The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett Part 3

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Sat.u.r.day Night, March 1 [1845].

Dear Miss Barrett,--I seem to find of a sudden--surely I knew before--anyhow, I _do_ find now, that with the octaves on octaves of quite new golden strings you enlarged the compa.s.s of my life's harp with, there is added, too, such a tragic chord, that which you touched, so gently, in the beginning of your letter I got this morning, 'just escaping' &c. But if my truest heart's wishes avail, as they have hitherto done, you shall laugh at East winds yet, as I do!

See now, this sad feeling is so strange to me, that I must write it out, _must_, and you might give me great, the greatest pleasure for years and yet find me as pa.s.sive as a stone used to wine libations, and as ready in expressing my sense of them, but when I am pained, I find the old theory of the uselessness of communicating the circ.u.mstances of it, singularly untenable. I have been 'spoiled' in this world--to such an extent, indeed, that I often _reason_ out--make clear to myself--that I might very properly, so far as myself am concerned, take any step that would peril the whole of my future happiness--because the past is gained, secure, and on record; and, though not another of the old days should dawn on me, I shall not have lost my life, no! Out of all which you are--please--to make a sort of sense, if you can, so as to express that I have been deeply struck to find a new real unmistakable sorrow along with these as real but not so new joys you have given me. How strangely this connects itself in my mind with another subject in your note! I looked at that translation for a minute, not longer, years ago, knowing nothing about it or you, and I _only_ looked to see what rendering a pa.s.sage had received that was often in my thoughts.[1] I forget your version (it was not _yours_, my _'yours' then_; I mean I had no extraordinary interest about it), but the original makes Prometheus (telling over his bestowments towards human happiness) say, as something [Greek: peraitero tonde], that he stopped mortals [Greek: me proderkesthai moron--to poion euron], asks the Chorus, [Greek: tesde pharmakon nosou]? Whereto he replies, [Greek: tuphlas en autois elpidas katokisa] (what you hear men dissertate upon by the hour, as proving the immortality of the soul apart from revelation, undying yearnings, restless longings, instinctive desires which, unless to be eventually indulged, it were cruel to plant in us, &c. &c.). But, [Greek: meg'

ophelema tout' edoreso brotois]! concludes the chorus, like a sigh from the admitted Eleusinian aeschylus was! You cannot think how this foolish circ.u.mstance struck me this evening, so I thought I would e'en tell you at once and be done with it. Are you not my dear friend already, and shall I not use you? And pray you not to 'lean out of the window' when my own foot is only on the stair; do wait a little for

Yours _ever_,

R.B.

[Footnote 1: The following is the version of the pa.s.sage in Mrs.

Browning's later translation of the 'Prometheus' (II. 247-251 of the original):

_Prom._ I did restrain besides My mortals from premeditating death.

_Cho._ How didst thou medicine the plague-fear of death?

_Prom._ I set blind hopes to inhabit in their house.

_Cho._ By that gift thou didst help thy mortals well.]

_E.B.B. to R.B._

March 5, 1845.

But I did not mean to strike a 'tragic chord'; indeed I did not!

Sometimes one's melancholy will be uppermost and sometimes one's mirth,--the world goes round, you know--and I suppose that in that letter of mine the melancholy took the turn. As to 'escaping with my life,' it was just a phrase--at least it did not signify more than that the sense of mortality, and discomfort of it, is peculiarly strong with me when east winds are blowing and waters freezing. For the rest, I am _essentially better_, and have been for several winters; and I feel as if it were intended for me to live and not die, and I am reconciled to the feeling. Yes! I am satisfied to 'take up'

with the blind hopes again, and have them in the house with me, for all that I sit by the window. By the way, did the chorus utter scorn in the [Greek: meg' ophelema]. I think not. It is well to fly towards the light, even where there may be some fluttering and bruising of wings against the windowpanes, is it not?

There is an obscurer pa.s.sage, on which I covet your thoughts, where Prometheus, after the sublime declaration that, with a full knowledge of the penalty reserved for him, he had sinned of free will and choice--goes on to say--or to seem to say--that he had _not_, however, foreseen the extent and detail of the torment, the skiey rocks, and the friendless desolation. See v. 275. The intention of the poet might have been to magnify to his audience the torment of the martyrdom--but the heroism of the martyr diminishes in proportion--and there appears to be a contradiction, and oversight. Or is my view wrong? Tell me. And tell me too, if aeschylus not the divinest of all the divine Greek souls? People say after Quintilian, that he is savage and rude; a sort of poetic Orson, with his locks all wild. But I will not hear it of my master! He is strong as Zeus is--and not as a boxer--and tender as Power itself, which always is tenderest.

But to go back to the view of Life with the blind Hopes; you are not to think--whatever I may have written or implied--that I lean either to the philosophy or affectation which beholds the world through darkness instead of light, and speaks of it wailingly. Now, may G.o.d forbid that it should be so with me. I am not desponding by nature, and after a course of bitter mental discipline and long bodily seclusion, I come out with two learnt lessons (as I sometimes say and oftener feel),--the wisdom of cheerfulness--and the duty of social intercourse. Anguish has instructed me in joy, and solitude in society; it has been a wholesome and not unnatural reaction. And altogether, I may say that the earth looks the brighter to me in proportion to my own deprivations. The laburnum trees and rose trees are plucked up by the roots--but the suns.h.i.+ne is in their places, and the root of the suns.h.i.+ne is above the storms. What we call Life is a condition of the soul, and the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement.

