2677. RB to Thomas Carlyle
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 14, 200–202.
Florence,
May 14, ’47.
My dear Mr Carlyle–
Mr Kenyon writes to me, that, in a letter which ought to have arrived a month ago, he mentioned your kindness in keeping me in mind and wishing to hear news of me: when I read this second letter with my wife yesterday morning, we took it as the best of omens in favour of one of our greatest schemes, which had been discussed by us in its length and breadth only the evening before, and then, not for the first time. We determined that whenever I wrote to you, as I meant to do for the last six or seven months, it would be wiser to leave unsaid, unattempted to be said, my feelings of love and gratitude for the intercourse you permitted since a good many years now—but go on and tell you what an easy thing it would be for you to come to Italy,—now, at this time of times, for its own sake and the world’s,—and let us have the happiness,—the entire happiness of remembering that we got ready the prophet’s-chamber in the wall, with bed and candlestick, according to scripture precedent. [1] In this country, the wheels of one’s life run smoothly—a very simple calculation finds what kind of a carriage, with more or less commodious fittings-up, is within your means,—and once fairly started in it, you may look out of the windows or ponder the journey’s end without further cares about lynchpins or grease-money—(in Germany you must know, you are taxed every post for “schmier-gelt” [2] &c)– One man finds you house and furniture for so long—another contrives you dinner—for so many—you pay what you mean or can, and there is an end of it. Then in this land of solid vast honest houses, built to last,—a few rooms cost more than many,—or not less—seven or five, nine or seven, it is little matter. You see all I mean, I am sure; and it would not become me to speak more. Only, if ever you are disposed [3] to pass a winter here, we will go to any part you decide for, and be ready for you at any time. I hope it is not wholly for ourselves (for my wife and myself) that I say this—I heard you once allude to Jesuitism [4] —to an intention you had of writing about it: and when I look over the extracts from books on that and similar subjects, as I find them in Newspapers here, I ejaculate (like I don’t know what virtuoso, in some great gallery of pretentious painting), “Raphael, ubi es?”— [5]
But in Italy, or in England, I shall ever keep it my first of affectionate prides—something beyond affection and far better than pride—that you have been and are what you are to me—not a “friend,” neither. I dare believe, on the whole, that there is no better nor sincerer relation than that in which you stand to me. One might fancy I did not profit as I might have done by the facilities you gave me for seeing and communicating with you in England; but I always hoped to be better qualified to profit one day. I don’t apologize for writing in this way, and of these things. Here in Italy, it seems useless and foolish to put into a little note any other matter than what comes uppermost (and yet lies undermost).
When I was about to leave England I should have been glad to talk over my intentions with you, respecting my marriage, and all the strange and involved circumstances that led to it. I did not do so, however, not from any fear of your waiving the responsibility of giving counsel, but because, in this affair which so intimately concerned me, I had been forced to ascertain and see a hundred determining points, as nobody else could see them, in the nature of things. And I was nearly as convinced then, as by all that has happened subsequently, that I had the plainest of duties to perform; and there was no use in asking for an opinion which I might know as certainly as I know anything—without giving us both much pain and many words. Through God’s providence, all has gone with us better than my best hopes. My wife, in all probability, will become quite well and strong. She only feels weakness, indeed, and may be considered well, except for that. I believe—from the accounts from England, and from the nature of the place in the country to which she was to have been removed a day or two after that on which we determined to leave England [6] —that this winter would have ended the seven years’ confinement without my intervention. You will let me say that it could be nobody’s true interest that this should be, with an entirely good, unselfish, affectionate creature, in whom during these eight months that I have been by her always, I have never seen an indication of anything but goodness and unselfishness. When I first knew her more than two years ago, we soon found out a common point of sympathy in her love and reverence for you—she told me how you had written to her, given her advice. [7] So that there was one way left for me to love you the more. She is sitting opposite now, and answers (when I ask her, this minute, what I am to say for her), “But you know my feelings”! And I do know them.
Much of what I have written will go to Mrs. Carlyle likewise—I never can dissociate you in my thoughts: if we, or when we go to England again, I shall try and live near you—as much nearer you as I can. Will you give my truest regards to her? I trust you are both well. You would not suffer by the cold weather I think. It is very hot here just now, but has been cold beyond example.
I see Lely’s picture of your Cromwell, in the Pitti Palace here. [8] I make no doubt you do not want any news now about the reported cast of the head; but I will inquire and let you know, on the chance of your wishing it.
Mr. Kenyon mentions a note you have given Miss Fuller—and which she will probably bring when she comes here; it is a delight to expect. Let me say, that should you want a person to find me, the address is Via delle Belle Donne, 4222—but for a letter the best direction is to R.B., Poste Restante, Firenze, Toscana, simply, as I get such a note duly when I go to the Post Office, and not when it pleases the man to call.—All my space is covered, except to reassure you
I am ever yours,
R. Browning.
Text: The Cornhill Magazine, May 1915, pp. 645–647.
1. Cf. II Kings 4:10.
2. “Bribe.”
3. Up to this point, the editors have collated the published text with a facsimile page in Sotheby’s Catalogue of 14 June 1932, lot 144.
4. The eighth, and final, of the series entitled Latter-Day Pamphlets, called “Jesuitism,” was published in August 1850.
5. “Raphael, where art thou.”
7. EBB sent Carlyle a copy of Poems (1844), which led to a brief correspondence between them. In letter 1704, EBB reported that Carlyle had told her “that a person of my ‘insight & veracity’ ought to use ‘speech’ rather than ‘song’ in these days of crisis.”
8. Murray’s Hand-Book for Travellers in Northern Italy (1847) describes Peter Lely’s portrait of Cromwell as “one of the few authentic portraits of the Protector; it was painted expressly as a present to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and sent by the Protector in his lifetime; it is perhaps the truest likeness that now exists of that great man” (pp. 563–564).
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