... all the obstacles in the world can do nothing now, nothing: earlier
they might have proved formidable annoyances. I have seen enough of you,
Ba, for an eternity of belief in you ... and you, as you confess, you
cannot think ‘I shall forget.’
All you can, you compensate me for the absence—that such letters,
instead of being themselves the supremest reward and last of gains,
should be—compensation, at the best! Am I really to have you, all of you
and altogether, and always? If you go out of your dream-life, can I lie
quietly in mine? But I hold your hand and hear your voice through it all.
How do these abrupt changes in the temperature affect you? Yesterday at
noon, so oppressively hot—this morning, a wind and a cold. Do you feel
no worse than usual? If you do not tell me,—you know, I cannot keep
away. Then, this disinspiriting bequest of poor Haydon’s journal ... his
‘writings’—from which all the harm came, and, it should seem, is still to
come to himself and everybody beside—let us all forget what came of those
descriptions and vindications and explanations interminable; but as for
beginning another sorrowful issue of them,—it is part and parcel of the
insanity—and to lay the business of editing the ‘twenty-six’ (I think)
volumes, with the responsibility, on _you_—most insane! Unless, which one
would avoid supposing, the author trusted precisely to your ignorance of
facts and isolation from the people able to instruct you. Take one little
instance of how ‘facts’ may be set down—in the _Athenæum_ was an account
of Haydon’s quoting Waller’s verse about the eagle reached by his own
feather on the arrow,—which he applied to Maclise and some others, who
had profited by their intimacy with him to turn his precepts to account
and so surpass him in public estimation: now, Maclise was in Haydon’s
company for the first time at Talfourd’s on that evening when I met your
brother there,—so said Talfourd in an after-supper speech,—and Forster,
to whom I mentioned the circumstance, assured me that Maclise ‘called
on Haydon for the first time only a few months ago’ ... I suppose,
shortly after. Now, what right has Maclise, a fine generous fellow, to
be subjected to such an imputation as that? With an impartial prudent
man, acquainted with the artists of the last thirty years, the editing
might turn to profit: I do hope for an exercise of Mr. Kenyon’s caution
here, at all events. And then how horrible are all these posthumous
revelations,—these passions of the now passionless, errors of the at
length better-instructed! All falls unfitly, ungraciously—the triumphs or
the despondencies, the hopes or fears, of—whom? He is so far above it all
now! Even in this life—imagine a proficient in an art or science, who,
after thirty or sixty years of progressive discovery, finds that some
bookseller has disinterred and is about publishing the raw first attempt
at a work which he was guilty of in the outset!
All of which you know better than I—what do you not know better? Nor as
well?—that I love you with my whole heart, Ba, dearest Ba, and look up
into your eyes for all light and life. Bless you.
Your very own—
I am going to Talfourd’s to-morrow (to dine)—and perhaps to Chorley’s
in the evening. If I can do any bidding of yours at Talfourd’s ... but
that seems improbable,—with Mr. Kenyon, too! But (_this between our very
selves_) the Talfourds, or at least Mrs. T., please to take one of their
unimaginably stupid groundless dislikes to him.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Monday.
[Post-mark, July 7, 1846.]
But I meant to ‘leave it to you,’ not to come before Wednesday but after
Wednesday, in case of some Wednesday’s engagement coming to cross mine.
‘Ba’s old way’ ... do you cry out! Perhaps—only that an engagement is a
possible thing always. Not meaning an engagement with Miss Campbell. I
hope, hope, then, to be able to see you, dearest Robert, on Wednesday. On
Wednesday, at last!
Here is a letter which I had this morning from Mr. Landor, than which
can anything be more gracious? It appears ... I forgot to tell you
yesterday after I heard it from Mr. Kenyon ... it appears that my note
of thanks had my signature affixed to it in such a state of bad writing,
that Mr. Landor, being sorely puzzled, sent the letter up to Mr. Forster
to be read. Mr. Forster read it (so it _could_ be read!) and then took it
to Mr. Kenyon, who read it too, and afterwards came to scold me for being
perfectly illegible. It was signed at full length too, Elizabeth Barrett
Barrett ... and really I couldn’t believe that I was very guilty till
Mr. Landor’s own letter persuaded me this morning of its being so much
pleasanter to be guilty than innocent, for the nonce.
