2718. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 15, 9–14.
[Florence]
[ca. 7 February 1848] [1]
<***> managed to set the <hearth ru>g on fire only ten days ago, & had a crowd & a fuss .. our Italians seemed to think the world was coming to an end immediately– But I was talking of my night’s rest– It was secured to admiration, and the voice came back at once, & is itself this morning. The sofa is very narrow .. narrower than your old one in Wimpole Street; & also I put no bed in it as you did, but slept bonâ fide on the sofa, which being a spring one (in a different way from yours—much softer!) was perfectly comfortable, & answered the purpose every way; as I dont make too many evolutions nor revolutions in my sleep, habitually, you know. But I think the weather is inclined to change– There has been a wind like a scythe cutting down particular streets, Robert says—and in the face of it, Louisa Ley would go out—— How could she expect to be well? This is what Sophia calls “having too much energy”. She had better have stayed in England in company with a little prudence, than have directed such energy upon Florence in the winter. Wilson has not her parcel yet, as they are slowly getting their things through the custom-office. Mind, you dont fancy I am ill—or unwell. I am well, indeed—only it was necessary to take a precaution or two, if I meant to keep so. Last night we had a visit from Miss Boyle– So agreeable she is, .. but so tired I was, before twenty minutes to twelve when she went. She likes talking to Robert, & she likes our supper-tray .. thinks it an excellent invention, & by no means confines herself to the theory: & she & I, between us, made considerable inroads upon a bottle of port I do assure you.–– He
<…> [2]
twelve oclock, one at dinner—and the half go<es> to supper-time. Robert keeps it in his head that “it strengthens me”, .. & after that, one might as well talk to the mountain above Fiesole as talk to him about my leaving it off. Oh Arabel, you & Henrietta refer to our plans for the summer. The top-wish of my heart is to look in your dear, beloved faces .. believe that of me: but the truth is that it is quite impossible to decide on anything at present. What we are able to do, must depend upon circumstances which are yet to be made out—and even yourselves must be aware of this in a measure. We hear that the railroad is open all the way from Marseilles to Avignon .. after which, there’s the Rhone to Lyons,—so that we are nearer already by two days Diligence-travelling. Robert’s mother is very anxious to have us back—but we cannot possibly decide yet—oh, it is not possible. If you were here, I could make it plain to you in two moments. Why, we cant even say when we may be able to leave Florence. See how many months between January & May! Only be sure that I love you dearer & dearer, & long to look into your darling eyes. Henrietta wants to know besides about my new marriage. [3] No, no .. you must wait, to hear that. I am locked up in a vow. But it will astonish you considerably, I may say, whether you approve or disapprove– I, for my part, approve & am very glad. I will tell you of another new marriage instead .. Miss Garrow, to Mr Tom Trollope, [4] famous in Florence for horse-jocke<yism>!
<…>
better a little overt immorality, which might “go off in a tangent”—because this appears to me essential immorality, a root of evil set deep in mud of the vilest, the miasma of which is never likely to go off. Marriage, without the marriage of minds, is an abomination;—& I cannot think otherwise. You heard of the death of poor dear Wordsworth’s daughter. [5] We hear that he does not recover from the affliction, but sits whole days in silence, neither naming her name, nor appearing to wander in thought from the memory of her. His old servant said to him, “Sir, it is your duty to bear up”. “Oh Thomas—she was so bright a creature”. “And is she not brighter now?” was the suggestion. His friend Mr Robinson [6] went to see him & spent three weeks in vain attempts to revive him– Only, at parting, Wordsworth burst out into tears. This is the man, of whom misunderstanding people have been pleased to say that he was “insensible”. Just see! Miss Martineau is at the Lakes in “triumphant health & spirits”, says my informant. She gets up by candlelight, takes a cold bath, & then walks, out, without any more trouble, into the open air!! Hearing which, Robert made me laugh by a grave remark, .. that he should keep away from that particular tract of country as long as there was a