1797. EBB to Mary Russell Mitford
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 9, 302–305.
[London]
Dec. 30. 1844.
Ever dearest Miss Mitford
Three times welcome, [1] your letter is—& it will be delightful to me, I feel, to quarrel with you a little in return today. Because (to begin) Jules Janin’s “si non le plus inspiré” [2] perfectly resumes my impressions of your Casimir. I will admit him to the ‘juste milieu’ [3] place, if you desire it, between Racine & Victor Hugo, .. & also, if you like, according to your own phrase “midway between the coldness of Racine & the extravagance of Victor Hugo”—but then it must be besides under a modification of mine,—viz without the extenuating perfection of Racine’s style, & without the redeeming glory of Victor Hugo’s genius. We have in him neither the perfect execution, nor the inspired conception—& the ‘juste milieu’ does therefore, to my mind, savour of mediocrity. I speak only my impressions—I confessed to you that I was not well-read in your Casimir,—& for your sake I will be better read. But he called himself & was considered generally, I believe, a classical poet, .. classical, in the pseudo-sense,—& the fact of his attaching himself, as a dramatist, to that party, weighs heavily with me––perhaps more heavily than it ought. [4]
And then .. the ‘Chimes’! I disagree with you quite in your measure of them. [5] I think, that, with all drawbacks, .. such as the undeniable one on which you dwell, of a dislocated story & a want of artistic coherency, .. & with the still greater objection which I cannot waive in my own mind, in respect to its tendency to oppose class to class, .. it is a book full of beauty, & life, & sympathy, & true-heartedness. I do think—I cannot help thinking that of it. To compare Dickens to Balzac as a great artist wd be impossible to me. He is fathoms below him as an artist. Still, Dickens has that in his writings “which goodness bosoms ever,” [6] & which is the dew on the amaranth,—& his genius, which is to my mind, undeniable, puts out two warm human hands of sympathy, (both very clean) to be clasped by men & women & children. Oh—the ‘Chimes’ touched me very much! I thought it & still think it, one of the most beautiful of his works: & I do not believe that I (whatever you may do) shall live to see Dickens “put down” [7] as a writer of genius. Now mind! I am not at all disraught about Boz. I never sent to ask him for his hair. I do not enter into the madness of his idolaters in any degree: & my secret opinion has always been that he is of that class of writers who arrive during their own lives at the highest point of their popularity. For instance, when I think of the most gifted men in England, I always think of Alfred Tennyson long & long before I get down to Dickens. But to deny his genius, as Mr Reade does, & as you are more than half inclined to do, my dearest friend,—that, I cannot if I would! Of course, the French writers precede him in both power & art—the Victor Hugos, & Balzacs, & George Sands .. & peradventure the Eugene Sues: but to deny his genius altogether & per se!–!! No—I could not, & would not.
David Sechard ends uncomfortably. You may be sure that I did not like David’s giving up his “inventiveness” so quietly, even for Eve’s sake: & I disliked it, in fact, very much. And then, what is, literally & plainly, the fate of Lucien? Did the Spaniard adopt him in order to make a mouchard [8] of him—or what? It is obscure & uncomfortable. Not that I care much for Lucien. The author teaches the reader such contempt for him, poor ‘femmelette,’ that the interest fails. But David, so great & noble! David, the true man of genius of the book!– He was worthy .. not to prosper—(which genius does not often do in life) but to persevere .. which true genius does always do. When he settles quietly among his cabbages, I feel as if I had a devil against ‘le grand Cointet,’ [9] & could stab him. Also it is a fault, I think, in the book. What do you think? Are not the calculations right? Do you make them out to be wrong? In that case my ignorance is bliss, [10] & I have a high appreciation of it.
The ‘Ailes d’Icare’ I take to be inferior to other works by Ch. de Bernard. [11] Did you like it much? I send again & again for ‘Un homme serieux’ & shall attain to it in time. [12] With regard to ‘La Confession Generale,’ [13] I am just in your case,—having read only the first volume, & failed of the others,—there are three: & I was the more provoked because I was interested in the denoument, of which of his fathers the hero found the most fatherly—for was’nt that the delicate Parisian scheme of it? Oh—the odour of uncleanness which steams up around us in this literary position! These men are gods as Jupiter was, & use their thunder in the brimstone of divine iniquities—& all their ambrosia cannot hide from us the stink thereof. The ‘Juif Errant’ in the new volumes has not yet approached me. Only four volumes, have I read yet. And I am so anxious. Do you know ‘Fernande’ by Dumas? [14] It was sent to me instead of ‘Un homme serieux’, last night—& I rather like the opening. But Dumas is a second-class writer.
