2630. EBB to Arabella & Henrietta Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 14, 48–55.
[Pisa]
Novr [21–] 24 [1846] [1]
My ever dearest Henrietta’s letter which I should have received twenty days ago, no, not quite that .. but certainly ten .. arrived with Arabel’s!– Which will account to her for my swearing at her & you so very intemperately in my last notes. Now the swearing goes to the post & the post-regulators … only it was impossible to do anything but thank God & be glad when I held in my hands both your dear letters, my dearest kindest sisters, after a good deal of anxiety. In the future, remember to write over the address “viâ France” as that precaution secures the speed– I knew by the sound of Robert’s step in the passage that he had letters for me from you, & held out two open palms to take them– Such ideas I had had about you, though I put them away as fast as I could .. but Papa’s sending my letter back made an impression. [2] Oh but how happy, happy, happy, three times happy I am to hear of his being in spirits & in a mood to have people to dinner & to talk to them! I do thank God & you for sending me such good news! Let him be angry now with me & send back my letters unopened; I will bear it all patiently. What I could not have borne without deep pain would have been the thought of having thrown a shadow over his life–––which, observe, I did not anticipate the probability of– <He> [3] lost in me nothing, just nothing—circumstances had bound me up past being of use to him:—then, whatever he may say, he cannot really think (nor can any of my family) that I have disgraced him or them by conducting myself as I have. Throwing all considerations of literature & genius into the fire, I have married a gentleman in every sense of the word, & a man of high principles & delightful manners—the whole world, with its code of artificial morality in its hands, can say nothing against him—& therefore I do consider that in consulting my own happiness I have committed an injury against no one .. unless indeed it is a painful thing to hear of my being happy & free, & the circumstances where I am able to recover my health & strength in the best way. Also it must be something to such as have ever loved me, to know me united legally to one to whom I am bound in the closest sympathies besides, as to the highest things or the lowest– When the first anger has past, these considerations must recur—& it will be better for Papa to have them than to have me shut up in a prison with a sense of responsibility on himself which he could not well cast off. On this account I think Surtees quite right in his opinion– Give him my kind regards & wishes that he <may be as happy as I, which no mere worldly prosperity could secure alone.> As for you, my ever dearest Henrietta, be wiser than I am & happier so far, that you may not (if it be possible) give offence where we all owe affection & reverence– God grant that it be found possible–
In the meantime, dont be too angry with poor George on my account– I know his heart– I have more faith in him than he has had in me– He wrote to me affectionately & as if he had loved me .. only treating the whole case, I must say, precisely as if I had run away without being married at all in “leaving the weight of sorrow & shame to be borne by my family.” (The quotation is genuine–) How could he have said more in the other case? Still what vexed me most was something about “Mr Browning,” & of course I showed none of the letter to him. I left the vexation of it to myself. But I know George’s heart, & that he is good & kind & upright at the bottom, & will do everybody, & especially himself, justice in the end—I love him dearly, & if he would accept from me a scold & a kiss, at once, he should be welcome to both, one as the other—or the kiss <I> hope might come first– So let you & Arabel calm your perturbed spirits & forgive George for my sake– I always take his part, remember, & shall. Besides I am in a particularly good humour just now, because dearest Storm was going to write to me—was going—wont he? And who constituted the “all” who sent their love to me? Ah, if you think that I love anyone of them less because of late circumstances … but you dont!