And when I have said I like ‘Pippa’ better than anything else I have done yet, I shall have answered all you bade me. And now may I begin questioning? No, — for it is all a pure delight to me, so that you do but write. I never was without good, kind, generous friends and lovers, so they say — so they were and are, — perhaps they came at the wrong time — I never wanted them — though that makes no difference in my gratitude I trust, — but I know myself — surely — and always have done so, for is there not somewhere the little book I first printed when a boy, with John Mill, the metaphysical head, his marginal note that ‘the writer possesses a deeper self-consciousness than I ever knew in a sane human being.’ So I never deceived myself much, nor called my feelings for people other than they were. And who has a right to say, if I have not, that I had, but I said that, supernatural or no. Pray tell me, too, of your present doings and projects, and never write yourself ‘grateful’ to me, who am grateful, very grateful to you, — for none of your words but I take in earnest — and tell me if Spring be not coming, come, and I will take to writing the gravest of letters, because this beginning is for gladness’ sake, like Carlyle’s song couplet. My head aches a little to-day too, and, as poor dear Kirke White said to the moon, from his heap of mathematical papers,
‘I throw aside the learned sheet;
I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so — mildly sweet.’
Out on the foolish phrase, but there’s hard rhyming without it.
Ever yours faithfully,
Robert Browning.
E.B.B. to R.B.
50 Wimpole Street: Feb. 27, 1845.
Yes, but, dear Mr. Browning, I want the spring according to the new ‘style’ (mine), and not the old one of you and the rest of the poets. To me unhappily, the snowdrop is much the same as the snow — it feels as cold underfoot — and I have grown sceptical about ‘the voice of the turtle,’ the east winds blow so loud. April is a Parthian with a dart, and May (at least the early part of it) a spy in the camp. That is my idea of what you call spring; mine, in the new style! A little later comes my spring; and indeed after such severe weather, from which I have just escaped with my life, I may thank it for coming at all. How happy you are, to be able to listen to the ‘birds’ without the commentary of the east wind, which, like other commentaries, spoils the music. And how happy I am to listen to you, when you write such kind open-hearted letters to me! I am delighted to hear all you say to me of yourself, and ‘Luria,’ and the spider, and to do him no dishonour in the association, of the great teacher of the age, Carlyle, who is also yours and mine. He fills the office of a poet — does he not? — by analysing humanity back into its elements, to the destruction of the conventions of the hour. That is — strictly speaking — the office of the poet, is it not? — and he discharges it fully, and with a wider intelligibility perhaps as far as the contemporary period is concerned, than if he did forthwith ‘burst into a song.’
But how I do wander! — I meant to say, and I will call myself back to say, that spring will really come some day I hope and believe, and the warm settled weather with it, and that then I shall be probably fitter for certain pleasures than I can appear even to myself now.
And, in the meantime, I seem to see ‘Luria’ instead of you; I have visions and dream dreams. And the ‘Soul’s Tragedy,’ which sounds to me like the step of a ghost of an old Drama! and you are not to think that I blaspheme the Drama, dear Mr. Browning; or that I ever thought of exhorting you to give up the ‘solemn robes’ and tread of the buskin. It is the theatre which vulgarises these things; the modern theatre in which we see no altar! where the thymelé is replaced by the caprice of a popular actor. And also, I have a fancy that your great dramatic power would work more clearly and audibly in the less definite mould — but you ride your own faculty as Oceanus did his sea-horse, ‘directing it by your will’; and woe to the impertinence, which would dare to say ‘turn this way’ or ‘turn from that way’ — it should not be my impertinence. Do not think I blaspheme the Drama. I have gone through ‘all such reading as should never be read’ (that is, by women!), through my love of it on the contrary. And the dramatic faculty is strong in you — and therefore, as ‘I speak unto a wise man, judge what I say.’
For myself and my own doings, you shall hear directly what I have been doing, and what I am about to do. Some years ago, as perhaps you may have heard, (but I hope not, for the fewer who hear of it the better) — some years ago, I translated or rather undid into English, the ‘Prometheus’ of Æschylus. To speak of this production moderately (not modestly), it is the most miserable of all miserable versions of the class. It was completed (in the first place) in thirteen days — the iambics thrown into blank verse, the lyrics into rhymed octosyllabics and the like, — and the whole together as cold as Caucasus, and as flat as the nearest plain. To account for this, the haste may be something; but if my mind had been properly awakened at the time, I might have made still more haste and done it better. Well, — the comfort is, that the little book was unadvertised and unknown, and that most of the copies (through my entreaty of my father) are shut up in the wardrobe of his bedroom. If ever I get well I shall show my joy by making a bonfire of them. In the meantime, the recollection of this sin of mine has been my nightmare and daymare too, and the sin has been the ‘Blot on my escutcheon.’ I could look in nobody’s face, with a ‘Thou canst not say I did it’ — I know, I did it. And so I resolved to wash away the transgression, and translate the tragedy over again. It was an honest straightforward proof of repentance — was it not? and I have completed it, except the transcription and last polishing. If Æschylus stands at the foot of my bed now, I shall have a little breath to front him. I have done my duty by him, not indeed according to his claims, but in proportion to my faculty. Whether I shall ever publish or not (remember) remains to be considered — that is a different side of the subject. If I do, it may be in a magazine — or — but this is another ground. And then, I have in my head to associate with the version, a monodrama of my own, — not a long poem, but a monologue of Æschylus as he sate a blind exile on the flats of Sicily and recounted the past to his own soul, just before the eagle cracked his great massy skull with a stone.
