_E.B.B. to R.B._
Wednesday.
[Post-mark, January 22, 1846.]
Ever since I ceased to be with you--ever dearest,--have been with your
'Luria,' if _that_ is ceasing to be with you--which it _is_, I feel at
last. Yet the new act is powerful and subtle, and very affecting, it
seems to me, after a grave, suggested pathos; the reasoning is done on
every hand with admirable directness and adroitness, and poor Luria's
iron baptism under such a bright crossing of swords, most miserably
complete. Still ... is he to die _so_? can you mean it? Oh--indeed I
foresaw _that_--not a guess of mine ever touched such an end--and I
can scarcely resign myself to it as a necessity, even now ... I mean,
to the act, as Luria's act, whether it is final or not--the act of
suicide being so unheroical. But you are a dramatic poet and right
perhaps, where, as a didactic poet, you would have been wrong, ...
and, after the first shock, I begin to see that your Luria is the man
Luria and that his 'sun' lights him so far and not farther than so,
and to understand the natural reaction of all that generous trust and
hopefulness, what naturally it would be. Also, it is satisfactory that
Domizia, having put her woman's part off to the last, should be too
late with it--it will be a righteous retribution. I had fancied that
her object was to isolate him, ... to make his military glory and
national recompense ring hollowly to his ears, and so commend herself,
drawing back the veil.
Puccio's scornful working out of the low work, is very finely given,
I think, ... and you have 'a cunning right hand,' to lift up Luria
higher in the mind of your readers, by the very means used to pull
down his fortunes--you show what a man he is by the very talk of his
rivals ... by his 'natural godship' over Puccio. Then Husain is nobly
characteristic--I like those streaks of Moorish fire in his speeches.
'Why 'twas all fighting' &c. ... _that_ passage perhaps is over-subtle
for a Husain--but too nobly right in the abstract to be altered, if it
is so or not. Domizia talks philosophically besides, and how
eloquently;--and very noble she is where she proclaims
The angel in thee and rejects the sprites
That ineffectual crowd about his strength,
And mingle with his work and claim a share!--
But why not 'spirits' rather than 'sprites,' which has a different
association by custom? 'Spirits' is quite short enough, it seems to
me, for a last word--it sounds like a monosyllable that trembles--or
thrills, rather. And, do you know, I agree with yourself a little when
you say (as did you _not_ say?) that some of the speeches--Domizia's
for instance--are too lengthy. I think I should like them to coil up
their strength, here and there, in a few passages. Luria ... poor
Luria ... is great and pathetic when he stands alone at last, and 'all
his waves have gone over him.' Poor Luria!--And now, I wonder where
Mr. Chorley will look, in this work,--along all the edges of the
hills,--to find, or prove, his favourite 'mist!' On the glass of his
own opera-lorgnon, perhaps:--shall we ask him to try _that_?
But first, I want to ask _you_ something--I have had it in my head a
long time, but it might as well have been in a box--and indeed if it
had been in the box with your letters, I should have remembered to
speak of it long ago. So now, at last, tell me--how do you write, O my
poet? with steel pens, or Bramah pens, or goose-quills or
crow-quills?--Because I have a penholder which was given to me when I
was a child, and which I have used both then and since in the
production of various great epics and immortal 'works,' until in these
latter years it has seemed to me too heavy, and I have taken into
service, instead of it, another two-inch-long instrument which makes
Mr. Kenyon laugh to look at--and so, my fancy has run upon your having
the heavier holder, which is not very heavy after all, and which will
make you think of me whether you choose it or not, besides being made
of a splinter from the ivory gate of old, and therefore not unworthy
of a true prophet. Will you have it, dearest? Yes--because you can't
help it. When you come ... on Saturday!--
And for 'Pauline,' ... I am satisfied with the promise to see it some
day ... when we are in the isle of the sirens, or ready for wandering
in the Doges' galleries. I seem to understand that you would really
rather wish me not to see it now ... and as long as I _do_ see it! So
_that shall_ be!--Am I not good now, and not a teazer? If there is any
poetical justice in 'the seven worlds,' I shall have a letter
to-night.
