13 May 1845. Browning, Robert to Browning, Elizabeth Barrett.

London

Tuesday morning

Did I thank you with any effect in the lines I sent yesterday, dear Miss Barrett? I know I felt most thankful, and, of course, began reasoning myself into the impropriety of allowing a “more” or a “most” in feelings of that sort towards you. I am thankful for you, all about you—as, do you not know?

Thank you, from my soul. Now, let me never pass occasion of speaking well of Horne, who deserves your opinion of him,—it is my own, too. He has unmistakeable genius, and is a fine, honest, enthusiastic chivalrous fellow—it is the fashion to affect to sneer at him, of late, I think—the people he has praised fancying that they “pose” themselves sculpturesquely in playing the Greatly Indifferent, and the other kind shaking each other’s hands in hysterical congratulation at having escaped such a dishonour: I feel grateful to him, I know, for his generous criticism, and glad & proud of in any way approaching such a man’s standard of poetical height. And he might be a disappointed man, too—for the players trifled with and teazed out his very earnest nature, which has a strange aspiration for the horrible tin-and-lacquer “crown” they give one from their clouds (of smooth-shaven deal done over blue)—and he don’t give up the bad business yet, but thinks a “small” theatre would somehow not be a theatre, and an actor not quite an actor, … I forget in what way, but the upshot is, he bates not a jot of hope in that rouged wigged, padded, empty headed, heartless tribe of grimacers that came and canted me; not I, them,—a thing he cannot understand—so, I am not the one he would have picked out to praise, had he not been loyal. I know he admires your poetry properly. God help him, and send some great artist from the country, (who can read & write beside comprehending Shakspeare, and who “exasperates his H’s,” when the feat is to be done)—to undertaker sic the part of Cosmo, or Gregory, or what shall most soothe his spirit! The subject of your play is tempting indeed—& reminds one of that wild Drama of Calderon’s which frightened Shelley just before his death—also, of Fuseli’s theory with reference to his own Picture of Macbeth in the witches’ cave … wherein the apparition of the armed head from the cauldron is Macbeth’s own.

“If you ask me, I must ask myself”—that is, when I am to see you. I will never ask you! You do not know what I shall estimate that permission at,—nor do I, quite—but you do—do not you? know so much of me as to make my “asking” worse than a form. I do not “ask” you to write to me—not directly ask, at least.

I will tell you—I ask you not to see me so long as you are unwell, (or mistrustful of)

No, no, that is being too grand! Do see me when you can, and let me not be only writing myself

Yours RB.

A kind, so kind, note from Mr Kenyon came. We, I & my sister, are to go in June instead … I shall go nowhere till then; I am nearly well—all save one little wheel in my head that keeps on its

ART

—That you are better I am most thankful. “Next letter” to say how you must help me with all my new Romances and Lyrics, and Lays & Plays, and read them and heed them and end them and mend them!