The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine —
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup
I would not change for thine! No, no, no!
And by the bye, I have misled you as my wont is, on the subject of wine, ‘that I do not touch it’ — not habitually, nor so as to feel the loss of it, that on a principle; but every now and then of course.
And now, ‘Luria’, so long as the parts cohere and the whole is discernible, all will be well yet. I shall not look at it, nor think of it, for a week or two, and then see what I have forgotten. Domizia is all wrong; I told you I knew that her special colour had faded, — it was but a bright line, and the more distinctly deep that it was so narrow. One of my half dozen words on my scrap of paper ‘pro memoria’ was, under the ‘Act V.’ ‘she loves’ — to which I could not bring it, you see! Yet the play requires it still, — something may yet be effected, though.... I meant that she should propose to go to Pisa with him, and begin a new life. But there is no hurry — I suppose it is no use publishing much before Easter — I will try and remember what my whole character did mean — it was, in two words, understood at the time by ‘panther’s-beauty’ — on which hint I ought to have spoken! But the work grew cold, and you came between, and the sun put out the fire on the hearth nec vult panthera domari!
For the ‘Soul’s Tragedy’ — that will surprise you, I think. There is no trace of you there, — you have not put out the black face of it — it is all sneering and disillusion — and shall not be printed but burned if you say the word — now wait and see and then say! I will bring the first of the two parts next Saturday.
And now, dearest, I am with you — and the other matters are forgotten already. God bless you, I am ever your own R. You will write to me I trust? And tell me how to bear the cold.
E.B.B. to R.B.
[Post-mark, February 12, 1846.]
Ah, the ‘sortes’! Is it a double oracle — ’swan and shadow’ — do you think? or do my eyes see double, dazzled by the light of it? ‘I shall love thee to eternity’ — I shall.
And as for the wine, I did not indeed misunderstand you ‘as my wont is,’ because I understood simply that ‘habitually’ you abstained from wine, and I meant exactly that perhaps it would be better for your health to take it habitually. It might, you know — not that I pretend to advise. Only when you look so much too pale sometimes, it comes into one’s thoughts that you ought not to live on cresses and cold water. Strong coffee, which is the nearest to a stimulant that I dare to take, as far as ordinary diet goes, will almost always deliver me from the worst of headaches, but there is no likeness, no comparison. And your ‘quite well’ means that dreadful ‘turning’ still ... still! Now do not think any more of the Domizias, nor ‘try to remember,’ which is the most wearing way of thinking. The more I read and read your ‘Luria,’ the grander it looks, and it will make its own road with all understanding men, you need not doubt, and still less need you try to make me uneasy about the harm I have done in ‘coming between,’ and all the rest of it. I wish never to do you greater harm than just that, and then with a white conscience ‘I shall love thee to eternity!... dearest! You have made a golden work out of your ‘golden-hearted Luria’ — as once you called him to me, and I hold it in the highest admiration — should, if you were precisely nothing to me. And still, the fifth act rises! That is certain. Nevertheless I seem to agree with you that your hand has vacillated in your Domizia. We do not know her with as full a light on her face, as the other persons — we do not see the panther, — no, certainly we do not — but you will do a very little for her which will be everything, after a time ... and I assure you that if you were to ask for the manuscript before, you should not have a page of it — now, you are only to rest. What a work to rest upon! Do consider what a triumph it is! The more I read, the more I think of it, the greater it grows — and as to ‘faded lines,’ you never cut a pomegranate that was redder in the deep of it. Also, no one can say ‘This is not clearly written.’ The people who are at ‘words of one syllable’ may be puzzled by you and Wordsworth together this time ... as far as the expression goes. Subtle thoughts you always must have, in and out of ‘Sordello’ — and the objectors would find even Plato (though his medium is as lucid as the water that ran beside the beautiful plane-tree!) a little difficult perhaps.
