Day: March 31, 2018

[Postmark: March 31, 1846]

Tuesday Evening,

If people were always as grateful to other people for being
just kind to themselves . . what a grateful world we should
have of it ! The actual good you get out of me, may be
stated at about two commas and a semi-colon — do I overstate
it, I wonder ? You, on the other side, never overstate anything
. . never enlarge . . never exaggerate ! In fact, the
immense ‘ worldly ‘ advantages which fall to you from me,
are plain to behold. Dearest, what nonsense you talk some
times, for a man so wise ! nonsense as wonderful in its way
for ‘ Robert Browning ‘ as the dancing of polkas ! The worst
is, that it sets me wishing impotently, to do some really good
helpful thing for you — and I cannot, — cannot. The good
comes to me from you, and will not go back again. Even
the loving you, . . which is all I can, . . have I not had to
question of it again and again . …” Is that good ? ” Now
see.

I shall be anxious to hear your own thoughts of the
‘ Soul’s Tragedy’ when you have it in print. You liked
‘ Luria ‘ better for seeing it printed — and I must have you like
the ‘ Tragedy ‘ in proportion. It strikes me. It is original, as
they say. There is something in it awakening . . striking :
— and when it has awakened, it won’t let you go to sleep
again immediately.

And of yourself, not a word. You might have said one
word — but you have been in London which makes me hope
that you are perhaps a little better . . or at least not worse.
Oh, I do not hope much while you are about this printing.
You are sure not to be well. That is to be accepted as a
necessary consequence — it cannot be otherwise. The comfort
is, that the whole will be put away in a week or ten
days, and that then I may set myself to hope for you, as
the roses to blow in June. Fit summer-business, that
will be ! And you will help me, and walk and take care.

What do you think I have been doing to-day to Mr.
Kenyon? Sending him the ‘enchanted poetry’ which
such as you are never to see . . the translation about
Hector and Andromache ! — yes, really. Yet after all it is
not that I like him so much better than you . . I do not
indeed . . it is just that Miss Thomson and her book are of
consequence to him, and that he hears through Miss Bayley
and herself of the attempt here and the failure there, . .
and so, being interested altogether, he asked me to let him
see what I did with Homer. And it is not much. Old
Homer laughs his translators to very scorn . . and he does
not spare me for being a woman. Surpassingly and pro-
foundly beautiful that scene is. I have tried it in blank
verse. About a year ago, when I had a sudden fit of
translating, I made an experiment on the first fifty lines
of the Iliad in a rhymed measure which seemed to me
rather nearer to the Greek cadence than our common heroic
verse. Listen to what I remember —

Thus he spake in his prayer : and Apollo gave ear to the whole ;
And came down from the steep of Olympus, with wrath in his soul ;
On his shoulder the bow, and the quiver fast woven by fate.
And the darts hurtled on, as he trod, with the thrill of his hate
And the step of his godhead. Like night did he travel below —
And he sate down afar from the ships, and drew strong to the bow —

And so we get to the arrows you talked of . . ah, do you
remember . . do you remember? . . which were to kill
dogs and mules, you said ! But they didn’t. I have an
enchanted dog (‘ which nobody can deny ‘ !) and am not far
to seek in my Apollo.

To-day I had a letter from Miss Mitford who says that,
inasmuch as she does not go to Paris, she shall come for a
fortnight to London and ‘ see me every day.’ ! ! No time
is fixed — but I look a little aghast. Am I not grateful and
affectionate ? Is it right of you, not to let me love anyone
as I used to do ? Is it in that sense that you kill the dogs
and mules ? Perhaps. The truth is, I would rather she
did not come — far rather. And she may not, after all — . .
now I am ashamed of myself thoroughly

I have not been down-stairs to-day — the weather seemed
so doubtful. To-morrow, if it is possible, I will . . must
. . do it. So . . goodbye till the day after — Thursday.
May God bless you every day ! and if only as I think of you
. . you would not lose much !

Your Ba.

[Postmark: March 31, 1846]

Tuesday

Dear, dear, Ba, what shall I say or not say ? On a kind
of principle, I have tried before this to subdue the expres-
sion of gratitude for the material, worldly good you do me —
for my poor store of words would all pay themselves
away here, at the beginning, and so leave the higher,
peculiar, Ba’s own gifts even without a cry of acknowledgement,
not to say of thanks. But somehow you, you my
dearest, my Ba, look out of all imaginable nooks and
crevices in the materiality — I see you through your goodness,
— I cannot distinguish between your acts now, — the greater,
indeed, and the lesser ! Which is the ‘ lesser ‘ ? With
you all their heap of work seems no more than – -. (I
cannot even think of what may serve for some lesser act of
kindness ! That is just what I wanted to say — ‘ the effect
defective comes by cause ‘ here — there is no ‘ lesser ‘ blessing
in your power, as I said !)

Now, darling, — it is late in the afternoon, as posts go —
I have been out all the morning in town, and while I was
happy with one letter (found waiting my return) — the parcel
comes — so I will just say this much, (this little, this least) —
this word now — and by tonight all shall be corrected, I
hope, and got rid of fairly. And to-morrow, I will have you
to myself, my best one, and will write till you cry out against
me. I go now. God bless you and reward you — prays your
very own R. B.

