2720. EBB to Mary Russell Mitford
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 15, 24–28.
Florence.
February 22 [1848] [1]
Your letter my dearest friend, which was written, in part at least, before Christmas, came lingering in long after the new year had seen out its mattins. Oh, I had wondered so and wished so over the long silence. My fault perhaps, in a measure—for I know how I was silent before. Yes, and you tell me of your having been unwell (bad news) and of your dear Flush’s death, [2] which made me sorrowful for you as I might reasonably be. And now, tell me more. Have you a successor to him? Once you told me that one of the race was in training, but as you say nothing now, I am all in a doubt– Let me hear everything. If I had been you I think I shd have preferred some quite other kind of dog, as the unlikeness of a likeness wd be apt to bring a pain to me—but people cant reason about feelings, & feelings are like the colour of eyes, not the same in different faces, however general may be the proximity of noses. I do hope that you continue better, & without further need of Mr May. I hope too that the spring may be prodigal to you in its chartas, & grant you the old dear liberty of walking under the hedges & into the woods, without the least reminding of the tradition of sprained ankles. Let me hear of you, dearest Miss Mitford,—all that you will tell me. As for K. & Ben, why cant they marry & live on with you? Would not that meet your objections? It would be desirable on account of the child, I think—and if K. has been pardoned, Ben surely may. He wd enact gardener,—would’nt he? and you might be happier so than any other arrangement could make you. I was very averse from K’s returning to you, as, you know, I took the liberty, either through impertinence, frankness, or the dear love of you, to say openly: but as the experiment of your generosity & affectionateness appears to be now sanctioned by your judgment & the event iself, there wd be nothing more to risk in consenting to keep her after her marriage, which wd reconcile so much.–
I am glad & hopeful now for poor Mrs Partridge. The worst is, that the habit of miscarriages is hard to break—so say the wise. A living child wd probably renew life to her [3] .. if the habit of despondency is not formed besides. Dearest Miss Mitford, you ask of myself– I said nothing in my last letter, not from reserve, believe me, but because I scarcely knew what to say. I have both laughed & cried, in one or another crisis of this fatal uncertainty, & the Madonna, in the next room, only knows which I ought to do at the present writing. Only you may well laugh– I do not forbid you. The truth <is> that the people about me, months & months ago, took the fact [4] for granted, in spite of all I could say or think to the contrary. The absence of all symptoms .. for I have had my usual health, as regularly as possible .. was set down as the consequence of a sort of exceptional delicacy .. therefore I was laid on the sofa & treated accordingly– You see, the mistake I made at Pisa, had thrown me quite on one side as an authority—and a little “sickness” was siezed on as a symptom, .. from the impression that after that Pisan business, the position was sure to be regained immediately. Not quite so probable a thing after all perhaps, when you consider, how exhausting that affair was, in so advanced a period as the fifth month. Well—we did not go to Rome, & my dearest husband who spends his time in spoiling me, took a peacock’s fan to dust away the sunbeam motes, & I was’nt allowed to say yes or no too loudly. The end of all is, that at any rate there must be a great mistake in the time, but that lately I too have begun to doubt a little whether the fact may not exist– Only, pray dont let this be talked of– You will understand how I have been in a fuss, & involved in questions from every side, which there has been no answering. Say as few words as you can when you write– I could not a second time refuse to satisfy your affectionate anxiety—& you must be sure that I shall always tell you among the very first, whenever I have something to say important to my own life or happiness. Of course, it is natural to be rather anxious—one is not more nor less than a woman. Still, it strikes me often, that I have no right to ask for more filling of this cup, which has the “golden beads” swelling to the brim of it already. Robert has the dear goodness to say that he never cd love his child as he loves his wife, & that for himself he desires nothing more. What am I, then, to cry “not enough”? Oh, no. Perhaps, God should keep his gifts of children, for such women as have missed something of the ideal of love, .. who carry the bonds of sympathy slackly, .. who have some corner of their souls unlighted by an understanding companionship, or some wound of their hearts, untenderly visited. For me who am overpowered often & often in every day by an excess of goodness & tenderness, I have no claim at all. Only one may feel disappointed, & tantalized, when the circumstances provoke one so. You shall hear more another letter. To talk at present with certainty, particularly about times, is impossible, but I am well, quite, quite well, & Wilson said the other day that she never in her life saw me looking so well. It has been a great pleasure to me, to have heard lately from my brother in Jamaica, [5] and the dear things in London send me good news of the health & spirits of all there. The winter in Florence has passed away brightly; the influenza which reigned a little on every side, & laid two or three people in this house in bed, allowing us to escape it wholly.–
