular grounds such a serious humour would be impossible and\nabsurd ... and where can I find another to appreciate them? Better\naccept the lower state of ignorance that they exist even, and consequent\ngaiety,—than a preposterous melancholy arising from no adequate cause.’\nAnd what man of genius would not associate with people of no talent at\nall, rather than the possessors of _mere_ talent, who keep sufficiently\nnear him, as they walk together, to give him annoyance at every step?\nBetter go with Flush on his four legs, avowedly doglike, than with a\nmonkey who will shuffle along on two for I don’t know how many yards. Now\nfor instance, is the writer of that wise notice of Landor in last week’s\n_Athenæum_, one whit nearer your sympathy _in that precise matter_,\nthan somebody who never heard of Landor or supposed him to have usually\nwritten under the signature of L.E.L.? With the exception of a word or\ntwo about the silly abuse of Plato, and on the occasional unfairness of\nstatement, is there one word right and seasonable?\n\nHere am I letting the words scratch themselves one after another while\nmy thought as usual goes quite another way. Perhaps my wits are resting\nbecause of the great alacrity they are to display at Mr. Kenyon’s this\nevening ... I shall take care not to be first comer, nor last goer.\nDearest, you are wrong in your fancy about my little caring whether he\nknows or does not. I see altogether with your eyes ... indeed, now that\nyou engage to remove any suspicion of unkindness or mistrust which might\nattach to me in his thoughts (all I ever apprehended for _myself_), there\nis no need to consider him—at all. He can do no good nor harm. Did you\never receive such a letter? The dull morning shall excuse it—anything\nbut the dull heart—for you fill it, however the _heat_ may keep within,\nsometimes.\n\nBless you, Ba, my dearest, perfect love—now I will begin thinking of you\nagain—let me kiss you, my own!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 12, 1846.]\n\nShall you pass through this street to Mr. Kenyon’s, this evening? I\nhave been sitting here these five minutes, wondering. But no answer is\npossible now, and if I go to the window of the other room and look up\nand look down about half-past five or a little later, it will be in vain\nperhaps. Just now I have heard from Mr. Kenyon, who cannot come to-day to\ndrive with me though he may come to talk. He does not leave London, he\nsays, so soon as he thought!—more’s the pity. Ah! What unkind things one\nlearns to write and meditate in this world, even of the dear Mr. Kenyons\nin it!—I am ashamed. Instruct your guardian angel to cover me with the\nshadow of his wings,—dearest.\n\nNow I will tell you a curious thing which _Treppy_ said to Arabel\nyesterday while you and I were together. Arabel was walking with her,\nand she was in one of her ill humours, poor Treppy, sighing and moaning\nover the wickedness of the people in Wimpole Street—she ‘should go and\nlive at Ramsgate,’ she thought, as nobody paid her the right attention!\n_That’s_ the intermittent groan, when she is out of humour, poor Treppy.\n‘And besides’ said she, ‘it is much better that I should not go to\nWimpole Street at this time when there are so many secrets. Secrets\nindeed! You think that nobody can see and hear except yourselves, I\nsuppose; and there are two circumstances going on in the house, plain\nfor any eyes to see! and those are considered _secrets_, I suppose.’\n‘Oh, Treppy’—interpolated Arabel ... ‘you are always fancying secrets\nwhere there are none.’ ‘Well, I don’t fancy anything now! I _know_—just\nas _you_ do.’—Something was said too about ‘Ba’s going to Italy.’ ‘And,\nTreppy, do you think that she _will_ go to Italy?’ ‘Why there is only one\nway for her to go—but she may go that way. If she marries, she may go.’\n‘And you would not be surprised?’ ‘_I!_ not in the least—_I_ am never\nsurprised, because I always see things from the beginning. Nobody can\nhide anything from _me_.’ After which fashion she smoothed the darkness\ntill it smiled, and boasted herself back into a calmer mood. But just\nobserve how people are talking and inferring! It frightens me to think of\nit. Not that there is any danger from Treppy. She would as soon cut off\nher hand, as bring one of us into a difficulty, and _me_, the last. Only\nit would not do to _tell her_,—she must have it in her power to say ‘I\ndid not know this’ ... for reasons of the strongest. To occasion a schism\nbetween her and this house, would be to embitter the remainder of her\ndays.\n\nHere is a letter from a lady in a remote district called Swineshead, who\nsends me lyrical specimens, and desires to know if _this be Genius_. She\ndoes not desire to publish; at any rate not for an indefinite number of\nyears; but for her private and personal satisfaction, she would be glad\nto be informed whether she is a Sappho or George Sand or anything of\nthat kind. What in the world is to be answered, now, to an application\nof _that_ kind! To meddle with a person’s opinion of himself or herself\n(quite a private opinion) seems like meddling with his way of dressing,\nwith her fashion of putting in pins—like saying you _shall_ put your\nfeet on a stool, or you _shan’t_ eat pork. It is an interference with\nprivate rights, from which I really do shrink. Unfortunately too it is\nimpossible to say what she wants to hear—I am in despair about it. When\nwe are at Pisa we shall not hear these black stones crying after us any\nmore perhaps. I shall listen, instead, to my talking bird and singing\ntree, and repose from the rest. How did you get home? And tell me of Mr.\nKenyon’s dinner! So nervous I am about Mr. Kenyon, when you or I happen\nto be _en rapport_ with him.\n\nNot only I loved you yesterday, but even to-day I love you; which is\nremarkable. To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow, what will _you_ do? Is\n_that_ an ‘offence?’ Nay, but it is rather reasonable that when the hour\nstrikes, the fairy-gold should turn back into leaves, and poor Cinderella\nfind herself sitting in her old place among the ashes, just as she had\ntouched the hand of the king’s son.\n\nDon’t think I mean anything by _that_, ever dearest—not so much as to\nteaze you—Robert!\n\nI only love you to-day—that is, I love you and do nothing more. And the\nFairy Tales are on the whole, I feel, the most available literature for\nillustration, whenever I think of loving you.\n\n                                                              Your own BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Evening.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 13, 1846.]\n\n‘Did I ever receive such a letter?’ Never—except from _you_. It is a\nquestion easily answered.\n\nAs to [the] other question, about the communion of contrarieties, I agree\nwith you, thought for thought, in all your thinking about it—only adding\none more reason to the reasons you point out. There is another reason at\nthe bottom of all, _I_ think—I cannot but think—and it is just that, when\nwomen are chosen for wives, they are not chosen for companions—that when\nthey are selected to be loved, it is quite apart from life—‘man’s love\nis of man’s life a thing apart.’ A German professor selects a woman who\ncan merely stew prunes—not because stewing prunes and reading Proclus\nmake a delightful harmony, but because he wants his prunes stewed for him\nand chooses to read Proclus by himself. A fulness of sympathy, a sharing\nof life, one with another, ... is scarcely ever looked for except in a\nnarrow conventional sense. Men like to come home and find a blazing fire\nand a smiling face and an hour of relaxation. Their serious thoughts,\nand earnest aims in life, they like to keep on one side. And this is the\ncarrying out of love and marriage almost everywhere in the world—and\nthis, the degrading of women by both.\n\nFor friendship ... why Like seeks Like in friendship very openly. To\n‘have sympathy’ with a person, is a good banal current motive for\nfriendship. Yet (for the minor points) a man with a deficiency of animal\nspirits may like the society of a man who can amuse him, and the\namusing man may have pleasure again in the sense of using a faculty and\nconferring a benefit. It is happily possible to _love down_, and even\nacross a chasm—or the world would be more loveless than it is. I have\nloved and still love people a thousand souls off—as you have and do, of\ncourse;—but to love them _better_ on that account, would be strange and\ndifficult.\n\nAlways I know, my beloved, that I am unworthy of your love in a hundred\nways—yet I do hold fast my sense of advantage in one,—that, as far as\nI can see, I see after you ... understand you, divine you ... call you\nby your right name. Then it is something to be able to look at life\nitself as you look at it—(I quite _sigh_ sometimes with satisfaction at\nthat thought!): there will be neither hope nor regret away from your\nfootsteps. Dearest—I feel to myself sometimes, ‘Do not move, do not\nspeak—or the dream will vanish,’ So fearfully like a dream, it is! Like\na reflection in the water of an actual old, old dream of my own, too ...\ntouching which, ... now silent voices used to say “That romantic child.”’\n\nWhat did _you_ mean to say about my not believing in your nature ...\nin your feelings ... what did you and could you mean yesterday? Was it\nbecause of my speech about the ‘calm eyes’? Ah—_you!_—I did not think to\nmake so impressive a speech when I made it ... for this is not the first\ntime, Robert, you have quoted Hansard for it. Well! I shall not rise to\nexplain after all. Only I do justice to the whole subject ... _eyes_\ninclusively ... ‘whatever you may think’ as you said yesterday with ever\nsuch significance.\n\nNo—yes—now I will ask you one thing. Common eyes will carry an emotion\nof a soul—and, so, not be calm, of course. Calm ones, I know, will carry\nthe whole soul and float it up against yours, till it loses footing, and\n... _That_ is a little of what I meant by the calm in the eyes, and so\nI will ask you whether I could wrong, by such meaning, any depth in the\nnature.\n\nAt this moment you are at Mr. Kenyon’s—and you did not, I think, go up\nthis street. Perhaps you will go home through it—but I shall not see—I\ncannot watch, being afraid of the over-watchers. May God bless you, my\nown dearest! You have my heart with you as if it lay in your hand! I told\nyou once that I never could love (in _this_ way of love) except _upward_\nvery far and high—but you are not like me in it, I thank God—since you\ncan love _me_. Love me, dearest of all—do not tire. I am your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nAnother Bennett!!—yet the same! _To Friday._",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 13, 1846].\n\nDearest Ba, I love you wholly and for ever! How shall the charm ever\nbreak?\n\nMy two letters! I think we must institute solemn days whereon such\nletters are to be read years hence ... when I shall ask you,—(all being\nknown, many weaknesses you do not choose to see now, and perhaps some\nstrength and constancy you cannot be sure of—for the charm may break, you\nthink) ... ‘If you stood _there_’ ... at Wimpole Street in the room ...\nwould you whisper ‘Love, I love you, as before?’ Oh, how fortunately,\nfortunately the next verse comes with its sweetest reassurance!\n\nWhen I have chosen to consider the circumstances of the altered life I am\nabout to lead with you ... (‘chosen,’ because you have often suggested\ndrawbacks, harms to my interest &c. which I have really been forced to\ntake up and try to think over seriously, lest I should be unawares found\ntreating what had undoubtedly come from you with disrespect), I never,\nafter all the considering in my power, was yet able to _fancy_ even the\npossibility of their existence. I will not revert to them now—nor to the\nfew _real_ inconveniences which I _did_ apprehend at the beginning, but\nwhich never occurred to _you_: at present I take you, and with you as\nmuch happiness as I seem fit to bear in this world,—the one shadow being\nthe fear of its continuance. Or if there is one thing I shall regret\n... it is just that which I should as truly lose if I married any Miss\nCampbell of them all—rather, _then_ should _really_ lose, what now is\nonly modified,—transferred partly and the rest retainable. There was\nalways a great delight to me in this prolonged relation of childhood\nalmost ... nay altogether—with all here. My father and I have not one\ntaste in common, one artistic taste ... in pictures, he goes, ‘souls\naway,’ to Brauwer, Ostade, Teniers ... he would turn from the Sistine\nAltar piece to these—in music he desiderates a tune ‘that has a story\nconnected with it,’ whether Charles II.’s favourite dance of ‘Brose and\nbutter’ or—no matter,—what I mean is, that the sympathy has not been an\nintellectual one. I hope if you want to please me especially, Ba, you\nwill always remember I have been accustomed, by pure choice, to have\nanother will lead mine in the little daily matters of life. If there are\ntwo walks to take (to put the thing at simplest) you must say, ‘_This_\none’ and not ‘either’ ... because though they were before indifferently\nto be chosen—after _that_ speech, one is altogether better than the\nother, to _me_ if not to you. When you have a real preference which I\ncan discern, you will be good enough to say nothing about it, my own Ba!\nNow, do you not see how, with this feeling, which God knows I profess\nto be mine without the least affectation,—how much my happiness would\nbe disturbed by allying myself with a woman to whose intellect, as well\nas goodness, I could _not_ look up?—in an obedience to whose desires,\ntherefore, I should not be justified in indulging? It is pleasanter to\nlie back on the cushions inside the carriage and let another drive—but\nif you suspect he cannot drive?\n\nNothing new at Mr. Kenyon’s yesterday—I arrived late to a small\nparty—Thackeray and Procter—pleasant as usual. I took an opportunity of\nmentioning that I had come straight from home. Did you really look from\nthe window, dearest? I was carried the other way, by the new road, but I\nthought of you till you may have felt it!\n\nAnd indeed you are ‘out’ again as to my notions of your notions, you\ndearest Ba! I know well enough that by ‘calmness’ you did not mean\nabsence of passion—I spoke only of the foolish popular notion.\n\nTo-morrow there would seem to be no impediment whatever—and I trust to\nbe with you, beloved—but before, I can kiss you as now,—loving you as\never—ever—\n\n                                                                 Your own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Morning.\n                                                        [August 15, 1846.]\n\nA bright beautiful day this is, on which you do not come—it seems as if\nyou ought to have come on it by rights. Dearest, you did not meet Mr.\nKenyon yesterday after you left me? I fancied that you might, and so be\ndetected in the three hours, to the fullest length of them—it seemed\npossible. Now I look forward to the driving instead of to you—and he has\njust sent to desire me to be ready at a quarter to three, and not later,\nas was fixed in your hearing. And why, pray, should you be glad that I am\ngoing on this excursion? I _should_ have liked it, if we had been living\nin the daylight; but with all these ‘shadows, clouds and darkness,’ it is\npleasanter to me to sit still and see nobody—and least, Mr. Kenyon. Oh,\nthat somebody would spirit him away gently, very gently, so as to do him\nno manner of harm in achieving the good for me!—for both you and me. Did\nyou say ‘Do you pity me’ to _me_? I did not tell you yesterday that I\nhave another new fear ... an American lady who in her time has reviewed\nboth you and me, it seems, comes to see me ... is about to come to see me\n... armed with a letter of introduction from Mr. Mathews—and in a week, I\nmay expect her perhaps. She is directed, too, towards Mr. Horne. Observe\nthe double chain thrown across the road at my feet—I am entreated to\nshow her attention and introduce her to my friends ... things out of the\nquestion as I am situated. Yet I have not boldness to say ‘I will not see\nyou.’ I almost _must_ see her, I do fear. Mr. Mathews ought to have felt\nhis way a little, before throwing such a weight on me. He is delighted\nwith your ‘Bells and Pomegranates’ (to pass from his frailties to his\nmerits) and the review of them is sent to me, he says—only that I do not\nreceive it.\n\nDearest, when I told you yesterday, after speaking of the many coloured\ntheologies of the house, that it was hard to answer for what _I_ was,\n... I meant that I felt unwilling, for my own part, to put on any of\nthe liveries of the sects. The truth, as God sees it, must be something\nso different from these opinions about truth—these systems which fit\ndifferent classes of men like their coats, and wear brown at the elbows\nalways! I believe in what is divine and floats at highest, in all these\ndifferent theologies—and because the really Divine draws together souls,\nand tends so to a unity, I could pray anywhere and with all sorts of\nworshippers, from the Sistine Chapel to Mr. Fox’s, those kneeling and\nthose standing. Wherever you go, in all religious societies, there is a\nlittle to revolt, and a good deal to bear with—but it is not otherwise in\nthe world without; and, _within_, you are especially reminded that God\nhas to be more patient than yourself after all. Still you go quickest\nthere, where your sympathies are least ruffled and disturbed—and I\nlike, beyond comparison best, the simplicity of the dissenters ... the\nunwritten prayer, ... the sacraments administered quietly and without\ncharlatanism! and the principle of a church, as they hold it, _I_ hold\nit too, ... quite apart from state-necessities ... pure from the law.\nWell—there is enough to dissent from among the dissenters—the Formula\nis rampant among them as among others—you hear things like the buzzing\nof flies in proof of a corruption—and see every now and then something\ndivine set up like a post for men of irritable minds and passions to rub\nthemselves against, calling it a holy deed—you feel moreover bigotry\nand ignorance pressing on you on all sides, till you gasp for breath\nlike one strangled. But better this, even, than what is elsewhere—_this_\nbeing elsewhere too in different degrees, besides the evil of the place.\nPublic and social prayer is right and desirable—and I would prefer, as\na matter of custom, to pray in one of those chapels, where the minister\nis simple-minded and not controversial—certainly would prefer it. Not\nexactly in the Socinian chapels, nor yet in Mr. Fox’s—not by preference.\nThe Unitarians seem to me to throw over what is most beautiful in the\nChristian Doctrine; but the Formulists, on the other side, stir up a\ndust, in which it appears excusable not to see. When the veil of the body\nfalls, how we shall look into each other’s faces, astonished, ... after\none glance at God’s!\n\nHave I written to you more than too much about my doxy? I was a little,\nlittle, uncomfortable in the retrospect of yesterday, lest my quick\nanswer should have struck you as either a levity or an evasion—and have\nyou not a right to all my thoughts of all things? For the rest, we will\nbe married just as you like ... _volo quod vis_: and you will see by\nthis profession of faith that I am not likely much to care either way.\nThere are some solemn and beautiful things in the Church of England\nMarriage-service, as I once heard it read, the only time I was present\nat such a ceremony—but I heard it then in the abbreviated customary form\n... and not as the Puseyites (who always bring up the old lamps against\na new) choose to read it, they say, in spite of custom. Archdeacon Hale\nwith an inodorous old lamp, displeased some of the congregation from\nFenton’s Hotel, I hear. But we need not go to the Puseyites at least. And\nafter all, perhaps the best will be what is easiest. Something is sure to\nhappen—something must surely happen to put an end to it all ... before I\ngo to Greece!\n\nMay God bless you, ever dearest: Tell me if you get this letter to-day,\nSaturday.\n\n                                                         Your very own BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 15, 1846.]\n\nMy very, very dearest—many, if not all, of those things for which I\nwant the words when too close to you, become quite clear at a little\ndistance. How simple, for instance, it is to admit, that in our case,—my\nown, only Ba once discovered, the circumstances of the weakness and\nretirement were, on the whole, favourable rather than otherwise! Had\nthey been unfavourable ... I do not think a few obstacles would have\ndiscouraged me ... but this way has been easier—better—and now all is\nadmitted! _By themselves_, the circumstances could never obtain more\nthan the feeling properly due to them—do you think one particle of love\ngoes with the pity and service to a whole Hospital of Incurables? So\nlet all the attraction of that kind pass for what it is worth, and for\nno more. If all had been different, and I had still perceived you and\nloved you, then there _might_, perhaps,—or probably—be as different an\naim for me,—for my own peculiar delight in you ... I should want to feel\nand be sure of your love, in your happiness ... certainly in your entire\nhappiness then as now—but I should aspire to find it able to support\nitself in a life altogether different from the life in which I had first\nseen you—if you loved me you would need to be happy in quiet and solitude\nand simplicity and privation ... then I should _know_ you loved me,\nknowing _how_ you had been happy before! But now, do you not see that my\nutmost pride and delight will be to think you are happy, as _you were\nnot_,—in the way you were not: if you chose to come out of a whirl of\nballs and parties and excursions and visitings—to my side, I should love\nyou as you sate still by me,—but now, when you stand up simply, much\nmore walk ... I will consider, if you let me, every step you take that\nbrings you pleasure,—every smile on your mouth, and light on your eyes—as\na directest _obedience_ to me ... all the obedience you _can_ ever pay\nme ... you shall say in every such act ‘this I do on purpose to content\nyou!’ I hope to know you have been happy ... that shall prove you loved\nme, at the end.\n\nProbably you _will_ not hear anything to-day from Mr. Kenyon, as your\nsister is to be present: do you really imagine that those eyes and\nspectacles are less effective than the perceptions of your ‘Treppy’?\n\nBy the way, hear an odd coincidence—you heard that foolish story of\nThackeray and Mr. ‘Widdicombe’ ... which I told just to avoid a dead\nsilence and guilty blankness of face. As I was returning I met Thackeray\n(with Doyle—H.B.) and was energetically reminded of our dinner ... he\nis in very earnest, Mr. Kenyon may assure himself. Presently I reached\nCharing Cross—and stood waiting for my omnibus. There is always a crowd\nof waiters—in a moment there passes an extraordinary looking personage—a\npoliceman on duty at this police-requiring spot saunters up to _me_,\nof all others, and says (on some miraculous impulse, no doubt)—with\nan overflowing impressible grin, ‘D’ye know _him_, Sir?’ ‘No—who may\nhe be?’ ‘He’s Widdicombe!—He goes now to Astley’s, and afterwards to\nVauxhall—there’s a good likeness of him in the painting of the Judge and\nJury Club.’ Here my omnibus arrives ... ‘Thank you’ I said—and there was\nan end of the communication. How for many thousand years may I walk the\nstreet before another inspired policeman addresses me without preface\nand tells me, _that_ is the man I have just been talking of to somebody\nelse? Let me chronicle Mr. W.’s glories ... his face is just Tom Moore’s,\n_plus_ two painted cheeks, a sham moustache, and hair curled in wiry long\nringlets; Thackeray’s friend was a friend indeed, ‘warning every man and\nteaching every man’—the _tête-à-tête_ would have been portentous.\n\nNow, dearest, you cannot return me such delectabilities, so must even\nbe content to tell me what happens to-day and what is said and done and\nsurmised—and how you are ... three times over, how you are, dearest\ndearest! And I will write to-morrow, and kiss you meanwhile, as now as\never. Bless you, love—\n\n                                                                   Your R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Evening.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 17, 1846.]\n\nHow I thank for your letter, ever beloved. You were made perfectly to\nbe loved—and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life\nlong. Did I tell you _that_ before, so often as I have thought it? It is\n_that_ which makes me take it all as visionary good—for when one’s Ideal\ncomes down to one, and walks beside one suddenly, what is it possible to\ndo but to cry out ... ‘a dream’? You are the best ... best. And if you\nloved me only and altogether for pity, (and I think that, more than _you_\nthink, the sentiment operated upon your generous chivalrous nature), and\nif you confessed it to me and proved it, and I knew it absolutely—what\nthen? As long as it was _love_, should I accept it less gladly, do you\nimagine, because of the root? Should I think it less a gift? should I be\nless grateful, ... or _more_? Ah—I have my ‘theory of causation’ about\nit all—but we need not dispute, and will not, on any such metaphysics.\nYour _loving_ me is enough to satisfy me—and if you did it because I\nsate rather on a green chair than a yellow one, it would be enough still\nfor me:—only it would not, for _you_—because your motives are as worthy\nalways as your acts.—Dearest!\n\nSo let us talk of the great conference in Mr. Kenyon’s carriage, in which\njoined himself, Arabel, Flush and I. First he said ... ‘Did Browning stay\nmuch longer with you?’ ‘Yes—some time.’ This was as we were going on\nour way toward some bridge, whence to look at the Birmingham train. As\nwe came back, he said, with an epical leap _in medias res_ ... ‘What an\nextraordinary memory our friend Browning has.’ ‘Very extraordinary’—said\nI—‘and how it is raining.’ I give you Arabel’s report of my reply, for I\ndid not myself exactly remember the full happiness of it—and she assured\nme besides that he looked ... looked at me ... as a man may look ... And\nthis was everything spoken of you throughout the excursion.\n\nBut he spoke of _me_ and observed how well I was—on which Arabel said\n‘Yes—she considered me quite well; and that nothing was the matter now\nbut _sham_.’ Then the railroads were discussed in relation to me ... and\nshe asked him—‘Shouldn’t she try them a little, before she undertakes\nthis great journey to Italy?’ ‘Oh’ ... he replied—‘_she_ is going on no\ngreat journey.’ ‘Yes, she will, perhaps—Ba is inclined to be a great deal\ntoo wild, and now that she is getting well, I do assure you, Mr. Kenyon.’\n\nTo sit upon thorns, would express rather a ‘velvet cushion’ than where I\nwas sitting, while she talked this foolishness. I have been upbraiding\nher since, very seriously; and I can only hope that the words were taken\nfor mere jest—_du bout des lèvres_.\n\nMoreover Mr. Kenyon is _not_ going away on Thursday—he has changed his\nplans: he has put off Cambridge till the ‘spring’—he meets Miss Bayley\nnowhere—he holds his police-station in London. ‘When _are_ you going’\nI asked in my despair, trying to look satisfied. He did not know—‘not\ndirectly, at any rate’—‘I need not hope to get rid of him,’ he said aside\nperhaps.\n\nBut we saw the great roaring, grinding Thing ... a great blind mole, it\nlooked for blackness. We got out of the carriage to see closer—and Flush\nwas so frightened at the roar of it, that he leapt upon the coach-box.\nAlso it rained,—and I had ever so many raindrops on my gown and in my\nface even, ... which pleased me nearly as much as the railroad sight. It\nis something new for me to be rained upon, you know.\n\nAs for happiness—the words which you use so tenderly are in my heart\nalready, making me happy, ... I am happy by you. Also I may say solemnly,\nthat the greatest proof of love I could give you, is to be happy because\nof you—and even _you_ cannot judge and see how great a proof _that_ is.\nYou have lifted my very soul up into the light of your soul, and I am not\never likely to mistake it for the common daylight. May God bless you,\never ever dearest!\n\n                                                            I am your own—",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 17, 1846.]\n\nNo, my own dearest, your letter does not arrive on Saturday, but this\nmorning—what then? You will not be prevented from your usual ways of\nentire goodness to me by _that_? You will continue to write through the\nremainder of the writing-time? This one letter reaches me,—if another\nwas sent, it stays back till to-morrow—so I _do_ get a blessing by your\nendeavour, and am grateful as ever, my own Ba! After all, neither of\nus loses,—effectually loses—anything—for my letter always comes in its\ngood time,—it is not cast hopelessly away—and do you suppose that _you_\nlose any of the gladness and thanks? Rather, you get them doubly—for all\nalong, all through the suspense, I have been (invariably) sure of the\ndeed when promised, and of the unchanging love, when only expected ...\nso that when the letter finds me at last, the joy being unaccountably\nunabated do you not see that there is a _gain_ somehow? I told you on\nFriday I loved you more at that instant than at any previous time—I\nwill show you why, because I _can_ show you, I think—though it seems at\nfirst an irrational word ... for always having loved you wholly, how\ncan I, still _only_ loving you wholly, speak of ‘more’ or ‘less’?—This\nis why—I used to see you once a week, to sit with you for an hour and\na half—to receive a letter, or two, or three, during the week—and I\nloved you, Ba, wholly, as I say, and reckoned time for no time in the\nintervals of seeing you and hearing from you. Now I see you twice in\nthe week, and stay with you the three hours, and have letter on dear\nletter,—and the distance is, at least, the _same_, between the days, and\nbetween the letters—I will only affirm it is the _same_—so I must love\nyou more—because if you were to bring me back to the old allowance of\nyou,—the one short visit, the two or three letters,—I should be starved\nwith what once feasted me! (If you do not understand Flush does!)\nSeriously, does not that go to prove, I love you more! Increased strength\ncomes insensibly thus,—is only ascertained by such process of induction\n... once you crossed the room to look out Shelley’s age in a book, and\nwere not tired—now you cross London to see the trains arrive, and (I\ntrust) are not tired.... _So_—you are stronger.\n\nDearest, I know your very meaning, in what you said of religion, and\nresponded to it with my whole soul—what you express now, is for us both\n... those are my own feelings, my convictions beside—instinct confirmed\nby reason. Look at that injunction to ‘love God with all the heart, and\nsoul, and strength’—and then imagine yourself bidding any faculty, that\narises towards the love of him, be still! If in a meeting house, with\nthe blank white walls, and a simple doctrinal exposition,—all the senses\nshould turn (from where they lie neglected) to all that sunshine in\nthe Sistine with its music and painting, which would lift them at once\nto Heaven,—why should you not go forth?—to return just as quickly, when\nthey are nourished into a luxuriance that extinguishes, what is called,\nReason’s pale wavering light, lamp or whatever it is—for I have got into\na confusion with thinking of our convolvuluses that climb and tangle\nround the rose-trees—which might be lamps or tapers! See the levity!\nNo—this sort of levity only exists because of the strong conviction, I do\nbelieve! There seems no longer need of earnestness in assertion, or proof\n... so it runs lightly over, like foam on the top of a wave.\n\nChorley came and was very agreeable and communicative. You shall tell\nme more about Mr. Mathews and his review. And with respect to his\nlady-friend, you will see her, I think. But first tell me of Mr. Kenyon,\nand yourself—how you are, and what I am to do, when to see you.\n\nNow goodbye, my own Ba—‘goodbye.’ Be prepared for all fantasticalness\nthat may happen! Perhaps some day I shall shake hands with you, simply,\nand go ... just to remember the more exquisitely where I once was, and\nwhere you let me stay now, you dearest, dearest heart of my heart, soul\nof my soul! But the shaking-hands, at a very distant time! _Now_—let me\nkiss you, beloved—and so I do kiss you—\n\n                                                            Ever your own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Morning.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 17, 1846.]\n\nYour sight of Widdicombe was highly dramatic—and the policeman ‘intersit\nnodo’ as well as any god of them all. What a personage Widdicombe must\nbe! Think of the mental state of a man, who could gravely apply to his\nown face false moustachios and rouge before a looking-glass. There is\nsomething in it to wonder over, as over the megalosaurie and prodigions\nof ridicules. Mind—when I talked of rouge improving a complexion for\nthe nonce, I was thinking of women; not of men, in whom that sort of\ncolouring (even if it were natural) is detestable, or, to measure one’s\nlanguage, very ugly indeed. I have seen a man, of whom it was related\nthat he _painted his lips_—so that at dinner, with every course, was\nremoved a degree of bloom; the lips paled at the soup, grew paler at the\nmutton, became white at the fricandeau and ghastly at the pudding—till\nwith the orange at dessert, his nearest neighbours drew back their chairs\na little, expecting him to fall flat in a fainting-fit. But he was very\nrich, and could only talk charmingly out of those painted lips. There\nwere women who ‘couldn’t conceive why people should call him a fool.’ To\nevery Bottom’s head (not to wrong Bottom by such a comparison), there\nwill be a special Titania—see if there will not!\n\nSo you go on Wednesday to this club-dinner, really. And you come to me\nalso on Wednesday. Does _that_ remain decided? I have had a letter from\nthat poor Chiappino, to desire a ‘last interview’ ... which is promised\nto be ‘pacific.’ Oh—such stuff! Am I to hold a handkerchief to my eyes\nand sob a little? Your policeman is necessary to the full development\nof the drama, I think. And I forgot to tell you that there were _two_\nthings in which I had shown great want of feeling—one, the venturing to\nenclose your verses—the other ... (now listen!) the other ... the having\nsaid that ‘I was sincerely sorry for all his real troubles.’ Which I do\nremember having said once, when I was out of patience—as how can any one\nbe patient continually? and how was I especially to condole with him in\nlawn and weepers, on the dreadful fact of your existence in the world?\nWell—he has real troubles unfortunately, and he is going away to live in\na village somewhere. Poor Chiappino! A little occupation would be the\nbest thing that could happen for him; it would be better than prosperity\nwithout it. When a man spins evermore on his own axis, like a child’s\ntoy I saw the other day, ... what is the use of him but to make a noise?\nNo greater tormentor is there, than self-love, ... even to self. And no\ngreater instance of this, than _this_!\n\nDearest beloved, to turn away from the whole world to you ... _when_ I\ndo, do I lose anything ... or not rather gain all? Sometimes I feel to\nwish that I had more to sacrifice to you, so as to prove something of\nwhat is in me—but you do not require sacrifice ... it is enough, you\nsay, that I should _be happy through you_. How like those words are to\nyou!—how they are said in your own idiom! And for myself, I am contented\nto think that, ... if such things can really satisfy you, ... you would\nfind with difficulty elsewhere in the world than here, a woman as\nperfectly empty of life and gladness, except what comes to her from your\nhands. Many would be happy through you:—but to be happy through only you,\nis my advantage ... my boast. In this, I shall be better than the others.\n\nWhy, if you were to drive me from you after a little, in what words could\nI reproach you, but just in these ... ‘You might have left me to die\n_before_.’ Still I should be your debtor, my beloved, as now I am\n\n                              Your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nI told you that I was going to the chapel one Sunday—but I have not been\nyet. I had not courage. May God bless you!—",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 17, 1846.]\n\nI come home from Town for my letters ... the _two_ I ventured to expect,\nand here they meet me. As I said, you _had_ written, and I thanked you\n_then_, and _now_, too, just as if I had been despairing all along—and\nover and above, there are some especial thanks to pay,—for when I\ncould not otherwise disengage myself from a dinner a little way out of\ntown,—having unawares confessed to the day’s being at my disposal, ... I\nsaid—‘I expect letters at home which _must_ be answered’—and here I am.\n\nOr rather, here you are, dearest,—in, I do think, your dearest mood. I\nmust shift my ground already, alter my moment of time, and avow that it\nis _now_ I love you the best, the completest. Do you want to know how\nmuch kindness I can bear? If I ever am so happy as to speak so as to\nplease you, it may be only your own kindness overflowing and running\nback to you—I feel every day, often in every day, the regret follow some\nthought of you,—that _this_ thought, for instance, if I could secure and\nproperly tell you _this_ only, you would know my love for what it is,—and\nyet that _this_ thought will pass unexpressed like the others! Well, I\ndo not care—rightly considered, there is not so much to regret—the words\n_should_ lead to acts, and be felt insufficient.\n\nNow we collect then, from Mr. Kenyon’s caution, or discretion, or pity,\nor ignorance, that he will not interpose, and that there will be one\ngreat effort, and acknowledgment _for all_? I should certainly like it\n_so_ best. You seem stronger than to need the process of preparatory\ndisclosures, now to one, now to another friend. It is clearly best as it\nis like to be ... for perhaps the chances are in our favour that the few\nweeks more will be uninterrupted.\n\nMy time is gone—and nothing said! For to-morrow, all rests with you ...\nif the note bids me go, I shall be in _absolute_ readiness—otherwise on\nWednesday ... just as you seem to discern the times and the seasons.\n\nBless you my own best, dearest Ba—your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 18, 1846.]\n\nFor these two dear letters, I thank you, dearest! You are best, as ever!\nAnd _that_ is all I have to tell you, almost—for I have seen nobody,\nheard nothing ... except that _Eugène Sue can paint_, ... which Miss\nMitford told me this morning in a note of hers, ... in which, besides,\nshe complains of the fatigue she suffers from the visitors who go to see\nafter her the Reading prison, as the next ‘sight’ of the neighbourhood.\nBetter to live in Cheapside, than among the oaks, on such conditions!\nAs to Mr. Kenyon, he does not approach me. So he may come to-morrow,\nperhaps, or even on Wednesday. Would it not appear the top of wisdom\nif you deferred our day to Thursday’s sun!