_R.B. to E.B.B._
Friday Morning.
[Post-mark, March 6, 1846.]
I am altogether your own, dearest--the words were only words and the
playful feelings were play--while the _fact_ has always been so
irresistibly obvious as to make them _break_ on and off it,
fantastically like water turning to spray and spurts of foam on a
great solid rock. _Now_ you call the rock, a rock, but you must have
known what chance you had of pushing it down when you sent all those
light fancies and free-leaves, and refusals-to-hold-responsible, to do
what they could. It _is_ a rock; and may be quite barren of good to
you,--not large enough to build houses on, not small enough to make a
mantelpiece of, much less a pedestal for a statue, but it is real
rock, that is all.
It is always _I_ who 'torment' _you_--instead of taking the present
and blessing you, and leaving the future to its own cares. I certainly
am not apt to look curiously into what next week is to bring, much
less next month or six months, but you, the having you, my own,
dearest beloved, _that_ is as different in kind as in degree from any
other happiness or semblance of it that even seemed possible of
realization. Then, now, the health is all to stay, or retard us--oh,
be well, my Ba!
Let me speak of that letter--I am ashamed at having mentioned those
circumstances, and should not have done so, but for their
insignificance--for I knew that if you ever _did_ hear of them, all
any body _would_ say would not amount to enough to be repeated to me
and so get explained at once. Now that the purpose is gained, it seems
little worth gaining. You bade me not send the letter: I will not.
As for 'what people say'--ah--Here lies a book, Bartoli's 'Simboli'
and this morning I dipped into his Chapter XIX. His 'Symbol' is
'Socrate fatto ritrar su' Boccali' and the theme of his dissertating,
'L'indegnità del mettere in disprezzo i più degni filosofi
dell'antichità.' He sets out by enlarging on the horror of it--then
describes the character of Socrates, then tells the story of the
representation of the 'Clouds,'and thus gets to his 'symbol'--'le
pazzie fatte spacciare a Socrate in quella commedia ... il misero in
tanto scherno e derisione del pubblico, che perfino i vasai
dipingevano il suo ritratto sopra gli orci, i fiaschi, i boccali, e
ogni vasellamento da più vile servigio. Così quel sommo filosofo ...
fu condotto a far di se par le case d'Atene una continua commedia, con
solamente vederlo comparir così scontraffatto e ridicolo, come i vasai
sel formavano d'invenzione'--
There you have what a very clever man can say in choice Tuscan on a
passage in Ælian which he takes care not to quote nor allude to, but
which is the sole authority for the fact. Ælian, speaking of Socrates'
magnanimity, says that on the first representation, a good many
foreigners being present who were at a loss to know 'who could be this
Socrates'--the sage himself stood up that he might be pointed out to
them by the auditory at large ... 'which' says Ælian--'was no
difficulty for them, to whom his features were most familiar,--_the
very potters being in the habit of decorating their vessels with his
likeness_'--no doubt out of a pleasant and affectionate admiration.
Yet see how 'people' can turn this out of its sense,--'say' their say
on the simplest, plainest word or deed, and change it to its opposite!
'God's great gift of speech abused' indeed!
But what shall we hear of it _there_, my Siren?
On Monday--is it not? _Who_ was it looked into the room just at our
leave-taking?
Bless you, my ever dearest,--remember to walk, to go down-stairs--and
be sure that I will endeavour to get well for my part. To-day I am
very well--with this letter!
Your own.
_E.B.B. to R.B._
Friday Evening.
[Post-mark, March 7, 1846.]
Always _you_, is it, who torments me? always _you_? Well! I agree to
bear the torments as Socrates his persecution by the potters:--and by
the way he liked those potters, as Plato shows, and was fain to go to
them for his illustrations ... as I to you for all my light. Also,
while we are on the subject, I will tell you another fault of your
Bartoli ... his 'choice Tuscan' filled one of my pages, in the place
of my English better than Tuscan.
For the letter you mentioned, I meant to have said in mine yesterday,
that I was grateful to you for telling me of it--_that_ was one of the
prodigalities of your goodness to me ... not thrown away, in one
sense, however superfluous. Do you ever think how I must feel when you
overcome me with all this generous tenderness, only beloved! I cannot
say it.
Because it is colder to-day I have not been down-stairs but let
to-morrow be warm enough--_facilis descensus_. There's something
infernal to me really, in the going down, and now too that our cousin
is here! Think of his beginning to attack Henrietta the other day....
'_So_ Mr. C. has retired and left the field to Surtees Cook. Oh ...
you needn't deny ... it's the news of all the world except your
father. And as to _him_, I don't blame you--he never will consent to
the marriage of son or daughter. Only you should consider, you know,
because he won't leave you a shilling, &c. &c....' You hear the sort
of man. And then in a minute after ... 'And what is this about Ba?'
'About Ba' said my sisters, 'why who has been persuading you of such
nonsense?' 'Oh, my authority is very good,--perfectly unnecessary for
you to tell any stories, Arabel,--a literary friendship, is it?' ...
and so on ... after that fashion! This comes from my brothers of
course, but we need not be afraid of its passing _beyond_, I think,
though I was a good deal vexed when I heard first of it last night and
have been in cousinly anxiety ever since to get our Orestes safe away
from those Furies his creditors, into Brittany again. He is an
intimate friend of my brothers besides the relationship, and they talk
to him as to each other, only they oughtn't to have talked _that_, and
without knowledge too.
I forgot to tell you that Mr. Kenyon was in an immoderate joy the day
I saw him last, about Mr. Poe's 'Raven' as seen in the _Athenæum_
extracts, and came to ask what I knew of the poet and his poetry, and
took away the book. It's the rhythm which has taken him with 'glamour'
I fancy. Now you will stay on Monday till the last moment, and go to
him for dinner at six.
Who 'looked in at the door?' Nobody. But Arabel a little way opened
it, and hearing your voice, went back. There was no harm--_is_ no fear
of harm. Nobody in the house would find his or her pleasure in running
the risk of giving me pain. I mean my brothers and sisters would not.
Are you trying the music to charm the brain to stillness? Tell me. And
keep from that 'Soul's Tragedy' which did so much harm--oh, that I had
bound you by some Stygian oath not to touch it.
So my rock ... may the birds drop into your crevices the seeds of all
the flowers of the world--only it is not for _those_, that I cling to
you as the single rock in the salt sea.