Dear Miss Barrett, I thank you for the leave you give me, and for the infinite kindness of the way of giving it. I will call at 2 on Tuesday--not sooner, that you may have time to write should any adverse circ.u.mstances happen ... not that they need inconvenience you, because ... what I want particularly to tell you for now and hereafter--do not mind my coming in the least, but--should you be unwell, for instance,--just send or leave word, and I will come again, and again, and again--my time is of _no_ importance, and I have acquaintances thick in the vicinity.

Now if I do not seem grateful enough to you, _am_ I so much to blame?

You see it is high time you _saw_ me, for I have clearly written myself _out_!

Ever yours,

R.B.

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

Sat.u.r.day.

[Post-mark, May 17, 1845.]

I shall be ready on Tuesday I hope, but I hate and protest against your horrible 'entomology.' Beginning to explain, would thrust me lower and lower down the circles of some sort of an 'Inferno'; only with my dying breath I would maintain that I never could, consciously or unconsciously, mean to distrust you; or, the least in the world, to Simpsonize you. What I said, ... it was _you_ that put it into my head to say it--for certainly, in my usual disinclination to receive visitors, such a feeling does not enter. There, now! There, I am a whole 'giro' lower! Now, you will say perhaps that I distrust _you_, and n.o.body else! So it is best to be silent, and bear all the 'cutting things' with resignation! _that_ is certain.

Still I must really say, under this dreadful incubus-charge of Simpsonism, ... that you, who know everything, or at least make awful guesses at everything in one's feelings and motives, and profess to be able to pin them down in a book of cla.s.sified inscriptions, ... should have been able to understand better, or misunderstand less, in a matter like this--Yes! I think so. I think you should have made out the case in some such way as it was in nature--viz. that you had lashed yourself up to an exorbitant wishing to see me, ... (you who could see, any day, people who are a hundredfold and to all social purposes, my superiors!) because I was unfortunate enough to be shut up in a room and silly enough to make a fuss about opening the door; and that I grew suddenly abashed by the consciousness of this. How different from a distrust of _you_! how different!

Ah--if, after this day, you ever see any interpretable sign of distrustfulness in me, you may be 'cutting' again, and I will not cry out. In the meantime here is a fact for your 'entomology.' I have not so much _distrust_, as will make a _doubt_, as will make a _curiosity_ for next Tuesday. Not the simplest modification of _curiosity_ enters into the state of feeling with which I wait for Tuesday:--and if you are angry to hear me say so, ... why, you are more unjust than ever.

(Let it be three instead of two--if the hour be as convenient to yourself.)

Before you come, try to forgive me for my 'infinite kindness' in the manner of consenting to see you. Is it 'the cruellest cut of all' when you talk of infinite kindness, yet attribute such villainy to me?

Well! but we are friends till Tuesday--and after perhaps.

Ever yours,

E.B.B.

If on Tuesday you should be not well, _pray do not come_--Now, that is my request to your kindness.[1]

[Footnote 1: Envelope endorsed by Robert Browning:--Tuesday, May 20, 1845, 3-4-1/2 p.m.]

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

Tuesday Evening.

[Post-mark, May 21, 1845.]

I trust to you for a true account of how you are--if tired, if not tired, if I did wrong in any thing,--or, if you please, _right_ in any thing--(only, not one more word about my 'kindness,' which, to get done with, I will grant is exceptive)--but, let us so arrange matters if possible,--and why should it not be--that my great happiness, such as it will be if I see you, as this morning, from time to time, may be obtained at the cost of as little inconvenience to you as we can contrive. For an instance--just what strikes me--they all say here I speak very loud--(a trick caught from having often to talk with a deaf relative of mine). And did I stay too long?

I will tell _you_ unhesitatingly of such 'corrigenda'--nay, I will again say, do not humiliate me--_do not_ again,--by calling me 'kind'

in that way.

I am proud and happy in your friendship--now and ever. May G.o.d bless you!

R.B.

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

Wednesday Morning.

[Post-mark, May 22, 1845.]

Indeed there was nothing wrong--how could there be? And there was everything right--as how should there not be? And as for the 'loud speaking,' I did not hear any--and, instead of being worse, I ought to be better for what was certainly (to speak it, or be silent of it,) happiness and honour to me yesterday.

Which reminds me to observe that you are so restricting our vocabulary, as to be ominous of silence in a full sense, presently.

First, one word is not to be spoken--and then, another is not. And why? Why deny me the use of such words as have natural feelings belonging to them--and how can the use of such be 'humiliating' to _you_? If my heart were open to you, you could see nothing offensive to you in any thought there or trace of thought that has been there--but it is hard for you to understand, with all your psychology (and to be reminded of it I have just been looking at the preface of some poems by some Mr. Gurney where he speaks of 'the reflective wisdom of a Wordsworth and the profound psychological utterances of a Browning') it is hard for you to understand what my mental position is after the peculiar experience I have suffered, and what [Greek: ti emoi kai soi][1] a sort of feeling is irrepressible from me to you, when, from the height of your brilliant happy sphere, you ask, as you did ask, for personal intercourse with me. What words but 'kindness'

... but 'grat.i.tude'--but I will not in any case be _un_kind and _un_grateful, and do what is displeasing to you. And let us both leave the subject with the words--because we perceive in it from different points of view; we stand on the black and white sides of the shield; and there is no coming to a conclusion.

But you will come really on Tuesday--and again, when you like and can together--and it will not be more 'inconvenient' to me to be pleased, I suppose, than it is to people in general--will it, do you think?

Ah--how you misjudge! Why it must obviously and naturally be delightful to me to receive you here when you like to come, and it cannot be necessary for me to say so in set words--believe it of

Your friend,

E.B.B.

[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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.sure 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 d.u.c.h.ess'--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 G.o.d bless you far beyond the reach of vexation from my words or my deeds!

Your friend in grateful regard,

E.B.B.

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

Sat.u.r.day Morning.

[Post-mark, May 24, 1845.]