Chapter V: Part 5

Yes, I quite believe as you do that what is called the 'creative process' in works of Art, is just inspiration and no less--which made somebody say to me not long since; And so you think that Shakespeare's 'Othello' was of the effluence of the Holy Ghost?'--rather a startling deduction, ... only not quite as final as might appear to somebodies perhaps. At least it does not prevent my going on to agree with the saying of _Spiridion_, ... do you remember?... 'Tout ce que l'homme appelle inspiration, je l'appelle aussi revelation,' ... if there is not something too self-evident in it after all--my sole objection! And is it not true that your inability to analyse the mental process in question, is one of the proofs of the fact of inspiration?--as the gods were known of old by not being seen to move their feet,--coming and going in an equal sweep of radiance.--And still more wonderful than the first transient great light you speak of, ... and far beyond any work of _re_flection, except in the pure analytical sense in which you use the word, ... appears that gathering of light on light upon particular points, as you go (in composition) step by step, till you get intimately near to things, and see them in a fullness and clearness, and an intense trust in the truth of them which you have not in any sunshine of noon (called _real_!) but which you have _then_ ... and struggle to communicate:--an ineffectual struggle with most writers (oh, how ineffectual!) and when effectual, issuing in the 'Pippa Passes,' and other master-pieces of the world.

You will tell me what you mean exactly by being jealous of your own music? You said once that you had had a false notion of music, or had practised it according to the false notions of other people: but did you mean besides that you ever had meant to despise music altogether--because _that_, it is hard to set about trying to believe of you indeed. And then, you _can_ praise my verses for music?--Why, are you aware that people blame me constantly for wanting harmony--from Mr. Boyd who moans aloud over the indisposition of my 'trochees' ... and no less a person than Mr. Tennyson, who said to somebody who repeated it, that in the want of harmony lay the chief defect of the poems, 'although it might verily be retrieved, as he could fancy that I had an ear by nature.' Well--but I am pleased that you should praise me--right or wrong--I mean, whether I am right or wrong in being pleased! and I say so to you openly, although my belief is that you are under a vow to our Lady of Loretto to make giddy with all manner of high vanities, some head, ... not too strong for such things, but too low for them, ... before you see again the embroidery on her divine petticoat. Only there's a flattery so far beyond praise ... even _your_ praise--as where you talk of your verses being liked &c., and of your being happy to bring them here, ... that is scarcely a lawful weapon; and see if the Madonna may not signify so much to you!--Seriously, you will not hurry too uncomfortably, or uncomfortably at all, about the transcribing? Another day, you know, will do as well--and patience is possible to me, if not 'native to the soil.'

Also I am behaving very well in going out into the noise; not quite out of doors yet, on account of the heat--and I am better as you say, without any doubt at all, and stronger--only my looks are a little deceitful; and people are apt to be heated and flushed in this weather, one hour, to look a little more ghastly an hour or two after. Not that it _is_ not true of me that I am better, mind! Because I am.

The 'flower in the letter' was from one of my sisters--from Arabel (though many of these poems are _ideal_ ... will you understand?) and your rose came quite alive and fresh, though in act of dropping its beautiful leaves, because of having to come to me instead of living on in your garden, as it intended. But I thank you--for this, and all, my dear friend.

E.B.B.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Thursday Morning.
[Post-mark, June 19, 1845.]

When I next see you, do not let me go on and on to my confusion about matters I am more or less ignorant of, but always ignorant. I tell you plainly I only trench on them, and intrench in them, from gaucherie, pure and respectable ... I should certainly grow instructive on the prospects of hay-crops and pasture-land, if deprived of this resource. And now here is a week to wait before I shall have any occasion to relapse into Greek literature when I am thinking all the while, 'now I will just ask simply, what flattery there was,' &c. &c., which, as I had not courage to say then, I keep to myself for shame now. This I will say, then--wait and know me better, as you will one long day at the end.

Why I write now, is because you did not promise, as before, to let me know how you are--this morning is miserably cold again--Will you tell me, at your own time?

God bless you, my dear friend.

R.B.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Thursday Evening.
[Post-mark, June 20, 1845.]

If on Greek literature or anything else it is your pleasure to cultivate a reputation for ignorance, I will respect your desire--and indeed the point of the deficiency in question being far above my sight I am not qualified either to deny or assert the existence of it; so you are free to have it all your own way.

