Life and Letters of Robert Browning [87]
of 1859-60.
==
`. . . My brother George sent me a number of the "National Magazine"
with my face in it, after Marshall Wood's medallion. My comfort is that
my greatest enemy will not take it to be like me, only that does not go far
with the indifferent public: the portrait I suppose will have its due weight
in arresting the sale of "Aurora Leigh" from henceforth.
You never saw a more determined visage of a strong-minded woman
with the neck of a vicious bull. . . . Still, I am surprised, I own,
at the amount of success, and that golden-hearted Robert
is in ecstasies about it, far more than if it all related
to a book of his own. The form of the story, and also,
something in the philosophy, seem to have caught the crowd.
As to the poetry by itself, anything good in that repels rather.
I am not so blind as Romney, not to perceive this . . .
Give Peni's and my love to the dearest `nonno' (grandfather)
whose sublime unselfishness and want of common egotism
presents such a contrast to what is here. Tell him I often think of him,
and always with touched feeling. (When HE is eighty-six or ninety-six,
nobody will be pained or humbled by the spectacle of an insane self-love
resulting from a long life's ungoverned will.) May God bless him! --
. . . Robert has made his third bust copied from the antique.
He breaks them all up as they are finished -- it's only matter of education.
When the power of execution is achieved, he will try at something original.
Then reading hurts him; as long as I have known him he has not been able
to read long at a time -- he can do it now better than at the beginning.
The consequence of which is that an active occupation is salvation to him.
. . . Nobody exactly understands him except me, who am in the inside of him
and hear him breathe. For the peculiarity of our relation is,
that he thinks aloud with me and can't stop himself. . . . I wanted his poems
done this winter very much, and here was a bright room with three windows
consecrated to his use. But he had a room all last summer, and did nothing.
Then, he worked himself out by riding for three or four hours together --
there has been little poetry done since last winter, when he did much.
He was not inclined to write this winter. The modelling combines
body-work and soul-work, and the more tired he has been, and the more
his back ached, poor fellow, the more he has exulted and been happy.
So I couldn't be much in opposition against the sculpture --
I couldn't in fact at all. He has material for a volume,
and will work at it this summer, he says.
`His power is much in advance of "Strafford", which is
his poorest work of art. Ah, the brain stratifies and matures,
even in the pauses of the pen.
`At the same time, his treatment in England affects him, naturally,
and for my part I set it down as an infamy of that public -- no other word.
He says he has told you some things you had not heard,
and which I acknowledge I always try to prevent him from repeating to anyone.
I wonder if he has told you besides (no, I fancy not)
that an English lady of rank, an acquaintance of ours, (observe that!) asked,
the other day, the American minister, whether "Robert was not an American."
The minister answered -- "is it possible that YOU ask me this?
Why, there is not so poor a village in the United States,
where they would not tell you that Robert Browning was an Englishman,
and that they were sorry he was not an American." Very pretty
of the American minister, was it not? -- and literally true, besides. . . .
Ah, dear Sarianna -- I don't complain for myself of an unappreciating public.
I HAVE NO REASON. But, just for THAT reason, I complain more about Robert
-- only he does not hear me complain -- to YOU I may say,
that the blindness, deafness and stupidity of the English public to Robert
are amazing. Of course Milsand had heard his name -- well the contrary
would have been strange. Robert IS. All England can't prevent his existence,
I suppose. But nobody there, except a small knot
==
`. . . My brother George sent me a number of the "National Magazine"
with my face in it, after Marshall Wood's medallion. My comfort is that
my greatest enemy will not take it to be like me, only that does not go far
with the indifferent public: the portrait I suppose will have its due weight
in arresting the sale of "Aurora Leigh" from henceforth.
You never saw a more determined visage of a strong-minded woman
with the neck of a vicious bull. . . . Still, I am surprised, I own,
at the amount of success, and that golden-hearted Robert
is in ecstasies about it, far more than if it all related
to a book of his own. The form of the story, and also,
something in the philosophy, seem to have caught the crowd.
As to the poetry by itself, anything good in that repels rather.
I am not so blind as Romney, not to perceive this . . .
Give Peni's and my love to the dearest `nonno' (grandfather)
whose sublime unselfishness and want of common egotism
presents such a contrast to what is here. Tell him I often think of him,
and always with touched feeling. (When HE is eighty-six or ninety-six,
nobody will be pained or humbled by the spectacle of an insane self-love
resulting from a long life's ungoverned will.) May God bless him! --
. . . Robert has made his third bust copied from the antique.
He breaks them all up as they are finished -- it's only matter of education.
When the power of execution is achieved, he will try at something original.
Then reading hurts him; as long as I have known him he has not been able
to read long at a time -- he can do it now better than at the beginning.
The consequence of which is that an active occupation is salvation to him.
. . . Nobody exactly understands him except me, who am in the inside of him
and hear him breathe. For the peculiarity of our relation is,
that he thinks aloud with me and can't stop himself. . . . I wanted his poems
done this winter very much, and here was a bright room with three windows
consecrated to his use. But he had a room all last summer, and did nothing.
Then, he worked himself out by riding for three or four hours together --
there has been little poetry done since last winter, when he did much.
He was not inclined to write this winter. The modelling combines
body-work and soul-work, and the more tired he has been, and the more
his back ached, poor fellow, the more he has exulted and been happy.
So I couldn't be much in opposition against the sculpture --
I couldn't in fact at all. He has material for a volume,
and will work at it this summer, he says.
`His power is much in advance of "Strafford", which is
his poorest work of art. Ah, the brain stratifies and matures,
even in the pauses of the pen.
`At the same time, his treatment in England affects him, naturally,
and for my part I set it down as an infamy of that public -- no other word.
He says he has told you some things you had not heard,
and which I acknowledge I always try to prevent him from repeating to anyone.
I wonder if he has told you besides (no, I fancy not)
that an English lady of rank, an acquaintance of ours, (observe that!) asked,
the other day, the American minister, whether "Robert was not an American."
The minister answered -- "is it possible that YOU ask me this?
Why, there is not so poor a village in the United States,
where they would not tell you that Robert Browning was an Englishman,
and that they were sorry he was not an American." Very pretty
of the American minister, was it not? -- and literally true, besides. . . .
Ah, dear Sarianna -- I don't complain for myself of an unappreciating public.
I HAVE NO REASON. But, just for THAT reason, I complain more about Robert
-- only he does not hear me complain -- to YOU I may say,
that the blindness, deafness and stupidity of the English public to Robert
are amazing. Of course Milsand had heard his name -- well the contrary
would have been strange. Robert IS. All England can't prevent his existence,
I suppose. But nobody there, except a small knot