2832. EBB to Henrietta Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 16, 60–67.
Florence
Feb 20. [1850] [1]
My ever, ever dearest Henrietta, see what paper I take to write to you on! Read down to the end of the strip, & then the next side– [2] No other is within reach just now. I have Arabel’s letter & I thank her for it with my whole heart, & you for your dear little note. It is delightful to hear about Papa, & has made me very happy. Now be perfectly good, & write often & in detail, & be sure that I will “reciprocate,” & be good too: indeed I dont understand how you happened to wait so long for my last letter but the last .. I did’nt mean to behave so badly—and the note which followed so quickly atoned perhaps for the sin. By the way, I fell into a great scrape by writing something in that note—I was scolded in a twofold manner by Robert & by Wilson. Wilson “cant help saying that it was very ridiculous of me”. Well– Everybody must think as they can—only pray dont fancy that I am ill or neglecting myself in any way. I saw Dr Harding about five weeks ago—he came of his own accord—and I told him everything. He said .. “It is extraordinary; but I have known such cases– You must take care not to let it go on to excess—you must keep quiet.” That was all he said. He would have come again if he had thought it necessary, but really there is nothing to be done .. even if there is anything to be concluded,—which is doubtful to me, as appeared in my letter. [3] The movement continues, & so does the sickness in the morning—but other symptoms there are not .. except that I am certainly a little enlarged .. so little, that it is scarcely worth speaking of. With Baby however, I was peculiarly small, as I told you– I cant think how I manage it—people saw me two or three days before, & had not the least notion of the situation at all– Many women, as Anunciata was observing the other morning, are larger at three months than I was at eight– I say this to show you how everything may be perfectly right, and indeed Wilson & the balia laugh me to scorn for my doubts. When I wrote to you last I had quite given it up in my own mind, & so could’nt help telling you, as I cant help telling you now—only dont make the supposed fact a subject of conversation, I beseech you, until the possibility of its being fiction is disproved. In any case, I believe I was right in my first calculation & that it cant come to a crisis till the end of May, or beginning of June—which I am sorry for on every account, the heat being likely to be a great inconvenience. Madme Biondi persuaded me into an earlier date, perhaps because she wanted to persuade herself that she could combine the engagement with me & one with Sophia Cottrell—instead of which, I fear they are uncombinable—we seem to have felt the movement precisely at the same time– Well—in that case, I shall give up Madme Biondi. If Sophia had’nt lost her child, I would not perhaps––because Madme Biondi’s engagement with me was prior, & besides she told me that she would much rather come here, of the two– She is a very affectionate woman & appears to be fond of us all– But, after poor Sophia’s misfortune, I wd not for the world that her next baby should miss the skill & attention of Madme Biondi, in whom she has such faith. Oh—her firm intention is to return to Florence in April. Count Cottrell told me that she would’nt on any account be deprived of Madme Biondi—& besides they have engaged a Tuscan wetnurse who will be ready here to take the infant– So I am prepared for the vexation. God will take care of me & mine just the same:—why should we be afraid? Now follow my example in writing in detail—for this is a fine tedious model, it must be confessed for particularity of all sorts: only the good of it, is, that you wont pretend to be uneasy about me any more– I am uneasy about Trippy– I am far from taking the view of the subject Arabel takes,—I feel certain that Mrs Gordon out of shame if from nothing higher, has not a notion of the question’s being settled, so as to trouble herself no more about it. Oh no, such a conclusion is absolutely impossible, with the eyes of the world staring all round her. There are things which cannot be done, whether one is or is not wicked enough to wish to do them. No! she has probably empowered Count Cottrell to patch up an arrangement of some kind—and yet, until I know that this is done I am of course uneasy about my dear dearest Trippy. Tell me everything. Dont misunderstand me. I believe that Mrs Gordon will concede as little as she can– Of a generous effort at justice, I despair as you all do. Only something she must do, & I am anxious to know what it is. Robert has not called on Mrs Gordon, which, under any other circumstances, would be rude & wrong– She must understand how we feel.– Do you know we have been very nearly leaving this apartment, the arrangement of the rooms being inconvenient, especially with the prospect of another baby. On consideration, however, we may stay perhaps one year more—& we talk of letting it next winter & going to Rome: we must see Rome & Naples before we leave Italy for good. I have (in my private head) a great longing for making trial of Paris as a residence—because Paris combines so much & is so near England that we could all meet in a few hours at any time, whereas here, the distance frightens me, even if the expense of the journey were not sometimes an insuperable obstacle. Then Paris is delightful—and one lives there in the midst of a brilliant civilization, as free a life as a mountaineer in the mountains. We might take a cheap apartment, & carry our furniture up the Rhone– Dont speak of this plan to anybody, nor write of it, if you please .. I just write to you as I dream to myself. I have had it in my private head for some time, but did’nt dwell too much on it, despairing of Robert’s liking it as I did, & feeling