Tuesday.
February 10, 1846.
Ever dearest, I have been possessed by your ‘Luria’ just as you would have me, and I should like you to understand, not simply how fine a conception the whole work seems to me, so developed, but how it has moved and affected me, without the ordinary means and dialect of pathos, by that calm attitude of moral grandeur which it has — it is very fine. For the execution, that too is worthily done — although I agree with you, that a little quickening and drawing in closer here and there, especially towards the close where there is no time to lose, the reader feels, would make the effect stronger — but you will look to it yourself — and such a conception must come in thunder and lightning, as a chief god would — must make its own way . . . and will not let its poet go until he speaks it out to the ultimate syllable. Domizia disappoints me rather. You might throw a flash more of light on her face — might you not? But what am I talking? I think it a magnificent work — a noble exposition of the ingratitude of men against their ‘heroes,’ and (what is peculiar) an humane exposition . . . not misanthropical, after the usual fashion of such things: for the return, the remorse, saves it — and the ‘Too late’ of the repentance and compensation covers with its solemn toll the fate of persecutors and victim. We feel that Husain himself could only say afterward . . . ‘That is done.‘ And now — surely you think well of the work as a whole? You cannot doubt, I fancy, of the grandeur of it — and of the subtilty too, for it is subtle — too subtle perhaps for stage purposes, though as clear, . . . as to expression . . . as to medium . . . as ‘bricks and mortar’ . . . shall I say?
‘A people is but the attempt of many
To rise to the completer life of one.’
There is one of the fine thoughts. And how fine he is, your Luria, when he looks back to his East, through the half-pardon and half-disdain of Domizia. Ah — Domizia! would it hurt her to make her more a woman . . . a little . . . I wonder!
So I shall begin from the beginning, from the first act, and read through . . . since I have read the fifth twice over. And remember, please, that I am to read, besides, the ‘Soul’s Tragedy,’ and that I shall dun you for it presently. Because you told me it was finished, otherwise I would not speak a word, feeling that you want rest, and that I, who am anxious about you, would be crossing my own purposes by driving you into work. It is the overwork, the overwear of mind and heart (for the feelings come as much into use as the thoughts in these productions), that makes you so pale, dearest, that distracts your head, and does all the harm on Saturdays and so many other days besides.
To-day — how are you? It was right and just for me to write this time, after the two dear notes . . . the one on Saturday night which made me praise you to myself and think you kinder than kindest, and the other on Monday morning which took me unaware — such a note, that was! Oh it was right and just that I should not teaze you to send me another after those two others, — yet I was very near doing it — yet I should like infinitely to hear to-day how you are — unreasonable! — Well! you will write now — you will answer what I am writing, and mention yourself particularly and sincerely — Remember! Above all, you will care for your head. I have been thinking since yesterday that, coming out of the cold, you might not have refused as usual to take something . . . hot wine and water, or coffee? Will you have coffee with me on Saturday? ‘Shunning the salt,’ will you have the sugar? And do tell me, for I have been thinking, are you careful as to diet — and will such sublunary things as coffee and tea and cocoa affect your head — for or against! Then you do not touch wine — and perhaps you ought. Surely something may be found or done to do you good. If it had not been for me, you would be travelling in Italy by this time and quite well perhaps.
This morning I had a letter from Miss Martineau and really read it to the end without thinking it too long, which is extraordinary for me just now, and scarcely ordinary in the letter, and indeed it is a delightful letter, as letters go, which are not yours! You shall take it with you on Saturday to read, and you shall see that it is worth reading, and interesting for Wordsworth’s sake and her own. Mr. Kenyon has it now, because he presses on to have her letters, and I should not like to tell him that you had it first from me . . .. Also Saturday will be time enough.
Oh — poor Mr. Horne! shall I tell you some of his offences? That he desires to be called at four in the morning, and does not get up till eight. That he pours libations on his bare head out of the water-glasses at great dinners. That being in the midst of sportsmen — rural aristocrats — lords of soil — and all talking learnedly of pointers’ noses and spaniels’ ears; he has exclaimed aloud in a mocking paraphrase — ‘If I were to hold up a horse by the tail.’ The wit is certainly doubtful! — That being asked to dinner on Tuesday, he will go on Wednesday instead. — That he throws himself at full length with a gesture approaching to a ‘summerset’ on satin sofas. That he giggles. That he only thinks he can talk. That his ignorance on all subjects is astounding. That he never read the old ballads, nor saw Percy’s collection. That he asked who wrote ‘Drink to me only with thine eyes.’ That after making himself ridiculous in attempting to speak at a public meeting, he said to a compassionate friend ‘I got very well out of that.’ That, in writing his work on Napoleon, he employed a man to study the subject for him. That he cares for nobody’s poetry or fame except his own, and considers Tennyson chiefly illustrious as being his contemporary. That, as to politics, he doesn’t care ‘which side.’ That he is always talking of ‘my shares,’ ‘my income,’ as if he were a Kilmansegg. Lastly (and understand, this is my ‘lastly’ and not Miss Mitford’s, who is far from being out of breath so soon) that he has a mania for heiresses — that he has gone out at half past five and ‘proposed’ to Miss M or N with fifty thousand pounds, and being rejected (as the lady thought fit to report herself) came back to tea and the same evening ‘fell in love’ with Miss O or P . . . with forty thousand — went away for a few months, and upon his next visit, did as much to a Miss Q or W, on the promise of four blood horses — has a prospect now of a Miss R or S — with hounds, perhaps.
Too, too bad — isn’t it? I would repeat none of it except to you — and as to the worst part, the last, why some may be coincidence, and some, exaggeration, for I have not the least doubt that every now and then a fine poetical compliment was turned into a serious thing by the listener, and then the poor poet had critics as well as listeners all round him. Also, he rather ‘wears his heart on his sleeve,’ there is no denying — and in other respects he is not much better, perhaps, than other men. But for the base traffic of the affair — I do not believe a word. He is too generous — has too much real sensibility. I fought his battle, poor Orion. ‘And so,’ she said ‘you believe it possible for a disinterested man to become really attached to two women, heiresses, on the same day?’ I doubted the fact. And then she showed me a note, an autograph note from the poet, confessing the M or N part of the business — while Miss O or P confessed herself, said Miss Mitford. But I persisted in doubting, notwithstanding the lady’s confessions, or convictions, as they might be. And just think of Mr. Horne not having tact enough to keep out of these multitudinous scrapes, for those few days which on three separate occasions he paid Miss Mitford in a neighbourhood where all were strangers to him, — and never outstaying his week! He must have been foolish, read it all how we may.
And so am I, to write this ‘personal talk’ to you when you will not care for it — yet you asked me, and it may make you smile, though Wordsworth’s tea-kettle outsings it all.
When your Monday letter came, I was reading the criticism on Hunt and his Italian poets, in the Examiner. How I liked to be pulled by the sleeve to your translations! — How I liked everything! — Pulci, Pietro . . . and you, best!
Yet here’s a naiveté which I found in your letter! I will write it out that you may read it —
‘However it’ (the headache) ‘was no sooner gone in a degree, than a worse plague came — I sate thinking of you.’
Very satisfactory that is, and very clear.
May God bless you dearest, dearest! Be careful of yourself. The cold makes me languid, as heat is apt to make everybody; but I am not unwell, and keep up the fire and the thoughts of you.
Your worse . . . worst plague
Your own
Ba.
I shall hear? yes! And admire my obedience in having written ‘a long letter’ to the letter!