possibility of seeing such a vision “in puris naturalibus” [7] in combination with the rest of the wild nature of the neighbourhood. But, of course, she must tell these things—or who wd know them? At half past seven, she breakfasts, & writes till two. She is getting up her book upon Ægypt– [8] Also, we hear that she has brought a pipe from the East & smokes it everyday religiously. We are very much interested about Tennyson’s new poem, [9] and are to get a copy—soon, I hope, from Moxon. Is’nt this the end of my English news? I think so. Oh—dear Miss Mitford has lost her Flush, my Flush’s father. He died without suffering & quite suddenly– Mr Greenhough, [10] the artist here, has a dog, a grey hound, twenty three years of age, who complains only of the cold. My Flush is grown quite beautiful again—his eyes like agates .. his body as shining & round as ever—only the curls dont come back. I shall have him washed soon & then we shall see. Such spirits he has, such an appetite, & is so very good. Robert loves him nearly as much as I do, & “has his love allowed”. [11] Now, when he wants anything, he does’nt bark one’s ears to scorn—unless indeed he has to insist on a point with energy—he only cries in a low, expressive voice. While I sleep in this drawingroom, he sleeps besides me, at the foot of the sofa:—and, in his opinion, it is a most excellent plan .. nothing was ever better. Also, he goes out by himself, whenever he likes, to run in the piazza (never farther) & enjoy the best society of the Florentine dogs. The Grand duke’s palace, he looks upon himself as having a claim to, & salutes the guards with a graceful familiarity. When he has run round the piazza once or twice he comes home directly—& then, there’s his long walk with Robert in the afternoon—& positively Robert takes him to his favorite places, I mean Flush’s favorite places, .. to the Cascine, where he always dances for joy of the long grass & thick underwood .. or to Bellosguardo, up the hills, where Milton went to visit Galileo, [12] & which (probably for that reason) is a favorite walk of Flush’s. When Robert & he go out, if Flush goes first .. choosing to turn to the right or left .. his companion thinks it “only fair that his preferences shd be consulted” .. particularly as sometimes he does condescend to go with Robert to that horrible music-shop, where he has to sit up a ladder all the time, for fear of a dog who lives there & snarls at him. Mind you give my love to Mary Minto & my thanks for her kindness of remembering me on a bough of her Christmas Tree. It was very kind– I wish she wd persuade Mrs Minto to try Florence—she wd enjoy so much here, that I must go onto wish it– And then, the Tulks being in Italy, would help to draw her, I shd think. Mr Tulk has been unwell—he told Robert, that since he came, he had once or twice fallen into a state of unconsciousness, through an affection of the nerves, & that his memory had been temporarily affected. I shd fancy the sort of siezure alarming for a man of his age, but his daughter did not speak of it to me. Do you know that the Gordons are at Calcutta? [13] I have not seen Mr Tulk– Robert saw him, & they talked of Coleridge & Blake, subjects interesting to each. [14] Do tell me of Annie Hayes & what she writes to you & what you hear. Remember how safe I am as to secrets. Methinks that I see Mr Hunter walking in at Wimpole Street. Ah; but how delighted the prospect of his doing well at Ramsgate makes me—I really am pleased. Is it not true that Mary might write to you (at least) a little oftener than apparently she does? No reserves, Arabel, but speak out. As to people “attached to the church of England,” I confess I have no patience with those very legitimate attachments which yet abjure the customary issues. What hinders people “attached to the church of England” from being of the church of England by public profession? Have you read the new puseyite book (or did you read the old puseyite book?) by the authoress of “From Oxford to Rome”, [15] .. who went over from Oxford to Rome, repented it, but cant come back for fear of the sin of apostacy!! So she writes a book (I dont know its name) to beg other puseyites by no means to slip after her .. because it’s so dreadful not to be able to come back without committing the sin of apostacy. She is said to be a very clever writer, notwithstanding all this idiocy, & moreover to have mentioned my name two or three times most honorably .. the Madonna knows on what pretext. For my part, with all my