very little inclined to persuade him into any step which he did not like while he took it– Oh, he wd have done that or anything for me—he is so perfectly, so beyond example & expression, good & kind to me, that if I were to let him see any strong wish of mine upon any subject, he would fulfil it out of a sort of necessity of the heart: so that, on this very account, I like rather to watch his inclinations than to express mine. Now I will tell you–– He is in antagonism, as you may suppose, with the very idea of America under its narrow, hard money-prizing <unartistical> [4] social character. In the midst of a burst of his against this, about a fortnight since, I said suddenly .. “Conceive, Robert! If I were to set my heart on going to live in New York! What then?” “Why, then, my darling, you should go directly! Only dont [5] set your heart on it, Ba”. See what goodness! & understand that it is’nt in mere words, nor a solitary instance of an act! Well—but let me go on to say that the other evening, he said of his own accord––‘I know you like Paris, .. and really after we have seen a little more of Italy, & when your chest is a little stronger I should’nt at all mind going to live there– Oh, I should’nt dislike it indeed– We might try it in any case .. &c &c–’ So I was delighted, & we have really a prospect, you see. The winter is cold but short; & I am scarcely ever able to go out in the winter, from one cause or another—even here!—and the climate is free from the fogs & uncertainties of England; & the cheapness great, if you know how to manage, which the English scarcely ever do. Yet all this is in the clouds, & you are by no means to consider it worth mentioning to anyone, mind– What I care for most of all, is the vicinity to England & the delightful possibility of frequent intercourse with you.–
I am so sorry about poor Alfred’s disappointment—it was enough to produce a relapse into jaundice: but my dearest Henrietta, how could he be put in situation of the kind? How could anyone without opportunities of being instructed a little in agriculture? Then, tell Alfred that I comfort myself for him by considering it very possible that he might not find it quite so charming as he imagines, to plant turnips in South Wales, out of the course of all society—& also, that he is sure to get something instead, with patience & setting his shoulder to the wheel.— Now, Henrietta, should such an agency be the object of any person, such a person should betake himself to the right means of instruction .. go to a north of England farmer with that express object .. give a few months to close application .. & then, look out for a situation, which cant be difficult to attain– At any rate, a little time given to this object, would be something done & tried—and if there is time to give, there seems to me every reason for giving it. A few months earnestness & attention wd do much—& the cost is not worth naming– Annie Roberts’s husband has an agency of the kind, I believe, in Scotland,—and gentlemen are preferred when they are not at the same time ignoramuses– It seems to me a very available suggestion. Then there is one clear object, before us– There is a possibility of saying .. ‘I am qualified for this occupation, and I wish my friends to try to find it for me’. There is something more than a vague wish for something. Mr Macpherson used to say to Mrs Jameson, that if he did not make his way in Rome, he could always get an agency of this sort, & be sure of some hundreds a year—and sometimes, on large properties, these agencies are very profitable .. as much as a thousand a year, I understand. Think of this, as I think of you—which is very seriously & anxiously, yet hopefully too– Remember that to qualify oneself for any sort of occupation, is a good so far, & better than nothing, by the whole width of Tuscany,—while the qualification for this sort of occupation is sure to be of a small expense, & not laborious– Tell George that Dickens & Thackeray are both, I hear, eating their terms, [6] to prepare themselves .... for commissionerships .. when their brains are worked out by novel-writing. I call it a scandalous abuse, &, wrong to laborious members of the legal profession. The fault is with the public, of course, & not with the individuals! Does George see Sir T Noon Talfourd now?– I think it possible that Papa’s reason for not giving money to Alfred, is the imagination that he might use it to go to South America– Dont you think that possible? Yes, I received the note from Stormie—& do you know I almost wished that I had not .. it seemed written rather with his head than heart, & not much with that. Not a single word of remembrance to Robert: he just sent his love to the child, & observed that the reason he had not written before was that he was waiting for me to be reconciled to Papa! When I was reconciled to Papa, he wd write often!!– You see it was better that I should say nothing of it. It pained me, & made me recur to a painful subject in my last letter to Arabel– My brothers try my love for them too much—and that is all that I will today say of them. If the universe had attested to me that they would have acted so, I with my former impression of & trust in their generous affectionate dispositions, would never have believed it. I sent a long letter to Papa a few days ago—and I thought it better to wait till he had read it before Robert wrote– I have a dread of Robert writing. God forbid that this should be a presentiment. With all Robert’s tenderness & noble goodness, he is of a fiery impetuous disposition, and if something passed … but I wont anticipate such horrible things. It is bad enough as it is. One thing I am certain of,—that he will not write any letter calculated to draw out a cruel reply:—cruel in its effects on me, I mean. Tell me if, to your knowledge, Papa had my letter, & how he seemed to feel afterwards.