—now consider! It would be a\ndecided gain, surely, to be able to say to him on Wednesday that you had\nnot seen me since you and he saw me together. So I propose _Thursday_ if\nyou permit it. Next week we may take up our two days again, as one takes\nup so many dropt silken stitches, ... and we will be careful that the\nbeads do not run off in the meantime. To-day George came from circuit. He\nasked, for nearly a first question, whether I had thought of Italy—‘Yes,\nI had thought of it—but there was time to think more.’ I am uneasy a\nlittle under George’s eyes.\n\nYou did not tell me of Mr. Chorley ... whether he put questions about\nthe Continent, or observed on the mysteries in you. Does he go himself,\nand when? A curious ‘fact’ is, that Mrs. Jameson was in the next house\nto us this morning, and also a few days ago; yet never came here—the\nreason certainly being a reluctance to seem to tread in upon the\nrecalling confidence. I felt sorry, and obliged to her—both at once.\nTalking of confidences, I neglected to tell you when you were here\nlast, that one more had escaped us. It was not by my choice, if by my\nfault. I wrote something in a note to Mr. Boyd some weeks ago, which\nnobody except himself would have paused to think over; but he, like a\nprisoner in a dungeon, sounds every stone of the walls round him, and\ndiscerns a hollowness, detects a wooden beam, ... patiently pricks out\nthe mortar with a pin—all this, in his rayless, companionless Dark,—poor\nMr. Boyd! The time before I last went to see him, he asked me if I were\ngoing to be a nun—there, was the first guess! On the next visit he puts\nhis question precisely right—_I_ tried to evade—then, promised to be\nfrank in a little time—but being pressed on all sides, and drawn on by\na solemn vow of secrecy, I allowed him to see the truth—and he lives\nsuch an isolated life, that it is perfectly safe with him, setting the\noath aside. Also, he was very good and kind, and approved highly of\nthe whole, and exhorted me, with ever such exhortation, to keep to my\npurpose, and to allow no consideration in the world or out of the world,\nto make any difference—quoting the moral philosophers as to the rights\nof such questions. Is there harm in his knowing? He knows nobody, talks\nto nobody, and is very faithful to his word. Just as _I_, you will\nretort, was foolish in mine! Yet I do assure you, mine was a sort of\nword, which to nine hundred and ninety nine persons, would have suggested\nnothing—only _he_ mused over it, turned it into all lights, and had\nnothing to do but _that_. Afterwards he was proud, and asked ... ‘Was I\nnot acute?’ It was a pleasure to him, one could not grudge.\n\nAre you well, ever dearest? _I_ am well. And yesterday, while they were\nat dinner, I walked out alone, or with Flush—twice to the corner of the\nstreet, turning it, to post your letter. May God bless you. Surely we\nfeel alike in many, many things—the convolvuluses grow together; twisted\ntogether—and you lift me up from the ground; you! I am your very own—\n\nMr. Mathews said nothing more than I told you—very briefly—but he _sent_\nthe review, he said—and it has not come.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning\n                                             [Post-mark, August 18, 1846.]\n\nLet it be on Thursday then, dearest, for the reasons you mention. I will\nsay nothing of my own desires to meet you sooner ... they are corrected\nby the other desires to spend my whole life with you. After all, these\nare the critical weeks now approaching or indeed present—there shall be\nno fault I can avoid. So, till Thursday—\n\nChorley said very little ... he is all discreetness and forbearance, here\nas on other points. He goes to Birmingham at the end of this week, and\nreturning after some three or four days, leaves London for Paris—probably\nnext Saturday week. From Paris he thinks of going to Holland ... a\ngood step,—and of staying at Scheven ... ing ... what is the Bath’s\nname?—not a good step, I told him, because of the mortal ugliness of the\nplace—which I well remember ... it may have improved in ten years, to\nbe sure. There, ‘walking on the sands,’ (sands in a heapy slope, not a\ntraversable flat) he means to ‘grow to an end’ with his Tragedy ... there\nis a noble ardour in his working which one cannot help admiring—he has a\nfew weeks’ holiday, is jaded to death with writing, and yet will write\naway his brief time of respite and restoratives—for what? He wondered\nwhether there was any chance of our meeting in Paris—‘our’ meaning him\nand myself.\n\nAs for your communication to Mr. Boyd—how could you do otherwise, my own\nBa? I am altogether regardless of whatever danger there may be, in the\ngreat delight at his sympathy and approval of your intention: he probably\nnever heard my name before ... but his own will ever be associated\ndivinely in my memory with those verses which always have affected me\nprofoundly ... perhaps on the whole, _more_ profoundly than any others\nyou ever wrote: _that_ is hard to prove to myself,—but I really think\nso—the personal allusions in it went straight to my heart at the\nbeginning. I remember, too, how he loved and loves you ... you told me,\nBa: so I am most grateful to him,—as I ever shall feel to those who,\nknowing you, judge me worthy of being capable of knowing you and taking\nyour impress, and becoming yours sufficiently for your happiness.\n\nAre you so well, dearest, in your walks,—after your rides? Does that\nrejoice me or no, when I would rather hear you had been happy, than\nsimply see you without such an assurance? I am very well, since you\nask—but my mother is not—her head being again affected. Yet the late\nimprovement gives ground for hope ... nor is this a very violent attack\nin itself.\n\nI suppose it _was_ in Mrs. Jameson’s mind, as you apprehend—you must\nalways be fond of her—(and such will be always my way of rewarding people\n_I_ am fond of!)\n\nGod bless you, dearest—I love you all I can, Ba. I see another ship is\nadvertised to sail—(a steamer) for Naples, and other southern ports—but\nno higher. When you are well and disposed to go to Greece, take me, my\nlove. I should feel too happy for this world, I think, among the islands\nwith you.\n\nMy very own, I am yours—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 19, 1846.]\n\nYour mother is not well, dearest? _that_ is bad news indeed. And then, I\nthink of your superstition of your being ill and well with her—take care\nand keep well, Robert, ... or of what use will it be that _I_ should be\nwell? To-day we drove out, and were as far as Finchley, and I am none\nthe worse at all for it. Do you know Finchley? It is pretty and rural;\nthe ground rising and falling as if with the weight of verdure and dew!\nfields, and hedgerows, and long slopes of grass thick and long enough, in\nits fresh greenness, quite to hide the nostrils of the grazing cows. The\nfields are little, too, as if the hedges wanted to get together. Then the\nvillage of Finchley straggles along the road with a line of cottages, or\nsmall houses, seeming to _play_ at a village. No butchers, no bakers—only\none shop in the place—but gardens, and creepers round the windows. Such\na way from London, it looked! Arabel wanted to call on a friend of\nhers, a daughter of Sir William Russell’s, who married an adopted son\nof _Lamartine_, and was in the navy, and is now an Independent minister\nofficiating in this selfsame metropolis of Finchley. A concatenation,\n_that_ is, altogether. Very poor they are—living on something less than\ntwo hundred a year, with five children, and the eldest five years old.\nAnd the children came out to us, everybody else being away—so I, who\nwould have stayed in the carriage under other circumstances, was tempted\nout by the children and the cottage, and they dragged us along to see\nthe drawing room, and dining room, and ‘Papa’s flowers,’ and their own\nparticular book ‘about the twenty-seven tailors’; and those of the\nchildren who could speak, thought Flush ‘very cool’ for walking up-stairs\nwithout being asked. (The baby opened its immense eyes wider than ever,\nthinking unutterable things.) So as they had been so kind and hospitable\nto us, we could not do less (after a quantity of admiration upon the\npretty house covered with roses, and the garden and lawn, and especially\nthe literature of those twenty-seven tailors) we could not do less than\noffer to give them a drive ... which was accepted with acclamation. Think\nof our taking into the carriage, all five children, with their prodigious\neyes and cheeks—the nurse on the coachbox, to take them home at the end\nof some quarter of a mile! At the moment of parting, Alphonse Lamartine\nthought seriously of making a great scream—but upon Arabel’s perjuring\nherself by a promise to ‘come again soon,’ we got away without that\ncatastrophe. A worse one is, that you may think yourself obliged to read\nthis amusing history. To make amends, I send you what I gathered for you\nin the garden ‘Pansy!—that’s for thoughts.’[5]\n\nHow wise we are about Thursday! or rather about Tuesday and Wednesday,\nperhaps.\n\nAs for Mr. Boyd, he had just heard your name, but he is blind and deaf\nto modern literature, and I am not anxious that he should know you much\nby your poetry. He asked some questions about you, and he enquired of\nArabel particularly whether she thought we cared for each other enough.\nBut to tell you the truth, his unqualified adhesion strikes me as less\nthe result of his love for _you_, than of his anger towards another. I am\nsure he triumphs inwardly in the idea of a chain being broken which he\nhas so often denounced in words that pained and vexed me—and then last\nyear’s affair about Italy made him furious. Oh—I could see plainly by the\nsort of smile he smiled—but we need not talk of it—I am at the end too\nof my time. How good you are to me not to upbraid me for imprudence and\nwomanly talkativeness! You are too, too good. And you liked my verses to\nMr. Boyd! Which _I_ like to hear, of course. Dearest—\n\nShall we go to Greece then, Robert? _Let_ us, if you like it! When we\nhave used a little the charm of your Italy, and have been in England\njust to see that everybody is well, of yours and mine, ... (if you like\n_that_!) ... why straightway we can go ‘among the islands’—(and _nearly_\nas pleasant, it will be for me, as if I went there alone, having left\nyou!). I should like to see Athens with my living eyes ... Athens was\nin all the dreams I dreamed, before I knew you. Why should we not see\nAthens, and Egypt too, and float down the mystical Nile, and stand in the\nshadow of the Pyramids? _All_ of it is more possible now, than walking up\nthis street seemed to me last year.\n\nIndeed, there is only one miracle for _me_, my beloved,—and _that_ is\nyour loving me. Everything else under the sun, and much over it, seems\nthe merest commonplace and workday matter-of-fact. If I found myself,\nsuddenly, riding in Paradise, on a white elephant of golden feet, ...\nI should shake the bridle, I fancy, with ever so much nonchalance, and\nabsently wonder over ‘that miracle’ of the previous world. Because\n‘_THAT’S for thoughts_,’ as my flower says! look at it and listen.\n\n                                            As for me, I am your very own—\n\n[5] [The flower is enclosed with the letter.]",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 19, 1846.]\n\nSee my one piece of available paper for the minute! Ought I to write on\nor wait? No, I will tell Ba at once how I love her for giving me this\none more letter with its delights. ‘Finchley’—I know very well—not that\nI ever saw the streets, and palaces, and cathedral, with these eyes ...\nbut in ‘Quarles’ Emblems,’ my childhood’s pet book, I well remember\nthat an aspiring Soul,—(a squat little woman-figure with a loose gown,\nhair in a coil, and bare feet—) is seated on the world, a ‘terrestrial\nball,’—which, that you may clearly perceive it to be our world, is\nsomewhat parsimoniously scattered over with cities and towns—and\none, the evident capital of the universe and Babylon’s despair for\nsize,—occupying as it does a tract quite equal to all Europe’s due share\non the hemisphere, is marked ‘Finchley’—Do you recognize? [Illustration]\nYet, if you will have it only the pretty village with the fields you\ndescribe so perfectly, I accept the sweetness and give up the glory, and\nyour Finchley is mine for ever, you dearest—whom I see in the house,\nand in the carriage ... but how is it you escaped the rain, Ba? Oh, it\ndid not rain till later, now I think a little. Those are indeed strange\ncircumstances ... and the ‘independent ministry’ at the end, seems hard\nto account for ... or, why hard? Well, _this_ is _not_ hard to feel\nand know, that it is perfect joy to hear you propose such travels and\nadventures—Greece _with you_, Egypt _with you_! Will you please and\ntell me ... (not _now_, but whenever your conscience prompts you on the\nrecurrence of that notable objection, if Miss Campbell’s desirableness\n_is_ to recur) ... what other woman in the whole world and Finchley,\nwould propose to go to Egypt instead of Belgravia? Do our tastes coincide\nor no? This is putting all on the lowest possible ground ... setting\nlove aside even, to Miss Mitford’s heart’s fullest content; if I were to\nchoose among women, without love to give or take, and only for _other_\nadvantages, do you think _any_ advantage would compete with this single\none,—‘she will feel happy in travelling with you to a distance.’ Love\nalters the scale, overbalances everything—at the beginning I fancied\nyou could not leave England, you know. But it singularly affects my\nimagination, such a life with you,—led _for_ the world, I hope, all the\nmore effectually for being not led _in_ the world. If their ways are not\nto be ours, all is better at a distance, and _so_ I have put this down\nas, surely, _one_ palpable, unmistakable _advantage_ even _you_ must\nconfess I shall gain in marrying you—(I may only love Ba’s eyes and mouth\nin a sort of fearful secrecy so far as words go ... she stops all speech\non that subject!)\n\nYes indeed, Ba, I always felt that ‘Cyprus wine’ poem fill my heart with\nunutterable desires to you. There is so much of you in it. Observe, I\ndo no foolish injustice in criticisms ... I quite understand a charm\n_beside_ the charm the world can see. Some of your pansies are entirely\nbeautiful in themselves.... I can set them before the visitors of a\nflower-show and bid all pronounce on them—others, beside their beauty,\ncome to me as _this_ dear one, in a letter, with a story of the plucking,\nwith a _sense_ of the fingers that held it. Bless you, ever dearest, dear\nbeyond words,—you have given me already in this year and a half the\nentirest faith and purest kindness my heart can comprehend. Do lovers\n‘abuse the beloved object’—‘try to shake off their chains’ &c. &c.? Mine\nis not love then! No one minute or moment of your life with me could have\nbeen other than it was without seeming less dear, less perfect in my\nmemory—and for all, God reward you.\n\nTo-morrow, Thursday! And to-night I will warily speak of not having seen\nyou.\n\n                                                                 Your own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 21, 1846.]\n\nDearest, this is to be a brief letter, though my heart shall find room in\nwhatever goes to you. Yesterday cost us nothing—no observation was made:\nwe were in all security notwithstanding the forebodings on either side.\nMay they find such an end in circumstances of still more consequence.\nDearest, your flowers are beautiful beyond their beauty of yesterday\nwhich I praised—they think themselves still in the garden; we have done\nthem no sort of wrong. What a luring thought you leave with me in the\nflowers! How I look at them as a sign of you, left behind—your footstep\nin the ground! It has been so from the beginning. And yet sometimes you\ntry to prove that you are not always good. You!\n\nIf you are not good, it is because you are _best_. I will admit so much.\n\nOh, to look back! It is so wonderful to me to look back on my life\nand my old philosophy of life, made of the necessities of sorrow and\nthe resolution to attain to something better than a perpetual moaning\nand complaint,—to that state of neutralized emotion to which I did\nattain—that serenity which meant the failure of hope! _Can_ I look back\nto such things, and not thank you next to God? For you, who had the\n_power_, to stoop to having the will,—is it not worthy of thanks? So I\nthank you and love you and shall always, however it may be hereafter.\nI could not feel otherwise to you, I think, than by my feeling at this\nmoment.\n\nHow Papa has startled me. He came in while I was writing ... (I shut the\nwriting-case as he walked over the floor—) and then, after the usual\ntalk of the weather, and how the nights ‘were growing cold,’ ... he said\nsuddenly ... looking to the table ... ‘What a beautiful colour those\nlittle blue flowers have—’ Calling them just _so_, ... ‘little blue\nflowers.’ I could scarcely answer I was so frightened—but he observed\nnothing and turned and left the room with his favourite enquiry _pour\nrire_, as to whether he ‘could do anything for me in the City.’\n\nDo anything for _me_ in the City! Well—do _you_ do something for me, by\nthinking of me and loving me, Robert. Dear you are, never to be tired\nof me, with so much reason for it as I know. May God bless you, very\ndear!—and ever dearest! I am your own too entirely to need to say so.\n\n                                                                  _Ba._",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 21, 1846.]\n\nI think—now that the week is over with its opportunities,—and now that\nno selfish complaining can take advantage of your goodness,—that I will\nask you how _I_ feel, do you suppose, without my proper quantity of\n‘morphine’? May I call you my morphine?\n\nAnd speaking of ‘proper quantities’—there were some remarks of yours\nwhich I altogether acquiesced in, yesterday, about a humiliating\ndependence in money-matters; though I should be the first to except\nmyself from feeling _buite_ with the world there—I have told you,\nindeed,—but my case is not everybody’s. I hate being _master_, and\nalone, and absolute disposer in points where real love will save me the\ntrouble ... because there are infinitely more and greater points where\nthe solitary action and will, with their responsibility, cannot be\navoided. I suppose _that_ is Goethe’s meaning when he says every man has\nliberty enough—political liberty and social: so that when they let him\nwrite ‘Faust’ after his own fashion, he does not mind how they dispose of\nhis money, or even limit his own footsteps. Ah,—but there are the good\nthousands all round who don’t want to write ‘Fausts,’ and only have money\nto spend and walks to take, and how do _they_ like such an arrangement?\nMoreover, I should be perhaps more refractory than anybody, if what I\ncheerfully agree to, as happening to take my fancy, were forced on me,\nas the only reasonable course. All men ought to be independent, whatever\nCarlyle may say. And so, too, I like being alone, myself—but I should be\nsorry to see the ordinary friends I have, live alone. Do you understand\nall this, Ba? Will you make me say it, in your mind, intelligibly?\nAnd then will you say still more of your own till the true thing is\ncompletely said? And, after all, will you kiss me?’\n\nAs I asked you yesterday ... because of a most foolish, thoughtless\nallusion,—which I only trust you never noticed ... do not you allude\nto it, not even to forgive me, dearest, dearest. I would rather be\nunforgiven than pain you afresh to do it ... but perhaps you did not\nnotice my silly expression after all.... I wished your dear hands before\nmy eyes, I know! Still you would know it was only thoughtlessness.\n\nAll this sad morning the blackness has been quite enough to justify our\nfire ... we have had one there two or three days. But now the sun comes\nout—and I will hope you follow him,—after Mr. Kenyon’s visit? _That_ is\nto be I think!\n\nI never write anything bearable, even for _me_, on these days when\nno letter from you leads me on phrase by phrase ... I am thrown too\ncompletely on the general feelings—‘Do you love Ba?—then tell her\n_that_!’ Yes, indeed! It is easier to leave all the love untold, having\nto speak for the moment of Finchley only! Finchley,—the cottage,—Ba\nentering it—Flush following her ... now I come to something I wanted to\nsay! In the paper, this morning, is a paragraph about the bold villainy\nof _dog-stealers_. There is an ‘organised society’ of these fellows,\nand they seize and convey away everybody’s Flushes, ‘if such a one ever\n_were_,’ as Iago rhymes of his perfect wife. So friend Flush must go his\n_high_ ways only, and keep out of alleys and dark corners: beside in\nPisa, he must guard the house. In earnest, I warn you, Ba!\n\nNow tell me—will there be any impediment to Tuesday?\n\nI think I will go out into this sunshine while it lasts. I am very well\nconsidering there are three days to wait, but a walk will do no harm,—nor\nwill I.\n\nAll speech to you shall be ever simple, simplest. I can only love you and\nsay so,—and I do love you, best beloved!\n\n                                                       Your own, very own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Evening.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 22, 1846.]\n\nCan I be as good for you as morphine is for me, I wonder ... even at the\ncost of being as bad also? Can’t you leave me off without risking your\nlife,—nor go on with me without running the hazards of all poison. Ah!—it\nwill not do, so. The figure exceeds me, let _it_ be ever so fatal. I may\nnot be your morphine, even if I shall be your Ba!—you _see_!\n\nYou are my prophet though, in a few things. For instance, Mr. Kenyon came\nto-day, and sate here I really believe two hours, talking of poor Papa\n... (oh! not of _us_, my prophet!) and at length, of the Pyrenees and\nof Switzerland, and of the characteristics of mountain scenery—full of\ninterest it all was, and I thought (while he talked) that when you and I\nhad done with the crocodiles, we might look for a chamois or two. If I\n‘drive,’ I shall drive that way, I think still ... that is, ever since\nfour o’clock, I _have_ thought. Mr. Kenyon said ... ‘You had a visitor\nyesterday!’ ‘Yes’ said I—‘Mr. Browning came.’ ‘You mean that he actually\n_did_ come, through that pouring rain! Well—he told me he was coming:\nbut when I saw the rain, I imagined it to be out of the question.’ Just\nobserve his subtlety. Imagining that you did not come yesterday he\nconcluded of course that you would come to-day,—and straightway hurried\nhere himself! Moreover he seems to me to have resolved on never again\nleaving London! Because Mr. Eagles goes to the seaside instead of to the\nQuantock hills, Mr. Kenyon has written to Landor a proposition toward a\ngeneral renouncement of the adventure. Quite cross I felt, to hear of it!\nAnd it doesn’t unruffle me to be told, even that he goes to Richmond on\nTuesday and sleeps there and spends the Wednesday. Nothing _can_ unruffle\nme. So tiresome it is! Then I am provoked a little by the news he brought\nme of ‘Miss Martineau’s leaving the Lakes for a month or two’—seeing that\n_if_ she leaves the Lakes, it is for London—there are nets on all sides\nof us. I am under a promise to see her, and I shrink both from herself\nand her consequences. Now, _is_ it not tiresome? Those are coming, and\nthese are _not_ going away. The hunters are upon us ... and where we run,\nwe run into the nets.\n\nDearest, I have been considering one thing, and do _you_ consider\nwhether, if we _do_ achieve this peculiar madness of going to Italy,\nwe should take any books, and what they should be. A few books of the\nsmall editions would be desirable perhaps—and then it were well for\nus to arrange it so that we should not take duplicates, and that the\npossession of the duodecimo should ‘have the preference’ ... do you\nunderstand? Also, this arrangement being made, and the time approaching,\nI had better perhaps send you _my_ part of the books, so as to save the\ndifficulty of taking more packets than absolutely were necessary, from\nthis house. It will be very difficult to remove things without exciting\nobservation—and _my sisters must not observe_. The consequences would be\nfrightful if they were suspected of knowing; and, poor things, I could\nnot drive them into acting a part.\n\nMy own beloved, when my courage seems to bend and break, I turn to you\nand look at you ... as men see visions! _It is enough, always._ Did you\never give me pain by a purpose of yours?—do you not rather keep me from\nall pain?—do we blame the wind that breathes gently, because a reed or a\nweed trembles in it? I could not feel much pain while sitting near you, I\nthink—unless you suffered a little, ... or looked as if you did not love\nme. And _that_ was not at least yesterday.\n\n                 May God bless you dearest, ever dearest.\n\n                                                            I am your own.\n\nSay how your mother is—and how you are. _Don’t_ neglect this.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 22, 1846.]\n\nYour first note reached me at six o’clock yesterday ... did the dear\nliving spirit inside help it along in spite of all the post’s hindrances?\nAnd this second comes duly. When you know I am most at a loss how to\nthank you, invariably you begin thanking _me_! Is that because of my own\npractice of saying a foolish thing and then, to cover it, asking you to\nkiss me? I think I will tell you now what that foolish thing was,—lest\nyou, missing it, should go hunting and find worse, and far worse. I will\njust remind you, that on your enumerating your brothers and sisters, I\nsaid without a moment’s thought ‘so, _you are seven_’!... And you know\nhow Wordsworth applied that phrase ... and in the sudden fear of wounding\ndearest Ba, I took such refuge for myself, rather than her! Will you kiss\nme now, my own love? And say nothing, but let it die away here, this\nstupidity of mine.\n\nI hardly conceive what Mr. Kenyon means ... except perhaps a sort of\ngeneral exhortation to take care, and—I mean, if he came for the purpose\nof catching me _only_,—he ought either to know or not know, keep silence\nor speak, approve or condemn ... and to do _neither_ being so easy, his\nown cautiousness would keep him away, I should have thought.\n\nAbout your books, you speak altogether wisely: in this first visit to\nItaly we had better take only enough to live upon,—travelling books,—and\nreturn for the rest. And so with everything else. I shall put papers &c.\ninto a room and turn the key on them and my death’s heads—because when we\ncome back (think of you and me ... why, we shall walk arm in arm,—would\nFlush object to carry an umbrella in his mouth? And so let Lough cut us\nin marble, all three!)—well, when we come back, all can be done leisurely\nand considerately. And _then_, Greece, Egypt, Syria, the Chamois-country,\nas Ba pleases!\n\nBa, Lord Byron is altogether in my affection again ... I have read on\nto the end, and am quite sure of the great qualities which the last ten\nor fifteen years had partially obscured. Only a little longer life and\nall would have been gloriously right again. I read this book of Moore’s\ntoo long ago: but I always retained my first feeling for Byron in many\nrespects ... the interest in the places he had visited, in relics of\nhim. I would at any time have gone to Finchley to see a curl of his hair\nor one of his gloves, I am sure—while Heaven knows that I could not get\nup enthusiasm enough to cross the room if at the other end of it all\nWordsworth, Coleridge and Southey were condensed into the little China\nbottle yonder, after the Rosicrucian fashion ... they seem to ‘have their\nreward’ and want nobody’s love or faith. Just one of those trenchant\nopinions which I found fault with Byron for uttering,—as ‘proving\nnothing’! But telling a weakness to Ba is not telling it to ‘the world,’\nas poor authors phrase it!\n\nBy the way, Chorley has written another very kind paper, in that little\njournal of to-day, ‘Colombe’s Birthday’—I have only glanced at it\nhowever. See his goodwill: I will bring it on Tuesday, if you please in\ngoodness. I was not _quite_ so well ... (there is the bare truth ...)\nthis morning early—but the little there was to _go_, _has_ gone, and I am\nabout to go out. My mother continues indisposed. The connection between\nour ailings is no fanciful one. A few weeks ago when my medical adviser\nwas speaking about the pain and its cause ... my mother sitting by me\n... he exclaimed ‘Why, has anybody to search far for a cause of whatever\nnervous disorder you may suffer from, when _there_ sits your mother ...\nwhom you so absolutely resemble ... I can trace every feature &c. &c.’ To\nwhich I did _not_ answer, ‘And will anybody wonder that the said disorder\nflies away, when there sits my Ba, whom I so thoroughly adore.’\n\nYes, there you sit, Ba!\n\nAnd here I kiss you, best beloved,—my very own as I am your own—",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 22, 1846.]\n\nI begin to write before one this morning, with the high resolve that\nyou shall have a letter on Sunday, to-morrow, at least,—it shall be put\ninto the post so precisely at the right hour. At two I am going out in\nthe carriage to Mr. Boyd’s and other places,—and dining duties are to\nbe performed before then, and before now I have had a visitor. Guess\nwhom—Mrs. Jameson. So I am on a ‘narrow neck of land’ ... such as Wesley\nwrote hymns about; ... and _stans in pede uno_ on it—can make for you but\na hurried letter.\n\nShe came in with a questioning face, and after wondering to find me\nvisible so soon, plunged into the centre of the question and asked ‘what\nwas settled ... what I was doing about Italy.—’ ‘Just nothing,’ I told\nher. ‘She found me as she left me, able to say no word.’\n\n‘But what _are_ you going to do—’ throwing herself back in the chair with\na sudden—‘but oh, I must not enquire.’\n\nI went on to say that ‘in the first place my going would not take place\ntill quite the end of September if so soon,—that I had determined to make\nno premature fuss,—and that, for the actual present, nothing was either\nto be done or said.\n\n‘Very sudden then, it is to be. In fact, there is only an _elopement_ for\nyou—’ she observed laughing.\n\nSo I was obliged to laugh.\n\n(But, dearest, nobody will use such a word surely to the _event_. We\nshall be in such an obvious exercise of Right by Daylight—surely nobody\nwill use such a word.)\n\nI talked of Mr. Kenyon,—how he had been with me yesterday and brought the\nmountains of the Earth into my room—‘which was almost too much,’ I said,\n‘for a prisoner.’ ‘Yes—but if you go to Italy....’\n\n‘But Mr. Kenyon thinks I shall not. In his opinion, my case is desperate.’\n\n‘But I tell you that it is not. Nobody’s case is desperate when the\nwill is not at fault. And a woman’s will when she wills thoroughly as I\nhope you do, is strong enough to overcome. When I hear people say that\n_circumstances are against them_, I always retort, ... you mean _that\nyour will is not with you_! I believe in the will—I have faith in it.’\n\nThere is an oracle for us, to remember for good! She goes to Paris, she\nsays, with her niece, between the seventh and tenth of September,—and\nafter a few days at Paris she goes to Orleans for the cathedral’s\nsake—but what follows is doubtful ... Italy is doubtful. Only that my\nopinion is, as I told her, that if Italy is doubtful here in London, at\nOrleans, when she gets there, it will be certain. She will not resist the\nattraction towards the South. She looked at me all the while she told me\nthis ... looked into my eyes, like a Diviner.\n\nOn Monday morning she comes to see me again. It is all painful, or rather\nunpleasant. One should not use strong words out of place, and there will\nremain too much use for this. How I teaze you now!\n\nBelieve me, through it all, that when I think of the very worst of the\nfuture, I love you the best, and feel most certain of never hesitating.\nAs long as you choose to have me, my beloved, I have chosen—I am yours\nalready—\n\n                           and your own always—\n\n                                                                     _Ba_.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Morning.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 24, 1846.]\n\nBut dearest—Did you not understand that I understood? I know your\nwords better than you think, you see. Were you afraid to trust me to\ngive a chase to them in my recollection, lest I should fall blindly\nupon some ‘Secret Sin’ of yours? a wild boar, instead of a poor little\nconey belonging to the rocks of my desolation?—such as it was before\nyou made the yellow furze grow everywhere on it? Now, it is like me\nfor wickedness, to begin talking of your ‘Secret Sins,’ just by this\nopportunity. You overcome me with goodness—there’s the real truth, and\nthe whole of it.\n\nWhile I am writing, comes in Arabel with such a face. My brother had\nbeen talking, talking of me. Stormie suddenly touched her and said—‘Is\nit true that there is an engagement between Mr. Browning and Ba—?’ She\nwas taken unaware, but had just power to say ‘You had better ask them,\nif you want to know. What nonsense, Storm.’ ‘Well,’ he resumed, ‘I’ll ask\nBa when I go up-stairs.’ George was by, looking as grave as if antedating\nhis judgeship. Think how frightened I was, Robert ... expecting them\nup-stairs every minute,—for all my brothers come here on Sunday, all\ntogether. But they came, and not a single word was said—not on that\nsubject, and I talked on every other in a sort of hurried way—I was so\nfrightened.\n\nSaturday Mr. Boyd and I talked on _it_ for two hours nearly, he would\nnot let me go with his kindness. Nothing, he said, would make him\ngladder than our having gone, and escaped the storms. In fact, what\nwith affection for me, and disaffection in other directions, he thinks\nof nothing besides, I do believe. He only wishes that he had known last\nyear, in order to exhort me properly. The very triumph of reason and\nrighteousness, he considers the whole affair. But I told you what Mr.\nBoyd is—dear, poor Mr. Boyd! Talking such pure childishness sometimes,\nin such pure Attic—yet one of the very most upright men, after all, that\nI ever dreamt of—one of the men born shepherds—with a crook in the hand,\ninstead of the metaphorical ‘silver spoon in the mouth.’ Good, dear Mr.\nBoyd,—I am very grateful to him for his goodness to me just now. I assure\nyou that he takes us up exactly as if we were Ossian and Macpherson, or\na criticism of Porson’s, or a new chapter of Bentley on Phalaris. By the\nway, _do you believe in Ossian_? Let me be properly prepared for that\nquestion.\n\nBut I have a question for you of my own. Listen to me, my Famous in\nCouncil, and give me back words of wisdom. A long, long while ago,\nnearly a year since perhaps, I wrote to the Blackwoods of Edinburgh to\nmention my new ‘Prometheus,’ and to ask if they would care to use it\nin their magazine, _that_, and verses more my own; whether they would\ncare to have them at the usual magazine terms—I had some lyrics by me,\nand people have constantly advised me to print in Blackwood, with the\nprospect of republishing in the independent form. You get at the public\nso, and are paid for your poems instead of paying for them. Did I tell\nyou all this before—and about my having written the enquiry? At any rate,\nno reply came—I concluded that Mr. Blackwood did not think it worth\nwhile to write, and eschewed the poems—and the subject passed from my\nthoughts till last night. Then came a very civil note. The authorities\nreceiving nothing from me, were afraid that their answer to my letter had\nnot reached me, and therefore wrote again. They would ‘like to see’ my\n‘Prometheus’ though apprehensive of its being unfit for the Magazine—but\nparticularly desire to have all manner of lyrics, whatever I have by me.\nNow, what do you think? What shall I do? Would it not be well to let\nthis door between us and Blackwood stand open. One is not in the worst\ncompany there—they pay well,—and you have the opportunity of standing\nface to face with the public at any moment—without hindering the solemner\ninterviews. When we are in Italy, particularly...! Do you see? Tell me\nyour thoughts.\n\nSince I began this letter, I have been to the Scotch Church in our\nneighbourhood—and it has all been in vain—I could not stay. We heard that\na French minister, a M. Alphonse Monod of Montauban, was to preach at\nthree o’clock, in French—and counting on a small congregation, and Arabel\n(through a knowledge of the localities) encouraging me with the prospect\nof sitting close to the door, and retiring back into the entrance-hall\nwhen the singing began, so as to escape that excitement—I agreed to make\nthe trial, and she and I set out in a cab from the cab-stand hard by\n... to which we walked. But the church was filling, obviously filling,\nas we arrived ... and grew fuller and fuller. We went in and came out\nagain, and I sate down on the stairs—and the people came faster and\nfaster, and I could not keep the tears out of my eyes to begin with. One\ngets nervous among all these people if a straw stirs. So Arabel after\ndue observations on every side, decided that it would be too much of a\ncongregation for me, and that I had better go home to Flush—(poor Flush\nhaving been left at home in a state of absolute despair). She therefore\nput me into a cab and sent me to Wimpole Street, and stayed behind\nherself to hear M. Monod—there’s my adventure to-day. When I opened my\ndoor on my return, Flush threw himself upon me with a most ecstatical\nagony, and for full ten minutes did not cease jumping and kissing my\nhands—he thought he had lost me for certain, this time. Oh! and you\nwarn me against the danger of losing _him_. Indeed I take care and take\nthought too—those ‘organised banditti’ are not merely banditti _de\ncomedie_—they are a dreadful reality. Did I not tell you once that they\nhad announced to me that I should not have Flush back the _next time_,\nfor less than ten guineas? But you will let him come with us to Italy,\ninstead—will you not, dear, dearest? in good earnest, will you not?\nBecause, if I leave him behind, he will be teazed for my sins in this\nhouse—or I could not be sure of the reverse of it. And even if he escaped\nthat fate, consider how he would break his heart about me. Dogs pine to\ndeath sometimes—and if ever a dog loved a man, or a woman, Flush loves\nme. But you say that he shall keep the house at Pisa—and you mean it, I\nhope and I think?—you are in earnest. May God bless you,—_so_, I say my\nprayers, though I missed the Church. To-morrow, comes my letter ... come\nmy two letters! the happy Monday! The happier Tuesday, if on Tuesday\ncomes the writer of the letters!\n\n                                                          His very own BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Afternoon.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 24, 1846.]\n\nThis time, they brought me your letter at six o’clock yesterday evening:\nwas I startled, or no, do you think, as I received it? But all proved\nright, and kind as ever, or kinder. By the post-mark, I see you _did_ go\nout. Can you care in this way for my disappointments and remedy them?\nIf I did not love you, how I would begin _now_! Every day shows me\nmore to love in you, dearest, and I open my arms as wide as I can ...\n‘incomprehensible’ Ba, as Donne would say! Also he would say much better\nthings, however.