Ah—you use the right word for the other subject. _If_ a bequest, it is
indeed a ‘_dispiriting_ bequest,’ this of poor Haydon’s. But I hope to
the last that he meant simply to point to _me_ as the actual holder of
the papers—and certainly when he sent the great trunk here, it was with
no intention of dying; Mr. Kenyon agreed with me to that effect—I showed
him the notes which I had found and laid aside for you, and which you
shall take with you on Wednesday. Still, there must be an editor found
somewhere—because the papers cannot go as they are to a publisher’s
hands from mine, if I _only hold_ them. Does any one say that I am a fit
editor? Have I _the power_? the knowledge of art and artists? of the
world? of the times? of the persons? All these things are against me—and
others besides.
Now I will tell you one thing which he told me in confidence, but which
is at length perhaps in those papers—I tell you because you are myself,
and will understand the need and obligation to silence—and I want you
to understand besides how the twenty-six volumes hang heavily on my
thoughts. He told me in so many words that Mrs. Norton had made advances
towards him—and that his children, in sympathy towards their mother, had
dashed into atoms the bust of the poetess as it stood in his painting
room.
If you can say anything _safely_ for me at Mr. Talfourd’s, of course I
shall be glad ... and Mr. Kenyon will speak to Mr. Forster, he said.
I want to get back my letters too as soon as I can do it without
disturbing anyone’s peace. What is in those letters, I cannot tell, so
impulsively and foolishly, sometimes, I am apt to write; and at that
time, through caring for nobody and feeling so loose to life, I threw
away my thoughts without looking where they fell. Often my sisters have
blamed me for writing in that wild way to strangers—and I should like to
have the letters back before they shall have served to amuse two or three
executors—but of this too, I spoke to Mr. Kenyon.
Still it is not of _me_ that we are called to think—and I would not for
the world refuse any last desire, if clearly signified, and if the power
should be with me. He was not a common man—he had in him the stuff of
greatness, this poor Haydon had; and we must consider reverently whatever
rent garment he shall have left behind. Quite, in some respects, I think
with you but your argument does appear to me to sweep out too far on one
side, so that if you do not draw it back, Robert, you will efface all
autobiography and confession—tear out a page bent over by many learners—I
mean when you say that because he is above (now) the passions and
frailties he has recorded, we should put from us the record. True, he is
above it all—true, he has done with the old Haydon; like a man outgrowing
his own childhood he will not spin this top any more. Oh, it is true—I
feel it all just as you do. But, after all, a man outgrowing his
childhood, may leave his top to children, and no one smile! This record
is not for the angels, but for _us_, who are a little lower at highest.
Three volumes perhaps may be taken from the twenty-six full of character
and interest, and not without melancholy teaching. Only some competent
and sturdy hand should manage the selection; as surely as mine is unfit
for it. But where to seek _discretion_? _delicacy_?
Dearest, I speak the truth to you—I am not ill indeed. When I was at
best in health I used sometimes to be a little weak and faint, and it
has only been _so_ for this last day or two. By Wednesday the cloud will
have passed. And, do you know, I have found out something from our long
parting, ... I have found out that I love you better than even I thought.
There’s a piece of finding out! My own dearest—what would become of me
indeed, _if_ I could not see you on Wednesday nor on Thursday nor on
Friday?—no breath I have, for going on. No breath I should have, for
living on. I do kiss you through the distance——since you tell me. I love
you with my soul.
Your own I am.
Three of the flowers and nearly all the little blue ones stay with me all
this while to comfort me!! isn’t it kind of them?
Two letters to-day—and such letters! Ah—if you love me always but half
as much—I will agree with you now for half! Yet, O Hesiod, half is not
better than the whole, by any means! Yet ... if the whole went away, and
did not leave me half!—
When I was a child I heard two married women talking. One said to the
other ... ‘The most painful part of marriage is the first year, when the
lover changes into the husband by slow degrees.’ The other woman agreed,
as a matter of fact is agreed to. I listened with my eyes and ears, and
never forgot it ... as you observe. It seemed to me, child as I was, a
dreadful thing to have a husband by such a process. Now, it seems to me
more dreadful.