I dont think that our Miss Boyle wrote the novels you mention– She is “Mary Louisa”. She wrote a dramatic poem called the “Bridal of Melcha,” [6] founded on Irish history, & not by any means a fulfilment of the promise of her conversation: for a very clever talker she is, and a generous, affectionate, agreeable companion—catching a grace from the world, but not a corruption. Niece to the earl of Cork she is—& her eldest sister is maid of honour to the queen dowager. [7] Lately she has been deep in private theatricals, holden at Mr Lever’s—(your Irish Lever) & has played, among other successes, a brilliant Lady Teazle in the School for Scandal. [8] She wrote to beg Robert to go to see her play last night—and I was near to setting myself on my two knees to the same end—but we might as well have besought the table to walk quadrupededly out of the room—he never will go anywhere so as to leave me behind, and just now I am a prisoner of prudence. Mr Lever himself was to play in the “Irish tutor”. [9] You remember our talking of Mr Tulk’s family? His last unmarried daughter has lately married the late chamberlain of the late Duke of Lucca,—Count Cottrell—& they & a whole colony of married Tulks including the father, have come to settle in Florence, some liking it, some disliking it evidently, but all clinging together, for love’s sake, like bees. Mr Tulk often comes in to us to talk to Robert about Blake’s poems & drawings, and to enlighten us both, upon Swedenborg’s reveries on “Conjugal Love”. He has the most benevolent countenance, carrying the very smile of the soul, which is always beautiful, & more beautiful than usual, in a man of advanced age,—and talking as familiarly of angels in blue tunics & girdles of amethyst, as other men of his standing do of the last prison regulations,—& the railroad broad & narrow gauges. [10] Still, & after all, the great subject with everybody just now, is the new hope of Italy, & the liberal constitution, given nobly by our good, excellent Grand Duke, whose praise is in all the houses, streets & piazzas. The other evening, the evening after the gift, he went privately to the opera, was recognized, & in a burst of triumph & a glory of waxen torches, was brought back to the Pitti by the people. I was undressing to go to bed, had my hair down over my shoulders under Wilson’s ministry, when Robert called to me to look out of the window & see. Through the dark night, a great flock of stars seemed sweeping up the piazza, but not in silence, nor with very heavenly noises. The ‘evvivas’ were deafening. So glad I was. I, too, stood at the window & clapped my hands. If ever Grand Duke deserved benediction, this Duke does. We hear that he was quite moved, overpowered, & wept like a child. Nevertheless the north of Italy is under the cloud, & God knows how all may end, as the thunder ripens– Now, I must’nt, I suppose, write politics–.
Our plans about England are afloat– Impossible to know what we shall do,—but, if not this summer, the summer after, must help us to the sight of some beloved faces– It will be a midsummer dream, & we shall return to winter in Italy. My Flush is as well as ever, & perhaps gayer than ever I knew him. He runs out in the piazza whenever he pleases, & plays with the dogs, when they are pretty enough, & wags his tail at the sentinels & civic guard, and takes the Grand Duke as a sort of neighbour of his, whom it is proper enough to patronize, but who has considerably less inherent merit & dignity, than the spotted spaniel in the alley to the left. We have been reading over again André, & ‘Leone Leoni’, [11] —& Robert is in an enthusiasm about the first. Happy person, you are, to get so at new books. Blessed is the man who reads Balzac– Or even Dumas. I have got to admire Dumas doubly, since that fight & scramble for his brains in Paris. [12] Now, do think of me & love me, & let me be as ever
your affectionate
Ba.
Robert’s regards always. Say particularly how you are—& may God bless you dearest Miss Mitford & make you happy.
So anxious we are to see Tennyson’s Princess, & cant!—— I thank you for yr opinion. Has yr Mrs Acton Tyndal published her poems, [13] & with what success?——
Address, on integral page: Miss Mitford / Three Mile Cross / near Reading.
Publication: EBB-MRM, III, 229–233.
Manuscript: Wellesley College.
1. Year provided by postmark.
2. Miss Mitford’s dog Flush, the sire of EBB’s Flush, was about thirteen years old when he died on 1 December 1847. His “successor,” named Fanchon, was another of his offspring (Mary Russell Mitford, Recollections of a Literary Life, 1852, I, 298).
3. Lucy Olivia Hobart Partridge (née Anderdon, 1819–70) had married William Edwards Partridge (1809–86) in 1842. Their first child, Agnes Octavia, was born on 31 March 1848 in Horsenden, Buckinghamshire.
4. i.e., of her pregnancy.
5. EBB’s brother Charles John left for Jamaica in early 1847 and remained there for ten years.
6. Published in 1844.
7. See letter 2698, note 2.
8. A comedy by Richard Brinsley Sheridan first performed in 1777 at Drury Lane Theatre. Lady Teazle is the young flirtatious wife of the much older Sir Peter Teazle.
9. The Irish Tutor; or, New Lights: a comic piece, in one act (1823), by Richard Butler.
10. Both of these topics were of great public interest. Debate concerning the respective merits of the broad railway gauge (7 ft.) versus the narrow gauge (4 ft. 8½ in.) had culminated in an act of Parliament (1846) that set the standard at the narrower more prevalent gauge. “Prison regulations” refers to the debate between the Separate System and the Silent System. In the Separate System, prisoners were kept in individual cells and were not allowed to see or speak to each other. In the Silent System, prisoners were allowed to work together but only in total silence. The principal objections to the separate system were “financial and practical rather than philosophical; unlike the silent system it required expensive new buildings or modifications of old ones. The silent system could be commenced with minimal preparation” (Seán McConville, A History of English Prison Administration, 1981, p. 244).
11. George Sand’s novels André (1835) and Leone Leoni (1835).
12. An allusion to Dumas’ 1847 trial for breach of contract; see letter 2671, note 6.
13. Presumably Lines and Leaves by Henrietta Euphemia Tindal (née Harrison, 1817–79), which Chapman and Hall published in 1850.
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