By the way, you owe me two letters by your confession. A hundred and
four of mine you have, and I, only a hundred and two of yours ...
which is a 'deficit' scarcely creditable to me, (now is it?) when,
according to the law and ordinance, a woman's hundred and four letters
would take two hundred and eight at least, from the other side, to
justify them. Well--I feel inclined to wring out the legal per centage
to the uttermost farthing; but fall into a fit of gratitude,
notwithstanding, thinking of Monday, and how the second letter came
beyond hope. Always better, you are, than I guess you to be,--and it
was being _best_, to write, as you did, for me to hear twice on one
day!--best and dearest!
But the first letter was not what you feared--I know you too well not
to know how that letter was written and with what intention. _Do
you_, on the other hand, endeavour to comprehend how there may be an
eccentricity and obliquity in certain relations and on certain
subjects, while the general character stands up worthily of esteem and
regard--even of yours. Mr. Kenyon says broadly that it is
monomania--neither more nor less. Then the principle of passive filial
obedience is held--drawn (and quartered) from Scripture. He _sees_ the
law and the gospel on his side. Only the other day, there was a
setting forth of the whole doctrine, I hear, down-stairs--'passive
obedience, and particularly in respect to marriage.' One after the
other, my brothers all walked out of the room, and there was left for
sole auditor, Captain Surtees Cook, who had especial reasons for
sitting it out against his will,--so he sate and asked 'if children
were to be considered slaves' as meekly as if he were asking for
information. I could not help smiling when I heard of it. He is just
_succeeding_ in obtaining what is called an 'adjutancy,' which, with
the half pay, will put an end to many anxieties.
Dearest--when, in the next dream, you meet me in the 'landing-place,'
tell me why I am to stand up to be reviewed again. What a fancy,
_that_ is of yours, for 'full-lengths'--and what bad policy, if a
fancy, to talk of it so! because you would have had the glory and
advantage, and privilege, of seeing me on my feet twenty times before
now, if you had not impressed on me, in some ineffable manner, that to
stand on my head would scarcely be stranger. Nevertheless you shall
have it your own way, as you have everything--which makes you so very,
very, exemplarily submissive, you know!
Mr. Kenyon does not come--puts it off to _Saturday_ perhaps.
The _Daily News_ I have had a glance at. A weak leading article, I
thought ... and nothing stronger from Ireland:--but enough
advertisements to promise a long future. What do you think? or have
you not seen the paper? No broad principles laid down. A mere
newspaper-support of the 'League.'
May God bless you. Say how you are--and _do_ walk, and 'care' for
yourself,
and, so, for your own
_Ba_.
Have I expressed to you at all how 'Luria' impresses _me_ more and
more? You shall see the 'remarks' with the other papers--the details
of what strikes me.
_R.B. to E.B.B._
Thursday Morning.
[Post-mark, January 22, 1846.]
But you did _not_ get the letter last evening--no, for all my good
intentions--because somebody came over in the morning and forced me to
go out ... and, perhaps, I _knew_ what was coming, and had all my
thoughts _there_, that is, _here_ now, with my own letters from you. I
think so--for this punishment, I will tell you, came for some sin or
other last night. I woke--late, or early--and, in one of those lucid
moments when all things are thoroughly _perceived_,--whether suggested
by some forgotten passage in the past sleep itself, I don't know--but
I seem to _apprehend_, comprehend entirely, for the first time, what
would happen if I lost you--the whole sense of that _closed door_ of
Catarina's came on me at once, and it was _I_ who said--not as quoting
or adapting another's words, but spontaneously, unavoidably, '_In that
door, you will not enter, I have_'.... And, dearest, the
Unwritten it must remain.