About the 'flattery' however, there is a difference; and I must deny a little having ever used such a word ... as far as I can recollect, and I have been trying to recollect, ... as that word of flattery. Perhaps I said something about your having vowed to make me vain by writing this or that of my liking your verses and so on--and perhaps I said it too lightly ... which happened because when one doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry, it is far best, as a general rule, to laugh. But the serious truth is that it was all nonsense together what I wrote, and that, instead of talking of your making me vain, I should have talked (if it had been done sincerely) of your humbling me--inasmuch as nothing does humble anybody so much as being lifted up too high. You know what vaulting Ambition did once for himself? and when it is done for him by another, his fall is still heavier. And one moral of all this general philosophy is, that if when your poems come, you persist in giving too much importance to what I may have courage to say of this or of that in them, you will make me a dumb critic and I shall have no help for my dumbness. So I tell you beforehand--nothing extenuating nor exaggerating nor putting down in malice. I know so much of myself as to be sure of it. Even as it is, the 'insolence' which people blame me for and praise me for, ... the 'recklessness' which my friends talk of with mitigating countenances ... seems gradually going and going--and really it would not be very strange (without that) if _I_ who was born a hero worshipper and have so continued, and who always recognised your genius, should find it impossible to bring out critical doxies on the workings of it. Well--I shall do what I can--as far as _impressions_ go, you understand--and _you_ must promise not to attach too much importance to anything said. So that is a covenant, my dear friend!--

And I am really gaining strength--and I will not complain of the weather. As long as the thermometer keeps above sixty I am content for one; and the roses are not quite dead yet, which they would have been in the heat. And last and not least--may I ask if you were told that the pain in the head was not important (or was) in the causes, ... and was likely to be well soon? or was not? I am at the end.

E.B.B.

Upon second or third thoughts, isn't it true that you are a little suspicious of me? suspicious at least of suspiciousness?

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Sunday Afternoon.
[Post-mark, June 23, 1845.]

And if I am 'suspicious of your suspiciousness,' who gives cause, pray? The matter was long ago settled, I thought, when you first took exception to what I said about higher and lower, and I consented to this much--that you should help seeing, if you could, our true intellectual and moral relation each to the other, so long as you would allow _me_ to see what _is_ there, fronting me. 'Is my eye evil because yours is not good?' My own friend, if I wished to 'make you vain,' if having 'found the Bower' I did really address myself to the wise business of spoiling its rose-roof,--I think that at least where there was such a will, there would be also something not unlike a way,--that I should find a proper hooked stick to tear down flowers with, and write you other letters than these--quite, quite others, I feel--though I am far from going to imagine, even for a moment, what might be the precise prodigy--like the notable Son of Zeus, that _was_ to have been, and done the wonders, only he did not, because &c. &c.

But I have a restless head to-day, and so let you off easily. Well, you ask me about it, that head, and I am not justified in being positive when my Doctor is dubious; as for the causes, they are neither superfluity of study, nor fancy, nor care, nor any special naughtiness that I know how to amend. So if I bring you 'nothing to signify' on Wednesday ... though I hope to do more than that ... you will know exactly why it happens. I will finish and transcribe the 'Flight of the Duchess' since you spoke of that first.

I am truly happy to hear that your health improves still.

For me, going out does me good--reading, writing, and, what is odd,--infinitely most of all, _sleeping_ do me the harm,--never any very great harm. And all the while I am yours

R.B.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Monday.
[Post-mark, June 24, 1845.]

I had begun to be afraid that I did not deserve to have my questions answered; and I was afraid of asking them over again. But it is worse to be afraid that you are not better at all in any essential manner (after all your assurances) and that the medical means have failed so far. Did you go to somebody who knows anything?--because there is no excuse, you see, in common sense, for not having the best and most experienced opinion when there is a choice of advice--and I am confident that that pain should not be suffered to go on without something being done. What I said about _nerves_, related to what you had told me of your mother's suffering and what you had fancied of the relation of it to your own, and not that I could be thinking about imaginary complaints--I wish I could. Not (either) that I believe in the relation ... because such things are not hereditary, are they? and the bare coincidence is improbable. Well, but, I wanted particularly to say this--_Don't bring the 'Duchess' with you on Wednesday._ I shall not expect anything, I write distinctly to tell you--and I would far far rather that you did not bring it. You see it is just as I thought--for that whether too much thought or study did or did not bring on the illness, ... yet you admit that reading and writing increase it ... as they would naturally do any sort of pain in the head--therefore if you will but be in earnest and try to get well _first_, we will do the 'Bells' afterwards, and there will be time for a whole peal of them, I hope and trust, before the winter. Now do admit that this is reasonable, and agree reasonably to it. And if it does you good to go out and take exercise, why not go out and take it? nay, why not go _away_ and take it? Why not try the effect of a little change of air--or even of a great change of air--if it should be necessary, or even expedient? Anything is better, you know ... or if you don't know, _I_ know--than to be ill, really, seriously--I mean for _you_ to be ill, who have so much to do and to enjoy in the world yet ... and all those bells waiting to be hung! So that if you will agree to be well first, I will promise to be ready afterwards to help you in any thing I can do ... transcribing or anything ... to get the books through the press in the shortest of times--and I am capable of a great deal of that sort of work without being tired, having the habit of writing in any sort of position, and the long habit, ... since, before I was ill even, I never used to write at a table (or scarcely ever) but on the arm of a chair, or on the seat of one, sitting myself on the floor, and calling myself a Lollard for dignity. So you will put by your 'Duchess' ... will you not? or let me see just that one sheet--if one should be written--which is finished? ... up to this moment, you understand? finished _now_.

