5866. RB to Isa Blagden
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 32, 169–172.
19. Warwick Crescent,
Upper Westbourne Terrace, W.
Feb: 19. ’67. [1]
Dearest Isa,
I am glad you are back again: you are glad too, I dare say, after the change and inevitable fatigue. The next three or four months are the pleasant time in Florence. Afterward,—where do you go? But it is foolish to ask, or even think, in this world of changes and warpings of plans.
Pen will soon know his fate now: he goes on a visit of a week to Jowett on the 25th March,—Jowett most kindly meaning to look into his case at his ease in that way. Nothing can exceed his kindness. By the bye I ought to tell you what you are likely to hear of in some distorted way, that a number of young men at Oxford made a request that I might be their Poetry Professor, on Arnold’s vacating the chair next June,—that, in compliance with this, a formal application was made, of which I have the printed copy, signed by forty-five of the most eminent people composing the “Congregation,” or resident body, at Oxford,—to the effect that the Council would qualify me to compete, should I please, by conferring on me the degree of M. A. required by the Statute,—and that the Council declined to do this, as unfair to the Candidates already in the field. I think this declining on their part very fair and just, I should not have liked, had I been one of the members of the university, to be ousted of my chance by an outsider called in and made eligible just for the purpose: but I thought it was entirely for the University itself to decide on that,—just as, if you proposed to dedicate a book to me it would be impertinent to object, “But is that fair to this man or the other?” Had it been offered me, I should have accepted it—simply on account of the wish I have to stand well with,—and, above all, near to—the University where Pen will spend the next three or four years: I should have had a legitimate reason for going down there, and a greater likelihood of hearing the truth of things,—how he got on in every way,—than I should otherwise have, besides I really feel the compliment of being pulled inside the body from its extreme outside. But of course there would have been drawbacks in the shape of the curtailment of liberty for the next five years, when I should perhaps want to dispose of my time otherwise. Moreover the three Lectures in the year would take as much trouble to write as three tragedies,—for I try to do things thoroughly. As it is, I have gained my point, by having taken the opportunity of showing the University my sense of their kindness—for I was applied to to say if I would take what they meant to try and offer me. Had they wished me to blacken their boots instead of polish their heads, I should not have demurred, you understand, in the prospect of possible advantage to Pen. So much for me– I see your book advertised [2] —& will of course read it, and tell you my exact feeling about it,—why not? You know me by this time, and know that, whatever my opinion may be worth, my wishes for your good are deep as deep can be. I have not seen Chapman since he saw you—can’t help it, but distrust the man, without dislike of the poor, goodnatured fellow otherwise. I suppose he won’t send me the book, but I can get to read it.
I am very sorry about Locker [3] —the case is hopeless, as I told George Barrett and Arthur Locker, [4] —Payne insulted Forster abominably—and must have known that Forster would never have allowed him to print pieces belonging to him,—the wonder is, he felt inclined to do so,—for Landor’s poetry hardly makes such a book attractive. The thing is going to get to a regular trial, I fear, and the costs will be proportionate: it is inconceivable that Payne should not at once put up with his actual loss, call in the copies, and have done with the matter. Locker was wrong in not applying to Forster, and getting a plain answer: who was Chapman, to give leave or refuse it? I am very sorry, but nothing can be done: Payne has even added to his offences by writing a letter so insolent that it will be brought forward in the proceedings, as an aggravation of the wrong.
Yes,—poor George is simple enough with his “warmth of character”! Hatty is just the old Hatty—less interesting, as is the way with all such pretty things after a time: the “not-niceness” of her conduct is the old story,—I observe that it is an unfailing characteristic of talent as distinguished from genius—that it cleverly uses all sorts of helps and as carelessly shakes them off: genius sees the possible help quite as clearly, but, having besides a strong preference for the best and truest, cannot pretend to take all sorts of counters for good coin, merely because of the convenience,—it prefers saying “this is no coin but a counter”—even to its own loss. Hatty used to take up and be “dearest friend” with any and everybody, dropping them at a minute’s notice or without it,—of course, for some defect or fault: but then genius would have foreseen and refused the thing, while talent either could not see or—likelier did see and only said to itself—“We shall break off the easilier.” Hatty has seen into the characteristic points of the Storys long ago, and exposed them liberally enough. Now, there is another thing genius does occasionally—see a faulty thing, never suffer it to be taken for anything but a faulty thing, yet—all the same, with that admitted, get good of a kind out of it too. Just so I feel for Hatty’s little self—not mistaking her, but liking her considerably in her way: so the Storys are likeable in their way.
