_R.B. to E.B.B._
Tuesday Morning.
[Post-mark, March 12, 1845.]
Your letter made me so happy, dear Miss Barrett, that I have kept
quiet this while; is it too great a shame if I begin to want more
good news of you, and to say so? Because there has been a bitter wind
ever since. Will you grant me a great favour? Always when you write,
though about your own works, not Greek plays merely, put me in,
_always_, a little official bulletin-line that shall say 'I am better'
or 'still better,' will you? That is done, then--and now, what do I
wish to tell you first? The poem you propose to make, for the times;
the fearless fresh living work you describe, is the _only_ Poem to be
undertaken now by you or anyone that _is_ a Poet at all; the only
reality, only effective piece of service to be rendered God and man;
it is what I have been all my life intending to do, and now shall be
much, much nearer doing, since you will along with me. And you _can_
do it, I know and am sure--so sure, that I could find in my heart to
be jealous of your stopping in the way even to translate the
Prometheus; though the accompanying monologue will make amends too. Or
shall I set you a task I meant for myself once upon a time?--which,
oh, how you would fulfil! Restore the Prometheus [Greek: purphoros] as
Shelley did the [Greek: Lyomenos]; when I say 'restore,' I know, or
very much fear, that the [Greek: purphoros] was the same with the
[Greek: purkaeus] which, by a fragment, we sorrowfully ascertain to
have been a Satyric Drama; but surely the capabilities of the subject
are much greater than in this, we now wonder at; nay, they include all
those of this last--for just see how magnificently the story unrolls
itself. The beginning of Jupiter's dynasty, the calm in Heaven after
the storm, the ascending--(stop, I will get the book and give the
words), [Greek: opôs tachista ton patrôon eis thronon kathezet',
euthus daimosin nemei gera alloisin alla--k.t.l.],[1] all the while
Prometheus being the first among the first in honour, as [Greek:
kaitoi theoisi tois neois toutois gera tis allos, ê 'gô, pantelôs
diôrise]?[2] then the one black hand-cloudlet storming the joyous
blue and gold everywhere, [Greek: brotôn de tôn talaipôrôn logon ouk
eschen oudena],[3] and the design of Zeus to blot out the whole race,
and plant a new one. And Prometheus with his grand solitary [Greek:
egô d' etolmêsa],[4] and his saving them, as the _first_ good, from
annihilation. Then comes the darkening brow of Zeus, and estrangement
from the benign circle of grateful gods, and the dissuasion of old
confederates, and all the Right that one may fancy in Might, the
strongest reasons [Greek: pauesthai tropou philanthrôpou][5] coming
from the own mind of the Titan, if you will, and all the while he
shall be proceeding steadily in the alleviation of the sufferings of
mortals whom, [Greek: nêpious ontas to prin, ennous kai phrenôn
epêbolous ethêke],[6] while still, in proportion, shall the doom he is
about to draw on himself, manifest itself more and more distinctly,
till at the last, he shall achieve the salvation of man, body (by the
gift of fire) and soul (by even those [Greek: tuphlai elpides],[7]
hopes of immortality), and so having rendered him utterly, according
to the mythos here, _independent_ of Jove--for observe, Prometheus in
the play never talks of helping mortals more, of fearing for them
more, of even benefiting them more by his sufferings. The rest is
between Jove and himself; he will reveal the master-secret to Jove
when he shall have released him, &c. There is no stipulation that the
gifts to mortals shall be continued; indeed, by the fact that it is
Prometheus who hangs on Caucasus while 'the ephemerals possess fire,'
one sees that somehow mysteriously _they_ are past Jove's harming now.
Well, this wholly achieved, the price is as wholly accepted, and off
into the darkness passes in calm triumphant grandeur the Titan, with
Strength and Violence, and Vulcan's silent and downcast eyes, and then
the gold clouds and renewed flushings of felicity shut up the scene
again, with Might in his old throne again, yet with a new element of
mistrust, and conscious shame, and fear, that writes significantly
enough above all the glory and rejoicing that all is not as it was,
nor will ever be. Such might be the framework of your Drama, just what
cannot help striking one at first glance, and would not such a Drama
go well before your translation? Do think of this and tell me--it
nearly writes itself. You see, I meant the [Greek: meg' ôphelêma][8]
to be a deep great truth; if there were no life beyond this, I think
the hope in one would be an incalculable blessing _for_ this life,
which is melancholy for one like Æschylus to feel, if he could _only_
hope, because the argument as to the ulterior good of those hopes is
cut clean away, and what had he left?
I do not find it take away from my feeling of the magnanimity of
Prometheus that he should, in truth, complain (as he does from
beginning to end) of what he finds himself suffering. He could have
prevented all, and can stop it now--of that he never thinks for a
moment. That was the old Greek way--they never let an antagonistic
passion neutralise the other which was to influence the man to his
praise or blame. A Greek hero fears exceedingly and battles it out,
cries out when he is wounded and fights on, does not say his love or
hate makes him see no danger or feel no pain. Æschylus from first word
to last ([Greek: idesthe me, oia paschô][9] to [Greek: esoras me, hôs
ekdika paschô][10]) insists on the unmitigated reality of the
punishment which only the sun, and divine ether, and the godhead of
his mother can comprehend; still, still that is only what I suppose
Æschylus to have done--in your poem you shall make Prometheus our way.
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,