weaknesses, inconsistencies, & inconsequencies, .. which I wish I could throw off as I confess them, .. I will say of myself that it is not in me to see a truth, & not openly profess it,—I would go backwards & forwards, & in & out of any church in Christendom, let me be a three-times-dyed apostate, but I would profess the truth which I saw. Let us remember that truth is God, [16] before we bandy with it. I think her name is Miss Sewell [17] .. & the popularity of her books is said to be immense. Oh—dont let me omit, this time, to send my love to Mrs Gipps, [18] & my grateful recognition of her kind interest. Tell me of Emily, & of her married daughter .. & of dear Mrs Gipps herself—but pray dont read my letters to her because though she may tolerate Mr Stratten’s preaching by a wonderful stretch of Christian charity, she wont tolerate them, be very sure. My best regards to the Strattens always. I meant to write to dear Mr Boyd .. give him my best love & say so .. but I shall wait till the wind changes & I am more at ease. Tell him that often I think of him, & that he is to think of me now & then. When speaking of Miss Mitford I forgot to tell you that she is in an agony of fear lest the altogether incomparable K. should leave her again; a marriage pending between K. & Ben!—— Better late than never, you see! The child reunites in himself the attractions, if not the virtues, of both parents,—poor child! [19] I am really inclined to suggest for poor Miss Mitford’s sake, that she shd let them marry & live on with her– She will not be happy in her solitary house, & the experiment of taking back K. having been satisfactory so far, there wd be the less risk in extending it. Such an affectionate letter I have had from Miss Bayley .. beginning “dearest Ba”. She is about to live in London, not far from Mr Kenyon .. Since writing or beginning to write this letter, the winter has changed into spring .. & now I return to my own room without risk of the slightest. We have had no snow, nor even frost since that white sprinkle which I spoke of & which vanished as it appeared– I am very well, & you have not a pretext to fear for me. Sophia Cottrell told Robert that I looked considerably better in all ways that [sic, for than] when she saw me last some eight years ago—which delighted him, if true or not. Mind you take care of my dearest Trippy & dont let her catch the influenza– Give her my tender love & bid her be careful for me. Oh Arabel, & so you take care of yourself—you! If I do you justice, I am to say so. Then I cant do you justice. Instead, .. I will say that I can manage my husband far better than I did my sister, in these things. “What! without your great coat? Go & put it on this moment.” “I will obey you, Ba, to the last.” Back to his room he goes, & puts it on dutifully. There’s an example for you! How I used to beg & scold & get into impotent passions about your shawls & handkerchiefs– Always mention my always beloved Papa—& let me be
your own Ba.
Say how dear Minnys’s legs are– Love to all–
Address, on integral page: Care of Miss Tripsack / (Miss Arabel Barrett) / 12. Upper Gloucester Street / Dorset Square / New Road.
Publication: EBB-AB, I, 149–155.
Manuscript: Gordon E. Moulton-Barrett.
1. This letter was sent to New Cross for posting and bears a London postmark of 16 February 1848; the approximate date is suggested by the length of time required for a letter to reach London from Florence during this period: between eight and ten days.
2. The lower quarter of the sheet has been removed, resulting in loss of text here and below.
4. Thomas Adolphus Trollope (1810–92), elder brother of Anthony Trollope, was a travel writer, journalist, and later a novelist. He married Theodosia Garrow on 3 April 1848 at the British Legation in Florence. EBB’s reference to “horse-jocke<yism>” evidently has to do with an article that Trollope wrote for The Tuscan Athenæum. In letter 2719 EBB mentions Trollope’s contribution to “the first ‘Tuscan Athenæum’ (where he enlightened the Italians upon English horse jockeyism with a regular hail storm of slang).” She probably had in mind the “Specimen Number,” which is referred to in the first issue (30 October 1847) as having appeared “a few months since.” We have been unable to locate a copy of this “Specimen Number.”
5. Dorothy (“Dora”) Quillinan (née Wordsworth, 1804–47), the second child of William and Mary Wordsworth, died at Rydal Mount on 9 July 1847 and was buried in the Grasmere churchyard. She had married Edward Quillinan on 11 May 1841, despite her father’s objections.