And if I have tired and teazed you with all these words it is a bad opportunity to take--and yet I will persist in saying through good and bad opportunities that I never did 'give cause' as you say, to your being 'suspicious of my suspiciousness' as I believe I said before. I deny my 'suspiciousness' altogether--it is not one of my faults. Nor is it quite my fault that you and I should always be quarrelling about over-appreciations and under-appreciations--and after all I have no interest nor wish, I do assure you, to depreciate myself--and you are not to think that I have the remotest claim to the Monthyon prize for good deeds in the way of modesty of self-estimation. Only when I know you better, as you talk of ... and when _you_ know _me_ too well, ... the right and the wrong of these conclusions will appear in a fuller light than ever so much arguing can produce now. Is it unkindly written of me? _no_--I _feel_ it is not!--and that 'now and ever we are friends,' (just as you think) _I_ think besides and am happy in thinking so, and could not be distrustful of you if I tried. So may God bless you, my ever dear friend--and mind to forget the 'Duchess' and to remember every good counsel!--Not that I do particularly confide in the medical oracles. They never did much more for _me_ than, when my pulse was above a hundred and forty with fever, to give me digitalis to make me weak--and, when I could not move without fainting (with weakness), to give me quinine to make me feverish again. Yes--and they could tell from the stethoscope, how very little was really wrong in me ... if it were not on a vital organ--and how I should certainly live ... if I didn't die sooner. But then, nothing _has_ power over affections of the chest, except God and his winds--and I do hope that an obvious quick remedy may be found for your head. But _do_ give up the writing and all that does harm!--

Ever yours, my dear friend,

E.B.B.

Miss Mitford talked of spending Wednesday with me--and I have put it off to Thursday:--and if you should hear from Mr. Chorley that he is coming to see _her and me together on any day_, do understand that it was entirely her proposition and not mine, and that certainly it won't be acceded to, as far as _I_ am concerned; as I have explained to her finally. I have been vexed about it--but she can see him down-stairs as she has done before--and if she calls me perverse and capricious (which she will do) I shall stop the reflection by thanking her again and again (as I can do sincerely) for her kindness and goodness in coming to see me herself, so far!--

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Tuesday Morning,
[Post-mark, June 24, 1845.]

(So my friend did not in the spirit see me write that _first_ letter, on Friday, which was too good and true to send, and met, five minutes after, its natural fate accordingly. Then on Saturday I thought to take health by storm, and walked myself half dead all the morning--about town too: last post-hour from this Thule of a suburb--4 P.M. on Saturdays, next expedition of letters, 8 A.M. on Mondays;--and then my real letter set out with the others--and, it should seem, set at rest a 'wonder whether thy friend's questions deserved answering'--de-served--answer-ing--!)

Parenthetically so much--I want most, though, to tell you--(leaving out any slightest attempt at thanking you) that I am much better, quite well to-day--that my doctor has piloted me safely through two or three illnesses, and knows all about me, I do think--and that he talks confidently of getting rid of all the symptoms complained of--and _has_ made a good beginning if I may judge by to-day. As for going abroad, that is just the thing I most want to avoid (for a reason not so hard to guess, perhaps, as why my letter was slow in arriving).

So, till to-morrow,--my light through the dark week.

God ever bless you, dear friend,

R.B.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Tuesday Evening.
[Post-mark, June 25, 1845.]

What will you think when I write to ask you _not_ to come to-morrow, Wednesday; but ... on Friday perhaps, instead? But do see how it is; and judge if it is to be helped.

I have waited hour after hour, hoping to hear from Miss Mitford that she would agree to take Thursday in change for Wednesday,--and just as I begin to wonder whether she can have received my letter at all, or whether she may not have been vexed by it into taking a vengeance and adhering to her own devices; (for it appealed to her esprit de sexe on the undeniable axiom of women having their way ... and she might choose to act it out!) just as I wonder over all this, and consider what a confusion of the elements it would be if you came and found her here, and Mr. Chorley at the door perhaps, waiting for some of the light of her countenance;--comes a note from Mr. Kenyon, to the effect that _he_ will be here at four o'clock P.M.--and comes a final note from my aunt Mrs. Hedley (supposed to be at Brighton for several months) to the effect that _she_ will be here at twelve o'clock, M.!! So do observe the constellation of adverse stars ... or the covey of 'bad birds,' as the Romans called them, and that there is no choice, but to write as I am writing. It can't be helped--can it? For take away the doubt about Miss Mitford, and Mr. Kenyon remains--and take away Mr. Kenyon, and there is Mrs. Hedley--and thus it _must be for Friday_ ... which will learn to be a fortunate day for the nonce--unless Saturday should suit you better. I do not speak of Thursday, because of the doubt about Miss Mitford--and if any harm should happen to Friday, I will write again; but if you do not hear again, and are able to come then, you _will_ come perhaps then.

