_R.B. to E.B.B._
Sunday Evening.
[Post-mark, August 4, 1845.]
I said what you comment on, about Mr. Kenyon, because I feel I _must_
always tell you the simple truth--and not being quite at liberty to
communicate the whole story (though it would at once clear me from the
charge of over-curiosity ... if I much cared for _that_!)--I made my
first request in order to prevent your getting at any part of it from
_him_ which should make my withholding seem disingenuous for the
moment--that is, till my explanation came, if it had an opportunity of
coming. And then, when I fancied you were misunderstanding the reason
of that request--and supposing I was ambitious of making a higher
figure in _his_ eyes than your own,--I then felt it 'on my mind' and
so spoke ... a natural mode of relief surely! For, dear friend, I have
_once_ been _untrue_ to you--when, and how, and why, you know--but I
thought it pedantry and worse to hold by my words and increase their
fault. You have forgiven me that one mistake, and I only refer to it
now because if you should ever make _that_ a precedent, and put any
least, most trivial word of mine under the same category, you would
wrong me as you never wronged human being:--and that is done with. For
the other matter,--the talk of my visits, it is impossible that any
hint of them can ooze out of the only three persons in the world to
whom I ever speak of them--my father, mother and sister--to whom my
appreciation of your works is no novelty since some years, and whom I
made comprehend exactly your position and the necessity for the
absolute silence I enjoined respecting the permission to see you. You
may depend on them,--and Miss Mitford is in your keeping, mind,--and
dear Mr. Kenyon, if there should be never so gentle a touch of
'garrulous God-innocence' about those kind lips of his. Come, let me
snatch at _that_ clue out of the maze, and say how perfect, absolutely
perfect, are those three or four pages in the 'Vision' which present
the Poets--a line, a few words, and the man there,--one twang of the
bow and the arrowhead in the white--Shelley's 'white ideal all
statue-blind' is--perfect,--how can I coin words? And dear deaf old
Hesiod--and--all, all are perfect, perfect! But 'the Moon's regality
will hear no praise'--well then, will she hear blame? Can it be you,
my own you past putting away, _you_ are a schismatic and frequenter of
Independent Dissenting Chapels? And you confess this to _me_--whose
father and mother went this morning to the very Independent Chapel
where they took me, all those years back, to be baptised--and where
they heard, this morning, a sermon preached by the very minister who
officiated on that other occasion! Now will you be particularly
encouraged by this successful instance to bring forward any other
point of disunion between us that may occur to you? Please do not--for
so sure as you begin proving that there is a gulf fixed between us, so
sure shall I end proving that ... Anne Radcliffe avert it!... that you
are just my sister: not that I am much frightened, but there are such
surprises in novels!--Blame the next,--yes, now this _is_ to be real
blame!--And I meant to call your attention to it before. Why, why, do
you blot out, in that unutterably provoking manner, whole lines, not
to say words, in your letters--(and in the criticism on the
'Duchess')--if it is a fact that you have a second thought, does it
cease to be as genuine a fact, that first thought you please to
efface? Why give a thing and take a thing? Is there no significance in
putting on record that your first impression was to a certain effect
and your next to a certain other, perhaps completely opposite one? If
any proceeding of yours could go near to deserve that harsh word
'impertinent' which you have twice, in speech and writing, been
pleased to apply to your observations on me; certainly _this_ does go
as near as can be--as there is but one step to take from Southampton
pier to New York quay, for travellers Westward. Now will you lay this
to heart and perpend--lest in my righteous indignation I [some words
effaced here]! For my own health--it improves, thank you! And I shall
go abroad all in good time, never fear. For my 'Bells,' Mr. Chorley
tells me there is no use in the world of printing them before November
at earliest--and by that time I shall get done with these Romances and
certainly one Tragedy (_that_ could go to press next week)--in proof
of which I will bring you, if you let me, a few more hundreds of lines
next Wednesday. But, 'my poet,' if I would, as is true, sacrifice all
my works to do your fingers, even, good--what would I not offer up to
prevent you staying ... perhaps to correct my very verses ... perhaps
read and answer my very letters ... staying the production of more
'Berthas' and 'Caterinas' and 'Geraldines,' more great and beautiful
poems of which I shall be--how proud! Do not be punctual in paying
tithes of thyme, mint, anise and cummin, and leaving unpaid the real
weighty dues of the Law; nor affect a scrupulous acknowledgment of
'what you owe me' in petty manners, while you leave me to settle such
a charge, as accessory to the hiding the Talent, as best I can! I have
thought of this again and again, and would have spoken of it to you,
had I ever felt myself fit to speak of any subject nearer home and me
and you than Rome and Cardinal Acton. For, observe, you have not done
... yes, the 'Prometheus,' no doubt ... but with that exception _have_
you written much lately, as much as last year when 'you wrote all your
best things' you said, I think? Yet you are better now than then.
Dearest friend, _I_ intend to write more, and very likely be praised
more, now I care less than ever for it, but still more do I look to
have you ever before me, in your place, and with more poetry and more
praise still, and my own heartfelt praise ever on the top, like a
flower on the water. I have said nothing of yesterday's storm ...
_thunder_ ... may you not have been out in it! The evening draws in,
and I will walk out. May God bless you, and let you hold me by the
hand till the end--Yes, dearest friend!