Si l’âme est immortelle
L’amour ne l’est-il pas?
Beautiful verses—just to prove to you that I do not remember _only_ the
disagreeable things ... only to teaze you with, like so many undeserved
reproaches. And you so good, so best—Ah—but it is _that_ which frightens
me! so far _best_!
You were foolish to begin to love me, you know, as always I told you, my
beloved!—but since you _would_ begin, ... go on to do it as long as you
can ... do not leave me in the wilderness. God bless you for me!—
I am your BA.
Think if people were to get hold of that imputation on poor Mrs.
Norton—think!
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Tuesday Morning in haste.
[Post-mark, July 7, 1846.]
Dearest, I am uncertain whether I can see you to-morrow. To-night I will
write again—you shall hear. You tell me to _risk nothing_ ... which is
what I feel. But I long, long to see you. You shall hear in the morning.
Read the note which Mr. Kenyon sends me from Mr. Forster. Very averse I
feel, from applying, in the way prescribed, to Mr. Serjeant Talfourd.
Tell me what to do, Robert ... my ‘famous in council!’ Sick at heart, it
all makes me. Am I to write to Mr. Talfourd, do you think?
Oh, _you_ would manage it for me—but to mix _you_ up in it, will make
a danger of a worse evil. May God bless you, my own. I may see you
to-morrow perhaps after all—it is a ‘_perhaps_’ though ... and I am surely
Your BA.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Tuesday.
[Post-mark, July 7, 1846.]
Dearest, the first thing to say is the deep joyfulness of expecting
to see you, really, to-morrow—mind, the engagement with Mr. Kenyon is
nothing in the way. If you cannot let me stay the usual time—I can call,
pass away the interval easily ... this is a superfluous word to your
goodness which is superfluous in these ‘old ways of Ba’s’—dear Ba, whom
I kiss with perfect love—and shall soon kiss in no dream! Landor is all
well enough in one sentence ... happily turned _that_ is,—but I am vexed
at his strange opinion of Goethe’s poem,—and the more, that a few years
ago he wrote down as boldly that nothing had been written _so_ ‘Hellenic’
these two thousand years—(in a note to the ‘Satire on the Satirists’)—and
of these opinions I think the earlier much nearer the truth. _Then_ he
wrote so, because Wordsworth had depreciated Goethe—now, very likely,
some maladroit applauder has said Landor’s own ‘Iphigenia’ is worthy of
Goethe,—or similar platitudes.
Yes, dearest, you are quite right—and my words have a wrong sense, and
one I did not mean they should bear, if they object to confessions
and autobiographies in general. Only the littleness and temporary
troubles, the petty battle with foes, which is but a moment’s work
however the success may be, all _that_ might go when the occasion,
real or fancied, is gone. I would have the customary ‘habits,’ as we
say, of the man preserved, and if they were quilted and stiffened with
steel and bristling all over with the offensive and defensive weapons
the man judged necessary for his safety,—they should be composed and
hung up decently—telling the true story of his life. But I should not
preserve the fretful gesture,—lift the arm, as it was angrily lifted to
keep off a wolf—which now turns out to have been only Flush in a fever
of vigilance—half-drew the sword which—Ah, let me have done with this!
You understand, if I do not. For the bad story,—the telling _that_, if
it were true, is nearly as bad as inventing it. That poor woman is the
hack-block of a certain class of redoubtable braggarts—there are such
stories by the _dozen_ in circulation. All may have been misconception
... ‘advances’—to induce one more painter to introduce her face in his
works.
My time is out ... I had much to say, but this letter of mine arrived by
the afternoon post,—shame on the office! To-morrow!
Bless you, ever dearest dearest—
Your own.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Tuesday Evening
[Post-mark, July 8, 1846.]
Yes—I understand you perfectly—and it should be exactly as you say—and it
is just _that_, which requires so much adroitness,—and such decision and
strength of hand, to manage these responsibilities. Somebody is wanted
to cut and burn, and be silent afterwards. I remember that bitter things
are said of Shelley and Leigh Hunt beyond all the bitterness of alcohol.