\n\nWhat a visitation! Miss Martineau is the more formidable friend,\nhowever—Mrs. Jameson will be contented with a little confidence, you see,\nand ask no questions—but I doubt if you arrange matters so easily with\nthe new-comer. Because no great delicacy can be kept alive with all that\nconceit—and such conceit! A lady told me a few weeks ago that she had\nseen a letter in which Miss M. gave as her reason for not undertaking\n_then_, during the London season, this very journey which empty London\nis to benefit from now, ‘that at such a time she should be _mobbed to\ndeath_’: whereupon the lady went on to comment, ‘Miss M. little knows\nwhat London is, and how many nearly as notable objects may be found to\ndivert its truculence from herself’—Tom Thumb, and Ibrahim Pacha, to wit.\n\nWhy do you suspect that you ‘teaze’ me when you say ‘there will remain\ntoo much use for the word “painful”’? Do you not know more of me by this\ntime, my own Ba? When I have spoken of the probable happiness of our\nfuture life—of the chances in our favour from a community of tastes and\nfeelings,—I have really done it on your account, not mine. I very well\nknow that there would be an exquisite, secret happiness _through_ pain\nwith you, or for you—but it is not for me to insist on _that_, with that\ndivine diffidence in your own worth which meets me wherever I turn to\napproach you, and puts me so gently aside ... so I rather retire and\ncontent myself with occupying the ground you _do_ concede ... and since\nyou will only hear of my being happy in the obvious, ordinary way, I tell\nyou, with perfect truth, that you, and only you, can make me thus—that\nonly you, of all women, look in the direction that I look, and feel as I\nfeel, and live for the ends of my life; and beside that, see with my eyes\nthe most natural and immediate way of reaching them, through a simple\nlife, retirements from the world here (not from the real world), travel,\nand the rest. But all the while I know ... do not _you_ know, Ba? ...\nthat the joy’s essence is in the life with you, for the sake of you, not\nof the mere vulgar happiness; and that if any of our calculations should\nfail, it will be a surprise, a delight, a pride to me to take the new\ntaste you shall prescribe, or leave the old one you forbid. My life being\nyours, what matters the change which you effect in it?\n\nHere, you mean not even so much as this by your ‘painful’—‘Elopement’!\nLet them call it ‘felony’ or ‘burglary’—so long as they don’t go to\nchurch with us, and propose my health after breakfast! Now you fancy this\na gratuitous piece of impertinence, do you not, Ba? You are wrong, sweet:\nI speak from directest experience—having dreamed, the night before last,\nthat we were married, and that on adjourning to the house of a friend of\nmine, his brother, a young fop I know slightly, made a speech, about a\ncertain desk or dressing-case, which he ended by presenting to me in the\nname of the house! Whereto I replied in a strain of the most alarming\nfluency ( ... all in the dream, I need not tell you)—‘and then I woke.’\nOh _can_ I have smiled, higher up in the letter, at Miss Martineau’s\nover-excitability on the subject of ‘mobbing’ here? The greatest coward\nis the wisest man ... even the suspicion of such mobs ought to keep\npeople at their lakes, or send them to their Pisas.\n\nBy the way, Byron speaks of plucking oranges in his garden at Pisa ... I\nsaw just a courtyard with a high wall—which may have been a garden ...\nbut a gloomier one than the palace, even, warrants. They have painted the\nfront fresh staring yellow and changed its name ... there being another\nCasa Lanfranchi on the other side of the Arno.\n\nNow I will kiss you, dearest: used you to divine that at the very\nbeginning, I have sometimes shortened the visit in order to arrive at the\ntime of taking your hand?\n\nYou will write to me to-night, I think—Tuesday is our day, remember. May\nGod bless you, my very very dearest—\n\n                                                                   Your R.\n\nThat sonnet will not turn up—it is neither in Vasari, nor Dolce, nor\nCastiglione ... probably in Richardson’s ‘Painting’ which somebody has\nborrowed—but I will find it yet, knowing that it must be near at hand.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 24, 1846.]\n\nMy own dearest, let me say the most urgent thing first. You hear these\nsuspicions of your brothers. Will you consider if, during this next\nmonth, we do not risk too much in seeing each other as usual? We risk\neverything ... and what do we gain, in the face of that? I can learn no\nmore about you, be taught no new belief in your absolute peerlessness—I\nhave taken my place at your feet for ever: all my use of the visits is,\ntherefore, the perfect delight of them ... and to hazard a whole life\nof such delight for the want of self-denial during a little month,—that\nwould be horrible. I altogether sympathise with your brothers’\nimpatience, or curiosity, or anxiety, or ‘graveness’—and am prepared\nfor their increasing and growing to heights difficult or impossible to\nbe borne. But do you not think we may avoid compelling any premature\ncrisis of this kind? I am guided by your feelings, as I seem to perceive\nthem, in this matter; the harm to be apprehended is _through_ the harm\nto _them_—to your brothers. If they determine on avowedly _knowing_\nwhat we intend, I do not see which to fear most; the tacit acquiescence\nin our scheme which may draw down a vengeance on them without doing us\nthe least good,—or the open opposition which would bring about just so\nmuch additional misfortune. I _know_, now, your perfect adequacy to any\npain and danger you will incur for our love’s sake—I believe in you as\nyou would have me believe: but give yourself to me, dearest dearest Ba,\nthe entire creature you are, and not a lacerated thing only reaching my\narms to sink there. Perhaps this is all a sudden fancy, not justified by\ncircumstances, arising from my ignorance of the characters of those I\ntalk about; that is for you to decide—your least word reassures me, as\nalways. But I fear much for _you_, to make up, perhaps, for there being\nnothing else in the world fit to fear: I exclude direct visitations of\nGod, which cannot be feared, after all—dreadful dooms to which we should\nbow. But the ‘fear’ _proper_, means with me an apprehension that, with\nall my best effort, it may be unable to avert some misfortune ... the\neffort going on all the time: and _this_ is a real effort, dearest Ba,\nthis letter: consider it thus. I will (if possible) send it to town, so\nas to reach you earlier and allow you to write _one line_ in reply. You\nhave heard all I can say ... say you, _shall I come to-morrow?_ If you\nthink it advisable, I will come and be most happy.\n\nAnother thing: you see your excitement about the church and the crowd....\nMy own love, are you able,—with all that great, wonderful heart of\nyours,—to bear the railway fatigues, and the entering and departure\nfrom Paris and Orleans and the other cities and towns? Would not the\nlong sea-voyage be infinitely better, if a little dearer? Or what\ncan be _dear_ if it prevents all that risk, or rather certainty, of\nexcitement and fatigue? You see, the packet sails on the 30th September\nand the _15th October_. As three of us go, they would probably make some\nreduction in price. Ah, even here, I must smile ... will you affirm that\never _an approximation to a doubt_ crossed your mind about Flush? I\nthink your plans with respect to ‘Blackwood’ most excellent—I see _many_\nadvantages.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHere is the carriage for my sister, who is going to stay in town at the\nArnoulds’ for a week,—with Mrs. A. in it to fetch her. I shall give\nthis letter to be put in the post—I have _all_ to say, but the _very_\nessential is said—understand me, my best, only love, and forgive my undue\nalarm, for the sake of the love that prompts it. Write the one line ...\ndo not let me do myself wrong by my anxiety—if I _may_ come, _let me_!\nBless you, Ba.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Evening.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 25, 1846.]\n\nDearest, how you frightened me with the sight of your early letter!\nBut it is only your wisdom,—which by this time should scarcely startle\nme,—there’s a compliment, to begin with, you see, in change for all the\npraises; ... my ‘peerlessness’ (!!!) being settled like the Corn Law\nrepeal!—oh, you want no more evidence of it, not you! (poor blind you!)\nand the other witnesses are bidden to ‘stand down’—‘I may smile even\n_now_’ ... as you say _quoad_ Flush, ... smile at your certainty as you\nsmile at my doubt. Will you let me smile, and not call it a peerless\ninsolence, or ingratitude,—dearest you?\n\nFor dearest you are, and best in the world, ... it all comes to _that_,\n... and considerate for me always: and at once I agree with you that for\nthis interval it will be wise for us to set the visits, ... ‘our days’\n... far apart, ... nearly a week apart, perhaps, so as to escape the\ndismal evils we apprehend. I agree in all you say—in all. At the same\ntime, the cloud has passed for the present—nothing has been said more,\nand not a word to me; and nobody appears out of humour with me. They will\nbe displeased of course, in the first movement ... we must expect _that_\n... they will be vexed at the occasion given to conversation and so on.\nBut it will be a passing feeling, and their hearts and their knowledge\nof circumstances may be trusted to justify me thoroughly. I do not fear\noffending them—there is no room for fear. At this point of the business\ntoo, you place the alternative rightly—their approbation or their\ndisapprobation is equally to be escaped from. Also, we may be certain\nthat they would press the applying for permission—and I might perhaps, in\nthe storm excited, among so many opinions and feelings, fail to myself\nand you, through weakness of the body. Not of the _Will_! And for my\naffections and my conscience, they turn to you—and untremblingly turn.\n\nWill you come on _Wednesday_ rather than Tuesday then? It is only one\nday later than we meant at first, but it nearly completes a week of\nseparation; and we can then go to next week for the next day. Also, on\nWednesday we secure Mr. Kenyon’s absence. He will be still at Richmond.\n\nYour letter which startled me by coming early, yet came too late for you\nto receive the answer to it to-night. But I will send it to the post\nto-night; and I write hurriedly to be in time for that end.\n\nMy own beloved, you shall not be uneasy on my account.—I send you\nfoolishnesses and you are daunted by them—but see! What affects me in\nthose churches and chapels is something different, quite different,\nfrom railroad noises and the like. You do not understand, and I never\nexplained, ... you could not understand—but the music, the sight of the\npeople, the old tunes of hymns ... all these things seem to suffocate\nmy very soul with the sense of the past, past days, when there was one\nbeside me who is not here now—I am upset, overwhelmed with it all. I\nthink I should have been quite foolishly, hysterically ill yesterday if I\nhad persisted in staying. Next Sunday I shall go to the vestry, and see\nnobody, and get over it by degrees.\n\nWell—but for the sea-voyage, it seems to me that the great thing for us\nto ascertain is the precise _expense_. I should not at all mind going by\nsea, only that I fear the expense, and also that it is necessary to take\nour passages some time before, ... and then, if anything happened ...\nI mean any little thing ... an obstacle for a day or two! Consider our\ncircumstances.\n\nI shall write again perhaps. Do not rely, though, on my writing.\n_Perhaps_ I shall write. I shall think of your goodness certainly! May\nGod bless you, dearest beloved, I love, love you! I cannot be more\n\n                                                                 Your own.\n\nDon’t forget to bring the paper on ‘Colombe’s Birthday,’—and say\nparticularly how you are—and how your mother is. In such haste I write!—",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 25, 1846.]\n\nWhen your letter came, my love, I could have easily borne the over-ruling\nits objections to a visit to-day, for all my cautious philosophy! But\nit seems best arranged as at present ... indeed it must be best, if you\nagree. To-morrow repays me: nor is very long to wait!\n\nI will only write briefly because I want to go to Town, (since there is\nnothing better practicable), and enquire precisely about that steamboat\nand the prices. I see that one may go to Trieste, a much greater\njourney, for ‘£12 and £15,’ according to Mr. Waghorn’s bill. Besides, the\nadvertisement speaks of the ‘economy’ of this way—and certainly under\nordinary circumstances anybody would prefer the river-voyage with its\npicturesqueness. There is a long account, in the paper to-day, of the\nearthquakes in Tuscany—which have really been formidable enough to keep\naway the travelling English for the next month or two—whole villages were\noverthrown, Leghorn has suffered considerably, the inhabitants bivouac\noutside the walls—and at Pisa the roof of a church fell in ... also the\nvillas in the vicinity have been damaged. Do you fear, dearest? If you do\nnot,—_I fear_ that the eligibility of Pisa as our place of abode is only\ndoubled and tripled by all this. Think; there is a new lake risen, just\nby! and great puffs of sulphureous smoke came up through chinks in the\nplains. How do these wonders affect you?\n\nYou asked me about Ossian—now here is truth—the first book I ever bought\nin my life was Ossian ... it is now in the next room. And years before\nthat, the first _composition_ I ever was guilty of was something in\n_imitation_ of Ossian, whom I had not read, but _conceived_, through two\nor three scraps in other books—I never can recollect _not_ writing rhymes\n... but I knew they were nonsense even then; _this_, however, I thought\nexceedingly well of, and laid up for posterity under the cushion of a\ngreat arm-chair. ‘And now my soul is satisfied’—so said one man after\nkilling another, the death being suggested, in its height of honour, by\nstars and stars (* * * *). I could not have been five years old, that’s\none consolation. Years after, when I bought this book, I found a vile\ndissertation of Laing ... all to prove Ossian was not Ossian ... I would\nnot read it, but could not help knowing the purpose of it, and the pith\nof the hatefully-irresistible arguments. The worst came in another shape,\nthough ... an after-gleaning of real Ossianic poems, by a firm believer\nwhose name I forget—‘if this is the _real_’—I thought! Well, to this\nday I believe in a nucleus for all that haze, a foundation of truth to\nMacpherson’s fanciful superstructure—and I have been long intending to\nread once again those Fingals and Malvinas.\n\nI remember that somewhere a chief cries ‘Come round me, my\nthousands!’—There is an Achilles! And another, complaining of old\nage remarks ‘_Now_—I feel the weight of my shield!’ Nestor; and both\nbeautifully perfect, are they not, _you_ perfect Ba?\n\nI will go now. To-morrow I trust to see you face to face; dearest that\nyou are!\n\n                                                            Ever your own.\n\nMy poor mother suffers greatly. I am much better.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday, 6 p.m.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 26, 1846.]\n\nI have just had a note from Mr. Kenyon, who, after his absence at\nRichmond, promises to come and see me on _Thursday afternoon_. Now ...\nwould it be quite ‘unco guid’ of us ... and wise ‘above what is written’\n(in your letter) if we put off our day to Friday, and gave me the power\nto answer to Mr. Kenyon’s certain question, ... ‘no, I have not seen him\nsince I saw _you_.’? If you think it would be wise, my own dearest, why\ndo not come to-morrow; do not come till Friday. See—to-day is Tuesday,\nand only two days more will intervene,—and we are agreed on the necessity\nof prudence for the coming weeks—particularly when my brothers have\nnothing particular to do, at this time of vacation, but to watch us on\nall sides. I am so nervous that my own footsteps startle me. But _quite\nwell_ I am, and you shall not have fancies about me—as to strength, I\nmean—as to what I cannot do, bear, and the like.\n\nTo-night I shall write a letter as usual. This is a bare _line_, which\nHenrietta will throw into the post, to speak to you of to-morrow. The\nletter follows.\n\nHow I miss you, and long for Friday. If you have an engagement for\nFriday, there is Saturday. ‘_Understand_’ ... as you say, and I repeat.\n\nTo-night I will tell you where I went to-day.\n\n                                                      Your own I am always",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 26, 1846.]\n\n‘_Nor is it very long to wait_’—Alas!—My note went two hours ago to cross\nout the application of that phrase, and now it _is_ very long to wait,\n... all the days to Friday. Tell me, dearest, if you think it wise, at\nleast, to make such an unhappy arrangement, ... considering, you know,\nMr. Kenyon and my brothers. It ought to be wise, _I_ think ... it is so\nunhappy and disappointing. Consider what I am without you all this long\ndreary while; and how little ever so much sense of wisdom can console\nanybody.\n\nFriday will come however,—and I may as well go on to tell you that Mrs.\nJameson came yesterday. ‘Anything settled?’ she asked; as she walked into\nthe room. She looked at me with resolute, enquiring eyes. I wonder if she\never approaches to the divination of something like the truth—_not_ the\ntruth, but like it. Either she must see indistinctly ‘something new and\nstrange,’ or attribute to me a strange delight in the mysterious. She\nhalf promised to see me again before she leaves England, and begged me to\nwrite and tell her all whenever I shall have it in my power to make the\ncommunication. Affectionate she was, as always.\n\nTo-day I have seen nobody, except Mr. Boyd for a little, after driving\nthrough street upon street, where I might have met you if I had been\nhappy enough. Albemarle Street ... were you _there_? I sate there, in the\ncarriage, opposite to the York Hotel, while Henrietta paid her visit to\nold Lady Bolingbroke, a full half hour ... Flush and I—Flush staring out\nof the window, and I ... doing what I generally do in this room, do you\nask what it was? At the end of some twenty minutes, a boy passed, who\nhad the impertinence to look full at Flush and whistle, whereupon Flush\ngrowled, and appealed to me with two immense eyes ... both seeming to say\n‘I hope you observe how I am insulted.’ So my reverie was broken in the\nmiddle—but being better tempered, rather, than Flush, or having larger\nresources, I did not growl, but took your latest letter out instead,\nwhich lasted for the whole remainder of the time. Then at Mr. Boyd’s ...\noh, I must tell you ... he began to tell me some romantic compliments\nof several young ladies who desired to be disguised in servant’s\naccoutrements, just to open the door to me (to have a good stare, I\nsuppose) or, in good earnest, to be my maid! (to go with us to Pisa,\ndearest ... how would you like _that_?—Seriously now _do_ just calculate\nthe wonderful good fortune of such a person, in falling upon two lions\ninstead of one—nay, on a great wild forest-lion, this time, in addition\nto the little puny lioness of the original bargain!) Well!—but when Mr.\nBoyd had done his report, I asked naturally, ‘And what am I to say to\nall this?’ ‘Why you are to say that you will be goodnatured, and give\nsomebody pleasure at the cost of no pain to yourself, and go to the room\ndown-stairs and speak three words to Miss Smith who is there, waiting.’\nImagine anybody having a Miss Smith ready in the drawing-room to let out\nupon one! Imagine _me_ too (to be less abstract) walking in to that same\nMiss Smith, ... to the effect of—! ‘Here I am! just come to be looked at.\nIs it at all what you expected, Miss Smith’?\n\nThe worst was, that dear Mr. Boyd would have set it down to a species of\nmalignancy, if I had refused—so I took my courage up with both hands, and\nremembering that I had seen two or three times, years ago, the stepmother\nof the said Miss Smith, I thought I might enquire after her with a sort\nof propriety. And I got through it somehow. ‘Will you let me shake hands\nwith you and ask how Mrs. Smith is? Does she remember me, I wonder? I\nam Elizabeth Barrett.’—‘Is it possible? Ah! I thought you were one of\nyour sisters at first! Dear me! Why how much better, you must be, to be\nsure!—Oh dear me, what an illness you have had! Ah, quite shut up so\nlong! How very, very interesting, to be sure.’—If Flush had swallowed her\nup in the middle, I might have forgiven him, to be sure. So interesting\ntoo, that catastrophe would have been! But you shall not set me down as a\nsavage—it was all kindness on her side, of course—but one may be savage\nto a _situation_ ... (which is just the way with me, ...) without being a\nborn barbarian woman.\n\nAs to Miss Martineau, the expression which sounds so rampant with\nconceit, may yet be the plainest proof of a mere instinct of\nself-preservation. If three Smiths would be mob enough to mob _me_ to\ndeath (and they may make a mob, as three fine days, a summer!), let\nus have some feeling for _her_, exposed, from various causes, to the\nthirties ... at the lowest comparative computation.\n\nFor Ossian, you admit the _nucleus_. Which is only like your Ba, dearest\n... you will not stand higher as an Ossianic critic unless you believe\nthe verbal authenticity, ‘nothing extenuating.’ The cushion of the\narmchair! _My_ place of deposit used to be between the mattresses of my\ncrib—a little mahogany crib with cane sides to it. You were like Lord\nByron (another point of likeness!) in imitating Ossian, but you were\nstill earlier at the work than he was.\n\nIt is very well to ascertain the prices by the steamers; though my\nexpectation is that you will find them higher than you fancy them.\n_Nineteen guineas_ was the charge last year, as far as Gibraltar only.\nThen, if you charmed ever so eloquently with the voice of the charmer,\nyou never, as a passenger, would induce those people to diminish the\nrate, because of our being _three_; and a female servant is charged for\nat the higher rate ... if not the highest. Altogether the expenses will\nbe, out of all comparison, beyond that of the passage through France\n... see if it will not. Ten pounds, as far as the travelling goes, seem\nto cover everything, in going from hence to Leghorn ... to Pisa ...\ntaking Rouen and Orleans—and meaning of course, for one person. And if\nthe advantages are, as you describe, besides ... why should we forego\nthem? _Is_ the fatigue so much greater? If there are more changes and\nshiftings, there is also more absolute rest—and the rivers are smoother\nthan the seas. Still, it is well to consider—and there are good reasons\non each side, worthy of consideration.\n\nSo much more I had to say—I break off suddenly, being benighted. How you\nwrite to me! how you wrote to me on Sunday and yesterday! How I wish for\ntwo hearts to love you with, and two lives to give to you, and two souls\nto bear the weight worthily of all you have given to _me_. But if one\nheart and one life will do, ... they are yours ... I cannot give them\nagain.\n\nBeloved, if your mother should be ill, we must not think of your leaving\nher, surely?\n\nMay God bless you, dearest beloved.\n\n                                                             I am your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 26, 1846.]\n\nDearest, I _do_ think it will be only prudent to stay away till Friday\nfor those reasons. Oh, how I feel _what_ a Ba, mine is ... how truly\npeerless a lady ... when I find instinctively at this minute while I\nwrite, that the proper course will be to seem as little affected by\nthis enforced absence as possible ... that knowing my love she would\nunderstand any comfort I take from the eventful good of the arrangement—I\nhave not to dwell on the present sorrow of it, lest she disbelieve me! I\nam your very own, dearest dearest, with you or away from you. Both your\nnotes came together just now ... how can I thank and love you enough?\nI might have guessed that at the end you would thank _me_ for my own\nletters ... that is your ‘trick of fence,’ discovered, remember! But when\nyou read the ‘red-leaved tablets of the heart’ ... then be satisfied ...\n‘praise,’ nothing in me to you can deserve.\n\nI have learned all particulars about the steamer. There are only two\nclasses of passengers ... _Servants_ being the second. The first pay,\nfor the voyage to Leghorn 21_l._—the second, 14_l._ 5_s._ all expenses\nincluded except during the stay at Genoa. No reduction ‘it is feared’\ncould be made in the case of so small a party—but by booking early, a\nseparate cabin might be secured, at no additional expense. In the event\nof any obstacle, the passage paid for may be postponed till the departure\nof the next, or any future vessel of the company. Now, you see, these\nrates, though moderate, I think—(the ordinary term of the passage to\n_Genoa_ is eleven days)—are yet considerably above those of the other\nmethod by at least 20_l._, I should say. The voyage is long, supremely\ntiresome, and in all respects so much less interesting than the French\nroute, that the whole scheme _can_ only be constructed for those to whom\nany other mode of travel is impossible. The one question to be asked\ntherefore is ... are you really convinced that you need not be treated\nas one of these? And on further consideration, there arise not a few\ndoubts as to whether the sea-voyage be not the more _difficult_ of the\ntwo—the roughness is all between here and Gibraltar—and in the case of\n_that_ affecting you more seriously than we hope, there would be no\npossibility of escaping from the ship—whereas, should you be indisposed\non the other route, we can stop at once and stay for any period. Then,\nthe ‘shiftings’ are only three or four, and probably accompanied by no\nvery great fatigue beyond the _notion_ that a shifting there _is_. Above\nall, you would get the first of the sea in a little experiment, soon\nmade and over,—so that if it proved unfavourable to you there might be\nan end of the matter at once. So that after all, the cheaper journey may\nbe the safer. But all does _not_ rest with you _quite_, as I was going\nto say ... all my life is bound up with the success of this measure ...\ntherefore, think and decide, my Ba!\n\nWould there be an advantage in Mrs. Jameson accompanying us—to Orleans,\nat least? Would the circumstances of our marriage alter her desire, do\nyou think? She has wished to travel with _me_, also—she must suspect\nthe truth—I doubt whether it is not in such cases as hers, where no\nresponsibility is involved, whether it is not better policy, as well\nas the more graceful, to communicate what is sure to be discovered—so\ngetting thanks and sympathy instead of neither. All is for you to\nconsider.\n\nAnd now, dearest, I will revert, in as few words as I can, to the account\nyou gave me, a short time since, of your income. At the beginning, if\nthere had been the necessity I supposed, I should have proposed to myself\nthe attainment of something like such an amount, by my utmost efforts,\nbefore we could marry. We could not under the circumstances begin with\nless—so as to be free from horrible contingencies,—not the least of which\nwould be the application for assistance afterward. After we marry, nobody\nmust hear of us. In spite of a few misgivings at first I am not proud, or\nrather, am proud in the right place. I am utterly, exclusively proud of\nyou—and though I should have gloried in working myself to death to prove\nit, and shall be as ready to do so at any time a necessity shall exist,\nyet at present I shall best serve you, I think, by the life by your side,\nwhich we contemplate. I hope and believe, that by your side I shall\naccomplish something to justify God’s goodness and yours—and, looking\nat the matter in a worldly light, I see not a few reasons for thinking\nthat unproductive as the kind of literature may be, which I should aim\nat producing, yet, by judicious management, and profiting by certain\nfavourable circumstances,—I shall be able to realise an annual sum quite\nsufficient for every purpose—at least in Italy.\n\nAs I never calculated on such a change in my life, I had the less\nrepugnance to my father’s generosity, that I knew that an effort at some\ntime or other might furnish me with a few hundred pounds which would\nsoon cover my very simple expenses. If we are poor, it is to my father’s\ninfinite glory, who, as my mother told me last night, as we sate alone,\n‘conceived such a hatred to the slave-system in the West Indies,’ (where\nhis mother was born, who died in his infancy), that he relinquished\nevery prospect,—supported himself, while there, in some other capacity,\nand came back, while yet a boy, to his father’s profound astonishment\nand rage—one proof of which was, that when he heard that his son was a\nsuitor to _her_, my mother—he benevolently waited on her uncle to assure\nhim that his niece would be thrown away on a man so evidently born to be\nhanged!—those were his words. My father on his return had the intention\nof devoting himself to art, for which he had many qualifications and\nabundant love—but the quarrel with his father,—who married again and\ncontinued to hate him till a few years before his death,—induced him to\ngo at once and consume his life after a fashion he always detested. You\nmay fancy, I am not ashamed of him.\n\nI told my mother, who told _him_. They have never been used to interfere\nwith, or act for me—and they trust me. If you care for any love, purely\nlove,—you will have theirs—they give it you, whether you take it or\nno. You will understand, therefore, that I would not _accept_ even the\n100_l._ we shall want: I said ‘you shall lend it me—I will pay it back\nout of my first literary earnings—I take it, because I do not want\nto sell my copyrights, or engage myself to write a play, or any other\nnuisance. Surely I can get fifty pounds next year, and the other fifty in\ndue course!’\n\nSo, dearest, we shall have plenty for the journey—and you have only to\ndetermine the when and the how. Oh, the time! Bless you, ever dearest! I\nlove you with all my heart and soul—\n\n                                                                        R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 27, 1846.]\n\n‘_If I care for any love_’—‘_whether I take it or no._’ Now ought I not\nto reproach you a little, for bearing to write such words of me, when\nyou could not but think all the while, that I should feel a good deal in\nreading what you wrote beside? Will you tell me that you did not know I\nshould be glad and grateful for _tolerance_ even?—the least significance\nof the kinder feeling affecting me _beyond_, perhaps, what you could know\nof me. I am bound to them utterly.\n\nAnd if it is true, as it is true, that they have much to pardon and\noverlook in me, ... and among the rest, the painful position imposed on\nyou by my miserable necessities, ... they yet never shall find me, I\ntrust, unworthy of them and you by _voluntary_ failures, and, least of\nall, by failures of dutiful affection towards themselves—‘IF THEY CARE\nFOR ANY LOVE.’\n\nFor the rest of what you tell me, it is all the purest kindness—and\nyou were perfectly, perfectly right in taking so, and as a loan, which\nwe ought, I think, to return when our hands are free, without waiting\nfor the completion of other projects. By living quietly and simply,\nwe shall surely have enough—and more than enough. Then among other\nresources is Blackwood. I calculated once that without unpleasant\nlabour, with scarcely an effort, I could make a hundred a year by\nmagazine-contributions—and this, without dishonour either. It does\n‘fugitive poems,’ observe, no harm whatever, to let them fly through a\nperiodical before they alight on their tree to sing. Then _you_ will send\nperhaps the sweepings of your desk to Blackwood, to alternate with my\nsendings! Shall we do _that_, when we sit together on the ragged edge of\nearthquake chasms, in the midst of the ‘sulphurous vapour.’ I, afraid? No\nindeed—I think I should never be afraid, if you were near enough. Only\nthat you never must go away in _boats_. But there is time enough for such\ncompacts.\n\nAs to the sea voyage, _that_ was _your_ scheme, and not mine, from\nthe beginning: and your account of the expenses, if below my fear ...\n(although I believe that ‘servants’ do not mean ‘female servants’ and\nthat the latter are subject to additional charges), yet seems to me to\nleave the Rhone and Saône route as preferable as ever. And do you mark,\ndear dearest, that supposing me to be unfit for the short railroad\npassage from Rouen to Paris and from Paris to Orleans, I must be just\nas unfit for the journey to Southampton, which is necessary to the\nsea-voyage. Then ... supposing me to be unfit for the river-passage, I\nmust be still more unfit for the sea. So don’t suppose _either_. I am\nstronger than you fancy. I shall shut my eyes and think of you when there\nis too much noise and confusion,—the things which try me most,—and it\nwill be easy to find a quiet room and to draw down the blinds and take\nrest, I suppose, ... which one might in vain long for in that crowded\nsteamer at sea. Therefore, dearest, if I am to think and decide, I have\ndecided ... let us go through France. And let us go quick, quick, and not\nstop anywhere within hearing of England ... not stop at Havre, nor at\nRouen, nor at Paris—_that_ is how _I_ decide. May God help us, and smooth\nthe way before and behind. May your father indeed be able to love me a\nlittle, for _my_ father will never love me again.\n\nFor _you_ ... you will ‘serve me best’ and serve me only, by being\nhappy not away from me. When I shall have none but you, if I can feel\nmyself not too much for you,—not something you would rather leave—then\nyou will have ‘served’ me all you can. But this is more perhaps than\nyou can—these things do not depend on the will of a man—that he should\npromise to do them. I speak simply for myself, and of what would give me\na full contentment. Do not fancy that there is a _doubt_ in the words of\nit. I cannot doubt now of your affection for me. Dearest, I _cannot_. Yet\nyou make me uneasy often through this extravagance of over-estimation;\nforcing me to contract ‘obligations to pay’ which I look at in speechless\ndespair—And here is a penny.\n\nOf Mrs. Jameson, let me write to-morrow—I am benighted and must close. On\nFriday we shall meet at last, surely; and then it will be all the happier\nin proportion to the vexation. Dearest, love me—\n\n                                                            I am your own—",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 27, 1846.]\n\nDearest, I am to write to you of Mrs. Jameson. First, as to telling her\n... will it not be an embarrassment both to her and ourselves? If she\ncannot say ‘I knew nothing of this,’ she bears the _odium_ of confidante\nand _adviser_ perhaps —who shall explain the distinction to others?\nAnd to Mr. Kenyon, will it not seem as if we had trusted her more than\nhim—and though there is a broad distinction too between their cases,\nwho shall explain _that_ to him so quickly and nicely that he shall\nnot receive the shock of a painful impression? Consider a little—She\nis so _in medias res_—so in the way of all the conversation and the\nquestionings. But it shall be as you like and think best. I am too\nnervous perhaps.\n\nAs for the travelling, she sets out between the seventh and tenth of\nSeptember, a century before our æra, you know—but if she goes to Italy\nand is not too angry with me, we might certainly meet her in Paris or at\nOrleans ... take her up at Orleans, and go on together. That is, if you\nlike it too. She would be pleased, I daresay, if it were proposed—and\nwe might be kind in proposing it—and something I might say to her, if\nyou liked it, on the condition of her not changing her mind. Certainly\nI do agree with you that she must have _some ideas_—she is not without\nimagination, and the suggestions are abundant,—though nothing points to\nyou, mind!—if she could possibly think me capable of loving anyone else\nin the world, with you in it.\n\nI had a letter to-day ... with a proposition to write ballads and other\nlyrics in order to the civilisation of the colonies ... especially\nAustralia. It appears that a Mr. Angus Fife has a scheme on foot nearly,\nabout sending missionary ballad-singers among the natives, and that I\nam invited to write some of them, or to _be_ invited—for nothing is\nspecified yet. Now what do you think of _that_? One should take one’s\nmythology from the Kangaroos, I suppose.\n\nThen a book of ‘serious poems’ is to be brought out in Edinburgh and\ncontributions are desired so very politely that nobody can quite refuse.\n\nI write to you of anything but what is in my thoughts. Your letter of\nyesterday took hold of me and will not let me go—it all seems too earnest\nfor the mere dream I have been dreaming all this while—is it not a dream\n... or what? And something I said in _my_ letter, which was wrong to say\nand I am sorry to think of—forgive me _that_, ever beloved—but you have\nforgiven, I know. May God bless you, and not take from _me_ my blessing\nin you.\n\n                                                    I am your very own BA.\n\nWe are going out in the carriage and shall post this note. You will come\nto-morrow unless you hear more? Is it a compact?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday,\n                                             [Post-mark, August 27, 1846.]\n\nThe post’s old fault, is it not, this letter that does not come? I have\nwaited till nearly the time of the next arrival, 3 o’clock, and perhaps\nI begin writing now because I have observed that sometimes the letter\ncomes just as I am trying hardest to resign myself. So may it be now, or\npresently!\n\nDearest, I did not thank you yesterday for the accounts of your visit and\ndrive ... I always love you for such accounts; you know, I might _like_,\nwe will say, a Miss Campbell, while she was in the very act of speaking\nGreek to Mr. Kenyon’s satisfaction, or making verses, or putting them\ninto action—but there would be no following her about the streets, and\nthrough bazaars, and into houses, and loving the walking and standing and\nsitting and companionship with Flush! I shall be satisfied to the full\nif you only live in my sight,—cross the room in which I sit,—not to say,\nsit down by me there,—always supposing that you also, for your part, seem\nhappy and contented,—or at least could not become more so by leaving me.\nBut I do believe you will be happy.\n\nAnd here the letter comes! See, what I tell you does now fill my life\nwith gladness,—_that_, the counterpart of that, you promise me shall\nmake _you_ glad too! My very own, entirely beloved Ba, there is no\nexaggeration, no overestimation—the case does not admit of any, indeed!\nIf a man tells you he owns a peerless horse, the horse may go lame and\nthe estimation sink upon that experience—but if I think, as I do, that\nthe Elgin Horse is peerless (despite his ewe-neck) nothing further can\ntouch it, nor change me. One of my comparisons! All I want to express is,\nthat I love _you_, dearest, with a love that seems to separate you from\nyour very qualities—the essential from its accidents. But you must wait\nto know—wait a life, perhaps.