2920. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 17, 41–48.
Venice–
June 5th [–6] [1851] [1]
You dont write again, my own dearest Arabel, and I have been unreasonable to have waited for a second letter– Yes, indeed– But I fancied somehow it would come, & it may possibly still come—but you must’nt answer what I write now to Venice, because we shall be gone. We go on friday (tomorrow) week—and, do you know, after all I might describe to you of the charm-working of this enchanted place, I shall be glad to go– It is exquisite, to be sure, but it’s “bilious”, and poor Wilson has been miserably unwell ever since she came .. much as she was at Pisa, only less ill, of course .. forced to a course of castor oil after the gondola, & feeling constant headache & sickness & an incapacity of digestion. Also, Robert is by no means as well as usual .. cant eat or sleep, .. & suffers from continual nervous irritability. I and Wiedeman are the only ones who escape, and we have been invincible hitherto. You know, a moist relaxing air always answers in my case, and he has been growing fatter & fatter even since he began to travel—eating more, sleeping oftener & faster, & in a state of inextinguishable jubilee– I should like more red in his cheeks, but when we get into the mountains it will come I dare say– Oh, and I dont mean to tell you that he is pale, even now. He has a colour, though it is not yet as vivid as suits my ambition– We had taken our apartment for a month, or I should have teazed Robert to go away sooner– It grieves me to see him so uncomfortable, & Wilson so really unable to enjoy the least thing. She counts the days, poor thing, between friday & friday– On friday week (today week[)] [2] we go to Padua, then to Vicenza, then to Verona, lingering hours or days, whichever may be necessary to see everything worth seeing, .. then we spend some days at Milan. Write directly to poste restante, Milan, & I shall get your letter. Afterwards our plans are less definite, but we talk of seeing Como, & of passing into Switzerland by St Goathard rather than the Splugen. People tell us that we shall see more of the glory of the Swiss lakes that way—only nothing is decided—and I shall write to you in all probability from Milan to tell you the rest. Yes, I shall be glad to leave Venice—and if you knew what Venice is, you would know that I must have some very strong motive to be able to say so– Even Genoa was not more beautiful than I expected– Indeed I had fancied the hills higher. But this Venice has exceeded to me all expectation & all dreams. The fantastic beauty of the buildings, the mysterious silence of the waters, St. Mark’s piazza by gaslight, with its great populace swept up & down as if by the breath of the music, the moon on the lagunes, & the gondola’s passing in & out of the shadows, with their little twinkling lamps— .. these are things not to be told, Arabel .. its a dream which loses its charm while you talk it out– I comfort myself for not having you here to enjoy it, by the persuasion that you would’nt so much enjoy it after all through being ill like the others– You would be ill too—you would. We understand that it is a common result– The young swiss woman who makes our beds declares that she has not been well for a year and a half of her residence in Venice– Constant attacks of bilious sickness. She must go, she says, as she does not get acclimated in the least. Yet the people, the natives, do not look unhealthy, and the children, I observe, have particularly clear & fresh complexions—the women very pretty! so much prettier than our Florentines!, and the men more intelligent & keen of eye. Every evening Robert & I go out for our coffee to the piazza San Marco, and there we sit at a little table out of doors, reading the Galignani & French papers, while the crowd sweeps round & round us—and, what is a great charm to me, a real Italian crowd, a crowd not of a fashionable class, or of a bourgeois class, or of any other class in particular, but of a good breathing, living humanity .. men, women, & children .. such heaps of rosy children not asleep yet .. the rich & the poor, noble & artizan, all mixed together, walking together, listening to the same music, yes, and eating the same ices (ices are so cheap) & sitting on the same chairs side by side– I cant tell you how delightful this sort of association is to me—it strikes me always as ideally Christian. At the same time I observe a shade of difference here—arising probably from Austrian influences,—who knows? When I say “Felice notte” [3] to one of the poorer class in Venice, the answer is “Serva sua” [4] instead of the hearty, equal response I should get at Florence, of “Felice notte” in exchange for mine– Last Good Friday I was in the Duomo during service– A peasant woman, coming in late, sate down close to Robert & me, turned her large black eyes into my face & asked me what oclock it was. I said I did’nt know in the least: upon which, she took hold of the chain to which my glass hung, & shook it gently with a sort of questioning smile, as if to ask the use of having a watch if I did’nt know what oclock it was. “But it is’nt a watch” said I, returning the smile, & holding up the eyeglass. You cant think how pretty & naïve the woman’s action was, & how the farthest in the world from impatience! No one can be more opposed to socialism than I, on the ground of its bad morals, bad logic, & utter inadequacy as to results, involved in such systems—but I do love Christ’s equality, the beating of heart to heart, the response of hand to hand, .. & I do repudiate with my heart, as I would willingly with my hand, the class-divisions, the walls & fences between man & man, as they are built up in England.