– You perfectly understand. It is delightful to think that Storm meant to write to me, even if he meant it for only a minute– Robert says to me sometimes that though my brothers wrong him it is not so much him as the false idea they have of such a man & that had they known him personally, they would have done him probably more justice—& that had they known him entirely .. in his motives, desires & affections, .. the justice would have been entire too. His wish, often expressed, is to be as a friend & brother to them all—and as to you he loves you dearly & gratefully, & again & again says so to me,—& longs that it were possible to have you two alternately, to stay with us for six months together. He is about to write to you under this envelope, & has come to consult me on the audacity of calling you Henrietta & Arabel in a letter. “And why not, if they call you Robert?” “Ah, but that is different—they are women, you know, & they might think it overbold of me.” I will answer for it that he loves you—& we talk of you so much that almost he has learnt his lesson of everything about you & all the reasons for love. Then I read to him things from your letters that he might catch the droppings of my happiness in them. This morning when we were at breakfast, sitting half into the fire & close together, & having our coffee & eggs & toasted rolls, he said suddenly in the midst of some laughing & talking, “Now I do wish your sisters could see us through some peephole of the world!” “Yes,” said I, .. “as long as they did not hear us through the peephole! .. for indeed the foolishness of this conversation would—” … On which he laughed & began, “Abstract ideas &c.” That was for you to hear, you understand, to save the reputation of our wisdom. Certainly we are apt to talk nonsense with ever so many inflections & varieties .. & sitting here tête à tête, are at times quite merry– He amuses me & makes me laugh, till I refuse to laugh any more—such spirits he has & power of jesting & amusing .. alternating with the serious feeling & thinking, .. & never of a sort to incline him to leave <this> room for what is called “gaieties.” Our gaieties are between the chesnuts & the fire .. the pine-fire “from the Grand Duke’s woods.” When Mrs Peyton fancied us about to be “very gay”—in the sense she meant, nothing cd be more different from the fact. We have been no where but into the churches, & have exchanged no word with a creature, except on two occasions with Professor Ferucci who certainly threatens to bring his wife [4] to see me, but who is too much occupied at the university to spend time on any person. We have permission to go to the university library, but have not done that, even—being contented so far with subscribing 8d a month to a circulating bookshop, & yawning over the dreary state of Italian fiction– Robert says sometimes, in one of those desperate fits of philanthropy to which he is subject, “Really Ba, you are too severe!” (yawning) “really this is not so very heav … y!” (conclusive yawns!)– We wish, in time, to associate with a few Italians, for the advantage of knowing the people & speaking the language. (Professor Ferucci & his wife speak French as by a point of honour)—but for the present it is not possible to lead a more secluded life– I saw many more people in my room in Wimpole Street– And we both delight in the quietness & give no sign of being tired of one another .. which is the principal thing– For my part, I am happier now than at first—(not so extraordinary perhaps!)– But it is strange for him to love me with increase, in this way: it is not the common way of men. Wilson may well say what she does—yet Wilson does not know, of course– I assure you, I have far more extravagances & “voluntary humilities” to put away from me, than ever I had in the Wimpole Street days of adoration,—& now I begin to wonder naturally whether I may not be some sort of a real angel after all. It is not so bad a thing, be sure, for a woman to be loved by a man of imagination– He loves her through a lustrous atmosphere, which not only keeps back the faults, but produces a continual novelty, through its own changes– Always he will have it, that our attachment was “predestinated from the beginning,”: & that no two persons could have one soul between them so much as we—which I tell you, but mind you do not tell it to … even dear Mr Kenyon, to whom every confidence is due & open, except .. such a letter as this for instance– You must not show him my letters– In other respects you were entirely right—<so ri>ght in my opinion, that I had written to the same effect to him, & I earnestly hope that the necessary communications, about money, may be made by letter & without personal intercourse between George & himself. He has a very strong opinion on the whole case, I can assure you,—& might be as warm as the other party. His generous & quick comprehension of myself & my motives, I shall be grateful for to the end of my life—& in his letter the other day, he calls Robert “an incarnation of the good & the true,” which is the truest truth, of my husband, & draws from me a deeper gratitude still. It is nothing after that, that he desired us—desired me .. in the case of any accidental hitch as to funds .. to consider him as our banker .. appealing to me as “his Ba & very dear cousin” to look for no nearer friend under any circumstances– Though we did not require that kindness, it proved what his spirit was towards us—yet was less in its degree (to our feeling) than his sympathy so generously given. I love dear Mr Kenyon better than ever I did– I am bound to him for ever.