To-day Mr. Kenyon came, and do you know, he has made a beatific confusion between last Saturday and next Saturday, and said to me he had told Miss Thomson to mind to come on Friday if she wished to see me ... ‘remembering’ (he added) ‘that Mr. Browning took Saturday!!’ So I let him mistake the one week for the other — ’Mr. Browning took Saturday,’ it was true, both ways. Well — and then he went on to tell me that he had heard from Mrs. Jameson who was at Brighton and unwell, and had written to say this and that to him, and to enquire besides — now, what do you think, she enquired besides? ‘how you and ... Browning were’ said Mr. Kenyon — I write his words. He is coming, perhaps to-morrow, or perhaps Sunday — Saturday is to have a twofold safety. That is, if you are not ill again. Dearest, you will not think of coming if you are ill ... unwell even. I shall not be frightened next time, as I told you — I shall have the precedent. Before, I had to think! ‘It has never happened so — there must be a cause — and if it is a very, very, bad cause, why no one will tell me ... it will not seem my concern’ — that was my thought on Saturday. But another time ... only, if it is possible to keep well, do keep well, beloved, and think of me instead of Domizia, and let there be no other time for your suffering ... my waiting is nothing. I shall remember for the future that you may have the headache — and do you remember it too!
For Mr. Horne I take your testimony gladly and believingly. She blots with her eyes sometimes. She hates ... and loves, in extreme degrees. We have, once or twice or thrice, been on the border of mutual displeasure, on this very subject, for I grew really vexed to observe the trust on one side and the dyspathy on the other — using the mildest of words. You see, he found himself, down in Berkshire, in quite a strange element of society, — he, an artist in his good and his evil, — and the people there, ‘county families,’ smoothly plumed in their conventions, and classing the ringlets and the aboriginal way of using water-glasses among offences against the Moral Law. Then, meaning to be agreeable, or fascinating perhaps, made it twenty times worse. Writing in albums about the graces, discoursing meditated impromptus at picnics, playing on the guitar in fancy dresses, — all these things which seemed to poor Orion as natural as his own stars I dare say, and just the things suited to the genus poet, and to himself specifically, — were understood by the natives and their ‘rural deities’ to signify, that he intended to marry one half the county, and to run away with the other. But Miss Mitford should have known better — she should. And she would have known better, if she had liked him — for the liking could have been unmade by no such offences. She is too fervent a friend — she can be. Generous too, she can be without an effort; and I have had much affection from her — and accuse myself for seeming to have less — but —
May God bless you! — I end in haste after this long lingering.
Your
Ba.
Not unwell — I am not! I forgot it, which proves how I am not.
R.B. to E.B.B.
Friday Morning.
[Post-mark, February 13, 1846.]
Two nights ago I read the ‘Soul’s Tragedy’ once more, and though there were not a few points which still struck me as successful in design and execution, yet on the whole I came to a decided opinion, that it will be better to postpone the publication of it for the present. It is not a good ending, an auspicious wind-up of this series; subject-matter and style are alike unpopular even for the literary grex that stands aloof from the purer plebs, and uses that privilege to display and parade an ignorance which the other is altogether unconscious of — so that, if ‘Luria’ is clearish, the ‘Tragedy’ would be an unnecessary troubling the
waters. Whereas, if I printed it first in order, my readers, according to custom, would make the (comparatively) little they did not see into, a full excuse for shutting their eyes at the rest, and we may as well part friends, so as not to meet enemies. But, at bottom, I believe the proper objection is to the immediate, first effect of the whole — its moral effect — which is dependent on the contrary supposition of its being really understood, in the main drift of it. Yet I don’t know; for I wrote it with the intention of producing the best of all effects — perhaps the truth is, that I am tired, rather, and desirous of getting done, and ‘Luria’ will answer my purpose so far. Will not the best way be to reserve this unlucky play and in the event of a second edition — as Moxon seems to think such an apparition possible — might not this be quietly inserted? — in its place, too, for it was written two or three years ago. I have lost, of late, interest in dramatic writing, as you know, and, perhaps, occasion. And, dearest, I mean to take your advice and be quiet awhile and let my mind get used to its new medium of sight; seeing all things, as it does, through you: and then, let all I have done be the prelude and the real work begin. I felt it would be so before, and told you at the very beginning — do you remember? And you spoke of Io ‘in the proem.’ How much more should follow now!
And if nothing follows, I have you.
