3003. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 18, 8–16.
[Paris]
Feb. 11–12. [1852] [1]
My beloved Arabel, To begin .. lest I should be ungrateful & forget it afterwards .. let me beseech you never to do such a thing as to send books to us here. They only make ‘luggage,’ observe, and when there is anything interesting we find opportunities of seeing it, among our friends & acquaintances. For those memoirs, [2] we are to have sight of them through some Americans——but I cant say that I look forward to much pleasure from them, whatever may be the interest. Robert saw the first Athenæum article, which you speak of, & thought the extracts a very painful exposure, & the letters not fit for publication on various accounts. Whether Carlyle likes it or not, shall we ourselves be safe, do you think, when she writes from Italy? [3] For my part, I am frightened out of my wits at what may be extracted next– People have grown peculiarly disagreeable just now I think—one is pricked at every turn when one wishes most to move about the world quietly. If it goes on much longer I shall take lodgings in the desert, & wish for a simoom.
Poor Madme Ossoli is of course too blameless in all this. She was a woman full of fancies (.. fine fancies ..) dependent on her state of nerves, .. of noble instincts, but a very hampered intellect,—& of opinions quite the wildest. Perhaps to no woman (at all distinguished) in the world would it be so cruel, to catch her fugitive impressions & offer them to the public. One’s friends are hard upon us sometimes. And these Americans!!–
But you must forgive dear Miss Mitford, Arabel. I had a very touching letter from her the other day. She wd “rather have sacrificed her whole book than have given me a moment’s pain”– Then she tells me of certain reasons——how she had heard all sorts of ridiculous stories about me, sworn to by the most respectable persons. For one thing, I was in paroxysms of love, & wore widow’s weeds to express a sense of despair!!!– And so, she was rescuing my reputation!– She meant most affectionately, be sure—and really the stupidities current in the world do require sometimes a little stemming with mud dykes. I remember once somebody asking Henrietta if I was not my own heroine of “Bertha in the lane,”—and of course we should be the last to hear in general of like speculations– However this may be, forgive Miss Mitford for my sake. To sin against us through loving us, should be at least a pardonable sin in this poor world.
Darling Arabel, I dont like your scheme of amusing yourself by sitting in the dark .. unless you see angels in the dark .. which may be. And you have dreadful headaches .. & you are out of spirits altogether—oh yes, I see that plainly. I suppose you exhaust yourself with the Refuge, & then you get sad through fatigue– Now do remember that joy is a part of Christian wisdom, & that God is light—in Him is no darkness at all– Also the reverie system is the most dangerous of all .. we had better be doing mischief sometimes with our hands & feet. I tell you, because I have known too much of it myself, & struggled against it strenuously at last as a matter of conscience & probity– The habit steals, grows on one .. & one has to shake oneself hard to stand upright out of it, & be fit for healthful action of mind & body. Dont be vexed with me that I say this. It may not be necessary I dare say—only you seem to me, you who are always so high out of the dust of the world, in God’s holiness, lower in spirits than usual, & I dont like it at all, you darling dearest Arabel, & I speak out my heart as usual. Oh– I know you are dull, as to outward circumstances, in many ways—do not think that I cannot understand– But then you have priviledges too—and there is nothing more wrong than usual,—is there? Was I wrong in not writing before? I was out of sorts too a little (I who am preaching)– I was ploughed up & harrowed over by that stupid business, & could’nt set myself straight to grow my cabbages as usual—& write my letters– I was ruffled thoroughly, & set myself to read Louis Blanc & Cabet [4] to keep bad thoughts from my head. Then it’s a great bore not to speak beyond a whisper for two months, & to feel that horrible lassitude which certain states of the weather produce with me. We have had some very cold days .. twice, three days together .. and I think it certain almost that it was not as cold in England, either time. Yet I dare say I should have been worse in England, because of the quality of your air which is altogether inferior .. heavier, thicker. Also the cold here has been unusual, & very brief, to do it justice. I wish I had counted all the days this winter that we have done without fire– Sometimes Wilson has sate all day without fire, not lighting it even in the evening—and yet the sun does not come into her room. I am very much better, & have quite recovered my voice. The cough also is in abeyance—not gone, but cut down for the present. People are changing their hats, Wilson says, & the trees in our garden are in green buds—which makes Wiedeman say that they are “pateti rossi,” “alberi rossi” .. red trees—he calls every colour ‘red,’ poor darling. Yet I have just bought & had made up a merino gown .. because I could’nt appear to my visitors in burnt rags exactly .. & my old blue gown was singed, to say the least of it– I can wear a merino too, off & on, till the end of April—(I could, even in Florence)—& it will be ready for next winter—nothing will be lost. I was tremendously extravagant & gave a great deal for the finest merino extant .. 