You have heard perhaps that dissipation is the way of a Venice life– Robert & I have therefore been dissipated, not to disgrace the poets who came before us– In this month I have been twice to the opera & the play—shut your eyes & turn away your head from me, Arabel—for what is worse than all, I was delighted, & saw no manner of harm anywhere. The operas were Verdi’s Attila, and Ernani [5] .. Robert criticising the music, & I in my ignorance thinking it beautiful because so dramatic. Verdi is the idol of Italy just now, as to music, without deserving the pre-eminence. We took a box to ourselves in the best position, the ground-tier, & large enough to hold eight people, .. & paid for it … what do you suppose? .. two shillings & eight pence, English. I went in my bonnet & Swiss muslin gown & black silk polka .. as I had been dressed all day .. & put up my feet on the cushion beside Robert when I felt tired. The music was well if not excellently executed, and I enjoyed it extremely– No ballet. We have been sliding up & down the waters besides in a gondola, & have visited the chief Venetian islands .. the islands of the condemned priests, and of the madhouse, [6] and of the Lido, where poor Lord Byron used to ride, and of the Armenian convent [7] where he studied Armenian. Now that’s a convent where I really could live, if I took no vows & kept no laws, & spent my time as I chose. As we passed through the pretty, bowery garden, an old man with a white beard long below his waist, sitting under a rose-tree in full bloom, spoke out to us in English to our great surprise .. “You are English?” “Yes.” “Why are you not in London? Why are you not at the Exhibition?” (See how your exhibition resounds to the ends of the earth.) He was the Superior of the convent, and it was he who “had the honour” as he told us afterwards, “of teaching Armenian to Lord Byron.” [8] A beautiful convent, with a good, really good library, it seemed to us, by the glances we took at the books—(not mere books of the church & schoolmen—) & shady walks to walk in, & flowers & sunshine & the Adriatic.
All this time the critics may be splitting me up in England, I knowing nothing about it. You who do, will know before now that there is nothing “particularly likely to displease you” in my book—unless it be that you have taken the peace society [9] under your protection—have you, Arabel? But you will understand what I mean. Peace is excellent—but when one half the world is under the feet of the other, & when the one which is uppermost cries out “Now let us all be quiet”, who is to sympathize with that cry? So you wont be displeased, I think, with the opinions of the book– Whether you like it otherwise is another question– Tell me sincerely. I dont expect that it will be a popular poem .. I have little hope of it for my part—and a great deal of offence is sure to be given by certain things. Aunt Fanny however, wont be sorry that I dont call upon her in september if she & I happen to be in London at the same time, after such a display of infamous schism in matters ecclesiastical. [10] As to dearest Henrietta & Surtees, they must try to forgive me—& they will succeed, for love’s sake, I feel sure. So Henrietta has fallen into the inodorous fashion of the day of leaving off baby-caps, to the immense disparagement of baby-heads– I never would give in to such barbarism. Wiedeman wore a light cap with full borders for above a year, and until yesterday he always wore the same under his hat, & would continue to do so, only that Robert & I had a quarrel about it yesterday & Robert had the upperhand. Robert wants to make the child like a boy, he says—(because he is a man)—and I, because I am a woman perhaps, like him to be a baby as long as possible. I maintain that he looks prettier, too, in the cap under the hat, but I yield the point, & Wilson consoles me by declaring that he looks pretty anyhow. The truth is that the child is not “like a boy,” and that if you put him into a coat & waistcoat forthwith, he only would look like a small angel travestied. For he is’nt exactly like a girl either—no, not a bit. He’s a sort of neutral creature, so far. But it vexes Robert when people ask if he is a boy or a girl—(oh, man’s pride!) and he will have it, that the lace caps & ribbons help to throw the point into doubt. As to the question of young babies, like Henrietta’s, wearing caps for the first year, I do think that reason as well as the sense of beauty should constrain you. Poor little bald pates, .. so ugly .. poor little delicate unclosed sutures .. so liable to cold! Keeping heads too hot, is one thing, but why rush into the other extreme? The Venetians admire Wiedeman exceedingly, & Wilson says it is quite common for people (men with great mustachios) to come up to him in the street & ask to kiss him. He had an adventure one day. An elderly gentleman, after looking at him some time, asked Wilson in Italian “how old he was”– “Two years old,” said she. On which he begged her to have the goodness to take him into a neighbouring shop, which she acceded to directly. In the shop, sate a younger lady & gentleman in deep mourning, who took him in their arms, & asked him to kiss and embrace them .. “darci un bacio ed un abbracciamento” [11] , .. which he did with the utmost readiness, twining his little arms round their necks. The lady’s eyes were filled with tears, and they both spoke with low sad voices. Then, they looked round the shop & bought him a little box of beads, .. the only thing suited to a child’s taste, .. and thanked Wilson, who carried him away again. She says that she felt sure, they had lost a child of his age– Was’nt it pretty? The way in which that child enjoys everything, you would scarcely believe unless you saw it. He looks at the palaces & churches with a radiant smile, seems to comprehend really why a thing should be admired– Whenever he sees a church he begins to chant (he used to join his