I shall see you to-morrow and be happy. To-day — is it the weather or what? — something depresses me a little — to-morrow brings the remedy for it all. I don’t know why I mention such a matter; except that I tell you everything without a notion of after-consequence; and because your dearest, dearest presence seems under any circumstances as if created just to help me there; if my spirits rise they fly to you; if they fall, they hold by you and cease falling — as now. Bless you, Ba — my own best blessing that you are! But a few hours and I am with you, beloved!
Your own
E.B.B. to R.B.
Saturday Evening.
[Post-mark, February 16, 1846.]
Ever dearest, though you wanted to make me say one thing displeasing to you to-day, I had not courage to say two instead ... which I might have done indeed and indeed! For I am capable of thinking both thoughts of ‘next year,’ as you suggested them: — because while you are with me I see only you, and you being you, I cannot doubt a power of yours nor measure the deep loving nature which I feel to be so deep — so that there may be ever so many ‘mores,’ and no ‘more’ wonder of mine! — but afterwards, when the door is shut and there is no ‘more’ light nor speaking until Thursday, why then, that I do not see you but me, — then comes the reaction, — the natural lengthening of the shadows at sunset, — and then, the ‘less, less, less’ grows to seem as natural to my fate, as the ‘more’ seemed to your nature — I being I!
Sunday. — Well! — you are to try to forgive it all! And the truth, over and under all, is, that I scarcely ever do think of the future, scarcely ever further than to your next visit, and almost never beyond, except for your sake and in reference to that view of the question which I have vexed you with so often, in fearing for your happiness. Once it was a habit of mind with me to live altogether in what I called the future — but the tops of the trees that looked towards Troy were broken off in the great winds, and falling down into the river beneath, where now after all this time they grow green again, I let them float along the current gently and pleasantly. Can it be better I wonder! And if it becomes worse, can I help it? Also the future never seemed to belong to me so little — never! It might appear wonderful to most persons, it is startling even to myself sometimes, to observe how free from anxiety I am — from the sort of anxiety which might be well connected with my own position here, and which is personal to myself. That is all thrown behind — into the bushes — long ago it was, and I think I told you of it before. Agitation comes from indecision — and I was decided from the first hour when I admitted the possibility of your loving me really. Now, — as the Euphuists used to say, — I am ‘more thine than my own’ ... it is a literal truth — and my future belongs to you; if it was mine, it was mine to give, and if it was mine to give, it was given, and if it was given ... beloved....
So you see!
Then I will confess to you that all my life long I have had a rather strange sympathy and dyspathy — the sympathy having concerned the genus jilt (as vulgarly called) male and female — and the dyspathy — the whole class of heroically virtuous persons who make sacrifices of what they call ‘love’ to what they call ‘duty.’ There are exceptional cases of course, but, for the most part, I listen incredulously or else with a little contempt to those latter proofs of strength — or weakness, as it may be: — people are not usually praised for giving up their religion, for unsaying their oaths, for desecrating their ‘holy things’ — while believing them still to be religious and sacramental! On the other side I have always and shall always understand how it is possible for the most earnest and faithful of men and even of women perhaps, to err in the convictions of the heart as well as of the mind, to profess an affection which is an illusion, and to recant and retreat loyally at the eleventh hour, on becoming aware of the truth which is in them. Such men are the truest of men, and the most courageous for the truth’s sake, and instead of blaming them I hold them in honour, for me, and always did and shall.
And while I write, you are ‘very ill’ — very ill! — how it looks, written down so! When you were gone yesterday and my thoughts had tossed about restlessly for ever so long, I was wise enough to ask Wilson how she thought you were looking, ... and she ‘did not know’ ... she ‘had not observed’ ... ‘only certainly Mr. Browning ran up-stairs instead of walking as he did the time before.’
Now promise me dearest, dearest — not to trifle with your health. Not to neglect yourself ... not to tire yourself ... and besides to take the advice of your medical friend as to diet and general treatment: — because there must be a wrong and a right in everything, and the right is very important under your circumstances ... if you have a tendency to illness. It may be right for you to have wine for instance. Did you ever try the putting your feet into hot water at night, to prevent the recurrence of the morning headache — for the affection of the head comes on early in the morning, does it not? just as if the sleeping did you harm. Now I have heard of such a remedy doing good — and could it increase the evil? — mustard mixed with the water, remember. Everything approaching to congestion is full of fear — I tremble to think of it — and I bring no remedy by this teazing neither! But you will not be ‘wicked’ nor ‘unkind,’ nor provoke the evil consciously — you will keep quiet and forswear the going out at nights, the excitement and noise of parties, and the worse excitement of composition — you promise. If you knew how I keep thinking of you, and at intervals grow so frightened! Think you, that you are three times as much to me as I can be to you at best and greatest, — because you are more than three times the larger planet — and because too, you have known other sources of light and happiness ... but I need not say this — and I shall hear on Monday, and may trust to you every day ... may I not? Yet I would trust my soul to you sooner than your own health.