28s, the dress. It is brown. Also, Robert made me buy a dark grey chambord, [5] they call it, for 26s .. I think .. a sort of stuff very much like an Irish poplin .. a new stuff .. very pretty. This will do for the spring, or cool days in the summer even. I have had them both made up much in the same way .. à la Basquine [6] .. which is the only fashion just now, they say .. opening & tight in front quite up to the throat, with polka bodies .. this way Illus. .. opening above & below the waist & in one piece. They are very pretty. Henrietta has sometimes asked how gowns were made, & you may both like to know. Robert calls them very pretty. The loose polka is worn besides, as much as ever, & I have a black lace one like yours .. but dearer than yours, alas! You will think that I am opening the year with exceptional extravagances. Perhaps. What is your colour this winter? I like to know, that I may see you “in my mind’s eye, Horatio.” [7]
Henrietta has written to me,—so I know. I only wish I had the like misfortune– I could’nt pretend to be sorry on anybody’s account I assure you. Children are better than gold & silver. I have the gold—but should like a silver little girl-baby to make up. I hope she may have one– As to the money, the expense of two, is not much more than the expense of one– One nurse does for two children, you see. Poor dearest Henrietta seems to be suffering very much, and I only wonder that she still should care so extremely for going to London under those circumstances. To be near you, would draw one through fire & water of course, .. but London entails on one too much that is’nt you .. too much visiting & crowding in various ways. If I were she, I should be inclined to wait till the summer, & then be in a way to get cheaper rooms & stay over her confinement– But dont be afraid of my suggesting that. And she has set her heart apparently on going to you in March– What makes you fancy that Altham is backward in his walking? He seems to me on the contrary, very forward. Wiedeman could walk at thirteen months & run at fourteen months, & he was considered forward, though so light a child– Altham is only a year old, & he can almost stand, Henrietta says. And consider the child’s weight!
Oh yes– Consuelo Jago is far, extraordinarily far before poor Peninni in her talking powers– Yet Peninni talks in an incessant stream after a fashion, and is a bewitching child, I really should think if he were not mine– He is like a fairy, with his mixture of languages, & his as strange combination of spirit & gentleness,—very amusing both in his words & his ways, he is! The other day he talked to me about “un bataillon di babuffs” [8] .. Babuffs being the Peninni language for soldiers– He attempts to say everything now, only it’s in French, Italian, English, .. whichever comes first—& the difficulty of making him out is tremendous. His vocation for singing continues uninterruptedly. He sings quantities of songs about soldiers & swans, & after every one, says in an enquiring voice .. ‘Bene, Papa?’ [9] .. [‘]‘Bella, Mamma?” [10] & when we say it is very well & beautifully sung, he begins again, or breaks off with “no more! Peninni domani [11] more”– Then he draws .. houses—soldiers .. I must send you one of his drawings some day. And he said all his letters to me right, except two, the other day– Not that I ever teach him—I should really be afraid. He will read his letters out of a newspaper quite currently, & he always stops at P to explain that it stands for Papa & Peninni. He would have read sentences by this time if it had not been for his backward talking. You know he could not when he was in London, even pronounce the letters—though he could point to them when you said their names– He is a strange child in some things. A day or two ago, he was naughty—had cried for nothing longer than he should—and I carried him away from Wilson into another room, & held him on my knee till he was good. I told him that when he was good he should go back. In a fit of sobs he clasped his little hands together & cried out “Dio, buono” .. meaning to ask God to make him good, .. & then, he kissed me & stopped crying in a moment. Observe, I never suggested such a thing by a word. The child took me quite by surprise. He is too sweet—there’s the truth. I tremble for myself sometimes & for Robert, when I look at him, lest he should not be meant for the world. A little time ago he was sitting on the floor & talking to himself .. “Peninni buono—Papa buono. Mamma buona—Lili buona. Flush buono– Tutti, tutti buoni. Grazie a Dio” [12] ——always with the face turned up. Another time, Wilson had turned the silk lining of his pelisse .. (George’s—). I observed that it was really as good as new, & that he ought to be thankful .. “bisogna ringraziare” [13] said I. “Grazie a Dio,” he cried quickly—lifting up his eyes. Which took me aback for an instant, & I am ashamed to say I could scarcely keep my countenance—neither could Wilson. Yet how was it reasonable to make distinctions between thanking God for one’s daily bread & one’s daily raiment? Intending however to recall him to second causes, I observed that “Lili had sown [sic] it very well with her needle” .. upon which he re-iterated, .. “Grazie a Dio e Lili.”!– [14]
