5506. RB to Isa Blagden
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 31, 189–190.
19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terr:
Dec 19. ’64.
Yes, dearest Isa, it is three Christmases ago—fully now: I sometimes see a light at the end of this dark tunnel of life, which was one blackness at the beginning. It won’t last for ever. In many ways I can see with my human eyes why this has been right & good for me—as I never doubted it was for Her—and if we do but re-join any day,—the break will be better than forgotten, remembered for its uses. The difference between me and the stupid people who have “communications” is probably nothing more than that I don’t confound the results of the natural working of what is in my mind, with vulgar external appearances: poor old Tulk [1] talked about the teaching he was in the habit of undergoing from his dead wife,—had an idea of her at his ear putting thoughts into his head,—not able to explain it otherwise. By the bye, why did not he, in turn, put into his sister’s [2] head to remember and make a will,—not leave Cottrell’s children without a doit! There was a sale of her effects, & everything of course went to the near relations for whom she did not care a straw,—all for want of a “nudge” from her brother not to be so careless about those whom—she professed to love. She would have told you, dying was the simplest matter in the world, and the last thing she feared at all,—yet,—make her will?—better put that unpleasantness off till tomorrow. Well, for myself, I am certainly not unhappy, any more than I ever was: I am .. if the phrase were to now be coined first .. “resigned”—but I look on everything in this world with altered eyes, and can no more take interest in anything I see there but the proof of certain great principles, than in the booths at a fair: I could no more take root in life again, than learn some new dancing step. On the other hand, I feel such comfort and delight in doing the best I can with my own object of life,—poetry,—which, I think, I never could have seen the good of before,—that it shows me I have taken the root I did take, well. I hope to do much more yet: and that the flower of it will be put into Her hand somehow. I really have great opportunities and advantages—on the whole, almost unparalleled ones, I think—no other disturbances & cares than those I am most grateful for being allowed to have. Pen, for instance, is so good & promising: I shall be increasingly nervous about his particular success at College—two years hence: because I have been trying an experiment, you see, in resolving to broaden his acquisitions, instead of deepen them in one or two respects, to the detriment of all the rest: there can be no doubt that, had I cut off the modern language, drawing & music, he would even by this time be nearly fit for his particular work at Balliol: but I look farther than the mere college career,—and of course it will be a success indeed if I get deepness enough in Greek & Latin with the other acquisitions: but folks frighten me a little when they tell me, as two people, strangers to each other, did last week, that merely to enter Balliol,—pass the matriculation,—is equivalent to taking honours at another College: well, we’re in for it: Pen grows increasingly considerate, at least, and approximatively anxious—mathematics seem doing him good: and how can I regret that he plays Bach & Beethoven understandingly?—as he certainly does. I was to have talked over all these troubles of mine with Jowett last night, but—as usual, and only in his case,—there was a hitch thro’ the illness of our host,—and once again I am prevented seeing him. I had, by the bye, an invitation also to dine with Trelawny—but I could not accept it, tho’ otherwise he is interesting enough.
I sat, last Friday, by Millais at a dinner, & he said that Eastlake [3] announced, a day or two before, to the Academy, Gibson’s intention of leaving it all his fortune, and all his duplicates of statues (his own works) which are to be arranged in a room or hall built for the purpose: [4] how often I have heard that Hatty was sure of it! I see <***>
Publication: DI, pp. 200–202.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library.
1. Charles Augustus Tulk (1785–1849) and his wife, Susanna (née Hart, 1787–1824) were the parents of Sophia Cottrell (1823–1909); see vol. 15, p. 354.
2. Caroline Tulk (1798–1864), a paternal aunt of Sophia Cottrell, died intestate on 5 May at Fayland House, Long Ashton, Somerset. Her estate and effects were granted to John Augustus Tulk (1822–96), a half-brother.
3. Charles Lock Eastlake (1793–1865); see letter 3180, note 20.
4. “Following the example of Canova and Thorvaldsen, who had left their studios to their own countries, Gibson bequeathed his remaining statues and models, as well as the bulk of his fortune, some £32,000, to the Royal Academy” (ODNB).
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