Well, here is the season again, dinners again, parties again & more than ever. Sometimes, you know, I am in a mood to tell you gossip,—not today, however, I promised to say, though, that I met Mr & Mrs Bowen [5] at John Coleridge’s two or three days ago—and talked about you. She is a nice gentle creature,—how do people get in love with that thing, though? Lewis & Mrs L: are in Spain, I believe: his health is deplorable. I wrote a long letter to Kirkup yesterday—do you ever see him? He likes you much, poor old man,—besotted, I hear, with his spirits. Tell me—you won’t however—about the Tassinaris—is she dead or alive! [6] Mrs Baker & her sister & mother, [7] & the others– Is the Philipson family still thriving? Trollope I hear of sometimes. No,—Florence is done with, for me– I shall serpentize [8] elsewhere, Isa! Did you read a book called “Florence as it is” or something of the kind, by Weld, [9] Brother-in Law to Tennyson? [10] I looked over the pages, no more: but noticed that Casa Guidi was to be let furnished, and that it was extravagantly dear. How is Jessie White,—near you? Give her my love, if you see her. I hear nothing of Annette, even from Mrs Bracken. Willy grows an immense fellow, very gentlemanly and pleasant.
Good bye, dearest Isa—I have been busied these seven hours and feel stupid and weary. Your letters are always a bright spot in my month. I can’t bring myself to make mine so, as I might, by merely putting in little notes of people you would be interested about: thus, I met Macready [11] the other day,—so old & changed, so uninterested in his old life! His wife is a Plymouth Sister,—never entered a theatre in her life. This seems to abolish the whole past existence of such a man. This is vile paper—runs—and probably renders what I write of very little consequence: I will beware another time. Sarianna’s best love to you—Pen’s also: both are very well: Pen boats—cares more for that than aught else,—unless perhaps for shooting and breech-loaders: but he is a good fellow all the same, and may wake up ambitious one day–
Ever yours affectionately, Robert Browning.
Publication: DI, pp. 253–257.
Manuscript: British Library.
1. RB’s mention of his “letter to Kirkup yesterday” indicates that this letter was either written over two days or misdated the 19th for the 20th.
2. Isa Blagden’s Nora and Archibald Lee (1867) was advertised by Chapman and Hall as ready “Next week” in The Athenæum of 16 February 1867 (no. 2051, p. 231) and as published “This day” in the issue of 23 February 1867 (no. 2052, p. 265).
4. Arthur Locker (1828–93), novelist and journalist, was the younger brother of Frederick Locker.
5. Charles Synge Christopher Bowen (1835–94)—see letter 4648, note 16—married in 1862 Emily Frances Rendel (1835–97).
7. Anne Crossman (née Oakes, b. 1789); see letter 3711, note 4.
8. Alluding to a line in Matthew Arnold’s Empedocles on Etna (1852); see letter 5044, note 7.
9. Florence: The New Capital of Italy (1867) by Charles Richard Weld (1813–69) was published by Longman the preceding December for the Christmas market. RB refers to a passage, where the author writes of his search for lodgings: “I flattered myself that I had found what would have suited in the Casa Guidi at the corner of Via Maggio, but the rent was so exorbitant, that I turned quickly away. Probably the fact of this house bearing a record to genius on its front causes the proprietor to believe that high rents will be willingly paid for the gratification of living where Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote many of her charming poems, and where she died” (p. 21). Weld included the inscription on EBB’s memorial tablet and added that Casa Guidi was “let out in apartments.”
10. Weld married in 1842 Anne Sellwood, daughter of Henry Sellwood (1782–1867) and younger sister of Emily Tennyson.
11. William Charles Macready (1793–1873) married Cecile Spencer (1826–1908) in 1860 (see letter 4650, note 9).
___________________