So you disbelieve the Duchesse! Nay, but I do not understand why you should. Her mother was a beautiful woman, & Napoleon, very young, & inclined evidently as his subsequent choice proved, to admire mature beauty. I see no reason to disbelieve her. Then, do you believe or disbelieve in the tender attentions offered to her own self during his consulship, as you read in the Memoires?– [15] Yes—when I hear OConnell called a great man, I think Napoleon was. There was in him the odour of greatness,—the poetry of it: & I understand you when you intimate that you cd have lived or died for him. And Junot loved him—(it was one of the qualities of his greatness that he cd command love) Junot loved him, however mad & extravagant he might have been otherwise. The stain upon her was her temporizing with the Emperor of Russia & his allies when they were in Paris,—& she feels it I fancy, while she writes. Have you read so far, or not? It is a delightful book,—& surely she must have been a fascinating woman in many ways—& I like her something the better I think, for her Greek origin. What you tell me of the extravagance explains the poverty. Thank you.
No—I am afraid of Napoleon for a subject: & also it wd not I fancy, suit me. If I had a story of my own I might be as wild as I liked, & I shd have a chance besides of interesting other people by it in a way I could not do with a known story. And I dont want to have to do with masses of men,—I shd make dull work of it so. A few characters—a simple story—& plenty of room for passion & thought—that is what I want .. & am not likely to find easily .. without your inspiration. Oh yes, my dearest friend,—I wrote ‘Lady Geraldine’ on your principles, [16] I admit: but still you shall grant to me that Lady Geraldine’s Courtship has more mysticism (or what is called mysticism) in it,—hid in the story .. than all the other ballad-poems of the two volumes. I hold that. But people care for a story—there’s the truth! And I who care so much for stories, am not to find fault with them. And now tell me,—where is the obstacle to making as interesting a story of a poem as of a prose work—Echo answers where. [17] Conversations & events, why may they not be given as rapidly & passionately & ludicly in verse as in prose—echo answers why. You see nobody is offended by my approach to the conventions of vulgar life in ‘Lady Geraldine’—and it gives me courage to go on, & touch this real everyday life of our age, & hold it with my two hands. I want to write a poem of a new class, in a measure—a Don Juan, without the mockery & impurity, .. under one aspect,—& having unity, as a work of art,—& admitting of as much philosophical dreaming & digression (which is in fact a characteristic of the age) as I like to use. Might it not be done, even if I could not do it? & I think of trying at any rate.
By the way, I see ‘Napoleon, an epic in twelve books,’ [18] just advertised—& I do not envy the possessor of the subject. I have no breath nor desire to sing of battles.
How kind you are to your poor pensioner!– [19] But do not forget another of your pensioner’s, who depends on you for the joy that comes in letters—not the least!
Your most affectionate
EBB.
Address: Miss Mitford / Three Mile Cross / near Reading.
Publication: EBB-MRM, III, 46–50.
Manuscript: Wellesley College.
1. Cf. Wordsworth’s “To the Cuckoo” (1807), line 13.
2. “If not the most inspired.” We have not located the source of this quotation.
3. “The happy medium.” Cf. Pascal, Pensées, Part I, Art. vi, 17; see also letter 1773.
4. See letter 1764, note 9.
5. See the previous letter.
6. Cf. Milton, Comus, line 368.
7. Cf. Psalms 75:7.
8. “Informant.” Vautrin, the Spanish priest, makes Lucien his informant at the beginning of La Torpille. See also letter 1794.
9. The Cointet brothers (printers) were David Séchard’s rivals.
10. Gray, “An Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College” (1747).
11. Les ailes d’Icare (1840) by Charles de Bernard.
12. See the previous letter.
13. As previously noted, Soulié’s Confession générale (1840–46).
14. Alexandre Dumas (père), Fernande (1844).
15. See the previous letter.
16. See letter 1793, note 13.
17. Cf. Byron, The Bride of Abydos (1813) II, 27, line 663. Byron annotated this with a reference to Samuel Rogers’s The Pleasures of Memory, I, 103.
18. An advertisement appeared in The Times for 27 December 1844, announcing Napoleon: an Epic Poem, in 12 Books would be published “On Thursday, Jan. 2, 1845.” It was also advertised in The Athenæum on 14 December 1844 (no. 894, p. 1155).
19. Unidentified.
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