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

London

Friday evening

I intended to write to you last night & this morning, & 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 & before God, a little more worthy, or less unworthy, of a generosity from which I recoil by instinct & at the first glance, yet conclusively,—& because my silence wd 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, & for ever, having said at all,-&which (so) will die out between you & me alone, like a misprint between you & the printer. And this you will do for my sake who am your friend,— (& you have none truer)—& 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,—& that, just because of it, I am able to receive you as I did on Tuesday,—& that, for me to listen to “unconscious exaggerations”, is as unbecoming to the humilities of my position, as unpro-pitious (which is of more consequence) to the prosperities of yours—Now, if there shd be one word of answer attempted to this,—or of reference,—I must not … I will not see you again—& you will justify me later in your heart—So for my sake you will not say it—I think you will not—& 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 & so few pleasures. You will—! & I need not be uneasy—& 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 & help in poetry will be full of good & gladness to me—for with many to love me in this house, there is no one to judge me … now—Your friendship & sympathy will be dear & 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 (… & which have humbled me by too much honoring …) I put away gently, & with grateful tears in my eyes,—because all that hail will beat down & 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,—& I am to see one of my aunts whom I love, & have not met since my great affliction—& it will all seem to come over again, & I shall be out of spirits & nerves. On Tuesday week you can bring a tomahawk & do the criticism, & 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 assure 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 monodram is where it was—& the novel, not at all. But I think of some half promises half given, about something I read for ‘Saul’—& the Flight of the Duchess— where is she?

You are not displeased with me? no—that wd be hail & 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 unsilence, I have said one word to vex you, pity me for having had to say it— & for the rest, may God bless you far beyond the reach of vexation from my words or my deeds!—

Your friend in grateful regard,

EBB.