In the meantime I thank you for the better news in your note--if it is really, really to be trusted in--but you know, you have said so often that you were better and better, without being really better, that it makes people ... 'suspicious.' Yet it is full amends for the disappointment to hope ... here I must break off or be too late. May God bless you my dear friend.

E.B.B.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

12. Wednesday.
[Post-mark, June 25, 1845.]

Pomegranates you may cut deep down the middle and see into, but not hearts,--so why should I try and speak?

Friday is best day because nearest, but Saturday is next best--it is next near, you know: if I get no note, therefore, Friday is my day.

Now is Post-time,--which happens properly.

God bless you, and so your own

R.B.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Thursday Evening.
[Post-mark, June 27, 1845.]

After all it must be for Saturday, as Mrs. Hedley comes again on Friday, to-morrow, from _New Cross_,--or just beyond it, Eltham Park--to London for a few days, on account of the illness of one of her children. I write in the greatest haste after Miss Mitford has left me ... and _so_ tired! to say this, that if you can and will come on Saturday, ... or if not on Monday or Tuesday, there is no reason against it.

Your friend always,

E.B.B.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Friday Morning.
[Post-mark, June 27, 1845.]

Let me make haste and write down _To-morrow_, Saturday, and not later, lest my selfishness be thoroughly got under in its struggle with a better feeling that tells me you must be far too tired for another visitor this week.

What shall I decide on?

Well--Saturday is said--but I will stay not quite so long, nor talk nearly so loud as of old-times; nor will you, if you understand anything of me, fail to send down word should you be at all indisposed. I should not have the heart to knock at the door unless I really believed you would do that. Still saying this and providing against the other does not amount, I well know, to the generosity, or justice rather, of staying away for a day or two altogether. But--what 'a day or two' may not bring forth! Change to you, change to me--

Not all of me, however, can change, thank God--

Yours ever

R.B.

Or, write, as last night, if needs be: Monday, Tuesday is not so long to wait. Will you write?

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Friday Evening.
[Post-mark, June 28, 1845.]

You are very kind and always--but really _that_ does not seem a good reason against your coming to-morrow--so come, if it should not rain. If it rains, it _concludes_ for Monday ... or Tuesday; whichever may be clear of rain. I was tired on Wednesday by the confounding confusion of more voices than usual in this room; but the effect passed off, and though Miss Mitford was with me for hours yesterday I am not unwell to-day. And pray speak _bona verba_ about the awful things which are possible between this now and Wednesday. You continue to be better, I do hope? I am forced to the brevity you see, by the post on one side, and my friends on the other, who have so long overstayed the coming of your note--but it is enough to assure you that you will do no harm by coming--only give pleasure.

Ever yours, my dear friend,

E.B.B.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Monday.
[June 30, 1845.]

I send back the prize poems which have been kept far too long even if I do not make excuses for the keeping--but our sins are not always to be measured by our repentance for them. Then I am well enough this morning to have thought of going out till they told me it was not at all a right day for it ... too windy ... soft and delightful as the air seems to be--particularly after yesterday, when we had some winter back again in an episode. And the roses do not die; which is quite magnanimous of them considering their reverses; and their buds are coming out in most exemplary resignation--like birds singing in a cage. Now that the windows may be open, the flowers take heart to live a little in this room.

And think of my forgetting to tell you on Saturday that I had known of a letter being received by somebody from Miss Martineau, who is at Ambleside at this time and so entranced with the lakes and mountains as to be dreaming of taking or making a house among them, to live in for the rest of her life. Mrs. Trollope, you may have heard, had something of the same nympholepsy--no, her daughter was 'settled' in the neighbourhood--_that_ is the more likely reason for Mrs. Trollope! and the spirits of the hills conspired against her the first winter and almost slew her with a fog and drove her away to your Italy where the Oreadocracy has gentler manners. And Miss Martineau is practising mesmerism and miracles on all sides she says, and counts on Archbishop Whately as a new adherent. I even fancy that he has been to see her in the character of a convert. All this from Mr. Kenyon.