Wiedeman is quite well & grown nearly as fat again, to make up for his week’s cold. The day he was eleven months old, he stood alone– Think of that, Henrietta! They say that he would have walked alone before now, if it were not for his crawling, which he manages to such perfection that he enjoys independence without making other exertions to attain it. If you were to see him scratching at the door to open it, just like Flush, and succeeding always, if it is not quite shut, & opening it wide, that it might’nt crush his prodigious body .. just like Flush again. He imitates Flush in other things, too. When a saucer of milk is set on the ground, he gets close to it & puts his face down, trying to lap it up according to his great exemplar– Such a curious little creature—so amusing!– he throws us into fits of laughter sometimes– He is very fond of Wilson’s watch, & holds it up to his ear to listen to the ticking. The other day, he was sitting on the table, deeply engaged in an examination of the snuffers, when a door, a moment opened, admitted the sound of the piano– Instantly he put up the snuffers to his ear– He fancied that the music might possibly have come from them. Yesterday, Flush being half asleep on the chair & Wiedeman being siezed with a passionate love for him (which often occurs) he hugged him, & kissed him, (having pulled himself up to his feet in order to stand & do it) & then commenced a sort of tatoo on his head & ears with the little dimpled hands. Flush, who wanted to sleep, by no means approved of all this– “Poor Flush”, said Wilson, “he does’nt like being pulled about so”– You remember how, being pitied, always affects Flush. The instant he heard himself pitied, he began to cry, & becoming more & more agitated, at last gave way to his feelings, put up his head into the air & howled, as Flush can howl. To which, Baby replied by shouting most imperiously; and Flush rejoining by a furious barking, and Baby, determined to preserve his supremacy by shout upon shout besides a resolute hold upon Flush’s nose, .. Wilson, the balia & I laughed ourselves out of breath as spectators. Did I tell you that Wiedeman has little velvet shoes? He is very proud of them, & the first time he had them on, held out his legs straight & still, for me to admire them. If one comes off, he tries to put it on himself, I assure you. The balia who knits beautifully, is knitting a blue polka for him .. very pretty indeed, with a white border all round it– He has plenty of vanity, & when he has on a clean frock he holds it out for people to see. Such a vivacious restless child I am sure you never saw, for he is’nt still, not a moment, going from one chair to another, pulling himself up, letting himself down, <(he can even pull himself up by the base wall)> [7] & trying to find out something wrong to do, if he possibly can, that is so delightful! To upset the water-pitcher is his great feat—he has drenched himself several times, to his infinite exultation. As to weaning the child, I assure you we are advised against it by mothers of families .. Mrs Powers, Mrs Greenhough .. various experienced councillors here. Mrs Greenhough’s child is eighteen months old, [8] & she does not mean to wean it yet. It is not the practice here, and everyone may perceive by their own understandings, how much less children suffer during teething-time, while they have the advantage of the milk– We think of weaning Wiedeman in the autumn when he will be a year & a half old– Meanwhile, where is the loss? With all Wilson’s kindness, she could’nt undertake to carry about that child—it would be perilling her health. He is so heavy now, that it is impossible for her to carry him far out of doors—& he tires the balia’s sturdy arms– So, we must have a nurse for him—that’s evident– How much better to keep on the balia, & provide him with a resource during the summer, little darling! He has only five teeth yet—and he does’nt very particularly care for common sorts of food, not even for his bread-pudding & vermicelli soup, .. after the first few spoonfuls, he has to be coaxed into taking the rest: he shuts his mouth quite close, & his eyes .. to make all sure– Some things he likes—grapes, for instance, and English plum-pudding. Therefore, though dear Nelly Jago says that [it] is unnecessary for him to be nursed so long, I dont like to disturb an order of things which has, with God’s blessing, been so full of prosperity to us. Then he is as fond of me as if I had performed my natural duties. Do you know, he cries after me, Henrietta? There’s an honour!– I am writing in great haste to be ready for the post today. One thing– Remember Wiedeman’s birthday is the 9th of March, & remember nothing else, I beseech you. [9] Every year, I have a hearty cry over your letters– It is stupid, but I cant help myself. Say nothing but about Wiedeman—& love me, as I love you, my own beloveds, in my heart & soul–
