Robert Browning, Esq.
New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey.
Jan. 13, 1845.
Dear Miss Barrett,--I just shall say, in as few words as I can, that
you make me very happy, and that, now the beginning is over, I dare
say I shall do better, because my poor praise, number one, was nearly
as felicitously brought out, as a certain tribute to no less a
personage than Tasso, which I was amused with at Rome some weeks ago,
in a neat pencilling on the plaister-wall by his tomb at
Sant'Onofrio--'Alla cara memoria--di--(please fancy solemn interspaces
and grave capital letters at the new lines) di--Torquato Tasso--il
Dottore Bernardini--offriva--il seguente Carme--_O tu_'--and no
more,--the good man, it should seem, breaking down with the overload
of love here! But my 'O tu'--was breathed out most sincerely, and now
you have taken it in gracious part, the rest will come after.
Only,--and which is why I write now--it looks as if I have introduced
some phrase or other about 'your faults' so cleverly as to give
exactly the opposite meaning to what I meant, which was, that in my
first ardour I had thought to tell you of _everything_ which impressed
me in your verses, down, even, to whatever 'faults' I could find,--a
good earnest, when I had got to _them_, that I had left out not much
between--as if some Mr. Fellows were to say, in the overflow of his
first enthusiasm of rewarded adventure: 'I will describe you all the
outer life and ways of these Lycians, down to their very
sandal-thongs,' whereto the be-corresponded one rejoins--'Shall I get
next week, then, your dissertation on sandal-thongs'? Yes, and a
little about the 'Olympian Horses,' and God-charioteers as well!
What 'struck me as faults,' were not matters on the removal of which,
one was to have--poetry, or high poetry,--but the very highest poetry,
so I thought, and that, to universal recognition. For myself, or any
artist, in many of the cases there would be a positive loss of time,
peculiar artist's pleasure--for an instructed eye loves to see where
the brush has dipped twice in a lustrous colour, has lain insistingly
along a favourite outline, dwelt lovingly in a grand shadow; for these
'too muches' for the everybody's picture are so many helps to the
making out the real painter's picture as he had it in his brain. And
all of the Titian's Naples Magdalen must have once been golden in its
degree to justify that heap of hair in her hands--the _only_ gold
effected now!
But about this soon--for night is drawing on and I go out, yet cannot,
quiet at conscience, till I report (to _myself_, for I never said it
to you, I think) that your poetry must be, cannot but be, infinitely
more to me than mine to you--for you _do_ what I always wanted, hoped
to do, and only seem now likely to do for the first time. You speak
out, _you_,--I only make men and women speak--give you truth broken
into prismatic hues, and fear the pure white light, even if it is in
me, but I am going to try; so it will be no small comfort to have your
company just now, seeing that when you have your men and women
aforesaid, you are busied with them, whereas it seems bleak,
melancholy work, this talking to the wind (for I have begun)--yet I
don't think I shall let _you_ hear, after all, the savage things about
Popes and imaginative religions that I must say.
See how I go on and on to you, I who, whenever now and then pulled, by
the head and hair, into letter-writing, get sorrowfully on for a line
or two, as the cognate creature urged on by stick and string, and then
come down 'flop' upon the sweet haven of page one, line last, as
serene as the sleep of the virtuous! You will never more, I hope, talk
of 'the honour of my acquaintance,' but I will joyfully wait for the
delight of your friendship, and the spring, and my Chapel-sight after
all!
Ever yours most faithfully,