6. Henry Crabb Robinson went to Rydal Mount on 17 December 1847 and remained there until 8 January 1848. His recollections of the visit, as recorded in his diary, indicate that he was the source of EBB’s information, by way of John Kenyon; see Henry Crabb Robinson on Books and Their Writers, ed. Edith J. Morley (1938), pp. 670–673.
7. “Of undefiled nakedness.”
8. Eastern Life, Present and Past (1848), Harriet Martineau’s account of her travels in Egypt and the Holy Land with Richard Vaughan Yates and his wife from October 1846 to June 1847.
9. The Princess, published in December 1847.
10. Horatio Greenough (1805–52), an American sculptor and friend of John Kenyon, had lived in Florence since 1828. His studio was located first at 5937 Via San Gallo and later in the Piazza Maria Antonia. Greenough had “a remarkably fine English greyhound, … called Arno, whose intelligent gambols always amused him; this favourite dog lived to a green old age, and his marble effigy, in an attitude peculiar to him, from the chisel of his master, long ornamented the library of the Hon. Edward Everett” (Henry T. Tuckerman, Book of the Artists: American Artist Life, New York, 1867, p. 255).
11. Cf. Oliver Goldsmith, “The Deserted Village” (1770), line 156.
13. The Gordons at this time included John Gordon (1810–49), his wife Caroline Augusta (née Tulk, 1815–81), their six children, and John Gordon’s mother. Gordon had moved his family to Sydney in the mid-1840’s to pursue a business scheme which he financed on borrowed money. When that failed, he found employment in Calcutta.
14. Tulk had formed a friendship with Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834) in 1817 that continued until the latter’s death, and he had known and been a patron of William Blake (1757–1827), with whom he shared an interest in the writings of Emanuel Swedenborg.
15. From Oxford to Rome: and How It Fared with Some who Lately Made the Journey. By A Companion Traveller (1847) was written by Elizabeth Furlong Shipton Harris (1822–52). Her “new puseyite book,” Rest in the Church (1848), contains the following passage: “And run through the range of the day’s poetical productions, from Miss Barrett and Alfred Tennyson, to the merest rhymer of the magazine—and you will feel that there also is a searching current of loving thoughtfulness, which can find its vent nowhere at last but in The Catholic Church!” (p. 75).
16. Cf. John 14:6.
17. Elizabeth Missing Sewell (1815–1906), author of numerous tales and devotional books especially for children, including Amy Herbert (1844), “a well written tale for girls, embodying Anglican views” (DNB).
18. Emma Maria Gipps (née Bentham) was the widow of the Rev. Henry Gipps (d. 1832), who had been Vicar of St. Peter’s, Hereford. The Barretts became acquainted with her and her two daughters in Torquay. Mrs. Gipps’s youngest surviving child was Elizabeth Emily (1831–84). In 1853 she married William Kelly (1821–1906), a Plymouth brother and biblical scholar. Mrs. Gipps’s married daughter was Mary Matilda (b. 1822), who had married in 1844 Robert John Ramsden, eldest son of Robert Ramsden of Carlton Hall, Nottinghamshire.
19. James Henry Taylor, christened on 9 April 1843 at St. Giles, Reading, was the first of two sons born out of wedlock to Kerenhappuch Taylor (afterwards Sweetman, 1824?–80), Mary Russell Mitford’s lady’s maid known as “K.”, and Benjamin Embery (b. 1817?) of Shinfield, Berkshire, Miss Mitford’s former manservant (identified previously as “Ben Kirby”). In her will, Miss Mitford left £500 to the “poor child.” The other son, Benjamin Taylor, died in July 1844, a few days after his birth. As indicated in earlier correspondence (see letters 1505, 1506, and 1516), when it was discovered that K. was pregnant with her second child, she and Ben were dismissed. Although Miss Mitford reinstated K. by December 1846, she evidently did not ask Ben to return. K. never married Ben. She married Samuel Sweetman in August 1852 and remained in Miss Mitford’s service. Ben married Mary Ann Martin in October 1848.
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