But my chief intention just now is the writing of a sort of novel-poem — a poem as completely modern as ‘Geraldine’s Courtship,’ running into the midst of our conventions, and rushing into drawing-rooms and the like, ‘where angels fear to tread’; and so, meeting face to face and without mask the Humanity of the age, and speaking the truth as I conceive of it out plainly. That is my intention. It is not mature enough yet to be called a plan. I am waiting for a story, and I won’t take one, because I want to make one, and I like to make my own stories, because then I can take liberties with them in the treatment.
Who told me of your skulls and spiders? Why, couldn’t I know it without being told? Did Cornelius Agrippa know nothing without being told? Mr. Horne never spoke it to my ears — (I never saw him face to face in my life, although we have corresponded for long and long), and he never wrote it to my eyes. Perhaps he does not know that I know it. Well, then! if I were to say that I heard it from you yourself, how would you answer? And it was so. Why, are you not aware that these are the days of mesmerism and clairvoyance? Are you an infidel? I have believed in your skulls for the last year, for my part.
And I have some sympathy in your habit of feeling for chairs and tables. I remember, when I was a child and wrote poems in little clasped books, I used to kiss the books and put them away tenderly because I had been happy near them, and take them out by turns when I was going from home, to cheer them by the change of air and the pleasure of the new place. This, not for the sake of the verses written in them, and not for the sake of writing more verses in them, but from pure gratitude. Other books I used to treat in a like manner — and to talk to the trees and the flowers, was a natural inclination — but between me and that time, the cypresses grow thick and dark.
Is it true that your wi
shes fulfil themselves? And when they do, are they not bitter to your taste — do you not wish them unfulfilled? Oh, this life, this life! There is comfort in it, they say, and I almost believe — but the brightest place in the house, is the leaning out of the window — at least, for me.
Of course you are self-conscious — How could you be a poet otherwise? Tell me.
Ever faithfully yours,
E.B.B.
And was the little book written with Mr. Mill, pure metaphysics, or what?
MARCH, 1845
R.B. to E.B.B.
Saturday Night, March 1 .
Dear Miss Barrett, — I seem to find of a sudden — surely I knew before — anyhow, I do find now, that with the octaves on octaves of quite new golden strings you enlarged the compass of my life’s harp with, there is added, too, such a tragic chord, that which you touched, so gently, in the beginning of your letter I got this morning, ‘just escaping’ &c. But if my truest heart’s wishes avail, as they have hitherto done, you shall laugh at East winds yet, as I do! See now, this sad feeling is so strange to me, that I must write it out, must, and you might give me great, the greatest pleasure for years and yet find me as passive as a stone used to wine libations, and as ready in expressing my sense of them, but when I am pained, I find the old theory of the uselessness of communicating the circumstances of it, singularly untenable. I have been ‘spoiled’ in this world — to such an extent, indeed, that I often reason out — make clear to myself — that I might very properly, so far as myself am concerned, take any step that would peril the whole of my future happiness — because the past is gained, secure, and on record; and, though not another of the old days should dawn on me, I shall not have lost my life, no! Out of all which you are — please — to make a sort of sense, if you can, so as to express that I have been deeply struck to find a new real unmistakable sorrow along with these as real but not so new joys you have given me. How strangely this connects itself in my mind with another subject in your note! I looked at that translation for a minute, not longer, years ago, knowing nothing about it or you, and I only looked to see what rendering a passage had received that was often in my thoughts.3 I forget your version (it was not yours, my ‘yours’ then; I mean I had no extraordinary interest about it), but the original makes Prometheus (telling over his bestowments towards human happiness) say, as something περαιτερω τωνδε, that he stopped mortals μη προδερκεσθαι μορον — το ποιον ευρων, asks the Chorus, τησδε φαρμακον νοσου? Whereto he replies, τυφλας εν αυτοις ελπιδας κατωκισα (what you hear men dissertate upon by the hour, as proving the immortality of the soul apart from revelation, undying yearnings, restless longings, instinctive desires which, unless to be eventually indulged, it were cruel to plant in us, &c. &c.). But, μεγ’ ωφελημα τουτ’ εδωρησω βροτοις! concludes the chorus, like a sigh from the admitted Eleusinian Æschylus was! You cannot think how this foolish circumstance struck me this evening, so I thought I would e’en tell you at once and be done with it. Are you not my dear friend already, and shall I not use you? And pray you not to ‘lean out of the window’ when my own foot is only on the stair; do wait a little for
Yours ever,
R.B.