\n\nI used those words you object to—(in your true way), because you\nshall love nothing connected with me for conventional reasons—and if\nI understated the amount of kind feeling which you might be led to\nreturn for theirs, be assured that I also expressed in the simplest\nand coldest terms possible my father and mother’s affection for you. I\ntold you, they _believe_ me ... therefore, know in some measure what\nyou are to me. They are both entirely affectionate and generous. My\nfather is tender-hearted to a fault. I have never known much more of\nthose circumstances in his youth than I told you, in consequence of his\ninvincible repugnance to allude to the matter—and I have a fancy, to\naccount for some peculiarities in him, which connects them with some\nabominable early experience. Thus,—if you question him about it, he shuts\nhis eyes involuntarily and shows exactly the same marks of loathing that\nmay be noticed while a piece of cruelty is mentioned ... and the _word_\n‘blood,’ even, makes him change colour. To all women and children _he_\nis ‘chivalrous’ ... as you called his unworthy son! There is no service\nwhich the ugliest, oldest, crossest woman in the world might not exact\nof him. But I must leave off; to-morrow I do really see you at last,\ndearest! God bless you ever for your very own R.\n\nThe France-route seems in nearly every way the best—perhaps in every\nway—let it be as you have decided. Nothing is said in this letter,\nnothing answered, mind ... time presses so!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "_Thursday Night._\n                                                        [August 27, 1846.]\n\nHere is the bad news going to you as fast as bad news _will_ go! for\nyou ‘do really (NOT) see me to-morrow,’ Robert,—there is no chance of\nit for such ‘too, two’ wise people as we are! In the first place Mr.\nKenyon never paid his visit to-day and will do it to-morrow instead; and\nsecondly, and while I was gloomily musing over this ‘great fact,’ arrives\nthe tidings of my uncle and aunt Hedley’s being at Fenton’s Hotel for\ntwo days from this evening ... so that not only Friday perishes, but\neven Saturday, unless there should be a change in their plans. We shall\nhave them here continually; and there would neither be safety nor peace\nif we attempted a meeting. So let us take patience, dearest beloved,\nand let me feel you loving me through the distance. It is only for a\nshort time, to bear these weeks without our days in them; and presently\nyou will have too much of me perhaps,—ah, the ungrateful creature, who\nstops in the middle of the sentence, thunderstruck in the tenderest\npart of her conscience! So instead, I go on to say that certainly I\nshall be happy with you, as long as my ‘sitting in the room’ does not\nmake you less happy—certainly I shall be happy with you. I thought once\nthat the capacity of happiness was destroyed in me, but you have _made_\nit over again,—God has permitted you! And while you love me _so_ ...\n_essentially_, as you describe, and apart from supposed and suppositious\nqualities ... I will take courage and hope, and believe that such a love\nmay be enough for the happiness of us both—enough for yours even.\n\nYour father is worthy to be your father, let you call yourself his\n‘unworthy son’ ever so. The noblest inheritance of sons is to have such\nthoughts of their fathers, as you have of yours—the privilege of such\nthoughts, the faith in such virtues and the gratitude for such affection.\nYou have better than the silver or the gold, and you can afford to leave\nthose to less happy sons. And your mother—Scarcely I was a woman when\nI lost _my_ mother—dearest as she was, and very tender, (as yours even\ncould be), and of a nature harrowed up into some furrows by the pressure\nof circumstances: for we lost more in her than she lost in life, my dear\ndearest mother. A sweet, gentle nature, which the thunder a little turned\nfrom its sweetness—as when it turns milk. One of those women who never\ncan resist; but, in submitting and bowing on themselves, make a mark, a\nplait, within,—a sign of suffering. Too womanly she was—it was her only\nfault. Good, good, and dear—and refined too!—she would have admired and\nloved you,—but I can only tell you so, for she is gone past us all into\nthe place of the purer spirits. God had to take her, before He could\nbless her enough.\n\nNow I shall not write any more to-night. You had my note to-day—the note\nwritten this morning? I went out in the carriage, and we drove to one or\ntwo shops and up the Uxbridge Road, and I was utterly dull. Shall I not\nreally see you before Monday? It seems impossible to bear. Let us hope at\nany rate, for Saturday.\n\nHow could such an idea enter your head, pray, as that about selling\nyour copyrights? That would have been travelling at the price of blood,\nand I never should have agreed to it. I shall be able to bring you a\nfew pennies, I hope; only it would not be enough for the journey, what\n_I_ could bring, under the circumstances of imprisonment. When we are\nfree, we ought to place our money somewhere on the railroads, where the\npercentage will be better—which will not disturb the simplicity of our\nway of life, you know, though it will give us more liberty in living.\n\nNow I expect to hear your decision about Mrs. Jameson—I expect to hear\nfrom you of yourself, though, most and chiefest—tell me how you are, and\nhow your mother is. Dearest, _promise_ me not to say to your family any\nfoolishness about me—remember what the recoil will be, and understand\nthat I must suffer in proportion to all the over-praises. It quite\nfrightens me to think of it! And then, again, I laugh to myself at your\nexcellent logic of comparison, between Miss Campbell and me; and how\nyou did not care for walking the bazaars and looking at the dolls with\nher; to the discredit of the whole class of Miss Campbells ... whereas,\nwith ME!! &c. No wonder that your father should give you books of logic\nto study, books on the ‘right use of reason,’ if you do not understand\nthat I am not better than she, except by your loving me better; that the\ncause is not in her or me, but in you only. Can it indeed be so true that\npeople, when they love other people, never see them at all? Yet it seems\nto me that I see _you_ clearly, discern you entirely and thoroughly—which\nmakes me love you profoundly. But you ... without seeing me at all, you\nlove _me_ ... which does as well, I think—so I am your very own.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 28, 1846.]\n\nI was beginning to dress, hours before the proper time, through the\nconfidence of seeing you _now_,—after the letter which came early in the\nmorning,—when this new letter changes everything. It just strikes me,\nwhat a comfort it is that whenever such a disappointment is inevitable,\nyour hand or voice announces it, and not another’s—no second person bids\nme stay away for good reasons I must take in trust, leaving me to deal\nwith the innumerable fancies that arise—on the contrary, you contrive\nthat, with the one misfortune, twenty kindnesses shall reach me—can I be\nvery sorry _now_, for instance, that you tell me _why_ it is, and how it\naffects you and how it will affect me in the end? Dear Ba, if you will\nnot believe in the immortality of love, do think the poor thought that\nwhen love shall end, gratitude will begin!\n\nI altogether agree with you—it is best to keep away—we cannot be too\ncautious now at the ‘end of things.’ I am prepared for difficulties\nenough, without needing to cause them by any rashness or wilfulness of\nmy own. I really expect, for example, that out of the various plans of\nthese sympathising friends and relations some one will mature itself\nsufficiently to be directly proposed to you, for your acceptance or\nrefusal contingent on your father’s approbation; the shortness of the\nremaining travelling season serving to compel a speedy development. Or\nwhat if your father, who was the first to propose, or at least talk\nabout, a voyage to Malta or elsewhere, when you took no interest in the\nmatter comparatively, and who perhaps chiefly found fault with last\nyear’s scheme from its not originating with himself ... what if he should\nagain determine on some such voyage now that you are apparently as\nobedient to his wishes as can be desired? Would it be strange, not to say\nimprobable, if he tells you some fine morning that your passage is taken\nto Madeira, or Palermo? Because, all the attempts in the world cannot\nhide the truth from the mind, any more than all five fingers before the\neyes keep out the sun at noon-day: you see a red through them all—and\nyour father must see your improved health and strength, and divine the\nopinion of everybody round him as to the simple proper course for the\ncomplete restoration of them. Therefore be prepared, my own Ba!\n\nIn any case—I trust in you wholly.\n\nThere is nothing to decide upon, with respect to Mrs. Jameson—the reasons\nfor not sharing that confidence with her are irrefragable. I only thought\nof you, dearest, who have to bear her all but direct enquiries. You know,\n_I_ undergo nothing of the kind. Any such arrangement as that of taking\nher up at Orleans would be very practicable. I rejoice in your desire\n(by the way) of going rapidly on, stopping nowhere, till we reach our\nappointed place—because that spirit _helps_ the body wonderfully—and, in\nthis case, exactly corresponds with mine. Above all, I should hate to be\nseen at Paris by anybody a few days only after our adventure—Chorley will\nbe there, and the Arnoulds,—for _one_ party!\n\nWhat could it be, you thought should make you ‘sorry,’ in that letter of\nyesterday, love? What was I to ‘forgive’? Certainly you are unforgiven\nhitherto, for the best of reasons.\n\nAnd assure yourself, dearest, that I have told my family nothing that\ncan possibly mislead them. Remember that I have the advantage of knowing\nthose I speak to,—their tastes and understandings, and notions of what\nis advantageous and what otherwise. I spoke the simple truth about your\nheart—of your mind they knew something already—I explained your position\nwith respect to your father ... unfortunately, a very few plain words do\nthat ... I mean, a few facts, such as the parish register could supply\n... sufficiently to exonerate you and me.\n\nAs to my copyrights, I never meant to sell them—it would be\nfoolish—because, since some little time, and in consequence of the\nestablishment of the fact that my poems, even in their present\ndisadvantageous form, without advertisement, and unnoticed by the\ninfluential journals—do somehow manage to pay their expenses, I have\nhad one direct offer to print a new edition,—and there are reasons for\nthinking, two or three booksellers, that I know, would come to terms.\nSmith & Elder, for instance, wrote to offer to print any poem about\nItaly, in any form, with any amount of advertisements, on condition of\nsharing profits ... taking all risk off my hands ... concluding with more\nthan a hint that if that proposition was not favourable enough, they\nwould try and agree to any reasonable demand.\n\nBecause Moxon is the ‘slowest’ of publishers, and if one of his books\ncan only contrive to pay its expenses, you may be sure that a more\nenterprising brother of the craft would have sent it into a second or\nthird edition—yet Moxon’s slow self even, anticipates success for the\nnext venture. Now the fact is, not having really cared about anything\nexcept not losing too much money, I have taken very little care of my\nconcerns in that way—not calling on Moxon for months together. But\nall will be different now— and I shall look into matters, and turn my\nexperience to account, such as it is.\n\nWell,—I am yours, _you_ are mine, dearest Ba! I love you, I think,\n_perceptibly_ more in these latter days! Is this absence contrived on\npurpose to prove how foolishly I said that I loved you the more from\nseeing you the oftener? Ah, you reconcile all extremes, destroy the force\nof all logic-books, my father’s or mine—_that_ was true, but this is also\ntrue (logical or no) that I now love you through not seeing you,—loving\nmore, as I desire more to be with you, my best, dearest wife that will\nbe! (_I_ could not help writing it—why should it sound sweeter than ‘Ba’?)\n\n                                                          Your very own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Evening.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 29, 1846.]\n\nWill you come, dearest, after all? Judge for both of us. The Hedleys go\nto-morrow morning and we shall not see them after to-night when they\nare dining here—but Mr. Kenyon has not paid his visit, and _may_ come\nto-morrow, or _may_ take Sunday, which he is fond of doing—is it worth\nwhile to be afraid of Mr. Kenyon? What do you think? I leave it to your\nwisdom which is the greatest. Perhaps he may not come till _Monday_—yet\n_he may_.\n\nDearest, I have had all your thoughts by turns, or most of them ... and\neach one has withered away without coming to bear fruit. Papa seems\nto have no more idea of my living beyond these four walls, than of a\njourney to Lapland. I confess that I thought it possible he might propose\nthe country for the summer, or even Italy for the winter, in a ‘late\nremark’—but no, ‘nothing’ and there is not a possibility of either word,\nas I see things. My brothers ‘wish that something could be arranged’—a\nwish which I put away quietly as often as they bring it to me. And for\nmy uncle and aunt, they have been talking to me to-day—and she with her\nusual acuteness in such matters, observing my evasion, said, ‘Ah Ba, you\nhave arranged your plans more than you would have us believe. But you\nare right not to tell us—indeed I would rather not hear. Only _don’t be\nrash_—_that_ is my only advice to you.’\n\nI thought she had touched the truth, and wondered—but since then, from\nanother of her words, I came to conclude that she imagined me about to\naccept the convoy of Henrietta and Captain Cook! She said in respect\nto them—‘I only say that your father’s consent ought to be _asked_, as\na form of respect to him.’ Which, in their case should be, I think—and\nshould also in ours, but for the peculiar position of one of us. My uncle\nurged me to keep firm and go to Italy, and my aunt, though she would not\nadvise, she said, yet thought that I ‘ought to go,’ and that to live on\nin this fashion in this room was lamentable to contemplate. Both of them\napproved of the French route, and urged me to go to them in Paris—‘And,’\nsaid my uncle kindly, ‘when once we _have_ you, we shall not bear to part\nwith you, I think.’\n\n(Do you really imagine, by the way, that to appear in Paris for one\nhalf-minute, to a single soul, could be less detestable to me than to\nyou? I shall take care that nobody belonging to me there shall hear of\nmy being within a hundred miles—and why need we stay in Paris the half\nminute? Not unless you pause to demand an audience of Mr. Chorley at the\nBarrière des Étoiles.)\n\nWhile we were talking, Papa came into the room. My aunt said, ‘How well\nshe is looking’—‘Do you think so?’ he said. ‘Why, do not _you_ think so?\nDo you pretend to say that you see no surprising difference in her?’—‘Oh,\nI don’t know,’ he went on to say. ‘She is mumpish, I think.’ Mumpish!\n\n‘She does not talk,’ resumed he—\n\n‘Perhaps she is nervous’—my aunt apologised—I said not one word ... When\nbirds have their eyes out, they are apt to be mumpish.\n\nMumpish! The expression proved a displeasure. Yet I am sure that I\nhave shown as little sullenness as was possible. To be very talkative\nand vivacious under such circumstances as those of mine, would argue\ninsensibility, and was certainly beyond my power.\n\nI told her gently afterwards that she had been wrong in speaking of me at\nall—a wrong with a right intention,—as all her wrongness must be. She was\nvery sorry to have done it, she said, and looked sorry.\n\nPoor Papa!—Presently I shall be worse to him than ‘mumpish’ even. But\n_then_, I hope, he will try to forgive me, as I have forgiven him, long\nago.\n\nMy own beloved—do you know that your letter caught me in the act of\nwondering whether the absence would do me harm with you, according to\nthat memorable theory. And so in the midst came the solution of the\ndoubt—you do _not_ love me less. Nay, you love me more—ah, but if you say\nso, I am capable of wishing not to see you for a month added to the week!\nFor did I not once confess to you that I loved your love as much as I\nloved you ... or very, very, very nearly as much? Not precisely so much.\n_Confiteor tibi_—but I will sing a penitential psalm low to myself and\ndo the act of penance by seeing you to-morrow if you choose to come,—and\nthen you shall absolve me and give me the _Benedicite_, which, _if_ you\ncome, you cannot keep back, because it comes with you of necessity.\n\nNot a word of your head, nor of your mother! You should come I think,\nto-morrow, if only to say it. Yet let us be wise to the end. Be _you_\nwise to the end, and decide between Saturday and Monday. And I, for my\npart, promise to go to Italy, only with _you_—do not be afraid.\n\nAnd for your poetry, I believe in it as ‘_golden water_’—and the ‘singing\ntree’ does not hide it from me with all the overdropping branches and\nleaves. In fact, the chief inconvenience we are likely to suffer from, in\nthe way of income, is the having _too much_. Don’t you think so? But in\nthat case, we will buy an island of our own in one of those purple seas,\nand inherit the sun—or perhaps the shadow ... of Calypso’s cave.\n\nSo do not be uneasy, dearest!—not even lest I should wish to spend three\nweeks in Paris, to show myself at the Champs Elysées and the opera, and\ngather a little glory after what you happily call ‘our adventure.’\n\nOur adventure, indeed! But it is _you_ who are adventuring in the\nmatter,—and as any Red Cross Knight of them all, whom you exceed in their\nchivalry proper.\n\nChiappino little knew how right he was, when he used to taunt me with my\n‘New Cross Knight.’ He did—Ah! Even if he had talked of ‘Rosie Cross,’ he\nwould not have been so far wide—the magic ‘saute aux yeaux.’\n\nAnd now, will you come to-morrow, I wonder, or not? The answer is in you.\n\nAnd I am your own, ever and as ever!\n\nAnd you thought I was dying with a desire to tell Mrs. Jameson!!—_I!_",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 31, 1846.]\n\nI have just come from the vestry of Paddington chapel, and bore it very\nwell, and saw nobody except one woman. Arabel went with me, and during\nthe singing we escaped and stood outside the door. Now, _that_ is over;\nand the next time I shall care less. It was a rambling sermon, which I\ncould hear distinctly through the open door, quite wanting in coherence,\nbut with good and touching things in it, the more touching that they came\nfrom a preacher whose life is known to us—from Mr. Stratten, for whom I\nhave the greatest respect, though he never looked into Shakespeare till\nhe was fifty, and shut the book quickly, perhaps, afterward. He is the\nvery ideal of his class; and, with some of the narrow views peculiar to\nit, has a heart of miraculous breadth and depth; loving further than\nhe can see, pitying beyond what he can approve, having in him a divine\nChristian spirit, the ‘love of love’ in the most expansive form. How that\nman is beloved by his congregation, the members of his church, by his\nchildren, his friends, is wonderful to see—for everybody seems to love\nhim _from afar_, as a man is loved who is of a purer nature than others.\nThere is that reverence in the love—and yet no fear. His children have\nbeen encouraged and instructed to speak aloud before him on religion\nand other subjects in all freedom of conscience—he turns to his little\ndaughter seriously ‘to hear what she thinks.’ The other day his eldest\nson, whom he had hoped to see succeed him at Paddington, determined to\nenter the Church of England: his wife became quite ill with grief about\nit, and to himself perhaps it was a trial, a disappointment. With the\nutmost gentleness and tenderness however, he desired him to take time for\nthought and act according to his conscience.—I believe for my part that\nthere never was a holier man ... ‘except those bonds’ ... never a man\nwho more resolutely trod under his feet every form of evil and selfish\npassion when it was once recognized—and looked to God and the Truth with\na direct aspiration. Once I could not help writing to put our affairs\ninto his hands to settle them for us—but _that_ would be wrong—because\nPapa would forbid Arabel’s going to the chapel or communicating with his\nfamily, and it would be depriving her of a comfort she holds dear—oh no.\nAnd besides, you are wise in taking the other view.\n\nThink of our waiting day after day to fall into the net so, yesterday!\nHow I was provoked and vexed—but more for you, dearest dearest, than for\nme—much more for you. As for me I _saw you_, which was joy enough, let\nthe hours be ever so clipped of their natural proportions—and then, you\nknow, you were obliged to go soon, whether Mr. Kenyon had come or not\ncome. After you were gone, nothing was said, and nothing asked, and it\nis delightful to have heard of those intended absences one after another\ntill far into October: which will secure us from future embarrassments.\nSee if he means to put us to the question!—not such a thing is in his\nthoughts.\n\nAnd I said what you ‘would not have believed of me’! Have you\nforgiven me, beloved—for saying what you would not have believed of\nme,—understanding that I did not mean it very seriously, though I proved\nto be capable of saying it? Seriously, I don’t want to make unnecessary\ndelays. It is a horrible position, however I may cover it with your roses\nand the thoughts of you—and far worse to myself than to you, inasmuch\nthat what is painful to you once a week, is to me so continually. To hear\nthe voice of my father and meet his eye makes me shrink back—to talk\nto my brothers leaves my nerves all trembling ... and even to receive\nthe sympathy of my sisters turns into sorrow and fear, lest they should\nsuffer through their affection for me. How I can look and sleep as well\nas I do, is a miracle exactly like the rest—or would be, if the love were\nnot the deepest and strongest thing of all, and did not hold and possess\nme overcomingly. I feel myself to be yours notwithstanding every other\ninfluence, and being yours, cannot but be happy by you. Ah—let people\ntalk as they please of the happiness of early youth! Mrs. Jameson did,\nthe other day, when she wished kindly to take her young niece with her to\nthe Continent, that she might enjoy what in a few years she could not so\nmuch enjoy. There is a sort of blind joy common perhaps to such times—a\nblind joy which blunts itself with its own leaps and bounds; peculiar to\na time of comparative ignorance and inexperience of evil:—but I for my\npart, with all the capacity for happiness which I had from the beginning,\nI look back and listen to my whole life, and feel sure of what I have\nalready told you, ... that I am _happier now than I ever was before_\n... infinitely happier now, through you ... infinitely happier; even\nnow in this position I have just called ‘horrible.’ When I hear you say\nfor instance, that you ‘love me _perceptibly_ more’ ... why I cannot,\ncannot be more happy than when I hear you say _that_—going to Italy seems\nnothing! a vulgar walk to Primrose Hill after being caught up to the\nthird Heaven! I think nothing of Italy now, though I shall enjoy it of\ncourse when the time comes. I think only that you love me, that you are\nthe angel of my life,—and for the despair and desolation behind me, they\nserve to mark the hour of your coming,—and they _are_ behind, as Italy\nis _before_. Never can you feel for me, Robert, as I feel for you ...\nit is not possible of course. I am yours in a way and degree which the\ntenderest of other women could not be at her will. Which you know. Why\nshould I repeat it to you? Why, except that is a reason to prove that we\ncannot, as you say, ‘ever be a common wife and husband? But I don’t think\nI was intending to give proofs of _that_—no, indeed.\n\nTo-morrow I shall hear from you. Say how your mother is, in the second\nletter if you do not in the first. May God bless you and keep you,\ndearest beloved—\n\n                                                         Your very own BA.\n\nThere is not much in the article by Mr. Chorley, but it is right and kind\nas far as it goes.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Morning.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 31, 1846.]\n\nI wonder what I shall write to you, Ba—I could suppress my feelings here,\nas I do on other points, and say nothing of the hatefulness of this state\nof things which is prolonged so uselessly. There is the point—show me\none good reason, or show of reason, why we gain anything by deferring\nour departure till next week instead of to-morrow, and I will bear to\nperform yesterday’s part for the amusement of Mr. Kenyon a dozen times\nover without complaint. But if the cold plunge _must_ be taken, all\nthis shivering delay on the bank is hurtful as well as fruitless. I\n_do_ understand your anxieties, dearest—I take your fears and make them\nmine, while I put my own natural feeling of quite another kind away\nfrom us both, succeeding in _that_ beyond all expectation. There is no\namount of patience or suffering I would not undergo to relieve you from\nthese apprehensions. But if, on the whole, you really determine to act\nas we propose in spite of them,—why, a new leaf is turned over in our\njournal, an old part of our adventure done with, and a new one entered\nupon, altogether distinct from the other. Having once decided to go to\nItaly with me, the next thing to decide is on the best means of going—or\nrather, there is just this connection between the two measures, that by\nthe success or failure of the last, the first will have to be justified\nor condemned. You tell me you have decided to go—then, dearest, you will\nbe prepared to go earlier than you promised yesterday—by the end of\nSeptember at very latest. In proportion to the too probable excitement\nand painful circumstances of the departure, the greater amount of\nadvantages should be secured for the departure itself. How can I take\nyou away in even the beginning of October? We shall be a fortnight on\nthe journey—with the year, as everybody sees and says, a full month in\nadvance ... cold mornings and dark evenings already. Everybody would cry\nout on such folly when it was found that we let the favourable weather\nescape, in full assurance that the Autumn would come to us unattended by\nany one beneficial circumstance.\n\nMy own dearest, I am wholly your own, for ever, and under every\ndetermination of yours. If you find yourself unable, or unwilling to make\nthis effort, tell me so and plainly and at once—I will not offer a word\nin objection,—I will continue our present life, if you please, so far as\nmay be desirable, and wait till next autumn, and the next and the next,\ntill providence end our waiting. It is clearly not for me to pretend to\ninstruct you in your duties to God and yourself; ... enough, that I have\nlong ago chosen to accept your decision. If, on the other hand, you make\nup your mind to leave England now, you will be prepared by the end of\nSeptember.\n\nI should think myself the most unworthy of human beings if I could employ\nany arguments with the remotest show of a tendency to _frighten_ you into\na compliance with any scheme of mine. Those methods are for people in\nanother relation to you. But you love me, and, at lowest, shall I say,\nwish me well—and the fact is too obvious for me to commit any indelicacy\nin reminding you, that in any dreadful event to our journey of which\nI could accuse myself as the cause,—as of this undertaking to travel\nwith you in the worst time of year when I could have taken the best,—in\nthe case of your health being irretrievably shaken, for instance ...\nthe happiest fate I should pray for would be to live and die in some\ncorner where I might never hear a word of the English language, much\nless a comment in it on my own wretched imbecility,—to disappear and be\nforgotten.\n\nSo that must not be, for all our sakes. My family will give me to you\nthat we may be both of us happy ... but for such an end—no!\n\nDearest, do you think all this earnestness foolish and uncalled for?—that\nI might know you spoke yesterday in mere jest,—as yourself said, ‘only\nto hear what I would say’? Ah but consider, my own Ba, the way of our\nlife, as it is, and is to be—a word, a simple word from you, is not as a\nword is counted in the world—the word between us is different—I am guided\nby your will, which a word shall signify to me. Consider that just such\na word, so spoken, even with that lightness, would make me lay my life\nat your feet at any minute. Should we gain anything by my trying, if I\ncould, to deaden the sense of hearing, dull the medium of communication\nbetween us; and procuring that, instead of this prompt rising of my will\nat the first intimation from yours, the same effect should only follow\nafter fifty speeches, and as many protestations of complete serious\ndesire for their success on your part, accompanied by all kinds of acts\nand deeds and other evidences of the same?\n\nAt all events, God knows I have said this in the deepest, truest love of\nyou. I will say no more, praying you to forgive whatever you shall judge\nto need forgiveness here,—dearest Ba! I will also say, if that may help\nme,—and what otherwise I might not have said,—that I am not too well this\nmorning, and write with an aching head. My mother’s suffering continues\ntoo.\n\nMy friend Pritchard tells me that Brighton is not to be thought of\nunder ordinary circumstances as a point of departure for Havre. Its\none packet a week from Shoreham cannot get in if the wind and tide are\nunfavourable. There is the greatest uncertainty in consequence ... as\nI have heard before—while, of course, from Southampton, the departures\nare calculated punctually. He considers that the least troublesome plan,\nand the cheapest, is to go from London to Havre ... the voyage being so\narranged that the river passage takes up the day and the sea-crossing\nthe night—you reach Havre early in the morning and get to Paris by four\no’clock, perhaps, in the afternoon ... in time to leave for Orleans and\nspend the night there, I suppose.\n\nDo I make myself particularly remarkable for silliness when confronted\nby our friend as yesterday? And the shortest visit,—and comments of\neverybody. Oh, Mr. Hunter, methinks you should be of some use to me with\nthose amiable peculiarities of yours, if you would just dye your hair\nblack, take a stick in your hand, sink the clerical character you do\nsuch credit to, and have the goodness just to deliver yourself of one\nsuch epithet as _that_ pleasant one, the next time you find me on the\nsteps of No. 50, with Mr. Kenyon somewhere higher up in the building.\nIt is delectable work, this having to do with relatives and ‘freemen\nwho have a right to beat their own negroes,’ and father Zeus with his\npaternal epistles, and peggings to the rock, and immense indignation at\n‘this marriage you talk of’ which is to release his victim. Is Mr. Kenyon\nHermes?\n\n                       Εἰσελθέτω σε μήποθ’ ὡς ἐγὼ Διὸς\n                       γνώμην φοβηθεὶς θηλύνους γενήσομαι,\n                       καὶ λιπαρήσω τὸν μέγα στυγούμενον\n                       γυναικομίμοις ὑπτιάσμασιν χερῶν,\n                       λῦσαί με δεσμῶν τῶνδε· τοῦ παντὸς δέω.\n    _Chorus of Aunts_: ἡμῖν μὲν Ἑρμῆς οὐκ ἄκαιρα φαίνεται\n                       λέγειν, κ.τ.λ.[6]\n\n                       Well, bless you in any case—\n\n                                                               Your own R.\n\n[6]\n\n             [‘Oh, think no more\n              That I, fear-struck by Zeus to a woman’s mind\n              Will supplicate him, loathèd as he is,\n              With feminine upliftings of my hands,\n              To break these chains. Far from me be the thought!\n    _Chorus._ Our Hermes suits his reasons to the times;\n              At least I think so.’\n\n    Æschylus, _Prometheus_, 1002-6, 1036-7.]",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                             [Post-mark, August 31, 1846.]\n\nHere is dearest Ba’s dearest letter, because the latest, and it is one\nof her very kisses incorporated and made manifest—so perfectly kind! And\nshould this make me ashamed of perhaps an over-earnestness in what I\nwrote yesterday? or not rather justify me to myself and to her—since it\nwas on a passing fear of losing what I hold so infinitely precious, that\nthe earnestness happened! My own Ba, you lap me over with love upon love\n... there is my first and proper love, independent of any return, and\nthere is _this_ return for what would reward itself. Do think how I must\nfeel at the most transient suggestion of failure, and parting, and an end\nto all! You cannot expect I can lie quietly and let my life of life be\ntouched. And ever, dearest, through the life which I trust is about to\nbe permitted us,—ever I shall remember where my treasure is, and turn as\nvigilantly when it is approached. Beside, I was not very well, as I told\nyou in excuse—I am much better now. Not that, upon reconsideration, I can\nalter my opinion on the proper course to take. We know all the miracles\nwrought in our favour hitherto ... are not the chances (speaking in\nthat foolish way) against our expecting more? To-day is fine, sunny and\nwarm, for instance, and looks as if cold weather were a long way off—but\nwhat are these fancies and appearances when weighed against the other\npossibility of a sudden _fall_ of the year? By six months more of days\nlike this we should gain nothing, nothing in the world, you confess—by\nthe other misfortune we lose everything perhaps.\n\nWill you have a homely illustration? There is a tree against our wall\nhere which produced weeks ago a gigantic apple—which my mother had set\nher heart on showing a cousin of mine who is learned in fruits and\ntrees. I told her, ‘You had better pluck it at once—it will fall and be\nspoiled.’ She thought the next day or two would do its cheeks good,—just\nthe next—so there it continued to hang till this morning, when she was\nabout to go out with my sister—I said ‘now is the time—you are going to\nmy aunt’s—let me pluck you the apple’—‘Oh,’ she said ‘I have been looking\nat it, trying it,—it hangs so firmly, ... not _this_ time, thank you!’\nSo she went without it, two hours ago—and just now, I turned to the tree\nwith a boding presentiment—there lay our glory, bruised in the dirt,\na sad wreck! ‘Comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love!’ Rather,\ncounsel me _through_ apples! Do you see the counsel?\n\nCome, let me not be so ungrateful to the letter, to what you have\ndone for me, as only to speak of what you are disinclined to do. I am\nvery glad you succeeded in going to the chapel, and that the result\nwas so favourable—see how the dangers disappear when one faces them!\nAnd the account of Mr. Stratten is very interesting, too—besides\ncharacteristic—do you see _how_? Find as great a saint as the world\nholds, who shall be acknowledged to be utterly disinterested, unbiassed\nby anything except truth and common justice,—a man of sense as well as\npiety—and succeed in convincing such an one of our right to do as we\npurpose,—and then—let _him_ lay the matter before your father! To no\nother use than to exasperate him against Mr. Stratten, deprive your\nsister of the privilege of seeing his family, and bring about a little\nmore pain and trouble!\n\nLet me think of something else ... of the happiness you profess to\nfeel—which it makes me entirely happy to know. I will not try and put\naway the crown you give me. I just say the obvious truth, ... even what\nI _can_ do to make you happy, according to my ability, has yet to be\nexperienced by you ... if my thoughts and wishes reach you with any\neffect at present, they will operate freelier when the obstruction is\nremoved ... that is only natural. I shall live for you, for every minute\nin your life. May God bless me with such a life, as that it may be of use\nto you ... yours it must be whether of use or not, for I am wholly your R.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHere comes my mother back ... she is a little better to-day. I am much\nbetter as I said. And you? Let me get the kiss I lost on Saturday! (I\ndined at Arnould’s yesterday with Chorley and his brother, and the\nCushmans.) Chorley goes to-night to Ostend.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Night.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 1, 1846.]\n\nYou are better, dearest,—and so I will confess to having felt a little\ninclined to reproach you gently for the earlier letter, except that\nyou were not well when you wrote it. That you should endure painfully\nand impatiently a position unworthy of you, is the natural consequence\nof the unworthiness—and I do hold that you would be justified at this\nmoment, on the barest motives of self-respect, in abandoning the whole\nground and leaving me to Mr. Kenyon and others. What I might complain\nof, is another thing—what I might complain of is, that I have not given\nyou reason to _doubt me_ or my inclination to accede to any serious wish\nof yours relating to the step before us. On the contrary I told you in\nso many words in July, that, if you really wished to go in August rather\nthan in September, I would make no difficulty—to which you answered,\nremember, that _October or November would do as well_. Now _is_ it fair,\never dearest, that you should turn round on me so quickly, and call in\nquestion my willingness to keep my engagement for years, if ever? Can I\nhelp it, if the circumstances around us are painful to both of us? Did I\nnot keep repeating, from the beginning, that they _must_ be painful? Only\nyou could not believe, you see, until you felt the pricks. And when all\nis done, and the doing shall be the occasion of new affronts, sarcasms,\nevery form of injustice, will you be any happier then, than you are now\nthat you only imagine the possibility of them? I tremble to answer that\nquestion—even to myself—! As for myself, though I cannot help feeling\npain and fear, in encountering what is to be encountered, and though I\nsometimes fear, in addition, for _you_, lest you should overtask your\nserenity in bearing your own part in it, ... yet certainly I have never\nwavered for a moment from the decision on which all depends. I might\nfill up your quotations from ‘Prometheus,’ and say how no evil takes me\nunaware, having foreseen all from the beginning—but I have not the heart\nfor filling up quotations. I mean to say only, that I never wavered\nfrom the promise I gave freely; and that I will keep it freely at any\ntime you choose—that is, within a week of any time you choose. As to a\nlight word ... why now, dear, judge me in justice! If I had written it,\nthere might have been more wrong in it—but I spoke it lightly to show\nit was light, and in the next breath I told you that it was a jest.\nWill you not forgive me a word so spoken, Robert? will you rather set it\nagainst me as if habitually I threw to you levities in change for earnest\ndevotion?