I am so engrossed by your work that I am carried away and not answering your very kind and most friendly letter. A thousand thanks for it. I know how your time is filled, and have always wondered how you can get through all. I fear even writing you, but you desired me to send you all I think of Beatrice. My letter would be long indeed if I touched on all its beauties: I should copy the book. There are many additional discoveries in the weaving of this mystic web which the book is rich in. You still surprise those whom you have already convinced. You are certainly an extraordinary Unraveller—a Disentangler—and I will say that, notwithstanding the dry task of unpicking knots, tight-drawn on purpose to resist skill and force, you have performed it with a skill and elegance that render it exciting and delightful to follow.
You desire all my “opposizioni.” Lord help me! Can I find an error or two of the press?...
I am longing for the next Ragionamento; I don’t know if others want much more to convince them, but in general the first part seems to have had that effect.
Mr Lyell judges me, as you do, too partially. All I have learned I owe to you; and I confess to you that I have often found it difficult, even with your powerful help, to remove the substantial screen which Dante has built up purposely to conceal and protect his secret. But, when I think of you, who have, alone and single-handed, knocked over so many formidable barriers, and shown us the gardens and roses, the groves, the apples, the laurels, the olives, the flowers, the stags, and all the magic machinery of secret romance, I am lost in thinking how you found your way in such a labyrinth, and what immense and curious courses of reading you must have gone through, turning all you obtained to the accomplishing your will and determination to penetrate an untrod region, without a track or vestige to guide you. I wish I had the ability to write a description of your Misteri. Perhaps I could be of use in lending a hand merely, as I have studied them much; but my tools are paint-brushes, and I am not practised in the art of writing. My education has been too defective for me ever to have ventured in print. A weak defender is more dangerous than a strong opponent, and all I could hope would be perhaps to hit on some thought that might have escaped others; but without some help from the third heaven (which a good friend of mine knows of) I should not be able to clothe it so as to render it decent.
I observe what you say on the subject of necessary reserve on certain subjects. You are quite right. You cannot be too careful in your situation and with your family. From your letter I see that your opinions are nearer mine than I supposed. But, as I am living out of the world and am perfectly free from it, I can safely be as explicit as I please. I have no reserve, and, if ever the cause require a word beyond the customary and necessary limits, call upon me to say it, or say anything for me against priestcraft and kingcraft. That is my religion.
I don’t wonder at Mr Lyell’s exultation at your Beatrice. There are some master-touches amongst the new proofs, both in matter and manner, both close reasoning and light....
The three pomegranates in Giotto’s fresco are so uncertain in their appearance, from injury and time, that I was doubtful about them, but a word from you decides the question in my mind. They are chipped and much obliterated; and, from their seeming a sort of double outline, and no shade or colour but the yellow drapery on which they are painted, I took them for an embroidery on the breast of the Barone. Some remains of fingers and stalk, however, had led the Florentines to consider them as melograni, and they were puzzling their brains to find a meaning....
Your whole-length portrait of yourself is full of nature and character, and therefore it must be very like: I thank you for it. And here is mine:—a little thin old man, 54, formerly dark, now very grey. Fond of fun, but not often tempted to indulge in it, and seldom depressed. Living alone in an old tower with two dogs only—a servant coming daily for a few hours. Disliking much to go into company, and especially to dress in cold weather, being slovenly even in my younger days. I live very temperately and never take wine. I am very active, more from lightness than strength, for I feel the effects of years and illness. Just now I boast, for I have had extraordinary health this autumn and winter. I paint a little, and read a good deal. I ought to do more in both, with opportunities and perfect liberty, but I am slow and stupid. My memory, too, is weaker than it was.
Lord Vernon has twice desired me to present his best compliments and remembrances to you. He hopes you have received his book (through Molini). There is an outline in it from my tracing of Dante’s head, and, though it is not very correct, it is the best yet done....
When will your new edition of Iddio e l’Uomo come out? I admired it much in its former state. Forgive the length of this letter, and remember me to Eastlake and Keightley.