There's a strange wild book called the Autobiography of Heinrich Stilling ... one of those true devout deep-hearted Germans who believe everything, and so are nearer the truth, I am sure, than the wise who believe nothing; but rather over-German sometimes, and redolent of sauerkraut--and _he_ gives a tradition ... somewhere between mesmerism and mysticism, ... of a little spirit with gold shoebuckles, who was his familiar spirit and appeared only in the sunshine I think ... mottling it over with its feet, perhaps, as a child might snow. Take away the shoebuckles and I believe in the little spirit--don't _you_? But these English mesmerists make the shoebuckles quite conspicuous and insist on them broadly; and the Archbishops Whately may be drawn by _them_ (who can tell?) more than by the little spirit itself. How is your head to-day? now really, and nothing extenuating? I will not ask of poems, till the 'quite well' is _authentic_. May God bless you always! my dear friend!

E.B.B.

After all the book must go another day. I live in chaos do you know? and I am too hurried at this moment ... yes it is here.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Tuesday Morning.

How are you--may I hope to hear soon?

I don't know exactly what possessed me to set my next day so far off as Saturday--as it was said, however, so let it be. And I will bring the rest of the 'Duchess'--four or five hundred lines,--'heu, herba mala crescit'--(as I once saw mournfully pencilled on a white wall at Asolo)--but will you tell me if you quite remember the main of the _first_ part--(_parts_ there are none except in the necessary process of chopping up to suit the limits of a magazine--and I gave them as much as I could transcribe at a sudden warning)--because, if you please, I can bring the whole, of course.

After seeing _you_, that Saturday, I was caught up by a friend and carried to see Vidocq--who did the honours of his museum of knives and nails and hooks that have helped great murderers to their purposes--he scarcely admits, I observe, an implement with only one attestation to its efficacy; but the one or two exceptions rather justify his latitude in their favour--thus one little sort of dessert knife _did_ only take _one_ life.... 'But then,' says Vidocq, 'it was the man's own mother's life, with fifty-two blows, and all for' (I think) 'fifteen francs she had got?' So prattles good-naturedly Vidocq--one of his best stories of that Lacénaire--'jeune homme d'un caractère fort avenant--mais c'était un poète,' quoth he, turning sharp on _me_ out of two or three other people round him.

Here your letter breaks in, and sunshine too.

Why do you send me that book--not let me take it? What trouble for nothing!

An old French friend of mine, a dear foolish, very French heart and soul, is coming presently--his poor brains are whirling with mesmerism in which he believes, as in all other unbelief. He and I are to dine alone (I have not seen him these two years)--and I shall never be able to keep from driving the great wedge right through his breast and descending lower, from riveting his two foolish legs to the wintry chasm; for I that stammer and answer hap-hazard with you, get proportionately valiant and voluble with a mere cupful of Diderot's rinsings, and a man into the bargain.

If you were prevented from leaving the house yesterday, assuredly to-day you will never attempt such a thing--the wind, rain--all is against it: I trust you will not make the first experiment except under really favourable auspices ... for by its success you will naturally be induced to go on or leave off--Still you are _better_! I fully believe, dare to believe, _that_ will continue. As for me, since you ask--find me but something _to do_, and see if I shall not be well!--Though I _am_ well now almost.

How good you are to my roses--they are not of my making, to be sure. Never, by the way, did Miss Martineau work such a miracle as I now witness in the garden--I gathered at Rome, close to the fountain of Egeria, a handful of _fennel_-seeds from the most indisputable plant of fennel I ever chanced upon--and, lo, they are come up ... hemlock, or something akin! In two places, moreover. Wherein does hemlock resemble fennel? How could I mistake? No wonder that a stone's cast off from that Egeria's fountain is the Temple of the God Ridiculus.

Well, on Saturday then--at three: and I will certainly bring the verses you mention--and trust to find you still better.

Vivi felice--my dear friend, God bless you!

R.B.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Wednesday-Thursday Evening
[Post-mark, July 4, 1845.]

Yes--I know the first part of the 'Duchess' and have it here--and for the rest of the poem, don't mind about being very legible, or even legible in the usual sense; and remember how it is my boast to be able to read all such manuscript writing as never is read by people who don't like caviare. Now you won't mind? really I rather like blots than otherwise--being a sort of patron-saint of all manner of untidyness ... if Mr. Kenyon's reproaches (of which there's a stereotyped edition) are justified by the fact--and he has a great organ of order, and knows 'disorderly persons' at a glance, I suppose. But you won't be particular with _me_ in the matter of transcription? _that_ is what I want to make sure of. And even if you are not particular, I am afraid you are not well enough to be troubled by writing, and writing and the thinking that comes with it--it would be wiser to wait till you are quite well--now wouldn't it?--and my fear is that the 'almost well' means 'very little better.' And why, when there is no motive for hurrying, run any risk? Don't think that I will help you to make yourself ill. That I refuse to do even so much work as the 'little dessert-knife' in the way of murder, ... _do_ think! So upon the whole, I expect nothing on Saturday from this distance--and if it comes unexpectedly (I mean the Duchess and not Saturday) _let_ it be at no cost, or at the least cost possible, will you? I am delighted in the meanwhile to hear of the quantity of 'mala herba'; and hemlock does not come up from every seed you sow, though you call it by ever such bad names.