—you imply _that_ of me. Or you _seem_ to imply it—you did not\nmean, you could not, a thought approaching to unkindness,—but it looks\nlike _that_ in the letter, or _did_, this morning. And all the time, you\npretended not to know very well, ... (dearest!) ... that what you made\nup your mind to wish and ask of me, I had not in my power to say ‘no’\nto. Ah, you _knew_ that you had only to make up your mind, and to see\nthat the thing was possible. So if September shall be possible, let it\nbe September. I do not object nor hold back. To sail from the Thames has\nnot the feasibility—and listen why! All the sailing or rather steaming\nfrom London begins _early_; and I told you how out of the question it\nwas, for me to leave this house early. I could not, without involving my\nsisters. Arabel sleeps in my room, on the sofa, and is seldom out of the\nroom before nine in the morning—and for me to draw her into a ruinous\nconfidence, or to escape without a confidence at that hour, would be\nequally impossible. Now see if it is my fancy, my whim! And as for the\nexpenses, _they_ are as nearly equal as a shilling and two sixpences can\nbe—the expense of the sea-voyage from London to Havre, and of the land\nand sea voyage, through Southampton ... _or_ Brighton. But of course what\nyou say of Brighton, keeps us to Southampton, of those two routes. We\ncan go to Southampton and meet the packet ... take the river-steamer to\nRouen, and proceed as rapidly as your programme shows. You are not angry\nwith me, dearest, dearest? I did not mean any harm.\n\nMay God bless you always. _I_ am not angry either, understand, though\nI did think this morning that you were a little hard on me, just when\nI felt myself ready to give up the whole world for you at the holding\nup of a finger. And now say nothing of this. I kiss the end of the dear\nfinger; and when _it_ is ready, _I_ am ready; I will not be reproached\nagain. Being too much your own, very own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nTell me that you keep better. And your mother?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday—3 p.m.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 1, 1846.]\n\nDearest, when your letter kept away, all this morning, I never once\nfancied you might be angry ... I knew you must feel the love which\nproduced the fear. And I will lay to my heart the little, gentlest blame\nthat there is, in the spirit which dictated it. I know, my own Ba, your\nwords have given me the right to doubt nothing from your generosity—but\nit is not the mere bidding ... no, at the thousandth repetition—which can\nmake me help myself to all that treasure which you please to call mine: I\nshall perhaps get used to the generosity and readier to profit by it.\n\nI have not time to write much; all is divinely kind of you, and I love\nyou for forgiving me.\n\nYou could not leave at an early hour under those circumstances ... the\nmoment I become aware of them, I fully see that.\n\nAh, but, Ba, am I so to blame for not taking your diamonds, while\nyou disclaim a right over my pebbles even? May I ‘withdraw from the\nbusiness’? &c., &c.\n\nKiss me, and do not say that again—and I will say you are ‘my own,’ as I\nalways say,—my very own!\n\nAs for ‘sarcasms’ and the rest—I shall hardly do other than despise what\nwill never be said _to_ me, for the best of reasons—except where is to be\nexception. I never objected to such miserable work as that—and the other\nday, my annoyance was not at anything which _might_ be fancied, by Mr.\nKenyon or anybody else, but at what could not but be plainly seen—it was\na fact, and not a fancy, that our visit was shortened &c., &c.\n\nAll which is foolish to think of—I will think of you and a better time.\n\nYou do not tell me how you are, Ba—and I left you with a headache. Will\nyou tell me? And the post may come in earlier to-morrow,—at all events I\nwill write at length ... not in this haste. And our day? When before have\nI been without a day, a fixed day, to look forward to?\n\n                      Bless you, my dearest beloved—\n\n                                                               Your own R.\n\nI am pretty well to-day—not too well. My mother is no better than usual;\nwe blame the wind, with or without reason. See this scrawl! Could\nanything make me write legibly, I wonder?\n\n    Ba.\n\n            BA.\n\n                      βα.\n\n    Ba,      Ba,      Ba.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 2, 1846.]\n\nHere is a distress for me, dearest! I have lost my poor Flush—_lost_ him!\nYou were a prophet when you said ‘Take care.’\n\nThis morning Arabel and I, and he with us, went in a cab to Vere Street\nwhere we had a little business, and he followed us as usual into a shop\nand out of it again, and was at my heels when I stepped up into the\ncarriage. Having turned, I said ‘Flush,’ and Arabel looked round for\nFlush—there was no Flush! He had been caught up in that moment, from\n_under_ the wheels, do you understand? and the thief must have run with\nhim and thrown him into a bag perhaps. It was such a shock to me—think\nof it! losing him in a moment, _so_! No wonder if I looked white, as\nArabel said! So she began to comfort me by showing how certain it was\nthat I should recover him for ten pounds at most, and we came home ever\nso drearily. Because _Flush_ doesn’t know that we can recover him, and\nhe is in the extremest despair all this while, poor darling Flush, with\nhis fretful fears, and pretty whims, and his fancy of being near me. All\nthis night he will howl and lament, I know perfectly,—for I fear we shall\nnot ransom him to-night. Henry went down for me directly to the captain\nof the banditti, who evidently knew all about it, said Henry,—and after\na little form of consideration and enquiry, promised to let us hear\nsomething this evening, but has not come yet. In the morning perhaps he\nwill come. Henry told him that I was resolved not to give much—but of\ncourse they will make me give what they choose—I am not going to leave\nFlush at their mercy, and they know that as well as I do. My poor Flush!\n\nWhen we shall be at Pisa, dearest, we shall be away from the London\ndog-stealers—it will be one of the advantages. Another may be that I\nmay have an opportunity of ‘forgiving’ you, which I have not had yet. I\nmight reproach you a little in my letter, and I _did_, I believe; but the\noffending was not enough for any _forgiving_ to follow—it is too grand a\nword. Also your worst is better than my best, taking it on the whole. How\nthen should I be able to _forgive_ you, my beloved, even _at Pisa_?\n\nIf we go to Southampton, we go straight from the railroad to the packet,\nwithout entering any hotel—and if we do _so_, _no_ greater expense is\nincurred than by the long water-passage from London. Also, we reach\nHavre alike in the morning, and have the day before us for Rouen, Paris\nand Orleans. Thereupon nothing is lost by losing the early hour for the\ndeparture. Then, if I accede to your _idée fixe_ about the marriage!\nOnly do not let us put a long time between that and the setting out,\nand do not you come here afterwards—let us go away as soon as possible\nafterwards at least. You are afraid for me of my suffering from the\nautumnal cold when it is yet far off—while _I_ (observe this!) while _I_\nam afraid for myself, of breaking down under quite a different set of\ncauses, in nervous excitement and exhaustion. I belong to that pitiful\norder of weak women who cannot command their bodies with their souls at\nevery moment, and who sink down in hysterical disorder when they ought\nto act and resist. Now I think and believe that I shall take strength\nfrom my attachment to you, and so go through to the end what is before\nus; but at the same time, knowing myself and fearing myself, I do desire\nto provoke the ‘demon’ as little as possible, and to be as quiet as the\nsituation will permit. Still, where things _ought_ to be done, they\nof course _must_ be done. Only we should consider whether they really\n_ought_ to be done—not for the sake of the inconvenience to me, but of\nthe consequence to both of us.\n\nDo I frighten you, ever dearest? Oh no—I shall go through it, if I keep a\nbreath of soul in me to live with. I shall go through it, as certainly as\nthat I love you. I speak only of the accessory circumstances, that they\nmay be kept as smooth as is practicable.\n\nYou are not well, my beloved—and I cannot even dream of making you\nbetter this time,—because you will think it wise for us not to meet for\nthe next few days perhaps. Mr. Kenyon will come to see me, he said,\nbefore he leaves town, and he leaves it on the fourth, fifth or sixth\nof September. This is the first. So I will not let you come to be vexed\nas last time—no, indeed. But write to me instead—and pity me for Flush.\nOh, I trust to have him back to-morrow. I had no headache, and was quite\nperfectly well this morning ... before I lost him.\n\nIs your mother able to walk? is she worse on the whole than last week\nfor instance? We may talk of September, but you cannot leave her, you\nknow, dearest, if she should be _so_ ill! it would be unkind and wrong.\n\nMore, to-morrow! But I cannot be more to-morrow, your very own—",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Morning.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 2, 1846.]\n\nPoor Flush—how sorry I am for you, my Ba! But you will recover him, I\ndare say ... not, perhaps directly; the delay seems to justify their\ncharge at the end: poor fellow—was he no better than the rest of us, and\ndid all that barking and fanciful valour spend itself on such enemies as\nMr. Kenyon and myself, leaving only blandness and waggings of the tail\nfor the man with the bag? I am sure you are grieved and frightened for\nour friend and follower, that was to be, at Pisa—will you not write a\nspecial note to tell me when you get him again?\n\nFor the rest—I will urge you no more by a single word—you shall arrange\neverything henceforward without a desire on my part,—an expressed one at\nleast. Do not let our happiness be caught up from us, after poor Flush’s\nfashion—there may be no redemption from _that_ peril.\n\nThere can hardly be another way of carrying our purpose into effect than\nby that arrangement you consent to—except you choose to sacrifice a day\nand incur all costs of risk. Of course, the whole in the way and with the\nconditions that you shall determine.\n\nDo you think, Ba, I apprehend nothing from the excitement and exhaustion\nattendant on it? I altogether apprehend it,—and am therefore the more\nanxious that no greater difficulty should be superinduced than is\nabsolutely necessary. Because the first part of our adventure will\nbe dangerous in _that_ way, I want the second part to be as safe\nas possible in another. I should care comparatively little about\nwinter-travelling, even (knowing that one can take precautions)—if it\nwere to be undertaken under really propitious circumstances, and you set\nforth with so much kindness to carry away as would keep you warm for\na week or two—but the ‘winter wind that is not so unkind as &c.,’ may\nprove,—by adding its share of unkindness to the greater,—intolerable.\nNow, my last word is said, however—and a kiss follows!\n\nI thank you, dearest, for your enquiries about my mother; and for the\nsympathy, and proposal of delay. She is better this morning, I hope.\nFrom the time that my sister went to Town, she discontinued the exercise\nwhich does her such evident good—and on Monday the walk began again—with\nno great effect yesterday because of the dull weather and sharp wind ...\nshe kept at home—but this morning she is abroad, and will profit by this\nsunshine, I hope. My head will not get quite well, neither. I take both\neffects to be caused by the turn of the year.\n\nBless you, dearest—I cannot but acquiesce in your postponing our day\nfor such reasons. Only, do not misconceive those few foolish words of\nimpatience ... a great matter to bear truly! I shall be punished indeed\nif they prevent you from according to me one hour I should have otherwise\npossessed.\n\n                                              Bless you once again, my Ba.\n\nMy mother is returned—very much better indeed. Remember Flush—to write.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Evening.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 3, 1846.]\n\n‘Our friend and follower, that _was_ to be’—is _that_, then, your opinion\nof my poor darling Flush’s destiny— Ah,—I should not have been so\nquiet if I had not known differently and better. I ‘shall not recover\nhim directly,’ you think! But, dearest, I am _sure_ that I _shall_. I\nam learned in the ways of the Philistines—I knew from the beginning\nwhere to apply and how to persuade. The worst is poor Flush’s fright\nand suffering. And then, it is inconvenient just now to pay the ransom\nfor him. But we shall have time to-morrow if not to-night. Two hours\nago the chief of the Confederacy came to call on Henry and to tell him\nthat the ‘Society had the dog,’ having done us the honour of tracking us\ninto Bond Street and out of Bond Street into Vere Street where he was\nkidnapped. Now he is in Whitechapel (poor Flush). And the great man was\ngoing down there at half past seven to meet other great men in council\nand hear the decision as to the ransom exacted, and would return with\ntheir _ultimatum_. Oh, the villainy of it is excellent, and then the\nhumiliation of having to pay for your own vexations and anxieties! _Will_\nthey have the insolence, now, to make me pay ten pounds, as they said\nthey would? But I must have Flush, you know—I can’t run any risk, and\nbargain and haggle. There is a dreadful tradition in this neighbourhood,\nof a lady who did _so_ having her dog’s head sent to her in a parcel.\nSo I say to Henry—‘Get Flush back, whatever you do’—for Henry is angry\nas he may well be, and as _I_ should be if I was not too afraid ... and\ntalks police-officers against thieves, and finds it very hard to attend\nto my instructions and be civil and respectful to their captain. There he\nfound him, smoking a cigar in a room with pictures! They make some three\nor four thousand a year by their honourable employment. As to Flush’s\nfollowing anyone ‘blandly,’ never think it. ‘He was caught up and gagged\n... depend upon that. If he could have bitten, he would have bitten—if he\ncould have yelled, he would have yelled. Indeed on a former occasion the\ningenuous thief observed, that he ‘was a difficult dog to get, he was so\ndistrustful.’ They had to drag him with a string, put him into a cab,\nthey said, before. Poor Flush!\n\nDearest, I am glad that your mother is a little better—but why should the\nturn of the year make you suffer, ever dearest? I am not easy about you\nindeed. Remember not to use the shower-bath injudiciously—and remember\nto walk. _Do_ you walk enough?—it being as necessary for you as for your\nmother.\n\nAnd as for _me_ you will not say a word more to _me_, you will leave me\nto my own devices now.\n\nWhich is just exactly what you must _not_ do. Ah, why do you say so,\neven, when you must not do it? Have I refused one proposition of yours\nwhen there were not strong obstacles, that you should have finished\nwith me so, my beloved? For instance, I agreed to your plan about the\nmarrying, and I agreed to go with you to Italy in the latter part of\nSeptember—did I not? And what am I disagreeing in now? Don’t let me pass\nfor disagreeable! And don’t, above all, refuse to think for me, and\ndecide for me, or what will become of me, I cannot guess. I shall be\nworse off than Flush is now ... in his despair, at Whitechapel. Think\nof my being let loose upon a common, just when the thunder-clouds are\ngathering!! You would not be so cruel, _you_. All I meant to say was\nthat it would be wise to make the occasions of excitement as few as\npossible, for the reasons I gave you. But I shall not fail, I believe—I\nshould despise myself too much for failing—I should lose too much by the\nfailure. Then there is an amulet which strengthens the heart of one,—let\nit incline to fail ever so. Believe of me that I shall not fail, dearest\nbeloved—I shall not, if you love me enough to stand by—believe _that_\nalways.\n\nThe heart will sink indeed sometimes—as mine does to-night, I scarcely\nknow why—but even while it sinks, I do not feel that I shall fail _so_—I\ndo not. Dearest, I do not, either, ‘misconceive,’ as you desire me\nnot: I only infer that you will think it best to avoid the chance of\nmeeting Mr. Kenyon, who speaks to me, in a note received this morning, of\nintending to leave town next Monday—of coming here he does not speak,—and\nhe may come and he may not come, on any intermediate day. He wrote for a\nbook he lent me. If I do not see you until Monday, it will be hard—but\njudge! there was more of bitterness than of sweetness in the last visit.\n\nMr. Kenyon said in his note that he had seen Moxon, and that Tennyson was\n‘disappointed’ with the mountains. Is not that strange? Is it a good or a\nbad sign when people are disappointed with the miracles of nature? I am\naccustomed to fancy it a bad sign. Because a man’s imagination ought to\naggrandise, glorify, consecrate. A man sees with his mind, and mind is at\nfault when he does not see greatly, I think.\n\nMoxon sent a civil message to me about my books ‘going off regularly.’\n\nAnd now _I_ must go off—it is my turn. Do you love me to-night, dearest?\nI ask you ... through the air. I am your very own Ba.\n\nSay how you are, I beseech you, and tell me always and particularly of\nyour mother.\n\nThey are all here, gone to a picnic at Richmond.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 3, 1846.]\n\nI am rejoiced that poor Flush is found again, dearest—altogether rejoiced.\n\nAnd now that you probably have him by your side, I will tell you what\nI should have done in such a case, because it explains our two ways of\nseeing and meeting oppression lesser or greater. I would not have given\nfive shillings on that fellow’s application. I would have said,—and in\nentire earnestness ‘_You_ are responsible for the proceedings of your\ngang, and _you_ I mark—don’t talk nonsense to me about cutting off heads\nor paws. Be as sure as that I stand here and tell you, I will spend my\nwhole life in putting you down, the nuisance you declare yourself—and by\nevery imaginable means I will be the death of you and as many of your\naccomplices as I can discover—but _you_ I have discovered and will never\nlose sight of—now try my sincerity, by delaying to produce the dog by\nto-morrow. And for the ten pounds—see!’ Whereupon I would give them to\nthe first beggar in the street. You think I should receive Flush’s head?\nPerhaps—_so_ God allows matters to happen! on purpose, it may be, that I\nshould vindicate him by the punishment I would exact.\n\nObserve, Ba, this course ought not to be yours, because it _could_ not\nbe—it would not suit your other qualities. But all religion, right and\njustice, with me, seem implied in such a resistance to wickedness and\nrefusal to multiply it a hundredfold—for from this prompt payment of\nten pounds for a few minutes’ act of the easiest villainy, there will\nbe encouragement to—how many similar acts in the course of next month?\nAnd how will the poor owners fare who have not money enough for their\ndogs’ redemption? I suppose the gentleman, properly disgusted with such\nobstinacy, will threaten roasting at a slow fire to test the sincerity\nof attachment! No—the world would grow too detestable a den of thieves\nand oppressors that way! And this is too great a piece of indignation to\nbe expressed when one has the sick vile headache that oppresses me this\nmorning. Dearest, I am not inclined to be even as tolerant as usual. Will\nyou be tolerant, my Ba, and forgive me—till to-morrow at least—when, what\nwith physic, what with impatience, I shall be better one way or another?\n\n                                                          Ever your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Afternoon.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 4, 1846.]\n\nWhen I had finished that letter this morning, dearest dearest, before I\ncould seal it, even, (my sister did it for me ... and despatched it to\nthe post at once) I became quite ill and so sick as to be forced to go\nup-stairs and throw myself on the bed. It is now six o’clock, and I feel\nbetter, and have some thoughts of breaking my fast to-day—but, first of\nall ... did whatever it may have been I wrote seem _cross_—unnecessarily\nangry, to you, dearest Ba? Because, I confess to having felt indignant\nat this sample of the evils done under the sun every day ... and as\nif it would be to no purpose though the whole world were peopled with\nBa’s, instead of just Wimpole Street; as they would be just so many\nmore soft cushions for the villainously-disposed to run pins into at\ntheir pleasure. Donne says that ‘Weakness invites, but silence _feasts_\noppression.’ And it is horrible to fancy how all the oppressors in\ntheir several ranks may, if they choose, twitch back to them by the\nheartstrings after various modes the weak and silent whose secret they\nhave found out. No one should profit by those qualities in me, at least.\nHaving formed a resolution, I would keep it, I hope, through fire and\nwater, and the threatener of any piece of rascality, who (as commonly\nhappens) should be without the full heart to carry it into effect, should\npay me exactly the same for the threat ... which had determined my\nconduct once and for ever. But in this particular case, I ought to have\ntold you (unless you divined it, as you might) that I would give all I\nam ever to be worth in the world to get back your Flush for you—for your\ninterest is not _mine_, any more than the lake is the river that goes to\nfeed it,—mine is only made to feed yours—I am yours, as we say—as I feel\nmore and more every minute.\n\nAre you not mine, too? And do you not forgive your own R?",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Evening.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 4, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest, you are not well—that is the first thing!—And that is\nthe thing I saw first, when, opening your letter, my eyes fell on the\nending sentence of it,—which disenchanted me in a moment from the hope\nof the day. Dearest—you have not been well for two or three days, it\nis plain,—and now you are very, very unwell—tell me if it is not so?\nI beseech you to let me hear the exact truth about you, for I am very\nuneasy, and it is dreadful to doubt about knowing the exact truth in all\nsuch cases. How everything goes against me this week! I cannot see you. I\ncannot comfort myself by knowing that you are well. And then poor Flush!\nYou must let him pass as one of the evils, and you _will_, I know; for I\nhave not got him back yet—no, indeed.\n\nI should have done it. The archfiend, Taylor, the man whom you are going\nto spend your life in persecuting (the life that belongs to me, too!),\ncame last night to say that they would accept six pounds, six guineas,\nwith half a guinea for himself, considering the trouble of the mediation;\nand Papa desired Henry to refuse to pay, and not to tell me a word about\nit—all which I did not find out till this morning. Now it is less, as\nthe money goes, than I had expected, and I was very vexed and angry, and\nwanted Henry to go at once and conclude the business—only he wouldn’t,\ntalked of Papa, and persuaded me that Taylor would come to-day with a\nlower charge. He has not come—I knew he would not come,—and if people\nwon’t do as I choose, I shall go down to-morrow morning myself and bring\nFlush back with me. All this time he is suffering and I am suffering.\nIt may be very foolish—I do not say it is not—or it may even be ‘awful\nsin,’ as Mr. Boyd sends to assure me—but I cannot endure to run cruel\nhazards about my poor Flush for the sake of a few guineas, or even for\nthe sake of abstract principles of justice—I cannot. _You_ say that _I_\ncannot, ... but that _you would_. You would!—Ah dearest—most pattern\nof citizens, but you _would not_—I know you better. Your theory is far\ntoo good not to fall to pieces in practice. A man may love justice\nintensely; but the love of an abstract principle is not the strongest\nlove—now is it? Let us consider a little, putting poor Flush out of the\nquestion. (You would bear, you say, to receive his head in a parcel—it\nwould satisfy you to cut off Taylor’s in return). Do you mean to say\nthat if the banditti came down on us in Italy and carried me off to the\nmountains, and, sending to you one of my ears, to show you my probable\nfate if you did not let them have ... how much may I venture to say I am\nworth? ... five or six scudi,—(is _that_ reasonable at all?) ... would\nyour answer be ‘Not so many crazie’; and would you wait, poised upon\nabstract principles, for the other ear, and the catastrophe,—as was done\nin Spain not long ago? Would you, dearest? Because it is as well to know\nbeforehand, perhaps.\n\nAh—how I am teazing you, my beloved, when you are not well. But indeed\nthat life of yours is worthy of better uses than to scourge Taylor with,\neven if _I_ should not be worth the crazie.\n\nI have seen nobody and heard nothing. I bought a pair of shoes to-day\nlined with flannel, to walk with on the bare floors of Italy in the\nwinter. Is not _that_ being practical and coming to the point? I did it\nindeed!\n\nMay God bless you. I love you always and am your own.\n\nWrite of yourself, I _do pray you_—and also, how is your mother?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Friday Morning.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 4, 1846.]\n\nYou dearest, best Ba, I will say at the beginning of the letter, and not\nat the end, this time, that I am very much better—my head clear from\npain, if a little _uncertain_—I was in the garden when your letter came.\nThe worst is, that I am really forced to go and dine out to-day—but I\nshall take all imaginable care and get away early ... and be ready to go\nand see you at a minute’s notice, should a note signify your permission\nto-morrow ... if Mr. Kenyon’s visit is over, for instance. I have to\nattribute this effect to that abstinent system of yours. Depend on it, I\nshall be well and continue well now.\n\nDear Ba, I wrote under the notion (as I said) that poor Flush was safe\nby your side; and only took that occasion to point at what I must still\nconsider the wrongness of the whole system of giving way to, instead of\nopposing, such proceedings. I think it lamentable weakness ... though I\ncan quite understand and allow for it in you,—but weakness it essentially\n_is_, as _you_ know perfectly. For see, you first put the matter in the\ngentlest possible light ... ‘who would give much time and trouble to the\ncastigation of such a fellow as _that_!’ You ask—and immediately after,\nfor another purpose, you very rightly rank this crime with that other\nenormous one, of the Spanish banditti—nay, you confess that, in this very\ncase, any such injury to Flush as you dread would give you inexpressible\ngrief. Is the threatening this outrage then so little a matter? Am I\nto think it a less matter if the same miscreant should _strike_ you in\nthe street because you would probably suffer less than by this that he\n_has_ done? There is the inevitable inconsistency of wrong reasoning in\nall this. Say, as I told you on another subject,—‘I determine to resist\nno injury whatever, to be at the disposal of any villain in the world,\ntrusting to God for protection here or recompense hereafter’—or take my\ncourse; _which_ is the easier, and in the long run, however strangely it\nmay seem, the more profitable, no one can doubt—but I take the harder—in\nall but the responsibility—which, without any cant, would be intolerable\nto me. Look at this ‘society’ with its ‘four thousand a year’—which\nunless its members are perfect fools they will go on to double and\ntreble—would this have existed if a proper stand had been made at the\nbeginning? The first silly man, woman or child who consented to pay five\nshillings, beyond the mere expense of keeping the dog (on the supposition\nof its having been found, _not_ stolen), is responsible for all the\nharm—what could the thief do but go and steal another, and ask double for\nits ransom?\n\nAnd see—dog-stealers so encouraged are the lowest of the vile—can neither\nwrite nor read, perhaps. One of the fraternity possesses this knowledge,\nhowever, and aims higher. Accordingly, instead of stealing your dog,\nhe determines to steal your character; if a guinea (at the beginning)\nransoms the one, ten pounds shall ransom the other; accordingly Mr.\nBarnard Gregory takes pen in hand and writes to some timid man, in the\nfirst instance, that unless he receives that sum, his character will\nbe blasted. The timid man takes your advice ... says that the ‘love\nof an abstract principle’ must not run him into ‘cruel hazards’ ‘for\nthe sake of a few guineas’—so he pays them—who would bother himself\nwith such vermin as Gregory? So Gregory receives his pay for his five\nminutes’ penmanship—takes down a directory, and writes five hundred\nsuch letters. Serjeant Talfourd told me, counting them on his fingers,\n‘such and such’ (naming them) cut their throats after robbing their\nfamilies, employers &c., such fled the country—such went mad ... _that_\nwas the commonest event.’ At last, even so poor a creature as the Duke\nof Brunswick, with his detestable character and painted face,—even _he_\nplucks up courage and turns on Gregory, grown by this time into a really\nformidable monster by these amiable victims to the other principle of\neasy virtue,—and the event is that this execrable ‘Abhorson’s’ trade is\nutterly destroyed—that form of atrocious persecution exists no longer. I\nam in no danger of being told, at next post delivery, that having been\n‘tracked up Vere Street, down Bond Street, &c.’ into Wimpole Street\nmy character and yours will be the subject of an article in the next\n_Satirist_ unless ...\n\nTo all of which you have a great answer—‘What should I do if _you_ were\nto be the victim?’ That my note yesterday, the second one, told you.\nI sacrifice _myself_ ... all that belongs _to me_—but there are some\ninterests which I belong to—I have no right, no more than inclination,\nin such a case, to think of myself if your safety is concerned, and as\nI could cut off a limb to save my head, so my head should fall most\nwillingly to redeem yours ... I would pay every farthing I had in the\nworld, and shoot with my own hand the receiver of it after a chase of\nfifty years—esteeming _that_ to be a very worthy recompense for the\ntrouble.\n\nBut why write all this string of truisms about the plainest thing in\nthe world? All reformers are met at the outset by such dissuasion from\ntheir efforts. ‘Better suffer the grievance and get off as cheaply as you\n[can]—You, Mahomet,—what if the Caaba _be_ only a black stone? You need\nonly bow your head as the others, and make any inward remark you like on\nthe blindness of the people. You, Hampden, have you really so little wit\nas to contest payment of a paltry 20_s._ at such risk?’\n\nAh, but here all the fuss is just about stealing a dog—two or three\nwords, and the matter becomes simply ludicrous—very easily got rid of!\nOne cannot take vengeance on the ‘great man’ with his cigar and room of\npictures and burlesque dignities of mediation! Just so, when Robert was\ninclined to be sorry for the fate of Bertha’s sister, one can fancy what\na relief and change would be operated in his feelings, if a good-natured\nfriend send him a version of his mighty crime in Lord Rochester’s funny\naccount of ‘forsaken damsels’ ... with the motto ‘Women have died ere now\nand worms have eaten them—but not for love—’ or ‘At lovers’ perjuries\nJove laughs’ why, Robert is a ‘lady-killer’ like D’Orsay! Well, enough of\nsermonizing for the present; it is impossible for me to differ with you\nand treat _that_ as a light matter ... or, what on earth would have been\nso little to wonder at, as that, loving Flush, you should determine to\nsave him at any price? If ‘Chiappino’ were to assure you, in terms that\nyou could not disbelieve, that in the event of your marrying me he would\ndestroy himself,—would you answer, as I should, ‘Do so, and take the\nconsequences,’—and think no more about the matter? I should absolutely\nleave it, as not my concern but God’s—nor should blame myself any more\nthan if the poor man, being uncertain what to do, had said ‘If a man\nfirst passes the window—yes—if a woman—no’—and I, a total stranger, had\npassed.\n\nOne word more—in all this, I labour against the execrable policy of the\nworld’s husbands, fathers, brothers, and domineerers in general. I am\nabout to marry you ... how wise, then, to encourage such a temper in you!\nsuch was that divine Griselda’s—a word rules the gentle nature—‘Do this,\nor....’\n\nMy own Ba, if I thought you could fear me, I think _I_ should have the\ncourage to give you up to-morrow!\n\nBecause _to-day_ I am altogether yours, and you are my very own—and\nto-morrow never comes, they say. Bless you, my best dearest Ba—and if you\nthink I deserve it, you shall test the excellence of those slippers on my\ncheek, (and not the flannelled side, neither), the next happy time I see\nyou ... which will be soon, soon, I trust! who am more than\n\n                                                          ever your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 5, 1846.]\n\nYou best! Was ever any in the world, in any possible world, so\nperfectly good and dear to another as you are to me! Ah! if you could\nknow how I feel to you, when you write such words as came to me this\nmorning—Dearest! It ends in that, all I can say. And yet I must say\nbesides that the idea of ‘crossness,’ of hardness, never came to me, for\none moment, from the previous letter. I just shook my head and thought\nhow you would not act it out, if _you_ had a Flush. Upon which I could\nnot follow out my argument to myself, through thinking that you were ill.\n\nYou are better now, Robert, and you promise to take care of the dinner,\nwhere you should _not_ go if I were near you. I should be ‘afraid of you’\nfar too much to let you, indeed! Such a wrong thing _that_ dinner is\n... as wrong as any dogstealer in his way ... drawing you out just when\nyou ought to be at home and quiet, if not ‘abstinent.’ When did I ever\ntell you to be abstinent, pray? You are too much so, it seems to me, in\ngeneral: and to pass the whole of that day without eating! How unwell\nyou must have been, dearest! How I long to see you and ascertain that\nyou look tolerably well! How very, very happy I should be, to be able to\nlook at you to-morrow. But no, no! Mr. Kenyon does not come, and we must\nbe wise, I suppose, and wait till the ground is clear of him, which will\nnot be till Monday. Probably he will visit me on Sunday—but the chance\nof Saturday is like the hat on a pole in gardens, set there to frighten\naway the birds. Still they may sing on the other side of the wall, not to\nbe too far from the cherries and the hope of them. Monday surely will be\na clear day. Unless Mr. Kenyon shall put off his journey just to despite\nus—who shall say?\n\nI have not Flush yet. I am to have him to-morrow morning.\n\nAnd for the Flush-argument, dear dearest, I hold that your theory is\nentirely good and undeniable. I agree with you throughout it, praising\nMahomet, praising Hampden, and classing the Taylors, Gregorys, and\nSpanish banditti all together. Also I hope I should try, at least, to\nresist with you their various iniquities—and, for instance, I do not\nthink that any Gregory in the world would draw a shilling from _me_, by a\nthreat against my own character. I should dare _that_, oh, I am confident\nI should—the indignation would be far the stronger, where I myself only\nwas involved. And even in the imaginary Chiappino-case, the selfish and\ndastardly threat would fall from me like a child’s arrow from steel. I\nbelieve so.\n\nBut Flush, poor Flush, Flush who has loved me so faithfully; have I\na right to sacrifice _him_ in his innocence, for the sake of any Mr.\nTaylor’s guilt in the world? Does not Flush’s condition assimilate to\nmy own among the banditti? for you agree that you would not, after all,\nleave me to the banditti—and I, _exactly on the same ground_, will not\nleave Flush. It seems to me that you and I are _at one_ upon the whole\nquestion,—only that _I_ am _your_ Flush, and _he_ is mine. You, if you\nwere ‘consistent’ ... dearest! ... would not redeem me on any account.\nYou do ever so much harm by it, observe—you produce catastrophe on\ncatastrophe, just for the sake of my two ears without earrings! Oh, I\nentirely agree with your principle. Evil should be resisted that it may\nfly from you.\n\nBut Flush is not to be sacrificed—nor even is Ba, it appears. So our two\nweaknesses may pardon one another, yours and mine!\n\nSome dog, shut up in a mews somewhere behind this house, has been yelling\nand moaning to-day and yesterday. How he has made me think of my poor\npoor Flush, I cannot tell you—‘Think of Flush’ he seemed to say.\n\nYes!—A blow in the street! I wish somebody _would_ propose such a thing\nto me, in exchange! I would have thanked Mr. Taylor himself for striking\nme down in the street, if the stroke had been offered as an alternative\nfor the loss of Flush. You may think it absurd—but when my dinner is\nbrought to me, I feel as if I could not (scarcely) touch it—the thought\nof poor Flush’s golden eyes is too strong in me.\n\nNot a word of your mother. She is better, I trust! And you ... may God\nkeep you better, beloved! To be parted from you so long, teaches me the\nnecessity of your presence—I am your very, very own.\n\nI was out to-day—driving along the Hampstead Road. What weather!",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Saturday.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 5, 1846.]\n\nDearest Ba, I feel your perfect goodness at my heart—I can say nothing.\n\nNor write very much more: my head still teazes, rather than pains me.\nDon’t lay more of it to the dinner than necessary: I got my sister to\nwrite a letter deprecatory of all pressing to eat and drink and such\nmistaken hospitality—to the end that I might sit unpitied, uncondoled\nwith, and be an eyesore to nobody—which succeeded so well that I eat\nsome mutton and drank wine and water without let or molestation. Our\nparty was reduced to three, by a couple of defections—but there was an\nimmense talking and I dare say this continuance of my ailment is partly\nattributable to it. I shall be quiet now. I tell you the simple truth,\nthat you may believe—and this also believe, that it would have done me\ngreat good to go to you this morning,—if I could lean my head on your\nneck, what could pain it, dear dear Ba?\n\nI am sorry poor Flush is not back again—very sorry. But no one would hurt\nhim, be quite sure ... his mere value prevents that.\n\nShall I see you on Monday then? This is the _first time_ since we met at\nthe beginning, that a whole week, from a Sunday to a Saturday, has gone\nby without a day for us. Well—I trust you are constant ... nay you _are_\nconstant to your purpose of leaving at the end of this month. When we\nmeet next, let us talk of our business, like the grave man and woman we\nare going to become. Mr. K. will be away—how fortunate this is! We need\nimplicate nobody. And in the end the reasonableness of what we do will be\napparent to everybody—if I can show you well and happy,—which God send!\n\nKiss me as I kiss you, my own Ba. I am all one wide wonder at your loving\nnature: I can only give it the like love in return, and as much limited\nas I am limited. But I seem really to _grow_ under you,—my faculties\nextend toward yours.