And do you think, sweet, that there is any free movement of my soul which your penholder is to secure?  Well, try,—­it will be yours by every right of discovery—­and I, for my part, will religiously report to you the first time I think of you ’which, but for your present I should not have done’—­or is it not a happy, most happy way of ensuring a better fifth act to Luria than the foregoing?  See the absurdity I write—­when it will be more probably the ruin of the whole—­for was it not observed in the case of a friend of mine once, who wrote his own part in a piece for private theatricals, and had ends of his own to serve in it,—­that he set to work somewhat after this fashion:  ’Scene 1st.  A breakfast chamber—­Lord and Lady A. at table—­Lady A./ No more coffee my dear?—­Lord A./ One more cup! (Embracing her).  Lady A./ I was thinking of trying the ponies in the Park—­are you engaged?  Lord A./ Why, there’s that bore of a Committee at the House till 2. (Kissing her hand).’  And so forth, to the astonishment of the auditory, who did not exactly see the ‘sequitur’ in either instance.  Well, dearest, whatever comes of it, the ‘aside,’ the bye-play, the digression, will be the best, and only true business of the piece.  And though I must smile at your notion of securing that by any fresh appliance, mechanical or spiritual, yet I do thank you, dearest, thank you from my heart indeed—­(and I write with Bramahs always—­not being able to make a pen!)

If you have gone so far with ‘Luria,’ I fancy myself nearly or altogether safe.  I must not tell you, but I wished just these feelings to be in your mind about Domizia, and the death of Luria:  the last act throws light back on all, I hope.  Observe only, that Luria would stand, if I have plied him effectually with adverse influences, in such a position as to render any other end impossible without the hurt to Florence which his religion is, to avoid inflicting—­passively awaiting, for instance, the sentence and punishment to come at night, would as surely inflict it as taking part with her foes.  His aim is to prevent the harm she will do herself by striking him, so he moves aside from the blow.  But I know there is very much to improve and heighten in this fourth act, as in the others—­but the right aspect of things seems obtained and the rest of the work is plain and easy.

I am obliged to leave off—­the rest to-morrow—­and then dear, Saturday!  I love you utterly, my own best, dearest—­

E.B.B. to R.B.

                              Thursday Night.
                              [Post-mark, January 23, 1846.]

Yes, I understand your ’Luria’—­and there is to be more light; and I open the window to the east and wait for it—­a little less gladly than for you on Saturday, dearest.  In the meanwhile you have ’lucid moments,’ and ‘strengthen’ yourself into the wisdom of learning to love me—­and, upon consideration, it does not seem to be so hard after all ... there is ‘less for the future to take away’ than you had supposed—­so that is the way?  Ah, ’these lucid moments, in which all things are thoroughly perceived’;—­what harm they do me!—­And I am to ‘understand for you,’ you say!—­Am I?