Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  So you too wrote French verses? — Mine were of less lofty argument — one couplet makes me laugh now for the reason of its false quantity — I translated the Ode of Alcæus; and the last couplet ran thus....

  Harmodius, et toi, cher Aristogiton!

  * * * * * * *

  * * * * * * *

  Comme l’astre du jour, brillera votre nom!

  The fact was, I could not bear to hurt my French Master’s feelings — who inveterately maltreated ‘ai’s and oi’s’ and in this instance, an ‘ei.’ But ‘Pauline’ is altogether of a different sort of precocity — you shall see it when I can master resolution to transcribe the explanation which I know is on the fly-leaf of a copy here. Of that work, the Athenæum said [several words erased] now, what outrageous folly! I care, and you care, precisely nothing about its sayings and doings — yet here I talk!

  Now to you — Ba! When I go through sweetness to sweetness, at ‘Ba’ I stop last of all, and lie and rest. That is the quintessence of them all, — they all take colour and flavour from that. So, dear, dear Ba, be glad as you can to see me to-morrow. God knows how I embalm every such day, — I do not believe that one of the forty is confounded with another in my memory. So, that is gained and sure for ever. And of letters, this makes my 104th and, like Donne’s Bride,

  ... I take,

  My jewels from their boxes; call

  My Diamonds, Pearls, and Emeralds, and make

  Myself a constellation of them all!

  Bless you, my own Beloved!

  I am much better to-day — having been not so well yesterday — whence the note to you, perhaps! I put that to your charity for construction. By the way, let the foolish and needless story about my whilome friend be of this use, that it records one of the traits in that same generous love, of me, I once mentioned, I remember — one of the points in his character which, I told you, would account, if you heard them, for my parting company with a good deal of warmth of attachment to myself.

  What a day! But you do not so much care for rain, I think. My Mother is no worse, but still suffering sadly.

  Ever your own, dearest ever —

  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....

  Goodnight. May God bless you —

  Ever and wholly your

  Ba.

  R.B. to E.B.B.

  [Post-mark, January 23, 1846.]

  Now, of all perverse interpretations that ever were and never ought to have been, commend me to this of Ba’s — after I bade her generosity ‘understand me,’ too! — which meant, ‘let her pick out of my disjointed sentences a general meaning, if she can, — which I very well know their imperfect utterance would not give to one unsupplied with the key of my whole heart’s-mystery’ — and Ba, with the key in her hand, to pretend and poke feathers and penholders into the key-hole, and complain that the wards are wrong! So — when the poor scholar, one has read of, uses not very dissimilar language and argument — who being threatened with the deprivation of his Virgil learnt the Æneid by hear
t and then said ‘Take what you can now’! — that Ba calls ‘feeling the loss would not be so hard after all’! — I do not, at least. And if at any future moment I should again be visited — as I earnestly desire may never be the case — with a sudden consciousness of the entire inutility of all earthly love (since of my love) to hold its object back from the decree of God, if such should call it away; one of those known facts which, for practical good, we treat as supremely common-place, but which, like those of the uncertainty of life — the very existence of God, I may say — if they were not common-place, and could they be thoroughly apprehended (except in the chance minutes which make one grow old, not the mere years) — the business of the world would cease; but when you find Chaucer’s graver at his work of ‘graving smale seles’ by the sun’s light, you know that the sun’s self could not have been created on that day — do you ‘understand’ that, Ba? And when I am with you, or here or writing or walking — and perfectly happy in the sunshine of you, I very well know I am no wiser than is good for me and that there seems no harm in feeling it impossible this should change, or fail to go on increasing till this world ends and we are safe, I with you, for ever. But when — if only once, as I told you, recording it for its very strangeness, I do feel — in a flash — that words are words, and could not alter that decree ... will you tell me how, after all, that conviction and the true woe of it are better met than by the as thorough conviction that, for one blessing, the extreme woe is impossible now — that you are, and have been, mine, and me — one with me, never to be parted — so that the complete separation not being to be thought of, such an incomplete one as is yet in Fate’s power may be the less likely to attract her notice? And, dearest, in all emergencies, see, I go to you for help; for your gift of better comfort than is found in myself. Or ought I, if I could, to add one more proof to the Greek proverb ‘that the half is greater than the whole’ — and only love you for myself (it is absurd; but if I could disentwine you from my soul in that sense), only see my own will, and good (not in your will and good, as I now see them and shall ever see) ... should you say I did love you then? Perhaps. And it would have been better for me, I know — I should not have written this or the like — there being no post in the Siren’s isle, as you will see.