And now enough of Greek, which I am fast forgetting (for I never look at books I loved once)—­it was your mention of the translation that brought out the old fast fading outlines of the Poem in my brain—­the Greek poem, that is.  You think—­for I must get to you—­that I ‘unconsciously exaggerate what you are to me.’  Now, you don’t know what that is, nor can I very well tell you, because the language with which I talk to myself of these matters is spiritual Attic, and ‘loves contractions,’ as grammarians say; but I read it myself, and well know what it means, that’s why I told you I was self-conscious—­I meant that I never yet mistook my own feelings, one for another—­there!  Of what use is talking?  Only do you stay here with me in the ‘House’ these few short years.  Do you think I shall see you in two months, three months?  I may travel, perhaps.  So you have got to like society, and would enjoy it, you think?  For me, I always hated it—­have put up with it these six or seven years past, lest by foregoing it I should let some unknown good escape me, in the true time of it, and only discover my fault when too late; and now that I have done most of what is to be done, any lodge in a garden of cucumbers for me!  I don’t even care about reading now—­the world, and pictures of it, rather than writings about the world!  But you must read books in order to get words and forms for ‘the public’ if you write, and that you needs must do, if you fear God.  I have no pleasure in writing myself—­none, in the mere act—­though all pleasure in the sense of fulfilling a duty, whence, if I have done my real best, judge how heart-breaking a matter must it be to be pronounced a poor creature by critic this and acquaintance the other!  But I think you like the operation of writing as I should like that of painting or making music, do you not?  After all, there is a great delight in the heart of the thing; and use and forethought have made me ready at all times to set to work—­but—­I don’t know why—­my heart sinks whenever I open this desk, and rises when I shut it.  Yet but for what I have written you would never have heard of me—­and through what you have written, not properly for it, I love and wish you well!  Now, will you remember what I began my letter by saying—­how you have promised to let me know if my wishing takes effect, and if you still continue better?  And not even ... (since we are learned in magnanimity) don’t even tell me that or anything else, if it teases you,—­but wait your own good time, and know me for ... if these words were but my own, and fresh-minted for this moment’s use!...

Yours ever faithfully,

R. BROWNING.

[Footnote 1:  Aeschylus, Prometheus, 228ff.: 

’When at first
He filled his father’s throne, he instantly
Made various gifts of glory to the gods.’]

[Footnote 2:  Ib. 439, 440: 

’For see—­their honours to these new-made gods,
What other gave but I?’]