Olives do not taste so, though steeped in salt. There are some curious
letters by poor Keats about Hunt, and _they_ too are bitter. It would
be dreadful to suffer these miseries to sow themselves about the world,
like so much thistle-down ... the world, where there are thistles enough
already, to make fodder for its wild asses!
As to Landor ... oh, I did not remember the note you speak of in the
satire you speak of—but you remember everything ... even _me_. Is it
not true that Landor, too, is one of the men who carry their passions
about with them into everything, as a boy would, pebbles ... muddying
every clear water, with a stone here and a stone there. The end is, that
we lose the image of himself in the serene depth, as we might have had
it—and the little stone comes to stand for him. How unworthy of such a
man as Landor, such weakness is! To _think_ with one’s temper!! One might
as well be at once Don Quixote, and fight with a warming-pan.
But I did not remember the _former_ opinion. I took it for a
constitutional fancy of Landor’s, and did not smile much more at it than
at my own ‘profundity in German,’ which was a matter of course ... of
course ... of course. For have I not the gift of tongues? Don’t I talk
Syriac ... as well as Flush talks English—and Hebrew, like a prophetess
... and various other languages and dialects less familiarly known to
persons in general than these aforesaid? So, profound indeed, must be the
German and the Dutch! And perhaps it may not be worth while to answer Mr.
Landor’s note for the mere purpose of telling him anything about it.
Dearest!—I have written all this before I would say a word of your
coming, just to think a little more—and down all these pages I have
been thinking, thinking, of _you_ ... of your possible coming ... what
nonsense they must be! Well! and the end is that, let it be wise or
unwise, I _must and will see you to-morrow_—I cannot do otherwise. It is
just as if Flush had been shut up in a box for so many days. My spirits
flag ... and I could find it in my heart to grow cross like Landor and
deny Goethe. So come, dearest dearest—and let the world bark at our heels
if it pleases. I will just turn round and set Flush at it.
For two or three days I have not been out—not for two days ... not out of
this room. This evening at seven, when they were all going to dinner, I
took Wilson with me and drove into the park for air. It will do me good
perhaps—but your coming will, certainly. So come, my dearest beloved!—At
three, remember.
Your own
BA.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
PRIVATE
Wednesday 7 A.M.
[Post-mark, July 8, 1846.]
My own Ba, I received your note on my return from Talfourd’s last night.
I am anxious to get the first post for this, so can only use the bare
words,—if those. After dinner, Forster put a question to our host about
the amount of the subscription; and in a minute the paper-bequest was
introduced. Talfourd had received a letter from Miss Mitford, enclosing
one from you (or a copy of one ... I did not hear)—whereat he pronounced
so emphatically upon H.’s conduct in making you,—‘who could never have
known the nature of the transaction nor the very serious consequences
it involved’—the depositary of his pictures &c. on such occasions,—the
words, ‘H. it seems, has been in the habit of using Miss B’s house &c.’
(or to that effect) had so offensive an implication,—that I felt obliged
to say simply, you had never seen Haydon and were altogether amazed
and distressed at his desire,—and that, for the other matter, what he
chose to send, you could not, I supposed, bring yourself to refuse
admittance to the house. I gave no particular account of my own means of
knowledge, nor spoke further than to remove the impression from the minds
of the people present that you must have ‘known’ Haydon, as they call
‘knowing’—and Forster, for one, expressed surprise at it. I ventured to
repeat what I mentioned to you—‘that it seemed likely you were selected
for the Editorship precisely on account of your isolation from the world.’