In answer to Arabel’s question, I have not had one line from the Hedleys—though I wrote a long letter to them before leaving Paris. I am sorry for Jane’s sake. Either she is wanting in consistency or in courage– I will not say which––but, considering all that passed between the Hedleys & myself, all they knew of my position, .. all they approved & thought desirable as to my prospects about Italy, the difference between our views must really be so small—that they ought to have written kindly to me, throwing into the scale the uncertainty about my health & power of resisting certain unkindnesses– Almost I feel sorry for having spoken my heart to them as I did– Still I am sorry for their sake .. for aunt Jane’s … much more than mine. (Where did you hear of the Bevans–) As to poor Bummy .. I smile too! But I never could quarrel with people for acting consistently with their nature or their conventional character which is sometimes stronger than nature. I wrote to her from Marseilles at great length. Give my love to dear Arlette if you write to her again– In answer to your question, I am happier than ever I was in my life .. except that now I know the uncertainty of all life, & that the horizon is not so broad. Childhood has infinite hopes for life—mine are beyond life!– While here the satisfaction is complete, with the exception of the displeasure of my poor dear Papa, whom I seem to love more dearly than when I was with him– But I tell you the simple truth—I never, in my earliest dreams, dreamed of meeting a nobler heart & soul, & a deeper affection—and remember, if you please, that I have been married nearly three months, though the first week (as I remind Robert) “went for nothing.” (Remind dear Minny of what I said to her once about angels—I have found my angel–) I have a full satisfaction for earth, & a hope for over the grave. I mean the infinite hope—since for some finite ones <there> seems room still upon earth. And I remember always, how in our dreary marriage at Marylebone C<hu>rch, he pressed my hand which lay in his, declaring to me forever the union bound oath .. we have <the> hope in that which is infinite. Therefore, taking all in all, I am beyond comparison happier now than ever in my life I was. Who would have prophesied that to me six years ago? As to the liberty & the spoiling, both are complete– I am free for all things except a <he>adache or any sort of ache .. which seems whenever it occurs, to be about to overturn the world– It is dreadful to be of such importance, I can tell you, Henrietta! Seriously I wish & pray for you & for my adored Arabel, some happiness to emerge, & that it may not be found offensive to others whom we all dearly love.
So now do write & tell me everything about Wimpole Street, what the workmen have done & undone & how Papa receives you. Provoking that they should mar my room for Arabel. I feel quite provoked myself. The necklace, I forgot to leave out, dearest Henrietta, & you must wait till we can come to England with the keys, I fear—only it is yours in the meantime, & you shall have it certainly. [5] I dont know why I shd have taken the diamonds which would have been more useful to you—& I would far rather have had Arabel’s picture, & the locket surrounded by the serpent .. both left to the last that I might have them nearer to me, .. & forgotten in the haste & agitation– I wonder I did not leave my senses behind me at the same time. In the locket, among other most precious hair, is yours, Henrietta. Arabel’s I wear constantly since it was in the ring which Robert had as a pattern for the wedding ring, & which he restored to me on our journey. I wear it day & night. Tell Arabel too that I am quite ashamed whenever I think of the picture. I mean mine, which I meant to replace by the Daguerotype, & never did. One day she shall have it—it is my debt to her—— Mr Stratten could not well disapprove if he knew none of the circumstances—ask her how he could—but it is kind that he & Mrs Stratten should speak of me with interest. Tell me the name of your maid, Bonser [6] .. do you say? Wilson is resigned to losing the place for her sister, [7] but would be grateful by your enquiring for a situation for her– Will you? Oh, of course she cd not go to you under the circumstances– Why do you not make your new maid attend a little to poor Minny, which she might well do with the reduced occupation. Ask Arabel to tell dear Mr Boyd that I answered Nelly Bordman’s letter who had written me one & sent me a prescription from Mr Jago, relying upon his hearing everything of me from herself .. viz. Arabel .. & wishing to defer my own letter till I was at the end of my journey & agitations, when my hand should shake less & write more legibly for Jane’s perusal. [8] I wrote to him two days ago & shall write to him again soon.