Mr. Dickens's 'Cricket' sings repetitions, and, with considerable
beauty, is extravagant. It does not appear to me by any means one of
his most successful productions, though quite free from what was
reproached as bitterness and one-sidedness, last year.
You do not say how you are--not a word! And you are wrong in saying
that you 'ought to have written'--as if 'ought' could be in place
_so_! You _never 'ought' to write to me you know_! or rather ... if
you ever think you ought, you ought not! Which is a speaking of
mysteries on my part!
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Sunday Night.
[Post-mark, December 22, 1845.]
Now, '_ought_' you to be 'sorry you sent that letter,' which made, and
makes me so happy--so happy--can you bring yourself to turn round and
tell one you have so blessed with your bounty that there was a
mistake, and you meant only half that largess? If you are not sensible
that you _do_ make me most happy by such letters, and do not warm in
the reflection of your own rays, then I _do_ give up indeed the last
chance of procuring _you_ happiness. My own 'ought,' which you object
to, shall be withdrawn--being only a pure bit of selfishness; I felt,
in missing the letter of yours, next day, that I _might_ have drawn it
down by one of mine,--if I had begged never so gently, the gold would
have fallen--_there_ was my omitted duty to myself which you properly
blame. I should stand silently and wait and be sure of the
ever-remembering goodness.
Let me count my gold now--and rub off any speck that stays the full
shining. First--_that thought_ ... I told you; I pray you, pray you,
sweet--never that again--or what leads never so remotely or indirectly
to it! On _your own fancied ground_, the fulfilment would be of
necessity fraught with every woe that can fall in this life. I am
yours for ever--if you are not _here_, with me--what then? Say, you
take all of yourself away but just enough to live on; then, _that_
defeats every kind purpose ... as if you cut away all the ground from
my feet but so much as serves for bare standing room ... why still, I
_stand_ there--and is it the better that I have no broader space,
when off _that_ you cannot force me? I have your memory, the knowledge
of you, the idea of you printed into my heart and brain,--on that, I
can live my life--but it is for you, the dear, utterly generous
creature I know you, to give me more and more beyond mere life--to
extend life and deepen it--as you do, and will do. Oh, _how_ I love
you when I think of the entire truthfulness of your generosity to
me--how, meaning and willing to _give_, you gave _nobly_! Do you think
I have not seen in this world how women who _do_ love will manage to
confer that gift on occasion? And shall I allow myself to fancy how
much alloy such pure gold as _your_ love would have rendered
endurable? Yet it came, virgin ore, to complete my fortune! And what
but this makes me confident and happy? _Can_ I take a lesson by your
fancies, and begin frightening myself with saying ... 'But if she saw
all the world--the worthier, better men there ... those who would' &c.
&c. No, I think of the great, dear _gift_ that it was; how I '_won_'
NOTHING (the hateful word, and _French_ thought)--did nothing by my
own arts or cleverness in the matter ... so what pretence have the
_more_ artful or more clever for:--but I cannot write out this
folly--I am yours for ever, with the utmost sense of gratitude--to say
I would give you my life joyfully is little.... I would, I hope, do
that for two or three other people--but I am not conscious of any
imaginable point in which I would not implicitly devote my whole self
to you--be disposed of by you as for the best. There! It is not to be
spoken of--let me _live_ it into proof, beloved!
And for 'disappointment and a burden' ... now--let us get quite away
from ourselves, and not see one of the filaments, but only the _cords_
of love with the world's horny eye. Have we such jarring tastes, then?
Does your inordinate attachment to gay life interfere with my deep
passion for society? 'Have they common sympathy in each other's
pursuits?'--always asks Mrs. Tomkins! Well, here was I when you knew
me, fixed in my way of life, meaning with God's help to write what
may be written and so die at peace with myself so far. Can you help me
or no? Do you _not_ help me so much that, if you saw the more likely
peril for poor human nature, you would say, 'He will be jealous of all
the help coming from me,--none from him to me!'--And _that would_ be a
consequence of the help, all-too-great for hope of return, with any
one less possessed than I with the exquisiteness of being
_transcended_ and the _blest_ one.
But--'here comes the Selah and the voice is hushed'--I will speak of
other things. When we are together one day--the days I believe in--I
mean to set about that reconsidering 'Sordello'--it has always been
rather on my mind--but yesterday I was reading the 'Purgatorio' and
the first speech of the group of which Sordello makes one struck me
with a new significance, as well describing the man and his purpose
and fate in my own poem--see; one of the burthened, contorted souls
tells Virgil and Dante--
Noi fummo già tutti per forza morti,
E _peccatori infin' all' ultim' ora_:
QUIVI--_lume del ciel ne fece accorti
Si chè, pentendo e perdonando, fora
Di vita uscimmo a Dio pacificati
Che del disio di se veder n'accora._[1]
Which is just my Sordello's story ... could I '_do_' it off hand, I
wonder--
And sinners were we to the extreme hour;
_Then_, light from heaven fell, making us aware,
So that, repenting us and pardoned, out
Of life we passed to God, at peace with Him
Who fills the heart with yearning Him to see.
There were many singular incidents attending my work on that
subject--thus, quite at the end, I found out there _was printed_ and
not published, a little historical tract by a Count V---- something,
called 'Sordello'--with the motto 'Post fata resurgam'! I hope he
prophesied. The main of this--biographical notices--is extracted by
Muratori, I think. Last year when I set foot in Naples I found after a
few minutes that at some theatre, that night, the opera was to be 'one
act of Sordello' and I never looked twice, nor expended a couple of
carlines on the _libretto_!
I wanted to tell you, in last letter, that when I spoke of people's
tempers _you_ have no concern with 'people'--I do not glance obliquely
at _your_ temper--either to discover it, or praise it, or adapt myself
to it. I speak of the relation one sees in other cases--how one
opposes passionate foolish people, but hates cold clever people who
take quite care enough of themselves. I myself am born supremely
passionate--so I was born with light yellow hair: all changes--that is
the passion changes its direction and, taking a channel large enough,
looks calmer, perhaps, than it should--and all my sympathies go with
quiet strength, of course--but I know what the other kind is. As for
the breakages of chairs, and the appreciation of Parisian _meubles_;
manibus, pedibusque descendo in tuam sententiam, Ba, mi ocelle! ('What
was E.B. C?' why, the first letter after, and _not_, E.B. _B_, my own
_B_! There was no latent meaning in the C--but I had no inclination to
go on to D, or E, for instance).
And so, love, Tuesday is to be our day--one day more--and then! And
meanwhile '_care_' for me! a good word for you--but _my_ care, what is
that! One day I aspire to _care_, though! I shall not go away at any
dear Mr. K.'s coming! They call me down-stairs to supper--and my fire
is out, and you keep me from feeling cold and yet ask if I am well?
Yes, well--yes, happy--and your own ever--I must bid God bless
you--dearest!