May God bless you, dear, dearest. If the first part of the ‘Soul’s Tragedy’ should be written out, I can read that perhaps, without drawing you in to think of the second. Still it may be safer to keep off altogether for the present — and let it be as you incline. I do not speak of ‘Luria.’
Your own
BA.
If it were not for Mr. Kenyon, I should say, almost, Wednesday, instead of Thursday — I want to see you so much, and to see for myself about the looks and spirits, only it would not do if he found you here on Wednesday. Let him come to-morrow or on Tuesday, and Wednesday will be safe — shall we consider? what do you think?
R.B. to E.B.B.
Sunday Afternoon.
[Post-mark, February 16, 1846.]
Here is the letter again, dearest: I suppose it gives me the same pleasure, in reading, as you — and Mr. K. as me, and a
nybody else as him; if all the correspondence which was claimed again and burnt on some principle or other some years ago be at all of the nature of this sample, the measure seems questionable. Burn anybody’s real letters, well and good: they move and live — the thoughts, feelings, and expressions even, — in a self-imposed circle limiting the experience of two persons only — there is the standard, and to that the appeal — how should a third person know? His presence breaks the line, so to speak, and lets in a whole tract of country on the originally inclosed spot — so that its trees, which were from side to side there, seem left alone and wondering at their sudden unimportance in the broad land; while its ‘ferns such as I never saw before’ and which have been petted proportionably, look extravagant enough amid the new spread of good honest grey grass that is now the earth’s general wear. So that the significance is lost at once, and whole value of such letters — the cypher changed, the vowel-points removed: but how can that affect clever writing like this? What do you, to whom it is addressed, see in it more than the world that wants to see it and shan’t have it? One understands shutting an unprivileged eye to the ineffable mysteries of those ‘upper-rooms,’ now that the broom and dust pan, stocking-mending and gingerbread-making are invested with such unforeseen reverence ... but the carriage-sweep and quarry, together with Jane and our baskets, and a pleasant shadow of Wordsworth’s Sunday hat preceding his own rapid strides in the direction of Miss Fenwick’s house — surely, ‘men’s eyes were made to see, so let them gaze’ at all this! And so I, gazing with a clear conscience, am very glad to hear so much good of a very good person and so well told. She plainly sees the proper use and advantage of a country-life; and that knowledge gets to seem a high point of attainment doubtless by the side of the Wordsworth she speaks of — for mine he shall not be as long as I am able! Was ever such a ‘great’ poet before? Put one trait with the other — the theory of rural innocence — alternation of ‘vulgar trifles’ with dissertating with style of ‘the utmost grandeur that even you can conceive’ (speak for yourself, Miss M.!) — and that amiable transition from two o’clock’s grief at the death of one’s brother to three o’clock’s happiness in the ‘extraordinary mesmeric discourse’ of one’s friend. All this, and the rest of the serene and happy inspired daily life which a piece of ‘unpunctuality’ can ruin, and to which the guardian ‘angel’ brings as crowning qualification the knack of poking the fire adroitly — of this — what can one say but that — no, best hold one’s tongue and read the ‘Lyrical Ballads’ with finger in ear. Did not Shelley say long ago ‘He had no more imagination than a pint-pot’ — though in those days he used to walk about France and Flanders like a man? Now, he is ‘most comfortable in his worldly affairs’ and just this comes of it! He lives the best twenty years of his life after the way of his own heart — and when one presses in to see the result of the rare experiment ... what the one alchemist whom fortune has allowed to get all his coveted materials and set to work at last in earnest with fire and melting-pot — what he produces after all the talk of him and the like of him; why, you get pulvis et cinis — a man at the mercy of the tongs and shovel!
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 355