[Postmark: March 31, 1846]

Monday Evening.

Ah now, now, you see ! Held up in that light, it is ‘ a
foolish fancy,’ and unlawful, besides ! ‘ Not on any pretence’
will you do without letters . . you ! And you count it
among the imaginations of your heart that I could do without
them better perhaps . . I . . to whom they are sun,
air, and human voices, at the very lowest calculation?
Why seriously you don’t imagine that your letters are not
a thousand times more to me than letters ever in the
world were before, . . since ‘ Heaven first brought them
to some wretch’s aid.’ If you do that is the foolishest fancy
of all.

So foolish as to be unspeakable. We will ‘ have done
with it,’ as you say. I only ‘ revert ‘ and innocently, — I do
not reproach, even ignorantly, — I am grateful rather. What
you said in the letter this morning made me grateful, . .
and oh, so glad ! so glad ! what you said, I mean, of writing
to me on every day that we did not meet on otherwise.
That promise seemed to bring us nearer (see how I think
of letters !), nearer than another word could though you
went for it to the end of the universe, . . that other word.
So I accept the promise as a promise of pure gold, and
thank you as pure gold too, which you are, or rather far
above. Only my own dearest, you shall not write long
letters . . long letters are out of the agreement . . I never
feel the need of length as long as the writing is there . . just
the little shred of the Koran, to be gathered up reverently
. . (Inshallah !) — and then, you shall not write at all when
you are not well . . no, you shall not. So remember from
henceforth ! Shall I whip my enchanted dog when he is so
good and true ? — not to say that the tags of the lashes (do
you call them tags ?) would swing round and strike me on
the shoulders ? Dearest, you are the best, kindest in the
world — such a very, very, very ‘ little lower than the angels ! ‘
If ever I could take advantage of your goodness and tenderness
, to teaze and vex you, . . what should I be, I have
been seriously enquiring to-day, head on hand, when I had
sent away ‘ Luria.’ For I sent it away, and the ‘ Tragedy ‘ with
it, and I hope you will have all to-morrow morning at the
furthest, . . before you get this letter. There was a note
too in the parcel.

As to dedications . . . believe me that I would not
have them if I could . . that is, even if there were no dangers,
I could not bear to have words from you which the world
might listen to . . I mean, that to be commended of you
in that way, on that ground, would make me feel
cold to the heart. Oh no, no, no ! It is better to have the
proof-sheet as I had it this morning : it is the better glory
. . as glory !

‘ Not worthy of my pains ‘ . . you are right ! But
infinitely worthy of my pleasures — such pleasure as I could
gather from nothing else, except from your letters and your
very presence. Do you think that anything beside in the
whole world could bring pleasure to me, as pleasure goes,
. . . anything like reading your poetry ? My ‘ pains ‘
indeed ! It is a felicitous word — ‘ je vous en fais mon
compliment.’

And all this time, while I write lightly, you are not well
perhaps — you were unwell when you wrote to me ; you were
unwell a little yesterday even. Say how you are to-morrow
— do not forget. For the cause of the unwellness, I see it,
if you do not. It was the proof-correcting — I expected that
you would be unwell — it is no worse than was threatened to
my thoughts. The comfort is that all this wrong work
is coming to an end, and that it is covenanted between us
for you to rest absolutely from henceforth. Say how you
are, dearest dearest. And walk, walk. For me, I have
not been down-stairs. It has been cold — too cold for that,
I thought.

Oh — but I wanted to say one thing ! That wonderful
picture, which is not much like a unicorn or even ‘ a whale ‘
. . but rather more perhaps than like me you may
keep for weeks or months, if you choose ; if it continues
‘ not to make you cross.’ Because it does not flatter, and
because you do not flatter (in such equal proportions !) : the
sympathy accounts for the liking . . or absence of dislike ;
on your part.

Now I must end. Thursday is our day, I think : — and
it is easier to say ‘ Thursday ‘ on Monday than on Saturday
. a discovery of mine, that as good as Faraday’s last !

Say how you are. Do not forget. I had to say ….
What I cannot, to-night.

But I am your own

Ba.

[Postmark: March 31, 1846]

Monday.

Dearest, I send you back the two parts of the ‘ Soul’s Tragedy,’ and the proof. On a strip of paper are two or
three inanities in the form of doubts I had in reading the
first part. I think upon the whole that you owe me all
gratitude for the help of so much high critical wisdom – of
which this paper is a fair proof and expression.

The proof, the printed ‘ Luria ‘ I mean, has more
than pleased me. It is noble and admirable ; and grows
greater, the closer seen. The most exceptionable part,
it seems to me, is Domizia’s retraction at the last, for
which one looks round for the sufficient motive. But the
impression of the whole work goes straight to the soul – it
is heroic in the best sense.

I write in such haste. Oh – I should have liked to have
read again the second part of the ‘ Tragedy,’ but dare not
keep it though you give me leave. I think of the
printers – and you will let me have the proof, in this case
also.

Your letter shall be answered presently. Your sister’s
word about the picture proves very conclusively how wonderfully like it must be as a portrait ! That would settle
the question to any ‘ Royal Commission ‘ in the world – only
we need not go so far.

Dearest I end here – to begin again in another half hour.
Ah – and you promise, you promise –

No time – but ever your own.

Ba