Talking of poetry, I had a newspaper 'in help of social and political progress' sent to me yesterday from America--addressed to--just my name ... _poetess, London_! Think of the simplicity of those wild Americans in 'calculating' that 'people in general' here in England know what a poetess is!--Well--the post office authorities, after deep meditation, I do not doubt, on all probable varieties of the chimpanzee, and a glance to the Surrey Gardens on one side, and the Zoological department of Regent's Park on the other, thought of 'Poet's Corner,' perhaps, and wrote at the top of the parcel, 'Enquire at Paternoster Row'! whereupon the Paternoster Row people wrote again, 'Go to Mr. Moxon'--and I received my newspaper.

And talking of poetesses, I had a note yesterday (again) which quite touched me ... from Mr. Hemans--Charles, the son of Felicia--written with so much feeling, that it was with difficulty I could say my perpetual 'no' to his wish about coming to see me. His mother's memory is surrounded to him, he says, 'with almost a divine lustre'--and 'as it cannot be to those who knew the writer alone and not the woman.' Do you not like to hear such things said? and is it not better than your tradition about Shelley's son? and is it not pleasant to know that that poor noble pure-hearted woman, the Vittoria Colonna of our country, should be so loved and comprehended by some ... by one at least ... of her own house? Not that, in naming Shelley, I meant for a moment to make a comparison--there is not equal ground for it. Vittoria Colonna does not walk near Dante--no. And if you promised never to tell Mrs. Jameson ... nor Miss Martineau ... I would confide to you perhaps my secret profession of faith--which is ... which is ... that let us say and do what we please and can ... there _is_ a natural inferiority of mind in women--of the intellect ... not by any means, of the moral nature--and that the history of Art and of genius testifies to this fact openly. Oh--I would not say so to Mrs. Jameson for the world. I believe I was a coward to her altogether--for when she denounced carpet work as 'injurious to the mind,' because it led the workers into 'fatal habits of reverie,' I defended the carpet work as if I were striving _pro aris et focis_, (_I_, who am so innocent of all that knowledge!) and said not a word for the poor reveries which have frayed away so much of silken time for me ... and let her go away repeating again and again ... 'Oh, but _you_ may do carpet work with impunity--yes! _because_ you can be writing poems all the while.'!

Think of people making poems and rugs at once. There's complex machinery for you!

I told you that I had a sensation of cold blue steel from her eyes!--And yet I really liked and like and shall like her. She is very kind I believe--and it was my mistake--and I correct my impressions of her more and more to perfection, as _you_ tell me who know more of her than I.

Only I should not dare, ... _ever_, I think ... to tell her that I believe women ... all of us in a mass ... to have minds of quicker movement, but less power and depth ... and that we are under your feet, because we can't stand upon our own. Not that we should either be quite under your feet! so you are not to be too proud, if you please--and there is certainly some amount of wrong--: but it never will be righted in the manner and to the extent contemplated by certain of our own prophetesses ... nor ought to be, I hold in intimate persuasion. One woman indeed now alive ... and only _that_ one down all the ages of the world--seems to me to justify for a moment an opposite opinion--that wonderful woman George Sand; who has something monstrous in combination with her genius, there is no denying at moments (for she has written one book, Leila, which I could not read, though I am not easily turned back,) but whom, in her good and evil together, I regard with infinitely more admiration than all other women of genius who are or have been. Such a colossal nature in every way,--with all that breadth and scope of faculty which women want--magnanimous, and loving the truth and loving the people--and with that 'hate of hate' too, which you extol--so eloquent, and yet earnest as if she were dumb--so full of a living sense of beauty, and of noble blind instincts towards an ideal purity--and so proving a right even in her wrong. By the way, what you say of the Vidocq museum reminds me of one of the chamber of masonic trial scenes in 'Consuelo.' Could you like to see those knives?

I began with the best intentions of writing six lines--and see what is written! And all because I kept my letter back ... from a _doubt about Saturday_--but it has worn away, and the appointment stands good ... for me: I have nothing to say against it.

But belief in mesmerism is not the same thing as general unbelief--to do it justice--now is it? It may be super-belief as well. Not that there is not something ghastly and repelling to me in the thought of Dr. Elliotson's great bony fingers seeming to 'touch the stops' of a whole soul's harmonies--as in phreno-magnetism. And I should have liked far better than hearing and seeing _that_, to have heard _you_ pour the 'cupful of Diderot's rinsings,' out,--and indeed I can fancy a little that you and how you could do it--and break the cup too afterwards!

Another sheet--and for what?