– Let Arabel assure him of my grateful & affectionate thoughts in the meanwhile, & remind him that I trusted to his hearing of me through her– And did I not send a message? Yesterday came a letter from one of my American pilgrims .. a Mrs Rebecca Spring [9] .. who went to Wimpole St with peas in her shoes & found the shrine deserted, & heard of me afterwards she said, by dining at Carlyle’s. Her letter begins “Dear Elizabeth Barrett,” & she gives me an account of her “delicate state of health since the birth of a child nine years of age”—which Robert declared must mean that the child was born at nine years of age, or else that there cd be no peculiarity in the circumstances worth relating– She said further, however, that at this dinner at Carlyle’s where she had heard of our marriage, Carlyle had declared that “he had more hopes of Robert Browning than of any other writer in England,” [10] which pleased me of course, though she talked besides of coming to Italy. May the gods keep us from all Springs or Springes! [11] While I write all this, .. a card comes in .. & Wilson asks if Mr Browning wd see the proprietor thereof– I run into my bedroom, and Robert receives .. Mr Irving [12] who calls himself Papa’s next door neighbour in Jamaica, & comes to enquire about me & to offer his services & his wife’s to both of us– Robert says that he looks past sixty considerably, & that he talks of having lived here four years, & of having saved by that means, a son in the last stage of consumption. Is it the father of your Mr Irving of the mortal memory? Mind you tell me. I am vexed to have to exchange visits with these people—though of course it must be done– Robert says that he seemed to have heard all about my illness, & discoursed accordingly of the climate. How kind of dearest dear Trippy to speak so kindly of us. Tell her that we speak of her, & that Robert has a whole bundle of love ready for her—dear Trippy– I am so glad she was with you at Little Bookham– The cold would have put an end to me, as you describe it, for even here I have felt what we call the cold .. which is a mere passing wind & an overpowering sun. We cd not bear fires in the bedrooms (indeed there are no fireplaces) & I have only one blanket & leave open the door for air– The climate is exquisite. Robert has (I rebelled against the decree in vain) insisted on having an armchair for me, so that, with the sofa, I am at my ease. Oh no, we did not put on mourning! Where was the use? Never having seen Isabel, [13] and knowing nobody here: but tell me how Leonard is—poor Leonard. I am full of pity for that pitiable Mrs English– [14] How did her husband die & how is she? If Arabel sees Flush in her dreams, he must disturb them—so impudent he has grown & noisy. It’s his way of talking Italian. Best love to all—all. Do, do write .. & let me be your most attached Ba, & may God bless you constantly.
Tell me of Crow.
Robert & I have had a regular war about his letter– He wont let me see one word of it he says—not even the beginning, nor the end, nor the middle– And he has been telling you all my faults .. which is abominable. Let Arabel direct Mr Westwood’s note for me .. if she has his address.
How amused I am about “poor Mr Chapman.” [15] I wonder tho’ that he shd like it. Tell me anything. What is this appointment at Taunton[?] Surtees is very kind to speak kindly of me & sensibly I feel. Say how Henry is—do.
Address, on integral page: Angleterre viâ France / To the care of Miss Trepsack / Miss Barrett / 5. Upper Montagu Place / Montagu Square / London.
Publication: Huxley, pp. 3–8 (in part). [16]
Manuscript: British Library.
1. Year provided by postmark. EBB originally wrote “Novr 21,” the day she began the letter; she then changed the “21” to “24.”