And I do like to hear testimonies like yours, to _happiness_, and I feel it to be a testimony of a higher sort than the obvious one.

Still, it is obvious too that you have been spared, up to this time, the great natural afflictions, against which we are nearly all called, sooner or later, to struggle and wrestle--or your step would not be 'on the stair' quite so lightly. And so, we turn to you, dear Mr.

Browning, for comfort and gentle spiriting! Remember that as you owe your unscathed joy to G.o.d, you should pay it back to His world. And I thank you for some of it already.

Also, writing as from friend to friend--as you say rightly that we are--I ought to confess that of one cla.s.s of griefs (which has been called too the bitterest), I know as little as you. The cruelty of the world, and the treason of it--the unworthiness of the dearest; of these griefs I have scanty knowledge. It seems to me from my personal experience that there is kindness everywhere in different proportions, and more goodness and tenderheartedness than we read of in the moralists. People have been kind to _me_, even without understanding me, and pitiful to me, without approving of me:--nay, have not the very critics tamed their beardom for me, and roared delicately as sucking doves, on behalf of me? I have no harm to say of your world, though I am not of it, as you see. And I have the cream of it in your friends.h.i.+p, and a little more, and I do not envy much the milkers of the cows.

How kind you are!--how kindly and gently you speak to me! Some things you say are very touching, and some, surprising; and although I am aware that you unconsciously exaggerate what I can be to you, yet it is delightful to be broad awake and think of you as my friend.

May G.o.d bless you!

Faithfully yours,

ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Tuesday Morning.

[Post-mark, March 12, 1845.]

Your letter made me so happy, dear Miss Barrett, that I have kept quiet this while; is it too great a shame if I begin to want more good news of you, and to say so? Because there has been a bitter wind ever since. Will you grant me a great favour? Always when you write, though about your own works, not Greek plays merely, put me in, _always_, a little official bulletin-line that shall say 'I am better'

or 'still better,' will you? That is done, then--and now, what do I wish to tell you first? The poem you propose to make, for the times; the fearless fresh living work you describe, is the _only_ Poem to be undertaken now by you or anyone that _is_ a Poet at all; the only reality, only effective piece of service to be rendered G.o.d and man; it is what I have been all my life intending to do, and now shall be much, much nearer doing, since you will along with me. And you _can_ do it, I know and am sure--so sure, that I could find in my heart to be jealous of your stopping in the way even to translate the Prometheus; though the accompanying monologue will make amends too. Or shall I set you a task I meant for myself once upon a time?--which, oh, how you would fulfil! Restore the Prometheus [Greek: purphoros] as Sh.e.l.ley did the [Greek: Lyomenos]; when I say 'restore,' I know, or very much fear, that the [Greek: purphoros] was the same with the [Greek: purkaeus] which, by a fragment, we sorrowfully ascertain to have been a Satyric Drama; but surely the capabilities of the subject are much greater than in this, we now wonder at; nay, they include all those of this last--for just see how magnificently the story unrolls itself. The beginning of Jupiter's dynasty, the calm in Heaven after the storm, the ascending--(stop, I will get the book and give the words), [Greek: opos tachista ton patroon eis thronon kathezet', euthus daimosin nemei gera alloisin alla--k.t.l.],[1] all the while Prometheus being the first among the first in honour, as [Greek: kaitoi theoisi tois neois toutois gera tis allos, e 'go, pantelos diorise]?[2] then the one black hand-cloudlet storming the joyous blue and gold everywhere, [Greek: broton de ton talaiporon logon ouk eschen oudena],[3] and the design of Zeus to blot out the whole race, and plant a new one. And Prometheus with his grand solitary [Greek: ego d' etolmesa],[4] and his saving them, as the _first_ good, from annihilation. Then comes the darkening brow of Zeus, and estrangement from the benign circle of grateful G.o.ds, and the dissuasion of old confederates, and all the Right that one may fancy in Might, the strongest reasons [Greek: pauesthai tropou philanthropou][5] coming from the own mind of the t.i.tan, if you will, and all the while he shall be proceeding steadily in the alleviation of the sufferings of mortals whom, [Greek: nepious ontas to prin, ennous kai phrenon epebolous etheke],[6] while still, in proportion, shall the doom he is about to draw on himself, manifest itself more and more distinctly, till at the last, he shall achieve the salvation of man, body (by the gift of fire) and soul (by even those [Greek: tuphlai elpides],[7]

hopes of immortality), and so having rendered him utterly, according to the mythos here, _independent_ of Jove--for observe, Prometheus in the play never talks of helping mortals more, of fearing for them more, of even benefiting them more by his sufferings. The rest is between Jove and himself; he will reveal the master-secret to Jove when he shall have released him, &c. There is no stipulation that the gifts to mortals shall be continued; indeed, by the fact that it is Prometheus who hangs on Caucasus while 'the ephemerals possess fire,'

one sees that somehow mysteriously _they_ are past Jove's harming now.