What is written already, if you read, you do so meritoriously--and it's an example of bad writing, if you want one in the poems. I am ashamed, you may see, of having written too much, (besides)--which is _much_ worse--but one writes and writes: _I_ do at least--for _you_ are irreproachable. Ever yours my dear friend, as if I had not written ... or _had_!

E.B.B.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Monday Afternoon.
[Post-mark July 7, 1845.]

While I write this,--3 o'clock you may be going out, I will hope, for the day is very fine, perhaps all the better for the wind: yet I got up this morning sure of bad weather. I shall not try to tell you how anxious I am for the result and to know it. You will of course feel fatigued at first--but persevering, as you mean to do, do you not?--persevering, the event must be happy.

I thought, and still think, to write to you about George Sand, and the vexed question, a very Bermoothes of the 'Mental Claims of the Sexes Relatively Considered' (so was called the, ... I do believe, ... worst poem I ever read in my life), and Mrs. Hemans, and all and some of the points referred to in your letter--but 'by my fay, I cannot reason,' to-day: and, by a consequence, I feel the more--so I say how I want news of you ... which, when they arrive, I shall read 'meritoriously'--do you think? My friend, what ought I to tell you on that head (or the reverse rather)--of your discourse? I should like to match you at a fancy-flight; if I could, give you nearly as pleasant an assurance that 'there's no merit in the case,' but the hot weather and lack of wit get the better of my good will--besides, I remember once to have admired a certain enticing simplicity in the avowal of the Treasurer of a Charitable Institution at a Dinner got up in its behalf--the Funds being at lowest, Debt at highest ... in fact, this Dinner was the last chance of the Charity, and this Treasurer's speech the main feature in the chance--and our friend, inspired by the emergency, went so far as to say, with a bland smile--'Do not let it be supposed that we--_despise_ annual contributors,--we _rather_--solicit their assistance.' All which means, do not think that I take any 'merit' for making myself supremely happy, I rather &c. &c.

Always rather mean to deserve it a little better--but never shall: so it should be, for you and me--and as it was in the beginning so it is still. You are the--But you know and why should I tease myself with words?

Let me send this off now--and to-morrow some more, because I trust to hear you have made the first effort and with success.

Ever yours, my dear friend,

R.B.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Monday.
[Post-mark, July 8, 1845.]

Well--I have really been out; and am really alive after it--which is more surprising still--alive enough I mean, to write even _so_, to-night. But perhaps I say so with more emphasis, to console myself for failing in my great ambition of getting into the Park and of reaching Mr. Kenyon's door just to leave a card there vaingloriously, ... all which I did fail in, and was forced to turn back from the gates of Devonshire Place. The next time it will be better perhaps--and this time there was no fainting nor anything very wrong ... not even cowardice on the part of the victim (be it recorded!) for one of my sisters was as usual in authority and ordered the turning back just according to her own prudence and not my selfwill. Only you will not, any of you, ask me to admit that it was all delightful--pleasanter work than what you wanted to spare me in taking care of your roses on Saturday! don't ask _that_, and I will try it again presently.

I ought to be ashamed of writing this I and me-ism--but since your kindness made it worth while asking about I must not be over-wise and silent on my side.

_Tuesday._--Was it fair to tell me to write though, and be silent of the 'Duchess,' and when I was sure to be so delighted--and _you knew it_? _I_ think not indeed. And, to make the obedience possible, I go on fast to say that I heard from Mr. Horne a few days since and that _he_ said--'your envelope reminds me of'--_you_, he said ... and so, asked if you were in England still, and meant to write to you. To which I have answered that I believe you to be in England--thinking it strange about the envelope; which, as far as I remember, was one of those long ones, used, the more conveniently to enclose to him back again a MS. of his own I had offered with another of his, by his desire, to _Colburn's Magazine_, as the productions of a friend of mine, when he was in Germany and afraid of his proper fatal onymousness, yet in difficulty how to approach the magazines as a nameless writer (you will not mention this of course). And when he was in Germany, I remember, ... writing just as your first letter came ... that I mentioned it to him, and was a little frankly proud of it! but since, your name has not occurred once--not once, certainly!--and it is strange.... Only he _can't_ have heard of your having been here, and it _must_ have been a chance-remark--altogether! taking an imaginary emphasis from my evil conscience perhaps. Talking of evils, how wrong of you to make that book for me! and how ill I thanked you after all! Also, I couldn't help feeling more grateful still for the Duchess ... who is under ban: and for how long I wonder?

My dear friend, I am ever yours,

E.B.B.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Wednesday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 9, 1845.]

