#259

Friday Morning.

March 6, 1846.

I am altogether your own, dearest  – – the words were only words and the playful feelings were play  – – while the fact has always been so irresistibly obvious as to make them break on and off it, fantastically like water turning to spray and spurts of foam on a great solid rock. Now you call the rock, a rock, but you must have known what chance you had of pushing it down when you sent all those light fancies and free-leaves, and refusals-to-hold-responsible, to do what they could. It is a rock; and may be quite barren of good to you,  – – not large enough to build houses on, not small enough to make a mantelpiece of, much less a pedestal for a statue, but it is real rock, that is all.

It is always I who ‘torment’ you  – – instead of taking the present and blessing you, and leaving the future to its own cares. I certainly am not apt to look curiously into what next week is to bring, much less next month or six months, but you, the having you, my own, dearest beloved, that is as different in kind as in degree from any other happiness or semblance of it that even seemed possible of realization. Then, now, the health is all to stay, or retard us  – – oh, be well, my Ba!

Let me speak of that letter  – – I am ashamed at having mentioned those circumstances, and should not have done so, but for their insignificance  – – for I knew that if you ever did hear of them, all any body would say would not amount to enough to be repeated to me and so get explained at once. Now that the purpose is gained, it seems little worth gaining. You bade me not send the letter: I will not.

As for ‘what people say’  – – ah  – – Here lies a book, Bartoli’s ‘Simboli’ and this morning I dipped into his Chapter XIX. His ‘Symbol’ is ‘Socrate fatto ritrar su’ Boccali’ and the theme of his dissertating, ‘L’indegnità del mettere in disprezzo i più degni filosofi dell’antichità.’ He sets out by enlarging on the horror of it  – – then describes the character of Socrates, then tells the story of the representation of the ‘Clouds,’and thus gets to his ‘symbol’  – – ‘le pazzie fatte spacciare a Socrate in quella commedia  . . . il misero in tanto scherno e derisione del pubblico, che perfino i vasai dipingevano il suo ritratto sopra gli orci, i fiaschi, i boccali, e ogni vasellamento da più vile servigio. Così quel sommo filosofo  . . . fu condotto a far di se par le case d’Atene una continua commedia, con solamente vederlo comparir così scontraffatto e ridicolo, come i vasai sel formavano d’invenzione’  – –

There you have what a very clever man can say in choice Tuscan on a passage in Ælian which he takes care not to quote nor allude to, but which is the sole authority for the fact. Ælian, speaking of Socrates’ magnanimity, says that on the first representation, a good many foreigners being present who were at a loss to know ‘who could be this Socrates’  – – the sage himself stood up that he might be pointed out to them by the auditory at large  . . . ‘which’ says Ælian  – – ‘was no difficulty for them, to whom his features were most familiar,  – – the very potters being in the habit of decorating their vessels with his likeness‘  – – no doubt out of a pleasant and affectionate admiration. Yet see how ‘people’ can turn this out of its sense,  – – ‘say’ their say on the simplest, plainest word or deed, and change it to its opposite! ‘God’s great gift of speech abused’ indeed!

But what shall we hear of it there, my Siren?

On Monday  – – is it not? Who was it looked into the room just at our leave-taking?

Bless you, my ever dearest,  – – remember to walk, to go down-stairs  – – and be sure that I will endeavour to get well for my part. To-day I am very well  – – with this letter!

Your own.

 

#258

Thursday.

March 6, 1846.

Ever dearest I lose no time in writing, you see, so as to be written to at the soonest — and there is another reason which makes me hasten to write  . . . it is not all mercantile calculation. I want you to understand me.

Now listen! I seem to understand myself: it seems to me that every word I ever said to you on one subject, is plainly referable to a class of feelings of which you could not complain  . . . could not. But this is my impression; and yours is different: — you do not understand, you do not see by my light, and perhaps it is natural that you should not, as we stand on different steps of the argument. Still I, who said what I did, for you, and from an absorbing consideration of what was best for you, cannot consent, even out of anxiety for your futurity, to torment you now, to vex you by a form of speech which you persist in translating into a want of trust in you  . . . (I, want trust in you!!) into a need of more evidence about you from others  . . . (could you say so?) and even into an indisposition on my part to fulfil my engagement — no, dearest dearest, it is not right of you. And therefore, as you have these thoughts reasonably or unreasonably, I shall punish you for them at once, and ‘chain’ you  . . . (as you wish to be chained), chain you, rivet you — do you feel how the little fine chain twists round and round you? do you hear the stroke of the riveting? and you may feel that too. Now, it is done — now, you are chained — Bia has finished the work — I, Ba! (observe the anagram!) and not a word do you say, of Prometheus, though you have the conscience of it all, I dare say. Well! you must be pleased,  . . . as it was ‘the weight of too much liberty’ which offended you: and now you believe, perhaps, that I trust you, love you, and look to you over the heads of the whole living world, without any one head needing to stoop; you must, if you please, because you belong to me now and shall believe as I choose. There’s a ukase for you! Cry out  . . . repent  . . . and I will loose the links, and let you go again — shall it be ‘My dear Miss Barrett?’

Seriously, you shall not think of me such things as you half said, if not whole said, to-day. If all men were to speak evil of you, my heart would speak of you the more good — that would be the one result with me. Do I not know you, soul to soul? should I believe that any of them could know you as I know you? Then for the rest, I am not afraid of ‘toads’ now, not being a child any longer. I am not inclined to mind, if you do not mind, what may be said about us by the benevolent world, nor will other reasons of a graver kind affect me otherwise than by the necessary pain. Therefore the whole rests with you — unless illness should intervene — and you will be kind and good (will you not?) and not think hard thoughts of me ever again — no. It wasn’t the sense of being less than you had a right to pretend to, which made me speak what you disliked — for it is I who am ‘unworthy,’ and not another — not certainly that other!

I meant to write more to-night of subjects farther off us, but my sisters have come up-stairs and I must close my letter quickly. Beloved, take care of your head! Ah, do not write poems, nor read, nor neglect the walking, nor take that shower-bath. Will you, instead, try the warm bathing? Surely the experiment is worth making for a little while. Dearest beloved, do it for your own

Ba.