Well, this wholly achieved, the price is as wholly accepted, and off into the darkness pa.s.ses in calm triumphant grandeur the t.i.tan, with Strength and Violence, and Vulcan's silent and downcast eyes, and then the gold clouds and renewed flus.h.i.+ngs of felicity shut up the scene again, with Might in his old throne again, yet with a new element of mistrust, and conscious shame, and fear, that writes significantly enough above all the glory and rejoicing that all is not as it was, nor will ever be. Such might be the framework of your Drama, just what cannot help striking one at first glance, and would not such a Drama go well before your translation? Do think of this and tell me--it nearly writes itself. You see, I meant the [Greek: meg' ophelema][8]

to be a deep great truth; if there were no life beyond this, I think the hope in one would be an incalculable blessing _for_ this life, which is melancholy for one like aeschylus to feel, if he could _only_ hope, because the argument as to the ulterior good of those hopes is cut clean away, and what had he left?

I do not find it take away from my feeling of the magnanimity of Prometheus that he should, in truth, complain (as he does from beginning to end) of what he finds himself suffering. He could have prevented all, and can stop it now--of that he never thinks for a moment. That was the old Greek way--they never let an antagonistic pa.s.sion neutralise the other which was to influence the man to his praise or blame. A Greek hero fears exceedingly and battles it out, cries out when he is wounded and fights on, does not say his love or hate makes him see no danger or feel no pain. aeschylus from first word to last ([Greek: idesthe me, oia pascho][9] to [Greek: esoras me, hos ekdika pascho][10]) insists on the unmitigated reality of the punishment which only the sun, and divine ether, and the G.o.dhead of his mother can comprehend; still, still that is only what I suppose aeschylus to have done--in your poem you shall make Prometheus our way.

And now enough of Greek, which I am fast forgetting (for I never look at books I loved once)--it was your mention of the translation that brought out the old fast fading outlines of the Poem in my brain--the Greek poem, that is. You think--for I must get to _you_--that I 'unconsciously exaggerate what you are to me.' Now, you don't know what _that_ is, nor can I very well tell you, because the language with which I talk to myself of these matters is spiritual Attic, and 'loves contractions,' as grammarians say; but I read it myself, and well know what it means, that's why I told you I was self-conscious--I meant that I never yet mistook my own feelings, one for another--there! Of what use is talking? Only do you stay here with me in the 'House' these few short years. Do you think I shall see you in two months, three months? I may travel, perhaps. So you have got to like society, and would enjoy it, you think? For me, I always hated it--have put up with it these six or seven years past, lest by foregoing it I should let some unknown good escape me, in the true time of it, and only discover my fault when too late; and now that I have done most of what is to be done, _any_ lodge in a garden of cuc.u.mbers for me! I don't even care about reading now--the world, and pictures of it, rather than writings about the world! But you must read books in order to get words and forms for 'the public' if you _write_, and _that_ you needs must do, if you fear G.o.d. I have no pleasure in writing myself--none, in the mere act--though all pleasure in the sense of fulfilling a duty, whence, if I have done my real best, judge how heart-breaking a matter must it be to be p.r.o.nounced a poor creature by critic this and acquaintance the other! But I think you like the operation of writing as I should like that of painting or making music, do you not? After all, there is a great delight in the heart of the thing; and use and forethought have made me ready at all times to set to work--but--I don't know why--my heart sinks whenever I open this desk, and rises when I shut it. Yet but for what I have written you would never have heard of me--and _through_ what you have written, not properly _for_ it, I love and wish you well! Now, will you remember what I began my letter by saying--how you have promised to let me know if my wis.h.i.+ng takes effect, and if you still continue better? And not even ... (since we are learned in magnanimity) don't even tell me that or anything else, if it teases you,--but wait your own good time, and know me for ... if these words were but my own, and fresh-minted for this moment's use!...

Yours ever faithfully,

R. BROWNING.

[Footnote 1: Aeschylus, _Prometheus_, 228ff.:

'When at first He filled his father's throne, he instantly Made various gifts of glory to the G.o.ds.']

[Footnote 2: _Ib._ 439, 440:

'For see--their honours to these new-made G.o.ds, What other gave but I?']

[Footnote 3: _Ib._ 231, 232:

'Alone of men, Of miserable men, he took no count.']

[Footnote 4: _Ib._ 235: 'But I dared it.']

[Footnote 5: _Ib._ 11: 'Leave off his old trick of loving man.']

[Footnote 6: _Ib._ 443, 444:

'Being fools before, I made them wise and true in aim of soul.']

[Footnote 7: _Ib._ 250: 'Blind hopes.']

[Footnote 8: _Ib._ 251: 'A great benefit.']

[Footnote 9: _Ib._ 92: 'Behold what I suffer.']

[Footnote 10: _Ib._ 1093: 'Dost see how I suffer this wrong?']