\n\nMay God bless you, and enable me to make you as happy as your dear\ngenerous heart will be contented to be made. I am your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday Morning.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 5, 1846.]\n\nDearest, I write just a few lines that you may know me for thinking of\nyou to-morrow. Flush has not come and I am going on a voyage of discovery\nmyself,—Henry being far too lukewarm. He says I may be robbed and\nmurdered before the time for coming back, in which case remember that it\nis not my fault that I do not go with you to Pisa.\n\nJust now came a kind little note from dear Mr. Kenyon, who will not come,\nhe says, Flush being away, and has set out on his travels, meaning not\nto come back for a week. So I might have seen you after all, to-day!\nMy comfort is, that it is good for you, beloved, to be quiet, and that\ncoming through the sun might have made your head suffer. How my thoughts\nare with you—how all day they never fall from you! I shall have my letter\nto-night through your dear goodness, which is a lamp hung up for me to\nlook towards. Aladdin’s, did you say? Yes, Aladdin’s.\n\nAs to being afraid of you ever—once, do you know, I was quite afraid ...\nin a peculiar sense—as when it thunders, I am afraid ... or a little\ndifferent from _that_ even—or, oh yes, _very_ different from _that_.\nNow it is changed ... the feeling is—and I am not afraid even so—except\nsometimes of losing your affection by some fault of my own—I am _not_\nafraid that it would be a fault of yours, remember. I trust you for\ngoodness to the uttermost—and I know perfectly that if you did not love\nme (_supposing_ it) you are one who would be _ashamed_ for a woman to\nfear you, as some women fear some men. For _me_, I could not, you know—I\nknew you too well and love you too perfectly, and everybody can tell what\nperfect love casts out.\n\nSo you need not have done with me for _that_ reason! Understand it.\n\nAnd if I shall not be slain by the ‘society,’ you shall be written to\nagain to-night. Ah—say in the letter _I_ am to have, that you are better!\nAnd you are to come on Monday—dear, dearest! mind _that_!\n\n                                                                  Your Ba.\n\nCome back safe, but without Flush—I am to have him to-night though.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 7, 1846.]\n\nNot well—not well! But I shall see you with my own eyes soon after you\nread what I write to-day; so I shall not write much. Only a few words\nto tell you that Flush is found, and lying on the sofa, with one paw and\nboth ears hanging over the edge of it. Still my visit to Taylor was not\nthe successful one. My hero was not at home.\n\nI went, you know, ... did I tell you? ... with Wilson in the cab. We\ngot into obscure streets; and our cabman stopped at a public house\nto ask his way. Out came two or three men, ... ‘Oh, you want to find\nMr. Taylor, I dare say!’ (mark that no name had been mentioned!) and\ninstantly an unsolicited philanthropist ran before us to the house, and\nout again to tell me that the great man ‘wasn’t at home! but wouldn’t I\nget out?’ Wilson, in an aside of terror, entreated me not to think of\nsuch a thing—she believed devoutly in the robbing and murdering, and\nwas not reassured by the gang of benevolent men and boys who ‘lived but\nto oblige us’ all round the cab. ‘Then wouldn’t I see Mrs. Taylor,’\nsuggested the philanthropist,—and, notwithstanding my negatives, he had\nrun back again and brought an immense feminine bandit, ... fat enough to\nhave had an easy conscience all her life, ... who informed me that ‘her\nhusband might be in in a few minutes, or in so many hours—wouldn’t I\nlike to get out and wait’ (Wilson pulling at my gown, the philanthropist\nechoing the invitation of the feminine Taylor.)—‘No, I thanked them\nall—it was not necessary that I should get out, but it _was_, that Mr.\nTaylor should keep his promise about the restoration of a dog which he\nhad agreed to restore—and I begged her to induce him to go to Wimpole\nStreet in the course of the day, and not defer it any longer.’ To which,\nreplied the lady, with the most gracious of smiles—‘Oh yes certainly’—and\nindeed she _did_ believe that Taylor had left home precisely on that\nbusiness—poising her head to the right and left with the most easy\ngrace—‘She was sure that Taylor would give his very best attention....’\n\nSo, in the midst of the politeness, we drove away, and Wilson seemed to\nbe of opinion that we had escaped with our lives barely. Plain enough it\nwas, that the gang was strong there. The society ... the ‘Fancy’ ... had\ntheir roots in the ground. The faces of those men!—\n\nI had not been at home long, when Mr. Taylor did actually come—desiring\nto have six guineas confided to his honour!! ... and promising to\nbring back the dog. I sent down the money, and told them to trust the\ngentleman’s honour, as there seemed no other way for it—and while the\nbusiness was being concluded, in came Alfred, and straightway called our\n‘honourable friend’ (meeting him in the passage) a swindler and a liar\nand a thief. Which no gentleman could bear, of course. Therefore with\nreiterated oaths he swore, ‘as he hoped to be saved, we should never see\nour dog again’—and rushed out of the house. Followed a great storm. I was\nvery angry with Alfred, who had no business to risk Flush’s life for the\nsake of the satisfaction of trying on names which fitted. Angry I was\nwith Alfred, and terrified for Flush,—seeing at a glance the probability\nof his head being cut off as the proper vengeance! and down-stairs I went\nwith the resolution of going again myself to Mr. Taylor’s in Manning\nStreet, or Shoreditch [or] wherever it was, and saving the victim at any\nprice. It was the evening, getting dusk—and everybody was crying out\nagainst me for being ‘quite mad’ and obstinate, and wilful—I was called\nas many names as Mr. Taylor. At last, Sette said that _he_ would do it,\npromised to be as civil as I could wish, and got me to be ‘in a good\nhumour and go up to my room again.’ And he went instead of me, and took\nthe money and fair words, and induced the ‘man of honour’ to forfeit\nhis vengeance and go and fetch the dog. Flush arrived here at eight\no’clock (at the very moment with your letter, dearest!), and the first\nthing he did was to dash up to this door, and then to drink his purple\ncup full of water, filled three times over. He was not so enthusiastic\nabout seeing me, as I expected—he seemed bewildered and frightened—and\nwhenever anyone said to him ‘Poor Flush, did the naughty men take you\naway?’ he put up his head and moaned and yelled. He has been very unhappy\ncertainly. Dirty he is, and much thinner, and continually he is drinking.\nSix guineas, was his ransom—and now I have paid twenty for him to the\ndog-stealers.\n\nArabel says that I wanted _you_ yesterday, she thought, to manage me a\nlittle. She thought I was suddenly seized with madness, to prepare to\nwalk out of the house in that state of excitement and that hour of the\nevening. But now—_was_ I to let them cut off Flush’s head?—\n\nThere! I have told you the whole history of yesterday’s adventures—and\nto-morrow I shall see you, my own dear, dear!—Only remember for my sake,\n_not_ to come if you are not fit to come. Dearest, remember not to run\nany hazards!—That dinner! which I _will_ blame, because it deserves it!\nMind not to make me be as bad as that dinner, in being the means of\nworking you harm! So I expect you to-morrow _conditionally_ ... if you\nare well enough!—and I thank you for the kind dear letter, welcome next\nto you, ... being ever and ever your own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nI have been to the _vestry_ again to-day.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Afternoon.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 7, 1846.]\n\nNo, dearest, I am not to see you to-morrow for all the happiness of the\npermission! It seems absurd, but perhaps the greater absurdity would be\na refusal to submit, under circumstances. You shall hear—I got up with\nthe old _vertiginousness_, or a little worse—and so, as I had in that\ncase determined, went to consult my doctor. He thinks he finds the root\nof the evil and can remove it, ‘if I have patience enough’—so I promised\n... expecting something worthy that preamble—whereas I am bidden go to\nbed and keep there for a day or two—from this Sunday till Wednesday\nmorning—taking nothing but a sip of medicine I can’t distinguish from\nwater, thrice a day—and _milk_ at discretion—no other food! The mild\nqueerness of it is amusing, is it not? ‘And for this fine piece of\nself-denial,’ says he, ‘you shall be quite well by the week’s end.’—‘But\nmay I go to town on Wednesday?’—‘Yes.’—\n\nNow, Ba, my own Ba, you know how often I have to sorrowfully disclaim\nall the praises your dearest kindness would attach to me; this time, if\nyou will praise me a little for obeying you, I will take the praise—for\nthe truth of truths is, that I said at once to myself—‘have I a right to\navoid anything which promises to relieve Her from this eternal account of\naches and pains?’ So here am I writing, leaning on my elbow, in bed,—as\nI never wrote before I think—and perhaps my head is a little better, or\nI fancy so. Mind, I may read, or write,—only in bed I must lie, because\nthere is some temperature to be kept up in the skin, or some other cause\nas good—‘for reasons, for reasons.’\n\n‘The milk,’ answers Ba, is exactly to correct the superabundant gall of\nbitterness which overflowed lately about Flush. So it is, my own Ba—and\nfor Flush, the victim of a principle, he is just saved from a sickness by\ncakes I meditated as a joy-offering on his safe return. Will you, among\nthe other kisses, give him one for me? And save yet another for your own\nR.\n\nHow I shall need your letters, dearest!",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 7, 1846.]\n\nEver, ever dearest, how was it that without presentiment of evil I got\nup this morning in the good spirits of ‘_our_ days,’ hoping to see you,\nbelieving to see you, and feeling that it would be greater happiness than\nusual? The sight of your letter, even, did not provoke the cloud—_that_\nwas only the lesser joy, I thought, preceding the greater! And smiling\nto myself I was, both last night and this morning, at your phrase about\nthe ‘business’ to be talked by the ‘grave man and woman’; understanding\nyour precaution against all unlawful jesting!—jesters forbidden in the\nprotocol! And then, at last, to be made so suddenly grave and sad even!\nHow am I to be comforted, my own dearest? No way, except by your being\nreally better, really well—in order to which I shall not let you come\nas soon as Wednesday: it will not be wise for you to leave your bed for\na journey into London! Rather you should be very quiet, and keep in the\ngarden at farthest. Take care of yourself, dearest dearest, and if you\nthink of me and love me, show it in that best way. And I praise you,\npraise you,—nay, I thank you and am grateful to you for every such proof\nof love, more than for _other_ kinds of proof,—I will love you for it,\nmy beloved! Now judge—shall I be able to help thinking of you every\nmoment of the day? Could I help it, if I tried? In return, therefore,\nyou will attend to the orders, submit to the discipline—ah but, will not\nthe leaving off all food but milk weaken you out of measure? I am uneasy\nabout that milk-diet for _you_, who always seem to me to want support,\nand something to stimulate. You will promise to tell me _everything_—will\nyou, dearest?—whether better or worse, stronger or weaker, you will tell\nme? And if you should be too unwell to write, as may God forbid, your\nsister will write—she will have that great goodness? Let it be so, I\nbeseech you.\n\nBut you will be better—oh, I mean to hope stedfastly toward your being\nbetter, and toward the possibility of our meeting before the week ends.\nAnd as for this day lost, it is not of importance except in our present\nthoughts: soon you will have more than enough of me, you know. For I am\nin earnest and not a jester _au fond_, and am ready to do just as you bid\nme and think best—which I tell you now, that you may not be vexed at a\nshadow, after my own fashion. May God bless you—‘_and me in you_.’ Have\nI not leave to say _that_, too, since I feel it more than you could ...\n(more intensely ... I do not say more sincerely ...) when you used it\nfirst? My happiness and life are in you,—I am your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nYour mother—how is she? Mind you get an amusing book ... something to\namuse only, and not use you. Do you know the ‘Mathilde’ of Sue? I shall\nwrite again to-night.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 7, 1846.]\n\nI had the greatest mind, when your letter came—(the most welcome of all\nletters—so much more than I could expect!)—to get up at once and be well\nin your dearest eyes or through them—but I checked myself and thought\nthat I ought to be contented with one such a letter through whole long\nweeks of annoyance, instead of one day more.\n\nI am delighted to know Flush is with you, if I am not. Did you remember\nmy petition about him? But, dearest, it _was_ very imprudent to go to\nthose disgusting wretches yourself—they have had a pretty honour without\nknowing it!\n\nHere I lie with a dizzy head—unable to read more than a page or two ...\nthere is something in the unwonted position that tires me—but whenever\nthe book is left off, I turn to the dark side of the room and see you, my\nvery own Ba,—and so I am soon better and able to try again.\n\nHow hot, and thunder-like this oppressive air! And you who are affected\nby such weather? Tell me, my dearest dearest, all you can tell me—since\nthe real lips and eyes are away.\n\nBless you, my beloved. Remember, I count upon seeing you on Wednesday at\nfarthest.\n\n                                                               Your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Night.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 8, 1846.]\n\nHow unwell you are, dearest beloved! Ah no! It is not ‘the position that\ntires you,’ it is the illness that incapacitates you. And _you_ to think\nof getting up and coming here ... you! Now, for my sake, for both our\nsakes, you _must_ and _shall_ be patient and quiet, and remember how\nmy thoughts are with you conjuring you continually to quiet. As to the\nreading, ... you see it makes you dizzy,—and to provoke that sensation\ncannot plainly be right: and you will be right always, will you not, for\nmy sake, dearest of all? And for the coming here on Wednesday, ... no,\nno, I say again,—you ought not to do it, and you shall not: we will see\nhow you are, later in the week; but for Wednesday, certainly no. That\nviolent transition from the bed to the omnibus would be manifestly wrong.\nAlso I can be quite satisfied without seeing you, if I may but hear of\nyour being well again. I wonder to-day how yesterday I was impatient\nabout not having seen you so long. Oh, be well, be well, dearest! There\nis no need of your being ill to prove to me how I love you entirely, how\nI love you only!\n\nFor Flush, I did your commission, kissing the top of his head: then I\ntook the kiss back again because it seemed too good for him _just now_.\nAnd you shall not say that you ‘are glad _he_ is with me if _you_ are\nnot’? It is more to Flush’s disadvantage, that phrase is than all your\ntheories which pretended to leave him with the dogstealers. How can I be\nglad of anyone’s being with me if you are not? And how should _you_ be\nglad for anything, if _I_ am not? Flush and I know our logic better than\nto accept that congratulation of yours, with the spike pricking us out of\nit.\n\nSo hot, indeed, to-day! If you thought of me, I thought of you, through\nit all. This close air cannot be good for you while you are shut up. But\n_I_ have not been shut up. I went out in the carriage and bought a pair\nof boots for Italy, besides the shoes—because, you see, we shall have\nsuch long walks in the forest after the camels, and it won’t do to go\nin one’s slippers. Does not _that_ sound like ‘a grave woman?’ You need\nnot make laws against the jesters, after all! You need only be well!\nAnd, gravely, quite gravely, is it not likely that going to Italy, that\ntravelling, and putting an end to all the annoyances which lately have\ngrown up out of our affairs, will do you good, substantial good, in this\nchief matter of your health? It seems so to me sometimes. You are always\nwell, you say, in Italy, and when you get there once again. But in the\nmeanwhile, try to be a little better, my own dearest! I cannot write to\nyou except about you to-night. The subject is too near me—I am under the\nshadow of the wall, and cannot see over it. To-morrow I shall hear more,\nand _trust to you_ to tell me the whole, unmutilated truth. May God bless\nyou, as _I_ would, _I_ in my weakness! For the best blessing on your\npart, love your own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nAnd do not tire yourself with writing. The least line—three words—I\nbeseech you not to let me do you harm.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 8, 1846.]\n\nDo you think your wishes, much less your blessings, fall to the\nground, my own Ba? Here is your letter, and here am I writing to you,\n‘clothed and in my proper’ room My doctor bade me ‘get up and do as\nI pleased’—and the perfect pleasure is to say, I may indeed see you\nto-morrow, dearest, dearest! Can you look as you look in this letter? So\nentirely my own, and yet,—what should never be my own, by right ... such\na treasure to one so little worthy!\n\nI have only a few minutes to say this,—the dressing and talking having\ntaken up the time. To-morrow shall repay me!\n\nThe lightness, slight uneasiness of the head, continues, though the\ngeneral health is much better, it seems.\n\nDo you doubt I shall be well in Italy? But I must leave off. Bless you as\nyou have blessed me, my best, dearest Ba, me who am your very own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Evening.\n                                           [Post-mark, September 9, 1846.]\n\nI write a word to say, ... dearest, do not run any risk about coming\nto-morrow. I mean, ... unless you are sure that the noise and exertion\nwill not be too much for you,—unless, when the moment comes for setting\noff, you feel equal to it ... now, I do beseech you, very dear, not to\npersist in coming because you have said that you will come—I beseech you.\nListen. At three o’clock I shall expect you doubtfully; at half-past\nthree, the doubt will be the strongest; and at a quarter to four, I shall\nhave said to myself cheerfully, that you were wise and good and had\ndetermined to stay at home. In that case, I shall have a line from you by\nfive or six! Understand all this, and let it have the right influence and\nno more. Of course if I could see you without harm to yourself, and so to\nme, it would be a _great happiness_: it even makes me happy to think of,\nas a bare possibility, at this distance off! I am happy by your letter,\ntwice over, indeed—once, for _that_ reason, ... and again, for the\nthought of your being in some respects better. At the same time I do not\nsee why your wise man did not follow his plan to the end. It looks as if\nhe did not think you better essentially because of it. Ah well, I shall\nsee with my eyes to-morrow—_perhaps_ I shall: and I shall see in a dream\nto-night more certainly.\n\nThis shall go at once, though, that it may reach you in time in the\nmorning. How I thank you for the precious note! You are so much too good\nto me, that your being also too _dear_ is an excusable consequence—or\nwould be, if it were possible. I write nonsense, I believe,—but it is\nhalf for gladness ... and half ... for what makes me your own\n\n                                                                       BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday Night.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 10, 1846.]\n\nDearest, you are a prophet, I suppose—there can be no denying it. This\nnight, an edict has gone out, and George is to-morrow to be on his way to\ntake a house for a month either at Dover, Reigate, Tunbridge, ... Papa\ndid ‘not mind which,’ he said, and ‘you may settle it among you!!’ but he\n‘must have this house empty for a month in order to its cleaning’—we are\nto go therefore and not delay.\n\nNow!—what _can_ be done? It is possible that the absence may be longer\nthan for a month, indeed it is probable—for there is much to do in\npainting and repairing, here in Wimpole Street, more than a month’s work\nthey say. Decide, after thinking. I am embarrassed to the utmost degree,\nas to the best path to take. If we are taken away on Monday ... what then?\n\nOf course I decline to give any opinion and express any preference,—as\nto places, I mean. It is not for my sake that we go:—if _I_ had been\nconsidered at all, indeed, we should have been taken away earlier, ...\nand not certainly now, when the cold season is at hand. And so much the\nbetter it is for me, that I have not, obviously, been thought of.\n\nTherefore decide! It seems quite too soon and too sudden for us to set\nout on our Italian adventure now—and perhaps even we could not compass—\n\nWell—but you must think for both of us. It is past twelve and I have just\na moment to seal this and entrust it to Henrietta for the morning’s post.\n\n                       More than ever beloved, I am\n\n                                                              Your own BA.\n\nI will do as you wish—understand.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Thursday Morning.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 10, 1846.]\n\nWhat do you expect this letter will be about, my own dearest? Those\nwhich I write on the mornings after our days seem naturally to _answer_\nany strong point brought out in the previous discourse, and not then\ncompletely disposed of ... so they generally run in the vile fashion of a\ndisputatious ‘last word’; ‘one word yet’—do not they? Ah, but you should\nremember that never does it feel so intolerable,—the barest fancy of a\npossibility of losing you—as when I have just seen you and heard you and,\nalas—left you for a time; on these occasions, it seems so horrible—that\nif the least recollection of a fear of yours, or a doubt ... anything\nwhich might be nursed, or let grow quietly into a serious obstacle to\nwhat we desire—if _that_ rises up threateningly,—do you wonder that I\nbegin by attacking _it_? There are always a hundred deepest reasons for\ngratitude and love which I could write about, but which my after life\nshall prove I never have forgotten ... still, that very after-life\ndepends perhaps on the letter of the morning reasoning with you, teazing,\ncontradicting. Dearest Ba, I do not tell you that I am justified in\nplaguing you thus, at any time ... only to get your pardon, if I can, on\nthe grounds—the true grounds.\n\nAnd this pardon, if you grant it, shall be for the past offences, not\nfor any fresh one I mean to commit now. I will not add one word to those\nspoken yesterday about the extreme perilousness of delay. You _give_ me\nyourself. Hitherto, from the very first till this moment, the giving hand\nhas been advancing steadily—it is not for me to grasp it lest it stop\nwithin an inch or two of my forehead with its crown.\n\nI am going to Town this morning, and will leave off now.\n\nWhat a glorious dream; through nearly two years—without a single interval\nof blankness,—much less, bitter waking!\n\nI may say _that_, I suppose, safely through whatever befalls!\n\nAlso I will ever say, God bless you, my dearest dearest,—my perfect angel\nyou have been! While I am only your R.\n\nMy mother is deeply gratified at your present.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n12 o’clock. On returning I find your note,\n\n‘I will do as you wish—understand’—then I understand you are in earnest.\nIf you _do_ go on Monday, our marriage will be impossible for another\nyear—the misery! You see what we have gained by waiting. We must be\n_married directly_ and go to Italy. I will go for a licence to-day and\nwe can be married on Saturday. I will call to-morrow at 3 and arrange\neverything with you. We can leave from Dover &c., _after_ that,—but\notherwise, impossible! Inclose the ring, or a substitute—I have not a\nminute to spare for the post.\n\n                                                          Ever your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "4 p.m. Thursday.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 10, 1846.]\n\nI broke open your sealed letter and added the postscript just now. The\npost being thus saved, I can say a few words more leisurely.\n\nI will go to-morrow, I think, and not to-day for the licence—there are\nfixed hours I fancy at the office—and I might be too late. I will also\nmake the arrangement with my friend for Saturday, if we should want\nhim,—as we shall, in all probability—it would look suspiciously to be\nunaccompanied. We can arrange to-morrow.\n\nYour words, first and last, have been that you ‘would not fail me’—you\nwill not.\n\nAnd the marriage over, you can take advantage of circumstances and\ngo early or late in the week, as may be practicable. There will be\nfacilities in the general packing &c.,—your own measures may be taken\nunobserved. Write short notes to the proper persons,—promising longer\nones, if necessary.\n\nSee the _tone_ I take, the way I write to _you_ ... but it is all through\nyou, in the little brief authority you give me,—and in the perfect\nbelief of your truth and firmness—indeed, I do not consider this an\nextraordinary occasion for proving those qualities—this conduct of your\nfather’s is quite characteristic.\n\nOtherwise, too, the departure with its bustle is not unfavourable.\nIf you hesitated, it would be before a little hurried shopping and\nletter-writing! I expected it, and therefore spoke as you heard\nyesterday. _Now your_ part must begin. It may as well begin and end,\nboth, _now_ as at any other time. I will bring you every information\npossible to-morrow.\n\nIt seems as if I should insult you if I spoke a word to confirm you, to\nbeseech you, to relieve you from your promise, if you claim it.\n\n                                          God bless you, prays your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Thursday.\n                                       [Post-mark, September 11, 1846.][7]\n\nDearest, I write one word, and have one will which is yours. At the\nsame time, do not be precipitate—we shall not be taken away on Monday,\nno, nor for several days afterward. George has simply gone to look for\nhouses—going to Reigate first.\n\nOh yes—come to-morrow. And then, you shall have the ring ... soon enough\nand safer.\n\nNot a word of how you are!—_you_ so good as to write me that letter\nbeyond compact, yet not good enough, to say how you are! Dear, dearest\n... take care, and keep yourself unhurt and calm. I shall not fail to\nyou—I do not, I will not. I will act by your decision, and I wish you to\ndecide. I was yours long ago, and though you give me back my promise at\nthis eleventh hour, ... you generous, dear unkind! ... you know very well\nthat you can do as well without it. So take it again for my sake and not\nyour own.\n\nI cannot write, I am so tired, having been long out. Will not this dream\nbreak on a sudden? Now is the moment for the breaking of it, surely.\n\nBut come to-morrow, come. Almost everybody is to be away at Richmond, at\na picnic, and we shall be free on all sides.\n\n                                                    Ever and ever your BA.\n\n[7] [The envelope of this letter is endorsed by R.B. ‘Saturday, Septr.\n12, 1846, ¼11—11¼ A.M. (91).’ This is the record of his marriage with\nE.B.B. in Marylebone Church. The number 91 indicates that it was the\nninety-first of their meetings, a record of which was always endorsed\nby Robert Browning on the letters received by him from Miss Barrett.]",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "1 p.m. Saturday.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 12, 1846.]\n\nYou will only expect a few words—what will those be? When the heart is\nfull it may run over, but the real fulness stays within.\n\nYou asked me yesterday ‘if I should repent?’ Yes—my own Ba,—I could\nwish all the past were to do over again, that in it I might somewhat\nmore,—never so little more, conform in the outward homage to the inward\nfeeling. What I have professed ... (for I have performed nothing) seems\nto fall short of what my first love required even—and when I think of\n_this_ moment’s love ... I could repent, as I say.\n\nWords can never tell you, however,—form them, transform them anyway,—how\nperfectly dear you are to me—perfectly dear to my heart and soul.\n\nI look back, and in every one point, every word and gesture, every\nletter, every _silence_—you have been entirely perfect to me—I would not\nchange one word, one look.\n\nMy hope and aim are to preserve this love, not to fall from it—for which\nI trust to God who procured it for me, and doubtlessly can preserve it.\n\nEnough now, my dearest, dearest, own Ba! You have given me the highest,\ncompletest proof of love that ever one human being gave another. I am all\ngratitude—and all pride (under the proper feeling which ascribes pride to\nthe right source) all pride that my life has been so crowned by you.\n\nGod bless you prays your very own R.\n\nI will write to-morrow of course. Take every care of _my life_ which is\nin that dearest little hand; try and be composed, my beloved.\n\nRemember to thank Wilson for me.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Saturday. Sept. 12.—4½ p.m.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 12, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest, I write a word that you may read it and know how all is\nsafe so far, and that I am not slain downright with the day—oh, _such\na day_! I went to Mr. Boyd’s directly, so as to send Wilson home the\nfaster—and was able to lie quietly on the sofa in his sitting-room\ndown-stairs, before he was ready to see me, being happily engaged with a\nmedical councillor. Then I was made to talk and take Cyprus wine,—and,\nmy sisters delaying to come, I had some bread and butter for dinner,\nto keep me from looking too pale in their eyes. At last they came, and\nwith such grave faces! Missing me and Wilson, they had taken fright,—and\nArabel had forgotten at first what I told her last night about the fly.\nI kept saying, ‘What nonsense, ... what fancies you do have to be sure,’\n... trembling in my heart with every look they cast at me. And so, to\ncomplete the bravery, I went on with them in the carriage to Hampstead\n... as far as the heath,—and talked and looked—now you shall praise me\nfor courage—or rather you shall love me for the love which was the root\nof it all. How necessity makes heroes—or heroines at least! For I did not\nsleep all last night, and when I first went out with Wilson to get to the\nfly-stand in Marylebone Street I staggered so, that we both were afraid\nfor the fear’s sake,—but we called at a chemist’s for sal volatile and\nwere thus enabled to go on. I spoke to her last night, and she was very\nkind, very affectionate, and never shrank for a moment. I told her that\nalways I should be grateful to her.\n\nYou—how are you? how is your head, ever dearest?\n\nIt seems all like a dream! When we drove past that church again, I and my\nsisters, there was a cloud before my eyes. Ask your mother to forgive me,\nRobert. If _I_ had not been there, _she_ would have been there, perhaps.\n\nAnd for the rest, if either of us two is to suffer injury and sorrow for\nwhat happened there to-day—I pray that it may all fall upon _me_! Nor\nshould I suffer the most pain _that_ way, as I know, and God knows.\n\n                                 Your own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nWas I very uncourteous to your cousin? So kind, too, it was in him!\nCan there be the least danger of the newspapers? Are those books ever\nexamined by penny-a-liners, do you suppose?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Sunday.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 14, 1846.]\n\nMy own beloved, if ever you should have reason to complain of me in\nthings voluntary and possible, all other women would have a right to\ntread me underfoot, I should be so vile and utterly unworthy. There is my\nanswer to what you wrote yesterday of wishing to be better to me ... you!\nWhat could be better than lifting me from the ground and carrying me into\nlife and the sunshine? I was yours rather by right than by gift (yet by\ngift also, my beloved!); for what you have saved and renewed is surely\nyours. All that I am, I owe you—if I enjoy anything now and henceforth,\nit is through you. You know this well. Even as _I_, from the beginning,\nknew that I had no power against you, ... or that, if I _had_, it was for\nyour sake.\n\nDearest, in the emotion and confusion of yesterday morning, there was yet\nroom in me for one thought which was not a feeling—for I thought that,\nof the many, many women who have stood where I stood, and to the same\nend, not one of them all perhaps, not one perhaps, since that building\nwas a church, has had reasons strong as mine, for an absolute trust and\ndevotion towards the man she married,——not one! And then I both thought\nand felt, that it was only just, for them, ... those women who were less\nhappy, ... to have that affectionate sympathy and support and presence of\ntheir nearest relations, parent or sister ... which failed to _me_, ...\nneeding it less through being happier!\n\nAll my brothers have been here this morning, laughing and talking, and\ndiscussing this matter of the leaving town,—and in the room, at the same\ntime, were two or three female friends of ours, from Herefordshire—and\nI did not _dare_ to cry out against the noise, though my head seemed\nsplitting in two (one half for each shoulder), I had such a morbid fear\nof exciting a suspicion. Treppy too being one of them, I promised to go\nto see her to-morrow and dine in her drawing-room if she would give me,\nfor dinner, some bread and butter. It was like having a sort of fever.\nAnd all in the midst, the bells began to ring. ‘What bells are those?’\nasked one of the provincials. ‘Marylebone Church bells’ said Henrietta,\nstanding behind my chair.\n\nAnd now ... while I write, having escaped from the great din, and sit\nhere quietly,—comes ... who do you think?—Mr. Kenyon.\n\nHe came with his spectacles, looking as if his eyes reached to their\nrim all the way round; and one of the first words was, ‘_When did you\nsee Browning?_’ And I think I shall make a pretension to presence of\nmind henceforward; for, though _certainly_ I changed colour and he saw\nit, I yet answered with a tolerably quick evasion, ... ‘He was here on\nFriday’—and leapt straight into another subject, and left him gazing\nfixedly on my face. Dearest, he saw something, but not all. So we talked,\ntalked. He told me that the ‘Fawn of Sertorius,’ (which I refused to cut\nopen the other day,) was ascribed to Landor—and he told me that he meant\nto leave town again on Wednesday, and would see me once before then. On\nrising to go away, he mentioned your name a second time ... ‘When do you\nsee Browning again?’ To which I answered that I did not know.\n\nIs not _that_ pleasant? The worst is that all these combinations of\nthings make me feel so bewildered that I cannot make the necessary\narrangements, as far as the letters go. But I must break from the\ndream-stupor which falls on me when left to myself a little, and set\nabout what remains to be done.\n\nA house near Watford is thought of now—but, as none is concluded on,\nthe removal is not likely to take place in the middle of the week even,\nperhaps.\n\nI sit in a dream, when left to myself. I cannot believe, or understand.\nOh! but in all this difficult, embarrassing and painful situation, I\nlook over the palms to Troy—I feel happy and exulting to belong to you,\npast every opposition, out of sight of every will of man—none can put us\nasunder, now, at least. I have a right now openly to love you, and to\nhear other people call it _a duty_, when I do, ... knowing that if it\nwere a sin, it would be done equally. Ah—_I_ shall not be first to leave\noff _that_—see if I shall! May God bless you, ever and ever dearest!\nBeseech for me the indulgence of your father and mother, and ask your\nsister to love me. I feel so as if I had slipped down over the wall into\nsomebody’s garden—I feel ashamed. To be grateful and affectionate to them\nall, while I live, is all that I can do, and it is too much a matter of\ncourse to need to be promised. Promise it however for your very own Ba\nwhom you made so happy with the dear letter last night. But say in the\nnext how you are—and how your mother is.\n\nI did hate so, to have to take off the ring! You will have to take the\ntrouble of putting it on again, some day.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Sunday Afternoon.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 14, 1846.]\n\nThank you a thousand times for the note, my own Ba. I welcomed it as I\nnever yet welcomed even _your_ notes; entirely kind to write, and write\n_so_! Oh, I know the effort you made, the pain you bore for my sake! I\ntell you, once and for ever, your proof of love to me is _made_ ... I\n_know_ love, my dearest dearest: my whole life shall be spent in trying\nto furnish such a proof of _my_ affection; such a perfect proof,—and\nperhaps vainly spent—but I will endeavour with God’s help. Do you feel\nwhat I mean, dearest? How you have dared and done all this, under my very\neyes, for my only sake? I believed you would be capable of it—what then?\nWhat is a belief? My own eyes have seen—my heart will remember!\n\nDearest, nothing needs _much_ trouble you farther: take your own time and\nopportunity. I confide in your judgment—(for I am not going to profess\nconfidence in _you_!)—I am sure you will see and act for the best. My\npreparations are made; I have only to await your desires. I will not ask\nto see you, for instance—though of course a word brings me as usual to\nyou—your will is altogether my will.\n\nThe first obvious advantage of our present relation, I will take. You are\nmine—your generosity has given to me my utmost claim upon your family—so\nfar as I am concerned, putting aside my sympathy with you, there is\nnothing more they _can_ give me: so, I will say, perhaps a little less\nreservedly than I could have brought myself to say before, that there\nis no conceivable submission I will refuse, nor possible satisfaction I\nwill hesitate to make to those feelings I have been forced to offend, if\nby any means I may preserve, for _you_, so much of their affection as\nyou have been accustomed to receive; I do not require anything beyond\n_toleration_ for myself ... I will cheerfully accept as the truest\nkindness to me, a continuance of kindness _to you_. You know what I would\nhave done to possess you:—now that I _do_ possess you, I renew the offer\nto _you_ ... judge with what earnest purpose of keeping my word! I do not\nthink ... nor do you think ... that any personal application, directly\nor by letter, would do any good—it might rather add to the irritation we\napprehend: but my consent is given beforehand to any measure you shall\never consider proper. And your father may be sure that while I adore\nhis daughter it will be impossible for me, under any circumstances,\nto be wanting in the utmost respect for, and observance of, himself.