#208

Wednesday.

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

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.