hands) & when we were out in the gondola the other day, we had a continuous strain, for he saw churches on all sides– “Due, due,” said he. What do you think, Arabel, he has taken to do now? He stays with me while I dress in the morning– The instant I kneel down to say my prayers, he insists on Wilson’s giving him a candle stick, & he stands opposite to me holding it & chanting at the top of his voice. When I get up, he makes two curtsies, with an air of solemnity which one scarcely can resist, sets down his candlestick, & taking one of my fingers prepares to go with me into the breakfastroom. He has done this for a week past– Wilson says he “wishes to make my prayers better by it.” What is one to say or do? When he pretends to read, he “entones” precisely like the priests, and the chanting, when he chants, is really ecclesiastical– Robert says its the best thing he does, & is wonderfully correct. I dont know whether he admires priests or soldiers most. His love for the soldiers is fanatical in itself. He got away from me at a place near Bologna where we stopped to dine, slipped down the stairs & rushed out of the house into a crowd of soldiers stationed at the door in order to be ready to escort Radetsky who was expected there. Think of that little child, without hat or protection, in the midst of a crowd of soldiers. I screamed after him in vain .. “Baby, Baby” … and saw him, to my horror, walk quietly in between the knees of an officer who was sitting down, and prepare to sieze upon his sword. I had’nt courage to follow him .. and ran into the house to get Wilson. She had not missed either of us—but she went out after Wiedeman, when I had told her, and carried him back screaming, for he had made capital friends with the officer already, & was at the height of glory & felicity when she broke the spell– Whenever he sees a soldier, he looks in his face, & says “boum”, pretending to shoot him, which is very goodnaturedly smiled at by most of these Austrians. On the other hand, there were priests in the railroad who gave him sugar plums– How they came to have so many sugar plums, I cant say—every priest there had sugar plums, & from every side (in the Venice railroad) they were showered upon Baby—the kindness he has shown his sense of by saying “prete” [12] & by a redoublement of honour to the order. He says ‘latte’ too and “pane” [13] & one or two other new words. Did I ever tell you that he says “La zia”? [14]
Oh—I cant write more of him today, though there’s so much to write of– This letter must go. My darling Arabel, why did you tire yourself by doing so much at the Exposition– You should see a little of it at a time—that’s the only possible way of seeing anything without killing oneself. See how the queen manages it. Better to go twelve times, at a shilling [15] (which wont ruin you) & take small segments of the great sight– That’s what I shall try to do—but it must be deeply interesting, & suggestive, & worth much fatigue—&, after all, from the ventilation & the security against crowding, there must be less necessary fatigue than from a morning at the Royal academy, I should fancy.
Oh Arabel, if there were a possibility to arrange it so, how I should like to arrange your going out of town in combination with our movements. For instance, if you went to the south anywhere .. to the isle of Wight .. to the south coast, .. better still, to any part of the French coast,—there, we might meet & be together. The Brownings wd do anything—& Robert & I should both escape the dreadful necessities of London, in that way. Think of it, talk of it, I beseech you .. He recoils from the idea of New Cross—I, from the idea of London .. We must do what we can, of course—but if there were a possibility of escape, so as to make our meeting feasible otherwise, I would leap at it & thank you– Would it be out of the question, do you suppose, to go to the French coast .. or inland into France? I mean for all of you– We should see more of one another so, & with much less pain on my side– I told Papa all our plans, sent a copy of Mr Kenyon’s letter, with a few expressions left out, … & spoke of our intention about London. But he would’nt see me, you know—& he would’nt see even Wiedeman, I am certain, though I entreated that. Was his cough bad in the winter, Arabel– Does he look ill? Tell me, my beloved Arabel. I cant help thinking for the rest, that he might accede to your coming to the verge of the continent just now when facilities are so great & expenses so small. He did’nt seem anxious about South Wales last year, surely! The exercise in speaking French wd be advantageous to everybody– There’s Dieppe, for instance! Or you might hunt for some interesting place near Calais––more or less interesting. The plan about Paris, wd be exquisite, & certainly I have you & Henry set down as our visitors to Paris—it’s less difficult to go to Paris than to Herefordshire, as Henrietta did .. & we have Henry’s promise– But now the question is about a general removal, & I know Papa wdnt agree to your all going to Paris. No such luck for me! Think of it all, I beseech you. You must not write to Milan– Robert has doubts, all of a sudden about Milan. We may go to Recoaro perhaps .. the Baths .. but you had better write to Venice, & the letter will follow us– Provoking it is that the shipmoney lingers & lingers so. This has been a most expensive journey—far more expensive of course .. by quadruple & quintuple .. than the road through France, where there are public conveyances & railroads. No, Chapman & Hall buy no copyright—& it is better for us, in the long run, that they should’nt, though a sum of money prepaid, is occasionally convenient– God bless you my own dearest dear Arabel. So vexed I am at the loss of Henrietta’s letter. [16] Send her this because I cant write to her just now & it will be the same thing if she sees this account of us. We certainly leave Venice on Friday week .. today week.