\nUnderstand, with the rest, why I write this, Ba. To your brothers and\nsisters I am bound for ever,—by every tie of gratitude: _they_ may\nacquiesce more easily ... comprehending more, perhaps, of the dear\ntreasure you are, they will forgive my ambition of gaining it. I will\nwrite to Mr. Kenyon. You will probably have time to write all the letters\nrequisite.\n\nDo not trouble yourself with more than is strictly necessary—you can\nsupply all wants at Leghorn or Pisa. Let us be as unencumbered with\nluggage as possible.\n\nWhat is your opinion about the advertisements? If our journey is\ndelayed for a few days, we had better omit the _date_, I think. And the\n_cards_? I will get them engraved if you will direct me. The simplest\nform of course:—and the last (or among the last) happens to be also the\nsimplest, consisting merely of the words ‘Mr. and Mrs. R.B.’ on _one_\ncard—with the usual ‘at home’ in a corner. How shall we manage _that_,\nby the way? Could we put ‘In Italy for a year?’ There is precedent\nfor it—Sir—Fellows’ (what is the traveller’s name?)—_his_ were thus\nsubscribed. By which means we should avoid telling people absolutely,\nthat they need never come and see us. Choose your own fashion, my Ba, and\ntell me how many you require.\n\nI only saw my cousin for a few minutes afterward—he came up in a cab\nimmediately—he understood all there was need he should. _You_ to be\n‘uncourteous’ to anybody! no, no—sweetest! But I will thank him as you\nbid, knowing the value of Ba’s thanks! For the prying penny-a-liners ...\nwhy, trust to Providence—we must! I do not apprehend much danger....\n\nDearest, I woke this morning _quite well_—quite free from the sensation\nin the head. I have not woke _so_, for two years perhaps—what have you\nbeen doing to me?\n\nMy father and mother and sister love you thoroughly—my mother said this\nmorning, in my room, ‘If I were as I have been, I would try and write\nto her’—I said, ‘I will tell her what I know you feel.’ She is much\nbetter—(I hear her voice while I write ... below the open window). Poor\nPritchard came home from the country on Friday _night_—late—and posted\nhere immediately—he was vexed to be made understand that there was some\nway in which he might have served me and did not. It was kind, very kind\nof Wilson.\n\nI will leave off—to resume to-morrow. Bless you, my very own, only Ba—my\npride, and joy, and utter comfort. I kiss you and am ever your own.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 14, 1846.]\n\nYou go on to comfort me, love—bless you for it. I collect from the letter\nthat you are recovering from the pain and excitement; that is happy! I\nwaited to hear from you, my own Ba, and will only write a word—then go\nout—_think_.\n\nDo you feel _so_, through the anxieties and trouble of this situation?\nYou take my words from me—_I_ ‘exult’ in the irrevocability of this\nprecious bestowal of yourself on me—come what will my life has borne\nflower and fruit—it is a glorious, successful, felicitous life, I thank\nGod and you.\n\nAll has been for the best, you will see, even in these apparently\nuntoward circumstances—this particular act was _precipitated_ by\nthem, certainly—but it is done, and well done. Does it not simplify\nour arrangements that this is _done_? And surely there was every\njustification for the precipitancy in that proposed journey, and\nuncertain return,—(in Winter to a freshly-painted house!) But every\nmoment of my life brings fresh proof to me of the intervention of\nProvidence. How the _natural_ course would have embarrassed us!—any\nconsultation with you respecting your own feelings on a removal at\npresent—any desire to gratify them....\n\nWill not Mr. Kenyon understand at least? Would it not be well to\nascertain his precise address in the country,—so as to send your letter\nthere, before the newspaper reaches him,—or any other person’s version?\nI will send you my letter to accompany yours—just a few words to explain\nwhy he was not consulted—(by _me_) ... what is strictly _my own_ part to\nbe excused. What do you intend to do about Mrs. Jameson? I only want to\nknow in the case of our mutual friends, of course, so as to avoid the\nnecessity of going over the same ground in our letters.\n\nI confided my approaching marriage to that kind old Pritchard, lest he\nshould be too much wounded—if his surprise was considerable, his delight\nkept due proportion. You may depend on his secrecy—I need not say, I\nmentioned the fact _simply_ ... without a word about any circumstances.\nIf your father could be brought to allow the matter to pass as\n_indifferent_ to him ... what he did not choose to interfere with,\nhowever little he approved it,—we should be fortunate? Perhaps pride, if\nno kinder feeling, may induce him to that.\n\nMy family all love you, dearest—you cannot conceive my father\nand mother’s childlike faith in goodness—and my sister is very\nhigh-spirited, and quick of apprehension—so as to seize the true point\nof the case at once. I am in great hopes you will love them all, and\nunderstand them. Last night, I asked my father, who was absorbed over\nsome old book, ‘if he should not be glad to see his new daughter?’—to\nwhich he, starting, replied ‘Indeed I _shall_!’ with such a fervour as\nto make my mother laugh—not abated by his adding, ‘And how I should be\nglad of her seeing Sis!’ his other daughter, Sarianna, to wit—who was at\nchurch.\n\nTrifles, trifles, only commended to your dear, affectionate heart. Do\nyou confide in me, Ba? Well, you _shall_!—in my love, in my pride, in\nmy heart’s purposes; but not in anything else. Give me your counsel at\nall times, beloved: I am wholly open to your desires, and teaching, and\ndirection. Try what you can make of me,—if you can in any way justify\nyour choice to the world. So _I_ would gladly counsel you on any point!\nSee how I read lectures about Flush! Only give a kiss before beginning,\nand promise me another upon my profiting,—and I shall be twice blessed\nbeside the profit. So, _my_ counsel being done, here begin the kisses,\nyou dear dear Ba of mine. Bless you ever, Ba! I continue _quite well_—is\nit not strange ... or _is_ it? And my mother is better decidedly. When\nshe comes back from town (where she and my sister are caring for me) I\nwill tell her what you bade me promise to give her—in return for what she\nhas long given you. Good-bye, my own—very own Ba, from your R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Morning.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 14, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest, this one word goes to you to say about Mr. Kenyon’s\nletter—oh, do not send any letter, dearest, till we are out of hearing of\nthe answer. It terrifies me to think of your sending a letter, perhaps,\nwithout delay. Do let no letter nor intimation be given till the very\nlast. Remember that I shall be _killed_—it will be so infinitely worse\nthan you can have an idea.\n\nAfterwards—yes!—you will, for my sake forget some natural pride, as\nI, for yours, have forgotten some as natural apprehensiveness. That\nkindness, I expected from you, ... and now accept ... thanking you,\ndearest. In the meanwhile, there seems to remain the dreadful danger of\nthe newspapers—we must trust, as you say.\n\nYour mother’s goodness touches me very deeply. I am grateful to her and\nto all your family, beyond any power of mine to express my feelings. Let\nme be silent therefore, instead of trying.\n\nAs to the important business of the cards, you know I have heard the\nwhole theory of etiquette lately on that subject, and you must not think\nof putting any ‘_At home_’ anywhere, or any other thing in the place of\nit. A Fellows is an authority in Asia Minor, but for the _minora_ of the\ncards, not at all. Put simply the names, as you say, on one card, only\nwithout abbreviation or initial, and no intimation of address, which is\nnot necessary, and would be under our circumstances quite wrong. Then I\nhad better perhaps send you a list of names and addresses. But for this,\nenough time.\n\nThey hasten me—I must go. Not from the thought however of you ... being\nyour very own Ba.\n\nI shall write of course in the evening again.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Monday Evening.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 15, 1846.]\n\nFirst, God is to be thanked for this great joy of hearing that you are\nbetter, my ever dearest—it is a joy that floats over all the other\nemotions. Dearest, I am so glad! I had feared that excitement’s telling\non you quite in another way. When the whole is done, and we have left\nEngland and the talkers thereof behind our backs, you will be well,\nsteadfastly and satisfactorily, I do trust. In the meantime, there seems\nso much to do, that I am frightened to look towards the heaps of it. As\nto accoutrements, everything has been arranged as simply as possible that\nway—but still there are necessities—and the letters, the letters! I am\nparalysed when I think of having to write such words as ... ‘Papa, I am\nmarried; I hope you will not be too displeased.’ Ah, poor Papa! You are\ntoo sanguine if you expect any such calm from him as an assumption of\nindifference would imply. To the utmost, he will be angry,—he will cast\nme off as far from him. Well—there is no comfort in such thoughts. How I\nfelt to-night when I saw him at seven o’clock, for the first time since\nFriday, and the event of Saturday! He spoke kindly too, and asked me how\nI was. Once I heard of his saying of me that I was ‘the purest woman\nhe ever knew,’—which made me smile at the moment, or laugh I believe,\noutright, because I understood perfectly what he meant by _that_—viz—that\nI had not troubled him with the iniquity of love affairs, or any\nimpropriety of seeming to think about being married. But now the whole\nsex will go down with me to the perdition of faith in any of us. See the\neffect of my wickedness!—‘Those women!’\n\nBut we will submit, dearest. I will put myself under his feet, to be\nforgiven a little, ... enough to be taken up again into his arms. I\nlove him—he is my father—he has good and high qualities after all: he\nis my father _above_ all. And _you_, because you are so generous and\ntender to me, will let me, you say, and help me to try to win back the\nalienated affection—for which, I thank you and bless you,—I did not thank\nyou enough this morning. Surely I may say to him, too, ... ‘With the\nexception of this act, I have submitted to the least of your wishes all\nmy life long. Set the life against the act, and forgive me, for the sake\nof the daughter you once loved.’ Surely I may say _that_,—and then remind\nhim of the long suffering I have suffered,—and entreat him to pardon the\nhappiness which has come at last.\n\nAnd _he_ will wish in return, that I had died years ago! For the storm\nwill come and endure. And at last, perhaps, he will forgive us—it is my\nhope.\n\nI accede to all you say of Mr. Kenyon. I will ask him for his address\nin the country, and we will send, when the moment comes, our letters\ntogether.\n\nFrom Mrs. Jameson I had the letter I enclose, this morning, (full of\nkindness—is it not?) and another really as kind from Miss Bayley, who\nbegs me, if I cannot go to Italy, to go to Hastings and visit her. To\nboth I must write at some length. Will _you_ write to Mrs. Jameson,\nbesides what I shall write? And what are we to say as to travelling?\nAs she is in Paris, perhaps we may let her have the solution of our\nproblem sooner than the near people. May we? shall we? Yet we dare not, I\nsuppose, talk too historically of what happened last Saturday. It is like\nthe dates in the newspaper—advertisements, which we must eschew, as you\nobserve.\n\nOther things, too, you observe, my beloved, which are altogether out\nof date. In your ways towards me, you have acted throughout too much\n‘the woman’s part,’ as that is considered. You loved me because I was\nlower than others, that you might be generous and raise me up:—very\ncharacteristic for a woman (in her ideal standard) but quite wrong for a\nman, as again and again I used to signify to you, Robert—but you went on\nand did it all the same. And now, you still go on—you persist—you will\nbe the woman of the play, to the last; let the prompter prompt ever so\nagainst you. You are to do everything I like, instead of my doing what\n_you_ like, ... and to ‘honour and obey’ _me_, in spite of what was in\nthe vows last Saturday,—is _that_ the way of it and of you? and are vows\nto be kept _so_, pray? after that fashion? Then, _don’t_ put ‘at home’ at\nthe corner of the cards, dearest! It is my command!\n\nAnd forgive the inveterate jesting, which jests with eyes full of tears.\nI love you—I bless God for you. You are too good for me, as always I\nknew. I look up to you continually.\n\nIt is best, I continue to think, that you should not come here—best\nfor _you_, because the position, if you were to try it, would be less\ntolerable than ever—and best for both of us, that in case the whole truth\nwere ever discovered (I mean, of the previous marriage) we might be able\nto call it simply an act in order to security. I don’t know how to put my\nfeeling into words, but I do seem to feel that it would be better, and\nless offensive to those whom we offend at any rate, to avoid all possible\nremark on this point. It seems better to a sort of instinct I have.\n\nThen, if I see you—farewell, the letter-writing. Oh no—there will be time\nenough when we are on the railway!—We shall talk then.\n\nAh—you say such things to me! Dearest, dearest_est_!—And you do not\nstart at that word, ‘Irrevocable,’ as I have had fancies that you might,\nwhen the time came!’ But you may recover, by putting out your hand, all\nyou have given me, ... nearly all. I never, never, being myself, could\nwillingly vex you, torment you. If I approach to it, you will tell me. I\nwill confide in you, to that end also. Dearest.\n\nAnd your father’s goodness, and the affectionateness of them all. When\nthey shall have learnt most that I am not worthy of you, they will have\nlearnt besides that I can be grateful to _them_ and you. Certainly I am\ncapable, I hope, of loving them all, well and with appreciation. And then\n... imagine the comfort I take to the deepest of my heart from these\nhands held out to me! For your sake! Yes, for your sake entirely!—and,\nso, the more dearly comforting to\n\n                                                         Your very own BA.\n\nThere is still difficulty about the house. They think of Tunbridge Wells.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday Morning.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 15, 1846.]\n\nMy own Ba, could you think me capable of such a step? I forget what I\nexactly said in the first letter, but in the second, which you have\nreceived by this, I know there is mention made of _your_ account which\nis to accompany mine. You never quite understood, I think, my feeling\nabout Mr. Kenyon and desire to tell him earlier. In the first place, at\nthe very _beginning_, he seemed to stand (as he did) in closer connection\nwith you than any other person I could communicate with,—therefore to\nrepresent, in some degree, your dear self in the worldly sense, and be\nable to impose on me any conditions &c. which your generous nature might\nbe silent on, and my ignorance and excitement overlook: then there was\nanother reason, the natural one, of our own ... _his_ friendship, rather,\nfor me, and the circumstance of his having in a manner introduced me to\nyour acquaintance,—at all events, facilitated my introduction,—and so\nbeing after a fashion responsible in some degree for my conduct. These\ntwo reasons, added to a general real respect for his circumspection and\nsagacity, and a desire to make both of them instruct me in the way of\ndoing you good. But you effectually convinced me that in neither case\nwould the benefit derivable balance the certain injury, or at least,\nannoyance, to himself—while you showed me that I should not be so truly\nserving you, as I had intended, by the plans I used to turn over in my\nmind.\n\nIn brief, it was written that your proof of love and trust to me was to\nbe complete, the _completest_—and I could not but be proud and submit—and\na few words will explain the mere sin against friendship. I quite, quite\nfeel as you feel, nor ever had the least intention of writing ... that\nis, of sending any letter,—till the very last. Be sure of it.\n\nFor the cards, I have just given orders, as you desire and as I entirely\nagree. The notion of a word about our _not being in England_ was only a\nfancy for your family’s sake—just to save people’s application to _them_,\nto know what had become of us—and I had heard Mr. Kenyon commend the\nconsiderateness of those ‘Lydian measures’ ... albeit there was ... or\nnarrowly escaped being—an awful oversight of the traveller’s which would\nhave made him the sad hero of a merry story for ever ... as I will tell\nyou some day. If you will send the addresses, at any time, that trouble\nwill be over. In all these mighty matters, be sure I shall never take the\nleast step without consulting you—will you draw up the advertisement,\nplease? I will supply the clergyman’s name &c. &c.\n\nI shall not see one friend more before I leave with you. So that nobody\nneeds divine that since the 12th, we have not been at Margate—seeking\n‘food for the mind’—\n\n                                                                  11¾ A.M.\n\nDearest, I agree to all—I will not see you, for those reasons. I think,\nas you may, that it will be a point in excuse of the precipitancy that a\nremoval was threatened for ‘next Monday perhaps’ ... which, finding us\nunprepared, would have been ruinous. Say all you would have me say to\nyour father,—no concession shall be felt by the side of your love. I will\nwrite a few words to Mrs. J.—her kindness is admirable and deserves the\nattention. For the _date_,—you will have seen the precautions I take,—I\nhope to see nobody now; but I don’t know that it will be necessary to\nsuppress it in the advertisement, if we can leave England by the end of\nthe week, as I hope ... do you not hope, too? For I see announcements,\nin to-day’s _Times_, of marriages on the 8th and 9th and our silence on\nthat particular might be only the beginning of some mystery ... as if it\nhad happened half a year ago, for instance. Beside, your relations will\nexamine the register. All rests with you, however—and _will_ rest, Ba! I\nshall ask you to do no more of my business that I can manage myself but\nwhere I can _not_ manage ... why, then you shall think for me,—that is my\ncommand!\n\nI suppose when a man buys a spinning-machine he loses dignity because\nhe lets _it_ weave stockings,—does not keep on with his clumsy fingers!\nNo, I will retain my honours, be certain,—you shall say, _Ego et rex\nmeus_ like Wolsey—or rather, like dear, dear Ba—like yourself I will ever\n_worship_! See the good of taking up arms against me out of that service!\nIf you ‘honour and obey’ me, ‘with my body I thee worship’—my best,\ndearest, sweetest Ba, and that I have avowed thus ‘irrevocably’—is the\nheart’s delight of your own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Tuesday.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 16, 1846.]\n\nDearest, you were in the right as usual, and I in a fright as sometimes.\nI took a mere fancy into my head about your writing to Mr. Kenyon. To-day\nhe came, and I did not see him—on the ground of a headache, which, though\nreal, was not really sufficient of itself to keep me from seeing him, if\nI had not distrusted my self-control—so I did not see him. To-morrow he\ngoes away. His letters will of course be made to follow him, and we may\neasily precede the newspapers by a day or two.\n\nAs for the advertisements, you quite amuse me by telling me to compose\nan advertisement. How should I know better than you, dearest, or as\nwell even? All I intermeddle with willingly is the matter of the\ndate—although there is something in what you say about the mystery, and\nthe idea of our being six months married—still it is our disquieted\nconscience that gives us such thoughts—and when the advertisement\nappears and the cards come out so very properly, people will not have\nenough imagination to apprehend a single mystery in the case: and the\nomission of the date will not be so singular ... will it? On the other\nhand I apprehend evil from the date of the marriage being known. One of\nmy brothers may be sent to examine the register, but would not betray\nthe fact in question, _I think_, to my father; would not, I am certain,\nwillingly give cause for additional irritation against me. But if the\ndate be publicly announced, Papa must know it, and most of my personal\nfriends will be sure to know it. I have written letters and seen people\nsince the twelfth ... Mr. Kenyon on Sunday, Miss Bordman on Monday.\nMoreover Papa would be exposed to unpleasant observations—he going\nevery day among his City friends, and on Saturday among the rest. What\nquantities of good reasons, ... till you are tired of them and me!\n\nWould you put it this way.... At such a church, by such a minister,\nRobert Browning Esquire, of New Cross, author of ‘Paracelsus,’ to\nElizabeth Barrett, eldest daughter of Edward Moulton Barrett Esquire of\nWimpole Street. Would you put it so? I do not understand really, ... and\nwhether you should be specified as the author of ‘Paracelsus’ ... but,\nfor _me_, it ought to be, I think, simply as I have written it. Oh, and\nI forgot to tell you that what we did on Saturday is quite _invalid_, so\nthat you may give me up now if you like—it isn’t too late. You gave me a\nwrong name—_Moulton_ is no Christian name of mine. Moulton Barrett is our\nfamily name; Elizabeth Barrett, my Christian name—Behold and see!\n\nI will send the list if I can have time to-night to write it—but the\nhaste, the hurry—do you think, when in your right mind, of getting away\nthis week? Think of the work before us! Next Monday is the day fixed for\nthe general departure to a house taken at Little Bookham or Hookham ...\nwhat is it? Well—we must think. Tell me when you want me to go. I might\ngo from the new house, perhaps. But you will think, dearest, and tell me.\nTell me first, though, how your head continues or begins again ... for I\nfear that the good news is too sudden to last long—I fear.\n\nThankful, thankful I shall be when we are gone out of reach of evil,\nwhen I shall have heard that my poor dearest Papa is only angry with me,\nand not sorry because of me, and that Henrietta and Arabel are not too\nmiserable. They come between me and the thought of you often—but I do\nnot, for _that_, love you less—oh no. You are best and dearest in saying\nwhat you say—only, observe, there is not any practicable ‘concession’ now\nfor you. All you can do now, is what you will do ... in being tolerant,\nand gentle, for my sake. My own dearest, I am your\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nThe list to-morrow.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "Wednesday.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 16, 1846.]\n\nEver dearest, you are right about the date ... so it shall be—and so the\nadvertisement shall run, save and except the avowal of ‘Paracelsus’ ...\nI avow _you_, and to add another title of honour would succeed no better\nthan in Dalhousie’s case, who was ‘God of War and Lieutenant-general\nto the Earl of Mar.’ I wanted the description &c. of your father. What\na strange mistake I made—(but as for invalidation, oh no!)—I save your\nevery word and then apply them thus! (In to-day’s _Times_ is a notice\nwithout a date ... not looking at all singular. It is far better).\n\nIt is absolutely for yourself to decide on the day and the mode—if for\nno other reason, because I am quite ready, and shall have no kind of\ndifficulty; while you have every kind. Make the arrangements that promise\nmost comfort to yourself. Observe the packets and alter the route if\nnecessary. There is one from Brighton to Dieppe every day, for instance\n... but then the getting to Rouen! The Havre-boat leaves Southampton,\n_Wednesdays_ and _Saturdays_—and Portsmouth, _Mondays_ and _Thursdays_.\nThe boat from London, Thursdays and Saturdays at 9 A.M.\n\nI do not know where ‘Bookham’ is—you must decide ... I am sure you will\nbe anxious to get away.\n\nThe business of the letters will grow less difficult when once begun—see\nif it will not! and in these four or five days whole epics might be\nwritten, much more letters. Have you arranged all with Wilson? Take, of\ncourse, the simplest possible wardrobe &c.—so as to reduce our luggage\nto the very narrowest compass. The expense—(beside the common sense of a\nlittle luggage)—is considerable—every ounce being paid for. Let us treat\nour journey as a mere journey—we can return for what else we want, or\nget it sent, or procure it abroad. I shall take just a portmanteau and\ncarpet bag. I think the fewer books we take the better; they take up\nroom—and the wise way always seemed to me to read in rooms at home, and\nopen one’s eyes and _see_ abroad. A critic somewhere mentioned _that_\nas my characteristic—were two other poets he named placed in novel\ncircumstances ... in a great wood, for instance, Mr. Trench would begin\nopening books to see how woods were treated of ... the other man would\nset to writing poetry forthwith, from his old stock of associations, on\nthe new impulse—and R.B. would sit still and learn how to write after! A\npretty compliment, I thought that!—But seriously there must be a great\nlibrary at Pisa ... (with that university!) and abroad they are delighted\nto facilitate such matters ... I have read in a chamber of the Doges’\npalace at Venice painted all over by Tintoretto, walls and ceiling—and\nat Rome there is a library with a learned priest always kept ready ‘to\nsolve any doubt that may arise!’ Murray’s book you have, I think? Any\nguide-books &c.\n\nBe sure, dearest, I will do my utmost to conciliate your father:\nsometimes I could not but speak impatiently to you of him ... that was\nwhile you were in his direct power—now there is no _need_ of a word in\nany case ... I shall be silent if the _worst imaginable_ happens; and if\nanything better, most grateful. You do not need to remind me he is your\nfather ... I shall be proud to say _mine_ too. Then, he said _that_ of\nyou—for which I love him—love the full prompt justice of that ascription\nof ‘perfect purity’—it is another voice responding to mine, confirming\nmine.\n\nGood-bye, dearest dearest; I continue _quite_ well ... I thank God, as\nyou do, and see his hand in it. My poor mother suffers greatly, but is no\nworse ... rather, better I hope. They (all here) will leave town for some\nquiet place at the beginning of October for some three weeks at least.\nDear, kind souls they are.\n\nKiss me as I kiss you, dearest Ba. I can bring you no flowers but I pluck\nthis bud and send it with all affectionate devotion.\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. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, September 17, 1846.]\n\nDearest, the general departure from this house takes place on Monday—and\nthe house at Little Bookham is six miles from the nearest railroad, and\na mile and a half from Leatherhead where a coach runs. Now you are to\njudge. Certainly if I go with you on Saturday I shall not have half the\nletters written—you, who talk so largely of epic poems, have not the\nleast imagination of my state of mind and spirits. I began to write a\nletter to Papa this morning, and could do nothing but cry, and looked\nso pale thereupon, that everybody wondered what could be the matter.\nOh—quite well I am now, and I only speak of myself in that way to show\nyou how the inspiration is by no means sufficient for epic poems. Still,\nI may certainly write the necessary letters, ... and do the others on\nthe road ... could I, do you think? I would rather have waited—indeed\nrather—only it may be difficult to leave Bookham ... yet _possible_—so\ntell me what you would have me do.\n\nWilson and I have a light box and a carpet bag between us—and I will be\ndocile about the books, dearest. Do you take a desk? Had I better not, I\nwonder?\n\nThen for box and carpet bag.... Remember that we cannot take them out of\nthe house with us. We must send them the evening before—Friday evening,\nif we went on Saturday ... and where? Have you a friend anywhere, to\nwhose house they might be sent, or could they go direct to the railroad\noffice—and what office? In that case they should have your name on them,\nshould they not?\n\nNow think for me, ever dearest—and tell me what you do not tell me ...\nthat you continue better. Ah no—you are ill again—or you would not wait\nto be told to tell me. And the dear, dear little _bud_!—I shall keep it\nto the end of my life, if you love me so long, ... or _not_, sir! I thank\nyou, dearest.\n\nYour mother!—I am very, very sorry. Would it be better and kinder to wait\non _her_ account?—tell me that too.\n\nYes, they are perfectly kind. We must love them well:—and _I_ shall, I am\nsure.\n\nMr. Kenyon sends the ‘Fawn,’ _which IS Landor’s Fawn_, and desires me to\nsend it to you when I have done with it. As if I could read a word! He\ndirects me to write to him to Taunton, Somersetshire. May God bless you,\nbeloved.\n\nNo more to-night from your very own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nAre not passengers allowed to carry a specific proportion of luggage?\nWhat do you mean then, by paying for every ounce? As to Dieppe, the\ndiligence would be more fatiguing than the river, and, without strong\nreasons, one would prefer of course the Havre plan. Still I am not afraid\nof either. Think.\n\nYou might put in the newspaper ... of Wimpole Street and Jamaica, or\n... and Cinnamon Hill, Jamaica. That is right and I thought of it at\nfirst—only stopped ... seeming to wish to have as little about poor Papa\nas possible. Do as you think best now.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, September 17, 1846.]\n\nMy only sweetest, I will write just a word to catch the earlier\npost,—time pressing. Bless you for all you suffer ... I _know_ it though\nit would be very needless to call your attention to the difficulties. I\nknow much, if not all, and can only love and admire you,—not help, alas!\n\nSurely these difficulties will multiply, if you go to Bookham—the way\nwill be to leave at once. The letters may easily be written during the\njourney ... at Orleans, for example. But now,—you propose _Saturday_\n... nothing leaves Southampton according to _to-day’s_ advertisement,\ntill _Tuesday_ ... the days seemed changed to _Tuesdays_ and _Fridays_.\nTo-morrow at 8¼ P.M. and Friday the 22, 10¼. Provoking! I will go to\ntown directly to the railway office and enquire particularly—getting the\ntime-table also. Under these circumstances, we have only the choice of\nDieppe (as needing the shortest diligence-journey)—or the Sunday morning\nHavre-packet, at 9 A.M.—which you do not consider practicable: though it\nwould, I think, take us the quickliest out of all the trouble. I will\nlet you know all particulars in a note to-night ... it shall reach you\nto-night.\n\nIf we went from London only, the luggage could be sent here or in any\ncase, perhaps ... as one fly will carry them with me and mine, and save\npossibility of delay.\n\nI am _very_ well, dearest dearest—my mother no worse, better, perhaps—she\nis out now. Our staying and getting into trouble would increase her\nmalady.\n\nAs you leave it to me,—the name, and ‘Wimpole St.’ will do. Jamaica\nsounds in the wrong direction, does it not? and the other place is\ndistinctive enough.\n\nTake no desk ... I will take a large one—take nothing you can leave—but\nsecure letters &c. I will take out a passport. Did you not tell me\nroughly at how much you estimated our expenses for the journey? Because\nI will take about _that_ much, and get Rothschild’s letter of credit for\nLeghorn. One should avoid carrying money about with one.\n\nAll this in such haste! Bless you, my dearest dearest Ba\n\n                                                                   Your R.\n\nAll was right in the licence, and Certificate and Register—the whole name\nis there, E.B.M.B. The clergyman made the mistake in not having the _two_\nnames, but all runs right to _read_ ... the essential thing.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "5 o’clock.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 17, 1846.]\n\nMy own Ba, I believe, or am sure the mistake has been mine—in the flurry\nI noted down the departures from _Havre_—instead of _Southampton_. You\nmust either be at the Vauxhall Station by _four_ o’clock—so as to arrive\nin 3 hours and a half at Southampton and leave by 8¼ P.M.—or must go by\nthe Sunday Boat,—or _wait_ till Tuesday. Dieppe is impossible, being too\nearly. You must decide—and let me know directly. To-morrow _is_ too\nearly—yet one ... that is, _I_—could manage.\n\n                       Ever your own, in all haste\n\n                                                                      R.B.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "7½—Thursday\n                                          [Post-mark, September 18, 1846.]\n\nMy own Ba—forgive my mistaking! I had not enough confidence in my own\ncorrectness. The advertisement of the Tuesday and Friday Boats is of the\nSouth of England Steam Company. The Wednesday and Saturday is that of\nthe _South Western_. There must be then _two_ companies, because on the\nSouthampton Railway Bill it is expressly stated that there are departures\nfor Havre on all four days. Perhaps you have seen my blunder. In that\ncase, you can leave by 1-2½ as you may appoint—\n\n                                                                   Your R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, September 18, 1846.]\n\nDearest take this word, as if it were many. I am so tired—and then it\nshall be the right word.\n\nSunday and Friday are impossible. On Saturday I will go to you, if you\nlike—with half done, ... nothing done ... scarcely. Will you come for me\nto Hodgson’s? or shall I meet you at the station? At what o’clock should\nI set out, to be there at the hour you mention?\n\nAlso, for the boxes ... we cannot carry them out of the house, you\nknow, Wilson and I. They must be sent on Friday evening to the Vauxhall\nstation, ‘to be taken care of.’ Will the people keep them carefully?\nOught someone to be spoken to beforehand? If we sent them to New Cross,\nthey would not reach you in time.\n\nHold me my beloved—with your love. It is very hard—But Saturday seems\nthe only day for us. Tell me if you think so indeed.\n\n                                                         Your very own BA.\n\nThe boxes must have your name on them of course. Let there be no great\nhaste about sending out the cards. _Saturday_ might be mentioned in the\nadvertisement, _without_ the date—might it not?",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "[Post-mark, September 18, 1846.]\n\nDearest, here is the paper of addresses. I cannot remember, I am so\nconfused, half of them.\n\nSurely you say wrong in the hour for to-morrow. Also there is the express\ntrain. Would it not be better?\n\n                                                                  Your BA.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "R.B. to E.B.B.",
    "body": "11½ Friday.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 18, 1846.]\n\nMy own best Ba. How thankful I am you have seen my blunder—I took the\nother company’s days for the South Western’s changed. What I shall write\nnow is with the tables before me (of the Railway) and a transcript from\n_to-day’s_ advertisement in the _Times_.\n\nThe packet will leave to-morrow evening, from the Royal Pier, Southampton\nat _nine_. We leave Nine Elms, Vauxhall, at _five_—to arrive at _eight_.\nDoors close _five_ minutes before. I will be at Hodgson’s _from_\nhalf-past three to _four precisely_ when I shall hope you can be ready.\nI shall go to Vauxhall, apprise them that luggage is coming (yours) and\nsend _mine_ there—so that we both shall be unencumbered and we can take a\ncab or coach from H’s.\n\nNever mind your scanty preparations ... we can get everything at\nLeghorn,—and the new boats carry parcels to Leghorn on the 15th of every\nmonth, remember—so can bring what you may wish to send for.\n\nI enclose a letter to go with yours. The cards as you choose—they are\nhere—we can write about them from Paris or elsewhere. The advertisement,\nas you advise. All shall be cared for.\n\nGod bless and strengthen you, my ever dearest dearest—I will not trust\nmyself to speak of my feelings for you—worship well belongs to such\nfortitude. One struggle more—if all the kindness on your part brought\na strangely insufficient return, is it not possible that this step may\nproduce all you can hope? Write to me one word more. Depend on me. I go\nto Town about business.\n\n                                                          Your own, own R.",
    "author": "Robert Browning",
    "recipient": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  },
  {
    "heading": "E.B.B. to R.B.",
