[Mr. Browning's letter, to which the following is in answer was
destroyed, see page 268 of the present volume.]
[Footnote 1: 'What have I to do with thee?']
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Friday Evening.
[Post-mark, May 24, 1845.]
I intended to write to you last night and this morning, and could
not,--you do not know what pain you give me in speaking so wildly. And
if I disobey you, my dear friend, in speaking, (I for my part) of your
wild speaking, I do it, not to displease you, but to be in my own
eyes, and before God, a little more worthy, or less unworthy, of a
generosity from which I recoil by instinct and at the first glance,
yet conclusively; and because my silence would be the most disloyal of
all means of expression, in reference to it. Listen to me then in
this. You have said some intemperate things ... fancies,--which you
will not say over again, nor unsay, but _forget at once_, and _for
ever, having said at all_; and which (so) will die out between _you
and me alone_, like a misprint between you and the printer. And this
you will do _for my sake_ who am your friend (and you have none
truer)--and this I ask, because it is a condition necessary to our
future liberty of intercourse. You remember--surely you do--that I am
in the most exceptional of positions; and that, just _because of it_,
I am able to receive you as I did on Tuesday; and that, for me to
listen to 'unconscious exaggerations,' is as unbecoming to the
humilities of my position, as unpropitious (which is of more
consequence) to the prosperities of yours. Now, if there should be one
word of answer attempted to this; or of reference; _I must not_ ... I
_will not see you again_--and you will justify me later in your heart.
So for my sake you will not say it--I think you will not--and spare me
the sadness of having to break through an intercourse just as it is
promising pleasure to me; to me who have so many sadnesses and so few
pleasures. You will!--and I need not be uneasy--and I shall owe you
that tranquillity, as one gift of many. For, that I have much to
receive from you in all the free gifts of thinking, teaching,
master-spirits, ... _that_, I know!--it is my own praise that I
appreciate you, as none can more. Your influence and help in poetry
will be full of good and gladness to me--for with many to love me in
this house, there is no one to judge me ... _now_. Your friendship and
sympathy will be dear and precious to me all my life, if you indeed
leave them with me so long or so little. Your mistakes in me ... which
_I_ cannot mistake (--and which have humbled me by too much
honouring--) I put away gently, and with grateful tears in my eyes;
because _all that hail_ will beat down and spoil crowns, as well as
'blossoms.'
If I put off next Tuesday to the week after--I mean your visit,--shall
you care much? For the relations I named to you, are to be in London
next week; and I am to see one of my aunts whom I love, and have not
met since my great affliction--and it will all seem to come over
again, and I shall be out of spirits and nerves. On Tuesday week you
can bring a tomahawk and do the criticism, and I shall try to have my
courage ready for it--Oh, you will do me so much good--and Mr. Kenyon
calls me 'docile' sometimes I assure you; when he wants to flatter me
out of being obstinate--and in good earnest, I believe I shall do
everything you tell me. The 'Prometheus' is done--but the monodrama is
where it was--and the novel, not at all. But I think of some half
promises half given, about something I read for 'Saul'--and the
'Flight of the Duchess'--where is she?
You are not displeased with me? _no, that_ would be hail and lightning
together--I do not write as I might, of some words of yours--but you
know that I am not a stone, even if silent like one. And if in the
_un_silence, I have said one word to vex you, pity me for having had
to say it--and for the rest, may God bless you far beyond the reach of
vexation from my words or my deeds!
Your friend in grateful regard,