You are all that is good and kind: I am happy and thankful the beginning (and worst of it) is over and so well. The Park and Mr. Kenyon's all in good time--and your sister was most prudent--and you mean to try again: God bless you, all to be said or done--but, as I say it, no vain word. No doubt it was a mere chance-thought, and _à propos de bottes_ of Horne--neither he or any other _can_ know or even fancy how it is. Indeed, though on other grounds I should be all so proud of being known for your friend by everybody, yet there's no denying the deep delight of playing the Eastern Jew's part here in this London--they go about, you know by travel-books, with the tokens of extreme destitution and misery, and steal by blind ways and by-paths to some blank dreary house, one obscure door in it--which being well shut behind them, they grope on through a dark corridor or so, and then, a blaze follows the lifting a curtain or the like, for they are in a palace-hall with fountains and light, and marble and gold, of which the envious are never to dream! And I, too, love to have few friends, and to live alone, and to see you from week to week. Do you not suppose I am grateful?

And you do like the 'Duchess,' as much as you have got of it? that delights me, too--for every reason. But I fear I shall not be able to bring you the rest to-morrow--Thursday, my day--because I have been broken in upon more than one morning; nor, though much better in my head, can I do anything at night just now. All will come right eventually, I hope, and I shall transcribe the other things you are to judge.

To-morrow then--only (and that is why I would write) do, do _know_ me for what I am and treat me as I deserve in that _one_ respect, and _go out_, without a moment's thought or care, if to-morrow should suit you--leave word to that effect and I shall be as glad as if I saw you or more--_reasoned_ gladness, you know. Or you can write--though that is not necessary at all,--do think of all this!

I am yours ever, dear friend,

R.B.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

[Post-mark, July 12, 1845.]

You understand that it was not a resolution passed in favour of formality, when I said what I did yesterday about not going out at the time you were coming--surely you do; whatever you might signify to a different effect. If it were necessary for me to go out every day, or most days even, it would be otherwise; but as it is, I may certainly keep the day you come, free from the fear of carriages, let the sun shine its best or worst, without doing despite to you or injury to me--and that's all I meant to insist upon indeed and indeed. You see, Jupiter Tonans was good enough to come to-day on purpose to deliver me--one evil for another! for I confess with shame and contrition, that I never wait to enquire whether it thunders to the left or the right, to be frightened most ingloriously. Isn't it a disgrace to anyone with a pretension to poetry? Dr. Chambers, a part of whose office it is, Papa says, 'to reconcile foolish women to their follies,' used to take the side of my vanity, and discourse at length on the passive obedience of some nervous systems to electrical influences; but perhaps my faint-heartedness is besides traceable to a half-reasonable terror of a great storm in Herefordshire, where great storms most do congregate, (such storms!) round the Malvern Hills, those mountains of England. We lived four miles from their roots, through all my childhood and early youth, in a Turkish house my father built himself, crowded with minarets and domes, and crowned with metal spires and crescents, to the provocation (as people used to observe) of every lightning of heaven. Once a storm of storms happened, and we all thought the house was struck--and a tree was so really, within two hundred yards of the windows while I looked out--the bark, rent from the top to the bottom ... torn into long ribbons by the dreadful fiery hands, and dashed out into the air, over the heads of other trees, or left twisted in their branches--torn into shreds in a moment, as a flower might be, by a child! Did you ever see a tree after it has been struck by lightning? The whole trunk of that tree was bare and peeled--and up that new whiteness of it, ran the finger-mark of the lightning in a bright beautiful rose-colour (none of your roses brighter or more beautiful!) the fever-sign of the certain death--though the branches themselves were for the most part untouched, and spread from the peeled trunk in their full summer foliage; and birds singing in them three hours afterwards! And, in that same storm, two young women belonging to a festive party were killed on the Malvern Hills--each sealed to death in a moment with a sign on the chest which a common seal would cover--only the sign on them was not rose-coloured as on our tree, but black as charred wood. So I get 'possessed' sometimes with the effects of these impressions, and so does one, at least, of my sisters, in a lower degree--and oh!--how amusing and instructive all this is to you! When my father came into the room to-day and found me hiding my eyes from the lightning, he was quite angry and called 'it disgraceful to anybody who had ever learnt the alphabet'--to which I answered humbly that 'I knew it was'--but if I had been impertinent, I _might_ have added that wisdom does not come by the alphabet but in spite of it? Don't you think so in a measure? _non obstantibus_ Bradbury and Evans? There's a profane question--and ungrateful too ... after the Duchess--I except the Duchess and her peers--and be sure she will be the world's Duchess and received as one of your most striking poems. Full of various power the poem is.... I cannot say how deeply it has impressed me--but though I want the conclusion, I don't _wish_ for it; and in this, am reasonable for once! You will not write and make yourself ill--will you? or read 'Sybil' at unlawful hours even? Are you better at all? What a letter! and how very foolishly to-day

I am yours,

E.B.B.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Sunday Morning.
[Post-mark, July 14, 1845.]