Wilson is in excellent spirits & looking quite well. She is over it completely, which does the greatest credit to her goodsense & rectitude of character. How could she continue to love such a man? Give my love to my very dear Minny, & say how sorry I am to hear of her being so lame. The cold weather always disagreed with her in this respect. It must be comfort to have improved accounts of her sister– Henrietta, I think it very likely that the bad account of aunt Fanny may be much exaggerated, as Arabella & Louisa, [10] too, are a little inclined to use strong colouring. You told me some time ago that Louisa’s health was very delicate, & you never told me if she was benefitted by the German Baths. Tell me now. I want to know too a great deal about Arlette’s child—how many teeth she has, & what she can do. Tell Arlette that Wiedeman sings & reads books– Can she equal that? On the point of the teeth, I fear we are very far behind. Madme Biondi is at Parma still. So provoking– But Papa has not changed, tell Arabel, on the subject of freetrade—he always was opposed to it—would’nt let me write for the Anti-Corn law association, & was furious about the sugar restraints [11] being taken off. What newspaper do you take in now? We have heard from Father Prout, who sends his “best love” to me, & says he took the poem “on a babby” in the Athenæum, for a monody on the “little classic being he examined” in Florence—& very glad he was, to find out his mistake.
Think of my sitting down directly to write a monody on my darling—if God took him from me. What an idea!
God bless you, all of you, both of you my beloved sisters!– Dearest Henrietta, I am with you in heart so often! My love to Surtees & Susan Cook, always– Kiss my dear, dear, dear Trippy for me– Robert’s love.
Your own
Ba–
Robert’s love. I cant read this ove<r I> have written it against time.
<Enclosed is a note to be given to Mr Kenyon’s care–> [12]
[Continued on a separate sheet]
Dearest Henrietta, I write this Private slip of paper, to scold you for being despondent. Never be despondent– At the same time I do not advise loitering, any more. If there is a failure in the appointment, an effort shd be made in some other quarter—& I prophecy a success—& may you be half as happy afterwards as I am!– Only if you despond & vex yourself, & get thin & look ill, it will be a bad preparation. If it were only out of gratitude to Surtees & his constant affection, you shd have hope & courage. May God bless you! There are two here, who care & hope for you——remember that! My love to Surtees– I write in the dark & the greatest haste.
To my loved Arabel, next! Now do write, one of you (her turn next) & tell me of Stormie–
Address, on integral page: Angleterre viâ France / Care of Miss Tripsack / (Miss Barrett) / 12. Beaumont Street / Devonshire Place / New Road / London.
Publication: Huxley, pp. 117–119 (in part).
Manuscript: British Library and Harvard University.
1. Year provided by postmark.
2. The first two pages of this letter are written on two sides of an over-sized strip of paper. The rest of the letter is on EBB’s normal stationery and appears as four pages made from one folded sheet.
3. See the second paragraph in letter 2826, where EBB refers to her pregnancy.” See also letter 2821, note 3.
4. Interpolated above the line.
5. Underscored three times.
6. “Studying for the Bar” (OED).
7. Passage in angle brackets interpolated above the line.
8. Mary Louise (1848–54), the second of the Greenoughs’ three children, was born on 25 July 1848.
9. i.e., her own birthday on 6 March.
10. EBB refers to her cousins Louisa Charlotte Carmichael (née Butler, 1817–99) and Arabella Sarah Gosset (née Butler, 1815–1900), as well as their mother Frances Butler (née Graham-Clarke, 1790–1868), EBB’s maternal aunt.
11. A reference to the Sugar Duties Act of 1846; see letter 2719, note 15.
12. This phrase was written in the margin of page three and subsequently deleted, as apparently EBB did not enclose a note for Kenyon.
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