From the _New Monthly Magazine_. 'The admirers of Robert Browning's
poetry, and they are now very numerous, will be glad to hear of the
issue by Mr. Moxon of a seventh series of the renowned "Bells" and
delicious "Pomegranates," under the title of "Dramatic Romances and
Lyrics."'
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Tuesday.
[Post-mark, December 30, 1845.]
When you are gone I find your flowers; and you never spoke of nor
showed them to me--so instead of yesterday I thank you to-day--thank
you. Count among the miracles that your flowers live with me--I accept
_that_ for an omen, dear--dearest! Flowers in general, all other
flowers, die of despair when they come into the same atmosphere ...
used to do it so constantly and observably that it made me melancholy
and I left off for the most part having them here. Now you see how
they put up with the close room, and condescend to me and the dust--it
is true and no fancy! To be sure they know that I care for them and
that I stand up by the table myself to change their water and cut
their stalk freshly at intervals--_that_ may make a difference
perhaps. Only the great reason must be that they are yours, and that
you teach them to bear with me patiently.
Do not pretend even to misunderstand what I meant to say yesterday of
dear Mr. Kenyon. His blame would fall as my blame of myself has
fallen: he would say--will say--'it is ungenerous of her to let such a
risk be run! I thought she would have been more generous.' There, is
Mr. Kenyon's opinion as I foresee it! Not that it would be spoken, you
know! he is too kind. And then, he said to me last summer, somewhere
_à propos_ to the flies or butterflies, that he had 'long ceased to
wonder at any extreme of foolishness produced by--_love_.' He will of
course think you very very foolish, but not ungenerously foolish like
other people.
Never mind. I do not mind indeed. I mean, that, having said to myself
worse than the worst perhaps of what can be said against me by any who
regard me at all, and feeling it put to silence by the fact that you
_do_ feel so and so for me; feeling that fact to be an answer to
all,--I cannot mind much, in comparison, the railing at second remove.
There will be a nine days' railing of it and no more: and if on the
ninth day you should not exactly wish never to have known me, the
better reason will be demonstrated to stand with us. On this one point
the wise man cannot judge for the fool his neighbour. If you _do_ love
me, the inference is that you would be happier with than without
me--and whether you do, you know better than another: so I think of
_you_ and not of _them_--always of _you_! When I talked of being
afraid of dear Mr. Kenyon, I just meant that he makes me nervous with
his all-scrutinizing spectacles, put on for great occasions, and his
questions which seem to belong to the spectacles, they go together
so:--and then I have no presence of mind, as you may see without the
spectacles. My only way of hiding (when people set themselves to look
for me) would be the old child's way of getting behind the window
curtains or under the sofa:--and even _that_ might not be effectual if
I had recourse to it now. Do you think it would? Two or three times I
fancied that Mr. Kenyon suspected something--but if he ever _did_, his
only reproof was a reduplicated praise of _you_--he praises you always
and in relation to every sort of subject.
What a _misomonsism_ you fell into yesterday, you who have much great
work to do which no one else can do except just yourself!--and you,
too, who have courage and knowledge, and must know that every work,
with the principle of life in it, _will_ live, let it be trampled ever
so under the heel of a faithless and unbelieving generation--yes, that
it will live like one of your toads, for a thousand years in the heart
of a rock. All men can teach at second or third hand, as you said ...
by prompting the foremost rows ... by tradition and translation:--all,
_except_ poets, who must preach their own doctrine and sing their own
song, to be the means of any wisdom or any music, and therefore have
stricter duties thrust upon them, and may not lounge in the [Greek:
stoa] like the conversation-teachers. So much I have to say to you,
till we are in the Siren's island--and _I_, jealous of the Siren!--
The Siren waits thee singing song for song,
says Mr. Landor. A prophecy which refuses to class you with the 'mute
fishes,' precisely as I do.
And are you not my 'good'--all my good now--my only good ever? The
Italians would say it better without saying more.
I had a letter from Miss Martineau this morning who accounts for her
long silence by the supposition,--put lately to an end by scarcely
credible information from Mr. Moxon, she says--that I was out of
England; gone to the South from the 20th of September. She calls
herself the strongest of women, and talks of 'walking fifteen miles
one day and writing fifteen pages another day without fatigue,'--also
of mesmerizing and of being infinitely happy except in the continued
alienation of two of her family who cannot forgive her for getting
well by such unlawful means. And she is to write again to tell me of
Wordsworth, and promises to send me her new work in the meanwhile--all
very kind.
So here is my letter to you, which you asked for so 'against the
principles of universal justice.' Yes, very unjust--very unfair it
was--only, you make me do just as you like in everything. Now confess
to your own conscience that even if I had not a lawful claim of a debt
against you, I might come to ask charity with another sort of claim,
oh 'son of humanity.' Think how much more need of a letter _I_ have
than you can have; and that if you have a giant's power, ''tis
tyrannous to use it like a giant.' Who would take tribute from the
desert? How I grumble. _Do_ let me have a letter directly! remember
that no other light comes to my windows, and that I wait 'as those who
watch for the morning'--'lux mea!'
May God bless you--and mind to say how you are _exactly_, and don't
neglect the walking, _pray_ do not.