    "body": "Friday Night.\n                                          [Post-mark, September 19, 1846.]\n\nAt from half-past three to four, then—four will not, I suppose, be too\nlate. I will not write more—_I cannot._ By to-morrow at this time, I\nshall have _you_ only, to love me—my beloved!\n\nYou _only_! As if one said _God only_. And we shall have _Him_ beside, I\npray of Him.\n\nI shall send to your address at New Cross your Hanmer’s poems—and the two\ndear books you gave me, which I do not like to leave here and am afraid\nof hurting by taking them with me. Will you ask _our_ Sister to put the\nparcel into a drawer, so as to keep it for us?\n\nYour letters to me I take with me, let the ‘ounces’ cry out aloud, ever\nso. I _tried_ to leave them, and I could not. That is, they would not be\nleft: it was not my fault—I will not be scolded.\n\nIs this my last letter to you, ever dearest? Oh—if I loved you less ... a\nlittle, little less.\n\nWhy I should tell you that our marriage was invalid, or ought to be; and\nthat you should by no means come for me to-morrow. It is dreadful ...\ndreadful ... to have to give pain here by a voluntary act—for the first\ntime in my life.\n\nRemind your mother and father of me affectionately and gratefully—and\nyour Sister too! Would she think it too bold of me to say _our_ Sister,\nif she had heard it on the last page?\n\nDo you pray for me to-night, Robert? Pray for me, and love me, that I may\nhave courage, feeling both—\n\n                                 Your own\n\n                                                                       BA.\n\nThe boxes are _safely sent_. Wilson has been perfect to me. And _I_ ...\ncalling her ‘timid,’ and afraid of her timidity! I begin to think that\nnone are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.\n\n[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF LETTER OF ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT\n\n(See Vol. I., p. 443)]\n\n\n\n\nINDEX\n\n=Transcriber’s Note:= Volume 1 is available as Project Gutenberg\neBook #16182. Unfortunately, the page numbers were not preserved in\nthat volume.\n\n\n  Acton, Cardinal, i. 149\n\n  Adams, Mrs., i. 555\n\n  Ælian, i. 371, 377, 540; ii. 196, 202\n\n  Æschylus, i. 15, 31ff., 34, 35ff., 38ff., 45, 61, 88, 171, 313\n\n  Alfieri, Vittorio, i. 53\n\n  Andersen, Hans Christian (‘The Dane’), i. 53, 161;\n    his ‘Improvisatore,’ i. 45, 50, 52, 54;\n    his ‘Only a Fiddler,’ i. 154, 160\n\n  Angelico, Fra, i. 196\n\n  Apuleius, E.B.B.’s translations from, i. 168\n\n  Arnould, Joseph (afterwards Sir), ii. 102, 115, 412, 466, 487\n\n  Asolo, i. 113\n\n  ‘Athenæum,’ the, i. 155, 161, 166, 288, 323, 326, 389, 395, 412, 416,\n        542, 558, 572; ii. 33, 35, 102, 158, 176, 307, 343, 421\n\n  Australia (proposals for E.B.B. to write ballads, &c. for), ii. 481\n\n  ‘Autography,’ i. 317, 319, 323; ii. 188\n\n\n  Babbage, C., i. 24\n\n  Bacon, Lord, i. 481, 485\n\n  Bailey, P. J., his ‘Festus,’ i. 375, 384\n\n  Balzac, H. de, ii. 35, 91, 93, 107, 113\n\n  Barrett, Alfred, brother of E.B.B., i. 193, 195; ii. 177\n\n  Barrett, Arabel, sister of E.B.B., i. 101, 193, 216, 219, 330, 542;\n        ii. 329, 334 and passim\n\n  Barrett, Charles John (‘Stormie’) brother of E.B.B., i. 219, 417,\n        575; ii. 109, 111, 408, 458\n\n  Barrett, Edward (‘Bro’), brother of E.B.B., his death, i. 175ff.\n\n  Barrett, Edward Moulton, father of E.B.B., i. 123, 131, 141, 167,\n        175, 190, 192, 213, 218, 235, 241ff., 409, 506, 530; ii. 26,\n        109, 152, 270, 293, 332, 334, 340, 342, 384, 450, 487, 489, 551\n\n  Barrett, Elizabeth Barrett:\n    on poetic composition, i. 21\n    on her translation of ‘Prometheus Bound,’ i. 31\n    proposes to write a ‘novel’ or ‘romance’ poem, i. 32, 151, 154, 271\n    project of writing a drama (‘Psyché Apocalypté’) with R. H. Horne,\n        i. 61\n    American appreciation, i. 115, 307; ii. 152, 166, 184, 429\n    proposals for wintering abroad, i. 131ff., 135, 167, 190, 209ff.,\n        218, 225, 229, 234ff., 241\n    religious views, i. 145; ii. 429\n    on George Sand, i. 165\n    on the death of her brother Edward, i. 175ff.\n    references to her dangerous illness, i. 43, 176; ii. 26\n    American publishers, i. 188, 189, 258, 260\n    on her pet name ‘Ba,’ i. 192, 195, 342, 345\n    her portrait, i. 195; ii. 12, 19\n    requests R.B.’s autograph for a friend, i. 227\n    on R.B.’s poetry, i. 268ff.; ii. 491\n    sends a ring and lock of hair to R.B., i. 308, 309\n    opinions on French fiction, i. 341; ii. 102\n    on women’s position and married life, i. 351ff.; ii. 424\n    early reading, i. 406\n    French verses, i. 405\n    on R.B.’s letters, i. 418, 423, 486, 493; ii. 18\n    on the publication of letters, i. 484\n    on autograph collectors, i. 535\n    on the difficulties of her engagement with R.B., ii. 33, 78, 81,\n        122, 141, 220, 222, 228, 230, 233, 336, 341, 374, 378, 383,\n        385, 396, 416, 458, 464, 494\n    on artistic Bohemianism, ii. 30\n    on the curiosity of strangers, their visits, letters &c., ii. 31,\n        73, 169, 423, 472\n    on duelling, ii. 40ff., 45, 53ff.\n    on Raffael’s portrait, ii. 149\n    plans for going to Italy with R.B., ii. 208, 210, 275, 278ff., 288,\n        320, 379, 391, 417, 473, 479, 481, 490, 502ff., 506, 511\n    proposal for her to visit New Cross, ii. 226, 231\n    her money affairs, ii. 229, 235, 365, 368, 400ff., 408, 476\n    visit to the Great Western Railway, ii. 234, 435\n    visit to Mr. Rogers’ picture gallery, ii. 251, 262\n    visits to H. S. Boyd described, ii. 259, 282\n    on the death of B. R. Haydon, ii. 265, 271;\n      on Horne’s verses on Haydon, ii. 299;\n      bequest of his MSS. to E.B.B., ii. 304ff., 307, 309ff., 315ff.,\n        322ff., 326\n    on women and politics, ii. 283\n    her visit to Finchley, ii. 444, 447, 452\n    ‘Blackwood’s Magazine’s’ offer to print her lyrics, ii. 459, 466,\n        478\n    visit to church, and the effect of music on her, ii. 460, 468, 492\n    proposal to write ballads &c. for Australia, ii. 481\n    her marriage, ii. 539 _n._, 541\n\n  Barrett, Elizabeth Barrett, works:\n    ‘Bertha in the Lane,’ i. 10, 148, 271\n    ‘Catarina to Camoens,’ i. 148, 425\n    ‘The Cry of the Children,’ proposals for musical setting, i. 524,\n        537\n    ‘A Drama of Exile,’ i. 10, 19\n    ‘An Essay on Mind,’ i. 129, 132, 134, 136, 383\n    ‘Lady Geraldine’s Courtship,’ i. 32, 149, 162, 271\n    ‘Past and Future,’ i. 282\n    ‘Poems,’ 2 vols. 1844, i. 9, 189, 281; ii. 285;\n      American edition, i. 186, 187\n    ‘Rhyme of the Duchess May,’ i. 10\n    ‘The Romaunt of Margret,’ i. 383\n    ‘The Romaunt of the Page,’ i. 10\n    ‘The Seraphim,’ i. 130, 189, 383\n    ‘Two Sketches,’ i. 193.\n    ‘The Vision of Fame,’ i. 132\n    ‘A Vision of Poets,’ i. 147, 383\n    ‘Wine of Cyprus,’ ii. 443, 446, 448\n    Translations from Bion, Theocritus, Apuleius, Nonnus, i. 168,\n        170ff., 497, ii. 8;\n      from Homer, i. 579, ii. 8, 22, 25, 69, 139, 161;\n      from Æschylus i. 31, 34, 76, 140, 142, 149, 151, ii. 459;\n      from Pietro d’Abano, i. 462\n\n  Barrett, George, brother of E.B.B., i. 192, 196, 216, 219, 229, 235,\n        241, 289, 319, 322, 404, 439, 444, 492, 496, 500; ii. 115, 441\n\n  Barrett, Henrietta, sister of E.B.B., i. 128, 193, 331, 408, 433,\n        437, 516; ii. 141, 334, 387, 490 and passim\n\n  Barrett, Henry, brother of E.B.B., i. 158\n\n  Barrett, Lizzie, cousin of E.B.B., i. 522; ii. 245\n\n  Barrett, Mary (E.B.B.’s mother), ii. 484\n\n  Barrett, Octavius (‘Occy’) brother of E.B.B., his illness, i. 236ff.,\n        241ff., 247ff., 265\n\n  Barrett, Sam, cousin of E.B.B., i. 522\n\n  Bartoli, his ‘Simboli,’ i. 539, 541, 545\n\n  Bayley, Miss, i. 300, 303, 304; ii. 22, 109, 111, 114, 120, 137, 196,\n        552;\n    her plans for taking E.B.B. to Italy, ii. 191, 198, 208, 244\n\n  Beethoven, i. 533; ii. 153;\n    his ‘Fidelio,’ i. 161\n\n  Benjamin of Tudela, R., i. 153\n\n  Bennet, Miss Georgiana, ii. 73, 80, 110, 225, 329, 369\n\n  Bennett, W. C., ii. 106, 124, 330, 366, 389\n\n  Bevan, Mr., ii. 334\n\n  Bezzi, Mr., ii. 139, 191\n\n  ‘Blackwood’s Magazine,’ i. 23; ii. 459, 466, 478\n\n  Blake, William, ii. 319\n\n  Blessington, Lady, i. 157\n\n  Boccaccio, Giovanni, i. 45, 393\n\n  Boyd, Hugh Stuart, i. 100, 236, 342; ii. 259, 261, 282, 407, 442,\n        443, 446, 459, 471, 541\n\n  Bremer, Miss, ii. 119\n\n  ‘British Quarterly,’ the, i. 268\n\n  Browne, Sir Thomas, ii. 52, 53\n\n  Browning, Miss, i. 147, 153, 189, 519; ii. 165, 168, 204, 412, 566\n\n  Browning, Mrs., senior, i. 147; ii. 456, 483, 500\n\n  Browning, R., senior, i. 28, 147, 496; ii. 427, 549;\n    his drawings for R.B.’s poems, i. 415, 434;\n    his early life, ii. 477, 483, 484\n\n  Browning, Robert:\n    Mr. Kenyon’s offer of introduction to Miss Barrett, i. 2, 281\n    on E.B.B.’s poems, i. 9, 147\n    helps Carlyle with his ‘Cromwell,’ i. 16\n    on the attitude of the public towards his work, i. 17ff.\n    first visit to E.B.B., i. 72 _n._\n    account of the ‘bora’ at Trieste, i. 126\n    on ‘The Flight of the Duchess,’ i. 138\n    on George Sand, i. 163\n    baptised at an Independent Chapel, i. 147\n    reference to his visit to St. Petersburg, i. 155\n    on dramatic poetry and novels, i. 155, 161\n    on reading law with Basil Montagu, i. 199\n    his early life, i. 200, 349\n    on the performance of ‘Every Man in his Humour,’ i. 212, 217\n    his portrait in the ‘New Spirit of the Age,’ i. 316; ii. 219\n    sends a lock of hair to E.B.B., i. 304, 332\n    his visit to R. H. Horne, i. 366ff.\n    on R. H. Horne’s ‘Ballad Romances,’ i. 370\n    French verses, i. 420\n    on a proposal of a journey to St. Petersburg, i. 489, 507\n    on music, i. 543\n    plants rose-trees, ii. 10\n    thoughts for future work, i. 457; ii. 25, 390\n    on duelling, ii. 33, 46ff., 58\n    on the rearrangement of his poems, ii. 71\n    on French romance, ii. 107\n    his birthday, ii. 136\n    at the Royal Literary Fund Dinner, ii. 143, 145, 148, 151, 158\n    proposal to write a long poem, ii. 176, 181\n    ‘Mr. Forster’s “Strafford,”’ ii. 215\n    meets a phrenologist, ii. 216, 219\n    on his engagement with E.B.B., ii. 227\n    proposes to seek Government employment, ii. 229, 232, 236, 248\n    on the death of B. R. Haydon, ii. 264, 268, 318ff.\n    plans for his marriage, ii. 269, 376\n    on Parliament, ii. 281\n    on his name, ii. 285, 286\n    on Italian post offices, ii. 110, 289\n    on Horne’s verses on Haydon’s death, ii. 303\n    on Haydon’s bequest of MSS. to E.B.B., ii. 307, 315ff., 326\n    on strangers’ letters, ii. 330\n    his dream on Haydon, ii. 331\n    on E.B.B.’s letters, i. 296, 420; ii. 8, 249, 420, 436\n    on E.B.B.’s religious opinions, ii. 436\n    on Lord Byron, ii. 455\n    final preparations for their journey to Italy, ii. 465ff., 475,\n        495ff., 537, 555, 559 and ff.\n    early compositions in imitation of Ossian, ii. 469\n    his marriage, ii. 539 _n._\n    his family’s attitude towards E.B.B., ii. 547, 549\n\n  Browning, Robert, works:\n    ‘Bells and Pomegranates,’ i. 9, 13, 99, 132, 135, 144, 148, 320,\n        361; ii. 429;\n      see also ‘Dramatic Romances and Lyrics,’ ‘Luria,’ and ‘A Soul’s\n        Tragedy’\n        meaning of the phrase, i. 248, 250, 575; ii. 2, 67\n    ‘The Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed’s Church,’ i. 134, 253,\n        278\n    ‘The Blot in the Scutcheon,’ i. 324\n    ‘The Boy and the Angel,’ (‘Theocrite,’ ‘Angel and Child’), i. 134,\n        261\n    ‘Claret and Tokay’ (Nationality in Drinks’), i. 131, 135\n    ‘Colombe’s Birthday,’ ii. 456, 468\n    ‘Count Gismond,’ i. 177\n    Dante, translation from, i. 348, 355\n    ‘Dramatic Romances and Lyrics,’ (‘Bells and Pomegranates’ No.\n        VII.), i. 59, 66\n      proof of, i. 259, 260, 261, 262\n      its publication, i. 265, 266, 267\n      E.B.B. on, i. 268ff.\n      to C. Mathews, i. 320\n      Mr. Kenyon on, i. 274\n      Mr. Fox on, i. 277, 278\n      noticed in the ‘Examiner,’ i. 286\n      noticed in the ‘New Monthly,’ i. 360\n      noticed in the ‘Athenæum,’ i. 412, 416\n    ‘Earth’s Immortalities,’ i. 261\n    ‘The Englishman in Italy,’ (‘England in Italy,’ ‘Fortú,’ ‘Sorrento\n        Lines,’) i. 253, 268, 269, 278\n    ‘The Flight of the Duchess,’ i. 55, 58ff., 63, 76, 97, 104ff., 113,\n        115, 120, 122, 124, 129, 131, 135, 139, 148, 149ff., 245, 253,\n        261, 274, 277; ii. 91\n    An Elementary French Book, i. 208\n    ‘Garden Fancies,’ i. 134\n    ‘The Glove,’ i. 261, 278\n    ‘Home Thoughts from Abroad’ (‘Spring Song’), i., 229ff.\n    ‘Home Thoughts from the Sea,’ i. 253\n    ‘How we brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix,’ (‘The Ride’) i.\n        274, 278ff.\n    ‘The Italian in England,’ (‘Italy in England’) i. 160, 278\n    ‘The Laboratory,’ i. 135\n    ‘The Lost Leader,’ i. 253\n    ‘The Lost Mistress,’ i. 253, 269\n    ‘Luria: a Tragedy’ (‘Bells and Pomegranates’ No. VIII.), i. 18, 22,\n        26, 30, 58, 60, 80, 84, 85, 261, 272, 426, 470, 474; ii. 2, 13,\n        21, 369\n    E.B.B. on, i. 276ff., 286, 313, 354, 359ff., 421ff., 462, 471, 545,\n        579; ii. 77\n      proof of, ii. 12, 17\n      dedication of, ii. 12, 19, 44, 66ff.\n      publication of, ii. 66\n      Mr. Kenyon on, ii. 82\n      Carlyle on, ii. 90\n      Mr. Chorley on, ii. 92\n      noticed in the ‘Examiner,’ ii. 108, 412\n    ‘Night and Morning,’ i. 261\n    ‘Only a Player Girl,’ i. 155, 160\n    ‘Paracelsus,’ i. 63, 208, 246, 323, 327, 382, 395\n    ‘Pauline,’ i. 388, 393, 399, 402, 405, 420, 423\n      reviewed by J. S. Mill, i. 29, 33\n    ‘Pictor Ignotus,’ i. 253, 278\n    Pietro d’Abano, Translation from, i. 462, 466\n    ‘Pippa Passes,’ i. 12, 22, 24, 28, 100; ii. 349\n    ‘Saul,’ i. 59, 60, 76, 179, 183, 191, 261, 278, 326\n      Blue lilies in, i. 527, 558, 561\n    ‘Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister,’ i. 22\n    ‘Song,’ i. 261\n    ‘Sordello,’ i. 134, 193, 247, 348, 457, 472\n    ‘A Soul’s Tragedy,’ (‘Bells and Pomegranates’ No. VIII.), i. 26,\n        30, 97, 470, 474; ii. 16, 34, 67, 92\n      E.B.B. on, i. 545; ii. 13ff., 17, 34, 77\n      publication of, ii. 66\n      Mr. Kenyon on, ii. 83\n      Mr. Chorley on, ii. 92\n      noticed in the ‘Examiner,’ ii. 108\n\n  Buckingham, Mr., i. 564, 565, 570, 576\n\n  Bulwer, Sir Edward Lytton, afterwards first Lord Lytton, i. 246\n    his ‘Alice,’ i. 161\n    his ‘Ernest Maltravers,’ i. 161, 166\n    his ‘Last Days of Pompeii,’ i. 156\n\n  Bunn, Alfred, i. 572; ii. 136\n\n  Bunyan, J., ii. 37\n\n  Burdett-Coutts, Miss, i. 564\n\n  Burges, George, i. 168, 170, 171, 497, 548, 554\n\n  Burns, R., i. 481\n\n  Bury, Lady Charles, her ‘Reminiscences,’ i. 228\n\n  Butler, Mrs. (Fanny Kemble), her poems, ii. 27, 38, 389, 391\n\n  Butler, Samuel, his ‘Hudibras’ quoted, i. 568\n\n  Byron, Lady, i. 130\n\n  Byron, Lord, i. 126; ii. 455, 464, 473\n\n\n  Calderon, i. 66\n\n  ‘Cambridge Advertiser,’ the, ii. 28\n\n  Campbell, Miss, ii. 171, 172, 174ff., 179, 184\n\n  Campbell, Thomas, ii. 286\n\n  Carlyle, Mrs., i. 194, 238; ii. 252, 255\n\n  Carlyle, Thomas, i. 25, 27, 29, 30, 32, 151, 152, 158, 194, 260, 316,\n        457, 459; ii. 8, 80, 81, 84, 90, 92, 98, 160, 185, 238, 277\n    ‘Oliver Cromwell,’ i. 16, 25, 450; ii. 2, 286\n\n  Cerutti’s Italian Grammar, i. 468\n\n  Cervantes’ ‘Don Quixote,’ i. 46\n\n  Chambers, Dr., i. 123, 125, 158, 176, 186, 188, 189; ii. 255\n\n  Chapman, George, i. 98, 337\n\n  Chaucer, Geoffrey, i. 160, 267, 337, 393, 429\n\n  Chesterfield, Lord, i. 529; ii. 105\n\n  Chorley, H. F., i. 45, 107, 108, 144, 148, 154, 288, 295, 298, 315,\n        388, 394ff., 400, 482, 486, 492, 496, 548, 555ff., 573; ii. 92,\n        102, 107, 131, 135, 346, 349, 351, 353, 411, 437, 441, 443,\n        456, 487\n    his ‘Pomfret,’ i. 273, 279, 283, 291, 292\n\n  ‘Christus Patiens,’ i. 171\n\n  Cimarosa, D., i. 544\n\n  Claude le Jeune, i. 543, 545\n\n  Clayton, John, i. 529\n\n  Cokers, the Misses, ii. 178, 184\n\n  Cocks, Lady Margaret, ii. 127, 131, 242\n\n  Colburn, Henry, i. 200\n\n  Coleridge, S. T., i. 280, 337, 366; ii. 83, 456\n\n  Colonna, Vittoria, i. 116\n\n  Compton, Lord, ii. 28, 29\n\n  Cook, Surtees, Captain, i. 424, 439, 516, 541; ii. 354, 355, 387, 490\n\n  Corelli, A., i. 544\n\n  Crashaw, Richard, i. 337\n\n  Cushman, Miss, i. 154, 160, 395, 446\n\n\n  ‘Daily News,’ i. 403, 409, 424; ii. 28, 135, 177, 299, 339\n\n  Dante, i. 53, 55, 56, 57, 116, 309, 348, 355, 576; ii. 277\n\n  Darwin, Erasmus, i. 383\n\n  De Lamennais, L’Abbé, ii. 108\n\n  De Musset, Alfred, ii. 108\n\n  Dickens, Charles, i. 69, 217, 260, 394, 444; ii. 116, 122, 135\n    his ‘Cricket on the Hearth,’ i. 345, 355\n    his ‘Pictures from Italy,’ ii. 168, 169\n\n  Diderot, Denis, i. 114, 118\n\n  Dilke, C. W., i. 396; ii. 135, 177\n\n  D’Israeli, Benjamin, his ‘Sybil,’ i. 124\n    his ‘Vivian Grey,’ i. 52, 53ff., 56\n\n  Domett, Alfred, i. 17, 296, 531; ii. 351\n\n  Donne, Dr. John, i. 27, 145, 196, 420, 440; ii. 116\n\n  D’Orsay, Count, ii. 135, 138\n\n  Dowland, John, i. 545\n\n  Doyle, John (‘H. B.,’) ii. 432\n\n  Drayton, M., his ‘Nymphidia,’ i. 373\n\n  Dryden, John, i. 23\n\n  Dulwich Galleries, the two, i. 518, 523, 525, 528\n\n  Dumas, Alexander, ii. 103, 346\n    his ‘Monte Cristo,’ ii. 215, 340\n\n\n  Eagles, Mr., ii. 374, 453\n\n  Elliotson, Dr., i. 118\n\n  Etty, William, ii. 189, 191\n\n  Euripides, i. 21\n\n  ‘Examiner,’ the, i. 288, 323, 375, 466; ii. 106, 107, 108, 412\n\n\n  Ferrers case, the, i. 492\n\n  Fife, Angus, ii. 481\n\n  Fisher, Miss Emma, i. 383\n\n  Ford, J., i. 337\n\n  Forster, John, i. 217, 245, 268, 293, 294, 295, 298, 300, 323, 375,\n        395, 403; ii. 67, 82, 106, 107, 108, 111, 215, 241, 305, 309,\n        312, 316, 365, 374\n\n  Forsyth, Joseph, quoted, ii. 279\n\n  Fox, Mrs., ii. 347\n\n  Fox, W. J., i. 277, 504, 556\n\n  Fletcher, J., i. 373\n\n  Florence, ii. 196, 255\n\n  Flush, Miss Barrett’s dog, i. 54, 150, 167, 236, 263ff., 549; ii.\n        321, 325, 357;\n    the loss of, 505-528 passim\n\n  French and English criticisms on foreign books, i. 558, 567\n\n  Fuller, Miss Margaret Sarah (afterwards Mme. Ossoli), i. 375\n\n  Fuseli, H., i. 66\n\n\n  Garrow, Miss, i. 157, 289\n\n  Gill, Rev. Thomas Hornblower, i. 576; ii. 3\n\n  Godwin, William, i. 196\n\n  Goethe, J. W., i. 273; ii. 52, 313, 315, 451\n\n  Grey, Lord, ii. 414\n\n  Gurney, A., i. 74, 568\n\n\n  Hahn-Hahn, the Countess, ii. 213, 251, 252, 256, 263, 268\n\n  Hall, Robert, i. 514\n\n  Hall, Spencer, i. 246\n\n  Handel, G. F., i. 543\n\n  Hanmer, Sir John, i. 288, 294, 398, 532\n\n  Harness, Rev. William, i. 375\n\n  Haworth, Miss, ii. 172\n\n  Haydon, B. R., i. 86; ii. 366;\n    his death, ii. 264, 265ff., 268, 271ff., 318ff.;\n    bequest of his MSS. to E.B.B., ii. 304, 307, 315ff., 322ff., 326\n    Horne’s verses on his death, ii. 299, 300, 303, 339\n\n  Hazlitt, William, i. 337; ii. 252\n\n  Heaton, Miss, ii. 127, 133, 155, 157, 170, 172\n\n  Hedley, Arabella, her marriage, ii. 195, 304, 362, 393, 395, 430\n\n  Hedley, Mrs., i. 85, 109ff., 192; ii. 332, 334, 388\n\n  Hedley, Robert, ii. 238, 287, 321, 344\n\n  Hemans, Charles (son of Mrs. Hemans), i. 116\n\n  Heraud, John Abraham, i. 388, 393, 573\n\n  Hood, Thomas, i. 58, 63, 459\n\n  ‘Hood’s Magazine,’ i. 59, 131, 133, 134ff.\n\n  Horne, R. H., i. 7, 12, 28, 32, 61, 62, 65, 82, 95, 96, 120, 121,\n        266, 268, 270, 315, 364ff., 393; ii. 394, 403, 407, 412\n    and Miss Mitford, i. 465ff., 468ff., 473\n    verses on the death of B. R. Haydon, ii. 299, 300, 303, 339\n    ‘Ballad Romances,’ i. 369ff., 372ff., 380ff., 386\n    his ‘Cosmo de Medici,’ i. 66, 373\n    ‘Death of Marlowe,’ i. 373\n    ‘Gregory VII.,’ i. 66\n    ‘New Spirit of the Age,’ i. 69\n    ‘Orion,’ i. 373\n\n  Howitt, Mary, i. 45, 56, 160; ii. 119, 124\n\n  Howitt, Richard, i. 246\n\n  Howitt, William, ii. 118, 121, 124\n\n  Hugo, Victor, his portrait, ii. 346, 359\n\n  Hume, David, quoted, ii. 329\n\n  Hunt, Leigh, i. 126, 171, 228, 337, 366, 367, 393; ii. 314\n    his translation of lines on Pulci, i. 461, 466\n\n  Hunter, Mary, i. 227, 230\n\n  Hunter, Mr., ii. 498\n\n\n  Jameson, Mrs., i. 116, 130, 150, 174, 312, 500, 516, 518; ii. 4, 11,\n        27, 69, 72, 130, 137, 144, 149, 155, 158, 161, 196, 220, 245,\n        250, 262, 288, 289, 290, 301, 344, 374, 457, 462, 471, 476,\n        480, 485, 552\n    her etchings, ii. 8ff., 56, 139\n    plan for taking E.B.B. to Italy, ii. 191, 270, 287, 370, 405ff.\n\n  Janin, Jules, i. 558; ii. 346\n\n  Jerrold, Douglas, i. 217, 444\n\n  Jones, Commodore, ii. 143, 169, 185\n\n  Jonson, Ben, performance of ‘Every Man in his Humour,’ i. 212, 216,\n        217ff.\n\n  Junius, ii. 171, 174\n\n\n  Kean, Charles, i. 200\n\n  Kean, Edmund, i. 78\n\n  Keats, John, i. 14, 18, 194, 238, 245, 366, 391; ii. 151, 314\n\n  Keats, John, his ‘Eve of St. Agnes,’ i. 194\n\n  Kelly, Mr. Fitzroy, i. 200, 211, 492\n\n  Kemble, Fanny. _See_ Mrs. Butler\n\n  Kenyon, John, i. 2, 4, 6, 9, 21, 48, 134, 143, 188, 307, 361ff., 449,\n        484, 486, 542; ii. 62ff., 82, 166, 212, 234, 270, 282, 309,\n        365, 370, 373, 380, 386, 414, 434, 452, 554, and passim\n\n  Kinglake, A. W., ii. 135\n\n\n  La Cava, ii. 289, 292, 320, 322, 325\n\n  Lamb, Charles, i. 337, 396, 452\n\n  ‘Lancet,’ the, i. 246\n\n  Landelle, ii. 115\n\n  Landor, Walter Savage, i. 20, 131, 283, 289, 295, 298, 300, 363; ii.\n        44, 81, 83, 85, 187, 200, 212, 241, 309, 313, 314, 372, 374,\n        421, 453\n    his ‘Count Julian,’ i. 566, 567\n    his ‘Dialogue between Tasso and his Sister,’ ii. 261, 264\n    his ‘Pentameron,’ i. 131\n    verses to Robert Browning, i. 286ff., 320, 497; ii. 244\n\n  Lawes, Henry, i. 545\n\n  ‘League,’ the, ii. 105, 111, 112\n\n  Lee, Nathaniel, i. 518\n\n  Leech, John, i. 217\n\n  Lewis, ‘Monk,’ i. 228\n\n  Londonderry, Lady, i. 196\n\n  Longfellow, H. W., ii. 137\n\n  Longman, Mr., ii. 366\n\n  Lough, John Graham, ii. 194, 196, 214, 218, 220, 222, 225, 455\n\n  Lowell, J. R.: his ‘Conversations on some of the Old Poets,’ i.\n        336ff., 343ff.\n\n  Lytton, Sir Edward. _See_ Bulwer\n\n\n  Machiavelli, N., i. 302, 310; ii. 215\n\n  Mackay, Charles, i. 388, 395, 400\n\n  Maclise, David, i. 218; ii. 307\n\n  Malherbe, i. 258\n\n  Manners, Lord John, i. 389\n\n  Marc-Antonio’s etchings, ii. 144, 149\n\n  Markham, Mrs., i. 344\n\n  Marlowe, Christopher, i. 97\n\n  Martineau, Harriet, i. 112, 114, 116, 246, 263, 316, 359, 363, 375,\n        431, 441, 469, 481; ii. 69, 283, 453, 462\n    her letter on Wordsworth, i. 464, 478ff., 490\n\n  Mathews, Cornelius, i. 307, 320, 324, 345, 497; ii. 429, 437, 442\n\n  Matthew, Father, i. 78\n\n  Medwin, Capt. Thomas, his ‘Conversations of Lord Byron,’ i. 228\n\n  ‘Methodist Quarterly,’ the, ii. 152, 177\n\n  Mill, John Stuart, i. 29, 33, 78\n\n  Milner, Mrs., ii. 74\n\n  Milnes, R. Monckton (afterwards Lord Houghton), i. 532, 535; ii. 135,\n        248, 409\n\n  Milton, John, i. 45, 194; ii. 263\n\n  Mitford, Miss M. R., i. 12, 23, 61, 69, 85, 86, 96, 107, 108, 109,\n        110, 111, 147, 160, 263, 455, 456, 459, 486, 492, 500; ii. 22,\n        27, 243, 288, 291, 316, 359, 415, 441\n    on R. H. Horne, i. 465ff., 468ff., 473\n\n  Molière, i. 189\n\n  Monod, Rev. A., ii. 460ff.\n\n  Montagu, Basil, i. 199\n\n  Montagu, Lady Mary, her ‘Septennial Act,’ ii. 138\n\n  Montagu, Mrs., i. 532\n\n  Montaigne, Michel de, i. 131\n\n  Montefiore, Sir Moses, i. 489, 504, 510, 515, 526\n\n  Moore, Thomas, ii. 378;\n    his ‘Life and Letters of Byron,’ ii. 455\n\n  ‘Morning Chronicle,’ the, i. 298, 389\n\n  Moxon, Edward, i. 18, 116, 188, 235, 238, 266, 293, 298, 324, 474,\n        532; ii. 118, 122, 151, 285, 337, 374, 488, 512\n    on reviewers, ii. 343\n\n\n  Napoleon I., i. 24, 200, 239\n\n  ‘New Monthly Magazine’ (Colburn’s), i. 52, 54, 70, 120, 361\n\n  ‘New Quarterly Review,’ i. 377, 381\n\n  Northampton, Lord, i. 496\n\n  Norton, Hon. Mrs., i. 48, 51, 368 _n._; ii. 309, 401\n\n\n  O’Connell, D., ii. 42\n\n  Osgood, Mrs., ii. 133\n\n  Ossian, ii. 89, 259, 283, 459, 469, 473\n\n  Ovid, i. 271\n\n\n  Padua, i. 196\n\n  Paine, Mrs., ii. 31, 74, 83, 85, 369\n\n  Palmella, the Duke of, i. 229, 231, 241\n\n  Patmore, Coventry, ii. 135\n\n  Peel, Sir Robert, ii. 266, 271, 281\n\n  ‘People’s Journal,’ the, i. 547, 555; ii. 124\n\n  Pietro d’Abano, i. 461, 466\n\n  Pisa, i. 189, 193, 196, 200, 209, 232, 236, 254, 258; ii. 464\n\n  Plato, i. 472, 541\n\n  Poe, Edgar A., i. 308, 386, 402, 446, 570; ii. 133, 220\n    dedication of his poems to E.B.B., i. 431\n    his ‘Raven,’ i. 542\n\n  Polidoro, i. 28; ii. 153\n\n  Polk, President, ii. 98\n\n  Porta, J. Baptista, i. 501\n\n  Possagno, i. 126\n\n  Powell, T., i. 393, 397, 572, 573; ii. 157\n\n  Priessnitz, i. 246\n\n  Pritchard, Captain, ii. 39, 83, 346, 498, 547\n\n  Procter, B. W., i. 312, 496, 500; ii. 133, 255, 428\n\n  Procter, Mrs. B. W., ii. 62, 70, 72, 76, 135, 213, 327\n\n  Purchas, J., i. 358\n\n  Pusey, Dr., ii. 347\n\n\n  Quarles, Francis, i. 419; ii. 189, 447\n\n  ‘Quarterly Review,’ the, i. 20, 294, 311, 314\n\n  Quintilian, i. 36\n\n\n  Rabelais, François de, i. 47\n\n  Rachel, Mlle., ii. 328, 341, 346, 412\n\n  Ravenna, ii. 234, 252, 255\n\n  Reade, J. Edmund, ii. 286, 372, 374, 378\n\n  ‘Retrospective Review,’ i. 344, 345, 382\n\n  Reybaud, Mme. Charles, i. 558\n\n  Robinson, Crabb, i. 484\n\n  Rogers, Samuel, i. 86ff., 196; ii. 251ff., 262, 263\n\n  Ronsard, Peter, i. 262, 271\n\n  Rossini, G. A., i. 544\n\n  Royal Society’s soirée, i. 496\n\n  Russell, Henry, i. 524, 537\n\n\n  Sand, George, i. 117, 119, 161, 165; ii. 102, 107, 349, 352\n    her ‘Comtesse de Rudolstadt,’ i. 165\n    her ‘Consuelo,’ i. 118, 155, 162ff., 165\n    her ‘Leila,’ i. 117\n    her ‘Spiridion,’ i. 100\n\n  Schiller, Friedrich, i. 395\n\n  Schmitz, Dr. Leonhard, i. 171\n\n  Severn, Joseph, ii. 151\n\n  Sévigné, Mme. de, i. 258\n\n  Shakespeare, William, i. 23, 43, 66, 100, 373; ii. 87\n\n  Shakespeare, William, ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ i. 15\n\n  Shaw, Sir James, ii. 154\n\n  Shelley, Mrs., i. 186, 196, 227, 287\n\n  Shelley, P. B., i. 38, 57, 66, 97, 116, 196, 215, 323, 327, 366, 480,\n        567; ii. 79, 151, 153, 255, 314\n    his ‘Cenci,’ i. 229\n    his ‘Marianne’s Dream,’ i. 215\n    his ‘Prometheus Unbound,’ i. 229\n    his ‘St. Irvyne, or the Rosicrucian,’ i. 226, 228\n\n  Shirley, James, quoted, ii. 175\n\n  Sidney, Sir Philip, i. 23\n\n  Sigourney, Mrs., i. 344\n\n  Simpson, Mr., i. 70ff.; ii. 32\n\n  Smith, Elder & Co., ii. 488\n\n  Smith, Rev. Sydney, i. 59; ii. 366\n\n  Socrates, i. 540, 541\n\n  Sorrento, i. 196\n\n  Soulié, Frédéric, i. 341; ii. 107\n    his ‘Sept Jours au Château,’ ii. 103\n\n  Southey, Robert, ii. 456\n\n  Stael, Mme. de, i. 339\n\n  Stanfield, Clarkson, i. 217\n\n  Starke, Mrs., quoted, ii. 280\n\n  ‘Statesman,’ the, ii. 172, 174, 175, 185, 192, 199\n\n  Stewart, Dugald, i. 169; ii. 27\n\n  Stilling, Heinrich (autobiography of), i. 112\n\n  Stratten, Rev. James, ii. 492, 501\n\n  Sue, Eugène, ii. 441, 531\n\n\n  Talfourd, Mr. Serjeant, i. 321, 393, 441, 573; ii. 82, 305, 307, 310,\n        312, 316, 321, 365\n    his ‘Ion,’ i. 317ff., 319, 323\n\n  Tasso, T., i. 5; ii. 261, 264\n\n  Tennyson, Alfred, i. 19, 24, 27, 69, 100, 238, 245, 260, 316, 320,\n        383, 404, 444, 446; ii. 82, 115ff., 122, 135, 151, 177, 229,\n        337, 512\n    his ‘Morte d’Arthur,’ i. 97\n    his ‘Œnone,’ i. 97\n\n  Thackeray, W. M., i. 260; ii. 409, 428, 432\n\n  Thiers, M., i. 344\n\n  Thomson, Miss, i. 168, 171ff., 497, 500; ii. 8, 22\n\n  Thucydides, i. 171\n\n  Tieck, i. 462\n\n  ‘Times,’ the, i. 246, 248; ii. 343\n\n  Titian, i. 6\n\n  Trepsack, Miss (‘Treppy’), ii. 201, 209, 211, 407, 422, 432\n\n  Trieste, i. 126\n\n  Trollope, Mrs., i. 112\n\n  Tuckermann, H., his ‘Thoughts on the Poets,’ ii. 184\n\n\n  Vasari, G., i. 575\n\n  Venables, George Stovin, i. 404; ii. 115\n\n  Vidocq, i. 113, 117\n\n  Voltaire, i. 410, 485, 494\n\n\n  Wales, Prince of (afterwards George IV.), i. 48\n\n  Warburton, Eliot, i. 288, 294, 398; ii. 374\n\n  Ward, R. P., his ‘Tremaine,’ i. 505\n\n  Watts, Dr. Isaac, i. 200\n\n  Whately, Archbishop, i. 112; ii. 395\n\n  White, Dr., i. 496\n\n  White, Henry Kirke, i. 29\n\n  Widdicombe, Harry, ii. 432, 437\n\n  Wilkie, David, i. 87\n\n  Wilson, Miss Barrett’s maid, i. 178, 477; ii. 355, 359, 541, 567\n\n  Wilson, Professor (‘Christopher North’), i. 23\n\n  Wordsworth, William, i. 74, 86, 87, 316, 363, 464ff., 484, 486; ii.\n        48, 63, 75, 76, 83, 118, 313, 456\n    Miss Martineau’s letter on, i. 464, 478ff.\n\n  Wordsworth, William, _junr._, i. 548, 554; ii. 118\n\n  Wylie, Sir James, i. 155, 161\n\nPRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON\n\n\n\n\nWORKS OF\n\nELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.\n\n\n=THE POEMS OF ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.= New and Cheaper Edition.\nComplete in 1 volume, with Portrait and Facsimile of the MS. of ‘A Sonnet\nfrom the Portuguese.’ Large crown 8vo. bound in cloth, gilt top, 7_s._\n6_d._\n\n    ⁂ =This Edition is uniform with the Two-Volume Edition of\n    Robert Browning’s Complete Works.=\n\n=THE POETICAL WORKS OF ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.= Uniform Edition. Six\nVolumes, in set binding, small crown 8vo. 5_s._ each.\n\n    _This Edition is uniform with the 17-Volume Edition of Mr.\n    Robert Browning’s Works. It contains the following Portraits\n    and Illustrations_:—\n\n    Portrait of Elizabeth Barrett Moulton-Barrett at the age of nine.\n    Coxhoe Hall, County of Durham.\n    Portrait of Elizabeth Barrett Moulton-Barrett in early youth.\n    Portrait of Mrs. Browning, Rome, February 1859.\n    Hope End, Herefordshire.\n    Sitting Room of Casa Guidi, Florence.\n    ‘May’s Love’—Facsimile of Mrs. Browning’s Handwriting.\n    Portrait of Mrs. Browning, Rome, March 1859.\n    Portrait of Mrs. Browning, Rome, 1861.\n    The Tomb of Mrs. Browning in the Cemetery at Florence.\n\n=AURORA LEIGH.= With an Introduction by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE, and a\nFrontispiece. Crown 8vo. cloth, gilt top, 3_s._ 6_d._\n\n=A SELECTION FROM THE POETRY OF ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.= FIRST\nSERIES, crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ SECOND SERIES, crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._\n\n=POEMS.= Small fcp. 8vo. half-cloth, cut or uncut edges, 1_s._\n\n    =EXTRACT FROM PREFATORY NOTE BY MR. ROBERT BROWNING.=\n\n    ‘In a recent “Memoir of Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” by JOHN\n    H. INGRAM, it is observed that “such essays on her personal\n    history as have appeared, either in England or elsewhere, are\n    replete with mistakes or misstatements.” For these he proposes\n    to substitute “a correct if short memoir”: but, kindly and\n    appreciative as may be Mr. Ingram’s performance, there occur\n    not a few passages in it equally “mistaken and misstated.”’\n\n=The LETTERS of ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.= Edited, with Biographical\nAdditions, by FREDERIC G. KENYON. In 2 vols. With Portraits. Third\nEdition. Crown 8vo. 15_s._ net.\n\n             London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.\n\n\n\n\nSMITH, ELDER, & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS.\n\nNEW AND CHEAPER EDITION OF ‘THE RENAISSANCE IN ITALY.’\n\nIn 7 volumes, large crown 8vo. with 2 Portraits.\n\n\n=THE RENAISSANCE IN ITALY.= By JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.\n\n    1. =THE AGE OF THE DESPOTS.= With a Portrait. Price 7_s._ 6_d._\n\n    2. =THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING.= Price 7_s._ 6_d._\n\n    3. =THE FINE ARTS.= Price 7_s._ 6_d._\n\n    4 & 5. =ITALIAN LITERATURE.= 2 Vols. Price 15_s._\n\n    6 & 7. =THE CATHOLIC REACTION.= With a Portrait and an Index to\n    the 7 Vols. Price 15_s._\n\n=ISABELLA THE CATHOLIC, QUEEN OF SPAIN=: Her Life, Reign, and Times,\n1451-1504. By M. LE BARON DE NERVO. Translated from the Original French\nby Lieut.-Colonel TEMPLE-WEST (Retired). With Portraits. Demy 8vo. 12_s._\n6_d._\n\n    ‘Neither too long nor too short, not overladen with detail nor\n    impoverished from lack of matter, and is at the same time ample\n    and orderly enough to satisfy the ordinary student.’—DAILY\n    TELEGRAPH.\n\n=THE INDIAN EMPIRE=: its Peoples, History, and Products, By Sir W. W.\nHUNTER, K.S.C.I., C.I.E., LL.D. Third and Standard Edition, with Map.\nDemy 8vo. 28_s._\n\n=THE ANNALS OF RURAL BENGAL.= From Official Records and the Archives of\nNative Families. By Sir W. W. HUNTER, K.S.C.I., C.I.E., LL.D., &c. New,\nRevised, and Cheaper Edition (the Seventh). Crown 8vo. 7_s._ 6_d._\n\n    ‘One of the most important as well as most interesting works\n    which the records of Indian literature can show.’—WESTMINSTER\n    REVIEW.\n\n=FROM GRAVE TO GAY=: being Essays and Studies concerned with Certain\nSubjects of Serious Interest, with the Puritans, with Literature, and\nwith the Humours of Life, now for the first time Collected and Arranged.\nBy J. ST. LOE STRACHEY. Crown 8vo. 6_s._\n\n    ‘Undeniably clever, well-informed, brightly written, and in\n    many ways interesting.’—TIMES.\n\n=COLLECTED CONTRIBUTIONS ON DIGESTION AND DIET.= With an Appendix on\nthe Opium Habit in India. By Sir WILLIAM ROBERTS, M.D., F.R.S. Second\nEdition. Crown 8vo. 5_s._\n\n=THROUGH LONDON SPECTACLES.= By CONSTANCE MILMAN. Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._\n\n    ‘Altogether a very pleasant and companionable little\n    book.’—SPECTATOR.\n\n=SIR CHARLES HALLÉ’S LIFE AND LETTERS.= Being an Autobiography (1819 60),\nwith Correspondence and Diaries. Edited by his Son, C. E. HALLÉ, and his\nDaughter, MARIE HALLÉ. With 2 Portraits. Demy 8vo. 16_s._\n\n    ‘The volume is one of the most interesting of recent\n    contributions to the literature of music.... A strong sense\n    of humour is manifest in the autobiography as well as in the\n    letters, and there are some capital stories scattered up and\n    down the volumes.’—TIMES.\n\n=THE MEMOIRS OF BARON THIÉBAULT= (late Lieutenant-General in the French\nArmy). With Recollections of the Republic, the Consulate, and the Empire.\nTranslated and Condensed by A. J. BUTLER, M.A., Translator of the\n‘Memoirs of Marbot.’ 2 vols. With 2 Portraits and 2 Maps. Demy 8vo. 28_s._\n\n    ‘Mr. Butler’s work has been admirably done.... These memoirs\n    abound in varied interest, and, moreover, they have no little\n    literary merit.... For solid history, bright sketches of rough\n    campaigning, shrewd studies of character, and lively anecdote,\n    these memoirs yield in no degree to others.’—TIMES.\n\n=PREHISTORIC MAN AND BEAST.= By the Rev. H. N. HUTCHINSON, Author of\n‘Extinct Monsters,’ ‘Creatures of Other Days,’ &c. With a Preface by Sir\nHENRY HOWARTH, M.P., F.R.S., and 10 full-page Illustrations. Small demy\n8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._\n\n    ‘A striking picture of living men and conditions as they once\n    existed.... It combines graphic description with scientific\n    accuracy, and is an admirable example of what a judicious use\n    of the imagination can achieve upon a basis of established\n    fact.’—KNOWLEDGE.\n\n             London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.\n\n\n\n\nROBERT BROWNING’S WORKS\n\nAND ‘LIFE AND LETTERS.’\n\n\n=THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BROWNING.= Edited and Annotated by\nAUGUSTINE BIRRELL, Q.C., M.P., and FREDERIC G. KENYON. In 2 vols, large\ncrown 8vo. bound in cloth, gilt top, with a Portrait-Frontispiece to each\nvolume, 7_s._ 6_d._ per volume.\n\n    ⁂ An Edition has also been printed on Oxford India Paper. This\n    can be obtained only through booksellers, who will furnish\n    particulars as to price, &c.\n\n=UNIFORM EDITION OF THE WORKS OF ROBERT BROWNING.= 17 vols. Small crown\n8vo. lettered separately, or in set binding, 5_s._ each.\n\n    This Edition contains Three Portraits of Mr. Browning, at\n    different periods of life, and a few Illustrations.\n\n    CONTENTS OF THE VOLUMES.\n\n    1. PAULINE: and SORDELLO.\n\n    2. PARACELSUS: & STRAFFORD.\n\n    3. PIPPA PASSES: KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES: THE RETURN\n    OF THE DRUSES: and A SOUL’S TRAGEDY. With a Portrait of Mr.\n    Browning.\n\n    4. A BLOT IN THE ’SCUTCHEON: COLOMBE’S BIRTHDAY: and MEN AND\n    WOMEN.\n\n    5. DRAMATIC ROMANCES: and CHRISTMAS EVE & EASTER DAY.\n\n    6. DRAMATIC LYRICS: and LURIA.\n\n    7. IN A BALCONY: and DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. With a Portrait of Mr.\n    Browning.\n\n    8. THE RING AND THE BOOK. Books 1 to 4. With 2 Illustrations.\n\n    9. THE RING AND THE BOOK. Books 5 to 8.\n\n    10. THE RING AND THE BOOK. Books 9 to 12. With a Portrait of\n    Guido Franceschini.\n\n    11. BALAUSTION’S ADVENTURE: PRINCE HOHENSTIEL-SCHWANGAU,\n    Saviour of Society: and FIFINE AT THE FAIR.\n\n    12. RED COTTON NIGHTCAP COUNTRY: and THE INN ALBUM.\n\n    13. ARISTOPHANES’ APOLOGY, including a Transcript from\n    Euripides, being the Last Adventure of Balaustion: and THE\n    AGAMEMNON OF ÆSCHYLUS.\n\n    14. PACCHIAROTTO, and How he Worked in Distemper; with other\n    Poems: LA SAISIAZ: and THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC.\n\n    15. DRAMATIC IDYLS, First Series: DRAMATIC IDYLS, Second\n    Series: and JOCOSERIA.\n\n    16. FERISHTAH’S FANCIES: and PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE OF\n    IMPORTANCE IN THEIR DAY. With a Portrait of Mr. Browning.\n\n    17. ASOLANDO: Fancies and Facts; and BIOGRAPHICAL AND\n    HISTORICAL NOTES TO THE POEMS.\n\n=A SELECTION FROM THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BROWNING.= FIRST SERIES,\ncrown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ SECOND SERIES. Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._\n\n=POCKET VOLUME OF SELECTIONS FROM THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BROWNING.=\nSmall fcp. 8vo. bound in half-cloth, with cut or uncut edges, price ONE\nSHILLING.\n\n=THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF ROBERT BROWNING.= By MRS. SUTHERLAND ORR. With\nPortrait, and Steel Engraving of Mr. Browning’s Study in De Vere Gardens.\nSecond Edition. Crown 8vo. 12_s._ 6_d._\n\n             London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.\n\n\n\n\nNEW EDITION OF W. M. THACKERAY’S WORKS.\n\n\nIn 13 Volumes, Large crown 8vo. cloth, gilt top, 6_s._ each.\n\n_THE BIOGRAPHICAL EDITION_ OF W. M. THACKERAY’S COMPLETE WORKS.\n\nTHIS NEW AND REVISED EDITION COMPRISES ADDITIONAL MATERIAL and HITHERTO\nUNPUBLISHED LETTERS, SKETCHES, and DRAWINGS.\n\n_Derived from the Author’s Original Manuscripts and Note-Books._\n\nAND EACH VOLUME INCLUDES A MEMOIR, IN THE FORM OF AN INTRODUCTION,\n\nBy Mrs. RICHMOND RITCHIE.\n\nCONTENTS OF THE VOLUMES:—\n\n    1. =VANITY FAIR.= With 20 Full-page Illustrations, 11 Woodcuts,\n    a Facsimile Letter, and a new Portrait.\n\n    2. =PENDENNIS.= With 20 Full-page Illustrations and 10 Woodcuts.\n\n    3. =YELLOWPLUSH PAPERS, &c.= With 24 Full-page Reproductions of\n    Steel Plates by GEORGE CRUIKSHANK, 11 Woodcuts, and a Portrait\n    of the Author by MACLISE.\n\n    4. =THE MEMOIRS OF BARRY LYNDON: THE FITZBOODLE PAPERS=, &c.\n    With 16 Full-page Illustrations by J. E. MILLAIS, R.A., LUKE\n    FILDES, A.R.A., and the Author, and 14 Woodcuts.\n\n    5. =SKETCH BOOKS:—THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK; THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK;\n    NOTES OF A JOURNEY FROM CORNHILL TO GRAND CAIRO=, &c. With 16\n    Full-page Illustrations, 39 Woodcuts, and a Portrait of the\n    Author by MACLISE.\n\n    6. =CONTRIBUTIONS TO ‘PUNCH’ &c.= With 20 Full-page\n    Illustrations, 26 Woodcuts, and an Engraving of the Author from\n    a Portrait by SAMUEL LAURENCE.\n\n    7. =THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND; and THE LECTURES.= With 20\n    Full-page Illustrations by GEORGE DU MAURIER, F. BARNARD, and\n    FRANK DICKSEE, R.A., and 11 Woodcuts.\n\n    8. =THE NEWCOMES.= With 20 Full-page Illustrations by RICHARD\n    DOYLE and 11 Woodcuts.\n\n    9. =CHRISTMAS BOOKS, &c.= With 97 Full-page Illustrations, 122\n    Woodcuts, and a Facsimile Letter.\n\n    10. =THE VIRGINIANS.= With 20 Full-page Illustrations, 6\n    Woodcuts, a Photogravure, and a new Portrait.\n\n    11. =THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP; and A SHABBY GENTEEL STORY.=\n    With 24 Full-page Illustrations by FREDERICK WALKER and the\n    Author, 6 Woodcuts, a Facsimile of MS., and 2 Facsimile Letters.\n\n    12. =LOVEL THE WIDOWER; ROUNDABOUT PAPERS; DENIS DUVAL, &c.=\n    With 20 Full-page and 11 Text Illustrations by FREDERICK\n    WALKER, A.R.A., CHARLES KEENE, and the AUTHOR, and 2 pages of\n    MS. in facsimile.\n\n    13. =BALLADS AND MISCELLANIES.= With 35 Full-page Illustrations\n    by the AUTHOR, GEORGE CRUIKSHANK and JOHN LEECH, 35 Woodcuts, 3\n    Portraits of Thackeray’s Ancestors, an Engraving of the Author\n    from a Drawing by SAMUEL LAURENCE, and a Photogravure, from a\n    Drawing by CHINNERY, of Thackeray at the age of 3, with his\n    Father and Mother. The volume also contains a Life of Thackeray\n    by LESLIE STEPHEN and a Bibliography.            [_On April 15._\n\n=The Bookman.=—‘In her new biographical edition Mrs. Richmond Ritchie\ngives us precisely what we want. The volumes are a pleasure to hold and\nto handle. They are just what we like our ordinary every-day Thackeray\nto be. And prefixed to each of them we have all that we wish to know, or\nhave any right to know, about the author himself; all the circumstances,\nletters, and drawings which bear upon the work.’\n\n⁂_A Prospectus of the Edition, with specimen pages, will be sent post\nfree on application._\n\nLondon: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.",
    "author": "Elizabeth Barrett Browning",
    "recipient": "Robert Browning",
    "source": "The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, Vol. 2",
    "period": "1845–1846"
  }
]