What is on the other leaf, no ill-omen, after all,--because I
strengthened myself against a merely imaginary evil--as I do always;
and _thus_--I know I never can lose you,--you surely are more mine,
there is less for the future to give or take away than in the
ordinary cases, where so much less is known, explained, possessed, as
with us. Understand for me, my dearest--
And do you think, sweet, that there _is_ any free movement of my soul
which your penholder is to secure? Well, try,--it will be yours by
every right of discovery--and I, for my part, will religiously report
to you the first time I think of you 'which, but for your present I
should not have done'--or is it not a happy, most happy way of
ensuring a better fifth act to Luria than the foregoing? See the
absurdity I write--when it will be more probably the ruin of the
whole--for was it not observed in the case of a friend of mine once,
who wrote his own part in a piece for private theatricals, and had
ends of his own to serve in it,--that he set to work somewhat after
this fashion: 'Scene 1st. A breakfast chamber--Lord and Lady A. at
table--Lady A./ No more coffee my dear?--Lord A./ One more cup!
(_Embracing her_). Lady A./ I was thinking of trying the ponies in the
Park--are you engaged? Lord A./ Why, there's that bore of a Committee
at the House till 2. (_Kissing her hand_).' And so forth, to the
astonishment of the auditory, who did not exactly see the 'sequitur'
in either instance. Well, dearest, whatever comes of it, the 'aside,'
the bye-play, the digression, will be the best, and only true business
of the piece. And though I must smile at your notion of securing
_that_ by any fresh appliance, mechanical or spiritual, yet I do thank
you, dearest, thank you from my heart indeed--(and I write with
Bramahs _always_--not being able to make a pen!)
If you have gone so far with 'Luria,' I fancy myself nearly or
altogether safe. I must not tell you, but I wished just these feelings
to be in your mind about Domizia, and the death of Luria: the last act
throws light back on all, I hope. Observe only, that Luria _would_
stand, if I have plied him effectually with adverse influences, in
such a position as to render any other end impossible without the hurt
to Florence which his religion is, to avoid inflicting--passively
awaiting, for instance, the sentence and punishment to come at night,
would as surely inflict it as taking part with her foes. His aim is to
prevent the harm she will do herself by striking him, so he moves
aside from the blow. But I know there is very much to improve and
heighten in this fourth act, as in the others--but the right aspect of
things seems obtained and the rest of the work is plain and easy.
I am obliged to leave off--the rest to-morrow--and then dear,
Saturday! I love you utterly, my own best, dearest--
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Thursday Night.
[Post-mark, January 23, 1846.]
Yes, I understand your 'Luria'--and there is to be more light; and I
open the window to the east and wait for it--a little less gladly than
for _you_ on Saturday, dearest. In the meanwhile you have 'lucid
moments,' and 'strengthen' yourself into the wisdom of learning to
love me--and, upon consideration, it does not seem to be so hard after
all ... there is 'less for the future to take away' than you had
supposed--so _that_ is the way? Ah, 'these lucid moments, in which all
things are thoroughly _perceived_';--what harm they do me!--And I am
to 'understand for you,' you say!--Am I?
On the other side, and to make the good omen complete, I remembered,
after I had sealed my last letter, having made a confusion between the
ivory and horn gates, the gates of false and true visions, as I am apt
to do--and my penholder belongs to the ivory gate, ... as you will
perceive in your lucid moments--poor holder! But, as you forget me on
Wednesdays, the post testifying, ... the sinecure may not be quite so
certain as the Thursday's letter says. And _I_ too, in the meanwhile,
grow wiser, ... having learnt something which you cannot do,--you of
the 'Bells and Pomegranates': _You cannot make a pen._ Yesterday I
looked round the world in vain for it.
Mr. Kenyon does not come--_will_ not perhaps until Saturday! Which
reminds me--Mr. Kenyon told me about a year ago that he had been
painfully employed that morning in _parting_ two--dearer than
friends--and he had done it he said, by proving to either, that he or
she was likely to mar the prospects of the other. 'If I had spoken to
each, of himself or herself,' he said, 'I _never could have done it_.'
Was not _that_ an ingenious cruelty? The remembrance rose up in me
like a ghost, and made me ask you once to promise what you promised
... (you recollect?) because I could not bear to be stabbed with my
own dagger by the hand of a third person ... _so_! When people have
lucid moments themselves, you know, it is different.
And _shall_ I indeed have a letter to-morrow? Or, not having the
penholder yet, will you....