E.B.B. to R.B.
March 5, 1845.
But I did not mean to strike a ‘tragic chord’; indeed I did not! Sometimes one’s melancholy will be uppermost and sometimes one’s mirth, — the world goes round, you know — and I suppose that in that letter of mine the melancholy took the turn. As to ‘escaping with my life,’ it was just a phrase — at least it did not signify more than that the sense of mortality, and discomfort of it, is peculiarly strong with me when east winds are blowing and waters freezing. For the rest, I am essentially better, and have been for several winters; and I feel as if it were intended for me to live and not die, and I am reconciled to the feeling. Yes! I am satisfied to ‘take up’ with the blind hopes again, and have them in the house with me, for all that I sit by the window. By the way, did the chorus utter scorn in the μεγ’ ωφελημα. I think not. It is well to fly towards the light, even where there may be some fluttering and bruising of wings against the windowpanes, is it not?
There is an obscurer passage, on which I covet your thoughts, where Prometheus, after the sublime declaration that, with a full knowledge of the penalty reserved for him, he had sinned of free will and choice — goes on to say — or to seem to say — that he had not, however, foreseen the extent and detail of the torment, the skiey rocks, and the friendless desolation. See v. 275. The intention of the poet might have been to magnify to his audience the torment of the martyrdom — but the heroism of the martyr diminishes in proportion — and there appears to be a contradiction, and oversight. Or is my view wrong? Tell me. And tell me too, if Æschylus not the divinest of all the divine Greek souls? People say after Quintilian, that he is savage and rude; a sort of poetic Orson, with his locks all wild. But I will not hear it of my master! He is strong as Zeus is — and not as a boxer — and tender as Power itself, which always is tenderest.
But to go back to the view of Life with the blind Hopes; you are not to think — whatever I may have written or implied — that I lean either to the philosophy or affectation which beholds the world through darkness instead of light, and speaks of it wailingly. Now, may God forbid that it should be so with me. I am not desponding by nature, and after a course of bitter mental discipline and long bodily seclusion, I come out with two learnt lessons (as I sometimes say and oftener feel), — the wisdom of cheerfulness — and the duty of social intercourse. Anguish has instructed me in joy, and solitude in society; it has been a wholesome and not unnatural reaction. And altogether, I may say that the earth looks the brighter to me in proportion to my own deprivations. The laburnum trees and rose trees are plucked up by the roots — but the sunshine is in their places, and the root of the sunshine is above the storms. What we call Life is a condition of the soul, and the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement.
And I do like to hear testimonies like yours, to happiness, and I feel it to be a testimony of a higher sort than the obvious one. Still, it is obvious too that you have been spared, up to this time, the great natural afflictions, against which we are nearly all called, sooner or later, to struggle and wrestle — or your step would not be ‘on the stair’ quite so lightly. And so, we turn to you, dear Mr. Browning, for comfort and gentle spiriting! Remember that as you owe your unscathed joy to God, you should pay it back to His world. And I thank you for some of it already.
Also, writing as from friend to friend — as you say rightly that we are — I ought to confess that of one class of griefs (which has been called too the bitterest), I know as little as you. The cruelty of the world, and the treason of it — the unworthiness of the dearest; of these griefs I have scanty knowledge. It seems to me from my personal experience that there is kindness everywhere in different proportions, and more goodness and tenderheartedness than we read of in the moralists. People have been kind to me, even without understanding me, and pitiful to me, without approving of me: — nay, have not the very critics tamed their beardom for me, and roared delicately as sucking doves, on behalf of me? I have no harm to say of your world, though I am not of it, as you see. And I have the cream of it in your friendship, and a little more, and I do not envy much the milkers of the cows.
How kind you are! — how kindly and gently you speak to me! Some things you say are very touching, and some, surprising; and although I am aware that you unconsciously exaggerate what I can be to you, yet it is delightful to be broad awake and think of you as my friend.
May God bless you!
Faithfully yours,
Elizabeth B. Barrett.
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 πυρφορος as Shelley did the Λυομενος; when I say ‘restore,’ I know, or very much fear, that the πυρφορος was the same with the πυρκαευς 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), οπως ταχιστα τον πατρωον εις θρονον καθεζετ’, ευθυς δαιμοσιν νεμει γερα αλλοισιν αλλα — κ.τ.λ.,4 all the while Prometheus being the first among the first in honour, as καιτοι θεοισι τοις νεοις τουτοις γερα τις αλλος, η ‘γω, παντελως διωρισε?5 then the one black hand-cloudlet storming the joyous blue and gold everywhere, βροτων δε των ταλαιπωρων λογον ουκ εσχεν ουδενα,6 and the design of Zeus to blot out the whole race, and plant a new one. And Prometheus with his grand solitary εγω δ’ ετολμησα,7 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 παυεσθαι τροπου φιλανθρωπου8 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, νηπιους οντας το πριν, εννους και φρενων επηβολους εθηκε,9 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 τυφλαι ελπιδες,10 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 μεγ’ ωφελημα11 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?
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 311