2. In October, near the conclusion of letter 2621, EBB expressed her intention of writing to her father. We conclude that she did so, and it is this second letter, not the one she left for him in London, that he has returned. This caused EBB to leave off writing to her father for a while, but she eventually resumed doing so and was encouraged by the fact that her letters were not returned. In mid-September 1851, when the Brownings were again in England, she wrote to her father “to say that I was here . . to beseech my father at least to kiss my child—and my husband wrote a letter which I fondly thought, would be irresistible. There was a violent reply to Robert, together with two packets enclosing all the letters I had written in the course of five years, seals unbroken . . several of them written on black edged paper, suggesting the death of my child, perhaps. The doubt had not moved my father to break a seal. They all came back to me. So now, I cannot write again” (EBB to Miss Mitford, 24 September [1851], EBB-MRM, III, 328). EBB’s letters to her father surfaced in Florence in 1912 upon the death of the Brownings’ son. Because of their personal nature, the letters were not offered in the 1913 Browning sale, but were retained by members of EBB’s family. The last reference to the letters occurred on 20 February 1924, when her nephew, Colonel Harry Peyton Moulton-Barrett, acknowledged taking receipt of them from Henry Surtees, the family solicitor, in whose vault they had been kept for the previous ten years. In the same letter Colonel Moulton-Barrett went on to say that “the letters have been burned by me in the presence of a witness” (ms at Eton).
3. Reconstruction here and elsewhere in this letter is due to the fact that it was written on thin stationery that has frayed in a number of places.
4. Caterina Francesca (née Franceschi, 1803–87), a poet and writer.
5. “This necklace, which was a very valuable one, had belonged to their mother” (Surtees Cook, with a transcript of this letter, ms at ABL/Altham). A string of pearls, it was misplaced but was later recovered in 1855, when EBB insisted that Henrietta should take it.
6. Betsy Bonser was christened 18 May 1828, daughter of John Bonser and his wife Fanny of Holme Pierrepont, Nottinghamshire. Her name appears as Elizabeth Bonser in the 30 March 1851 census of 50 Wimpole Street, listed as a servant, aged 22. She had been engaged to replace Wilson as lady’s maid to EBB’s sisters, Henrietta and Arabells. In a letter to her sister Henrietta in October 1857 (ms with Camellia), EBB said she “liked Bonser’s lively manner.” Bonser remained a member of the 50 Wimpole Street household until the death of Edward Moulton-Barrett in 1857.
7. Frances (“Fanny”) Wilson (b. 1822), who had evidently hoped to take a position in the Wimpole Street household, but for obvious reasons was not hired.
8. i.e., Jane Miller, Boyd’s maid.
9. Rebecca Spring (née Buffum, 1811–1911) was the daughter of one of the founders of the Anti-Slavery Society. In 1836 she married Marcus Spring (1810–74), son of Adolphus and Lydia Taft Spring of Northbridge, Massachusetts. Marcus Spring was a successful dry goods merchant who later became a prominent reformer. Margaret Fuller became a close friend of the Springs, and they invited her to accompany them to Europe in 1846. They arrived in Liverpool in August 1846, visiting Edinburgh and Birmingham before proceeding to London, where they arrived on 1 October, only a few days after the Brownings had left for Italy. Pilgrims traditionally put peas or pebbles in their shoes as an act of penance.
10. We have been unable to verify this statement attributed to Carlyle by Rebecca Spring.
11. i.e., traps. Cf. Aurora Leigh, II, 1095.
12. James Irving (1792–1855) and his wife Judith (née Nasmyth). Irving’s grandfather, also called James Irving (b. 1713), traded his estate in South Carolina for Richard Dunn Lawrence’s Ironshore, which was situated between Montego Bay and the Goodin estate of Spring. His father, yet another James Irving (1749–98), was Custos of Trelawny.
14. Jemima Georgiana English (née Carden) of Park Road, Regent’s Park, whose husband Commander Charles English, R.N., had died 10 October 1846, aged 54 (Gentleman’s Magazine, 26 November 1846, p. 553). His death certificate lists a combination of factors as the cause of death, including gout, gastric poisoning, and cerebral effusions. Mrs. English was a friend of Harriet (née Mallory), wife of Osman Ricardo, of Bromesburrow Place, near Ledbury, and was apparently related to EBB’s early physician Dr. John Carden of Worcester.
15. Palmer Chapman had been one of Henrietta’s suitors (see letter 2185, note 7).
16. See Appendix IV, pp. 405–407.
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