Soon after, Forster went away—and, up-stairs, I got Talfourd alone, and
just told him that I was in the habit of corresponding with you, that you
had made me acquainted with a few of the circumstances, and that you had
at once thought of _him_, Talfourd, as the proper source of instruction
on the subject. Talfourd’s reply amounted to this,—(in the fewest words
possible). The _will_ &c. is of course an absurdity. The papers are the
undoubted property of the creditors ... any attempt to publish them
would subject you to an action at law. They were given prospectively to
you _exactly for the reason I suggested_: they having been in the first
instance offered to Talfourd. Haydon knew that T. would never print them
in their offensive integrity, and hoped that _you would_—being quite
of the average astuteness in worldly matters when his own vanity and
selfishness were not concerned. They might, these papers, be published
with advantage to Mrs. Haydon at some future time if the creditors
permit—or without their permitting, if woven into a substantially new
framework; as some ‘Haydon and his Times,’ or the like ... but there
is nothing to call for such a step at present, even in that view of
advantage to the family ... the subscription and other assistances being
sufficient for their necessities. Therefore the course T. would recommend
you to adopt is to let the deposit (_if_ you have one ... for he did not
_know_, and I said nothing)—lie untouched—not giving them up to anybody,
any creditor, to Mrs. H’s prejudice.
Now, can you do better than as Forster advises? Talfourd goes on circuit
_to-morrow_—he said, ‘I can hear, or arrange anything with Miss B’s
brother’—so that, if there should be no time, you can write by him, and
entrust explanations &c. But would it not be best to get done with this
matter directly—to write a BRIEF note in the course of to-day, mentioning
the facts, and requesting advice? In order to leave you the time to do
this,—should the post presently bring me a letter allowing me to see you
at three ... unless the allowance is _very_ free, _very_ irresistible ...
I will rather take to-morrow ... a piece of self-denial I fear I should
not so readily bring myself to exhibit, were I not really obliged to pass
your house to-day; so that even Ba will understand!
Miss Mitford’s note appears to have been none of the wisest—indeed a
phrase or two I heard, were purely foolish: H. was said to have practised
‘Ion’s principle’!
T. had known Haydon most intimately and for a long time: he does not
believe H. was mad—of a mad vanity, of course. His _last_ paper ...
‘Haydon’s Thoughts’ ... was a dissertation on the respective merits of
Napoleon and Wellington—how wrong Haydon felt he had been to prefer the
former ... and the why and the wherefore. All this wretched stuff, in a
room theatrically arranged,—here his pictures, there ... God forgive us
all, fools or wise by comparison! The debts are said to be £3,000 ... he
having been an insolvent debtor ... how long before? His landlord, a poor
man, is creditor for £1,200.
Here I will end, and wait: this is written in _all_ haste ... and is so
altogether no proper letter of _mine_ that I shall put the necessary
‘Private’ at the top of it. _My_ letter shall go presently, if _I_ do not
go, to my own Ba—
R.B.
Should you write to your brother ... will he need reminding that Talfourd
is only to know we correspond,—not that we are personally acquainted? Had
you not better mention this in any case?
God bless you, dearest,—what a letter from me to you—to Ba! _Time_, Time!
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Thursday.
[Post-mark, July 9, 1846.]
My own darling, my Ba, do you know when I read those letters (as soon
as I remembered I had got them,—for you hold me long after both doors,
up and down stairs, shut) when I looked through them, under a gateway
... I was pricked at the heart to have thought so, and spoken so, of
the poor writer. I will believe that he was good and even great when
in communication with you—indeed all men are made, or make themselves,
different in their approaches to different men—and the secret of goodness
and greatness is in choosing _whom_ you will approach, and live with, in
memory or imagination, through the crowding obvious people who seem to
live with you. That letter about the glory of being a painter ‘if only
for the neglect’ is most touching and admirable ... there is the serene
spot attained, the solid siren’s isle amid the sea; and while _there_,
he was safe and well ... but he would put out to sea again, after a
breathing time, I suppose? though even a smaller strip of land was
enough to maintain Blake, for one instance, in power and glory through
the poor, fleeting ‘sixty years’—then comes the rest from cartooning and
exhibiting. But there is no standing, one foot on land and one on the
waves, now with the high aim in view, now with the low aim,—and all the
strange mistaken talk about ‘prestiges,’ ‘Youth and its luck,’ Napoleon
and the world’s surprise and interest. There comes the low aim between
the other,—an organ grinds Mr. Jullien’s newest dance-tune, and Camoens
is vexed that the ‘choral singing which brought angels down,’ can’t also
draw street-passengers round.
I take your view of H.’s freedom, at that time, from the thoughts of what
followed.