How is dearest Trippy. Give her kisses & loves from me, warmly. I have Mrs Smith’s second letter. The first I never received. I will write a note to her—but just say that I have received the second letter. What a worthy, vulgar woman, to be sure!– [17] I am glad Robert is not acting with Dickens & Company [18] —but he would’nt, under any circumstance. Our friends, the Ogilvies left us—did I tell you? he quite well. Does Storm write?
My own Arabel,
I am your Ba–
Love to Minny—how is she, dear Minny? Love to Henry & who ever loves me.
We can see nothing here in the shape of an English paper. No Athenæum—nothing.
I am glad to hear Thackeray opposes the Guild! I wonder what next is to be imagined to the advantage, & honor of literary men & women. Disgusting it all is to me. I would rather starve in the magazines, for my part. Write to Venice my own dearest. Remember. And speak particularly of your headaches.
Address, on integral page: Care of Miss Tripsack / (Miss Barrett) / 26. Welbeck Street / Cavendish Square.
Publication: EBB-AB, I, 378–385.
Manuscript: Berg Collection.
1. Year provided by postmark. The day in square brackets is supplied by EBB’s reference to “Friday week ..today week.” 5 June 1851 was a Thursday.
2. Words in parenthesis were interpolated.
3. “Pleasant evening.”
4. “At your service.”
5. Giuseppe Verdi (1813–1901) wrote both operas for Teatro La Fenice in Venice. Ernani (1844), based on Victor Hugo’s tragedy, Hernani (1830), was first performed on 9 March 1844. Attila (1846), taken from Zacharias Werner’s 1808 play, was first performed on 17 March 1846.
6. On the island of San Servolo. A Benedictine monastery since the ninth century, it was converted to a hospital in the eighteenth century. The island of “condemned priests” was San Clemente, where misled and criminal priests were sent between 1821 and 1858.
7. On the island of San Lazzaro.
8. Byron identified his Armenian “master” as “Padre Pasquale Aucher,” for whom he compiled the major part of two Armenian and English Grammars (Byron, A Self-Portrait: Letters and Diaries: 1798–1824, ed. Peter Quennell, 1950, p. 629).
9. The London Peace Society, or, more formally, the Society for the Promotion of Universal and Permanent Peace, was founded in 1814. At the time of this letter, the society’s membership included M.P.’s John Bright and Richard Cobden.
10. Aunt Fanny—i.e., Frances Butler (née Graham Clarke, 1790–1868)—was evidently high church, as were Henrietta and her husband. EBB may have been worried about their reaction to the following passage:
What are these churches? The old temple wall
Doth overlook them juggling with the sleight
Of surplice, candlestick, and altar-pall.
East church and west church, ay, north church and south,
Rome’s church and England’s,—let them all repent,
And make concordats ’twixt their soul and mouth,
Succeed St. Paul by working at the tent,
Become infallible guides by speaking truth,
And excommunicate their own pride that bent
And cramped the souls of men”
Casa Guidi Windows (1851), II, 499–508.
11. “Give us a kiss and a hug.” The correct sentence in Italian should read: “Dacci un bacio ed un abbraccio.”
12. “Priest.”
13. “Milk” and “bread.”
14. “Aunt.”
15. “Monday to Thursday were shilling days” at the Great Exhibition (C.R. Fay, Palace of Industry, 1851: A Study of the Great Exhibition and Its Fruits, Cambridge, 1951, pp. 74–75). For the Queen, “visits to the Crystal Palace were constant, regular, and methodical. She went everywhere and saw everything. Each Saturday morning would find her with the Prince making a long and exhaustive tour of some particular section. She interviewed exhibitors, asked them questions, listened to their explanations” (Yvonne French, The Great Exhibition: 1851, 1951, p. 251).
18. i.e., in one of their amateur theatricals. The previous month Dickens and his acting troupe had performed Bulwer-Lytton’s comedy Not so Bad as we Seem at the Duke of Devonshire’s house in London, with Queen Victoria and Prince Albert in attendance. The play was written and presented to raise funds for the Guild of Literature and Art; see letter 2896, note 17.
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