I have always forgotten to tell you that one of the Miss Brandlings, [15] with whom Wilson’s sister lived & who were thrown into great adversity by the death of their father, is living as “demoiselle de compagnie” [16] with Lady Torrens, [17] the occupier of the apartment next to ours .. on the same floor. We had been here a number of weeks before Wilson found it out. Mrs Torrens with a family of children from fourteen years of age downwards, is with her mother in law [18] .. and these children have taken a passion rather than a love for Wiedeman– The little girls lug him about in their arms, .. saying of him .. “Oh, he is’nt a child at all! he’s a wax doll.” And he has the character of being wonderful for goodness & cleverness among them. On most afternoons, Lady Torrens’s maid comes in for him & carries him away in her arms—& he is delighted to go, & on the most familiar terms with everybody, .. talking of “Bwandling,” & imitating the dancing-lessons at which he has been present, with the most affected gliding steps & turns of the head. Sometimes he stays there an hour & a half together .. without Wilson, understand! Since our melancholy reverse of fortune at Miss Fitton’s party, we have taken to educate him out of his fits of shyness [19] —& now, Wilson makes a point of sending him into the drawingroom always, when a stranger happens to be present .. & he comes most obediently, & behaves very well indeed—only expecting a little praise afterwards .. “Peninni buono, Mamma?” We have had to give him a dose of castor oil lately—an event in the house. He was sick one night, & it was necessary. Now he is quite well—though every now & then Wilson falls into panics, because of his supernatural singings & laughters in the middle of the night. He laughed so, lying in the dark, one night, that she got up & lit the candle & was very near awaking Robert & me. Quite frightened she was. When she asked him what he was laughing at, he said “Punch” .. or “Boy”. His own thoughts made him laugh—but Wilson could’nt understand it– She took it for a sort of hysteria. He’s too excitable certainly, & we must be on our guard against his temperament in all reasonable ways.
What do you think I received today from Italy? A manuscript chapter of a novel from poor Guerazzi, [20] sent to me by himself, “out of gratitude[”] for the interest in Tuscan affairs expressed by “Casa Guidi windows.” The poem was smuggled into his prison [21] (where he has been these three years) & he called it ‘magnificent’ I understand, only objecting to the mention of the “great Guerazzi” & “farthing tax” as “unworthy of the dignity of poetry.” Do you know I feel a sort of remorse—& softening to him—poor Guerazzi—I who never believed in his probity much–! [22] There are difficult situations, & men are sorely tempted in them– It has touched me, that he, perfectly understanding my feeling about himself, should yet talk of “gratitude” to me on account of my feeling for Italy. Poor Guerazzi! he is in prison still.
Then I must tell you I have had a very affectionate letter from the authoress of the Head of the family, Miss Mulock. I wrote a little note to thank her for her dedication, .. & to drop softly on a conjecture of mine that the stanzas in the Athenæum (upon the sonnets, you remember?) were hers. I just hinted .. that I might have felt her hand before .. in “that hand in the air” which came to me with “a touch” at Florence– [23] She confesses at once,—& wins my heart with her letter altogether–
Talking of letters, I wrote to George Sand the day before yesterday—& Robert & I, both of us, signed what I wrote—but it was better for me to write it, as I was the woman– We put my note into an inclosure, together with our letter of introduction (Mazzini’s) and a friend of a friend of ours promised to put it into her own hand yesterday– Still, whether we shall attain our object remains doubtful– She is in Paris for a very short time, & under neither of her known names, having adopted a third name in order to preserve a strict incognita– What with admirers & enemies & book-makers in general, she has been hunted out of her peace, it appears. Also, she came to Paris for no less a motive than to have an interview with Louis Napoleon, in order to procure the commutation of punishment of a friend of her’s, the ex-representative Marc Dufraise, who was on the point of being sent to Cayenne– [24] The president granted her request––(The prisoner is simply to be banished from France.) and shook hands with her kindly– As she was going away, he pointed to an enormous heap of “Decrees” which were in course of preparation.!!–
You all of you as entirely mistake me & my views, as you mistake the abstract case. It is in the very absolute consistency & faithful following out of principles, that I protest against the tone adopted in England. A man of the most philosophical mind [25] I have had intercourse with in Paris, (and Robert agrees exactly with me in this opinion) a liberal, (but no party-man) said in this room two days ago .. “It is difficult for a frenchman to speak without feverishness of the line adopted by the English press. I give the writers credit for good & honest intentions ..” (which is more, Arabel, than I do) .. “but their ignorance is certainly extraordinary– They do not understand the A.B.C of France. Also, in respect to the President, however he may be judged of as to certain of his measures, & whatever view you take of his system, one thing cannot be doubted of .. he is in earnest in the good he means to do to France by his constitution & the rest– They think he is not conscientious! Why he is not only in earnest—he is even fanatical ”–
I hear with pleasure .. & with the more pleasure on account of the novelty .. some words of sense across the channel, from public men in the English House of Commons– As to the Palmerston quarrel, it’s all a sham of course. Lord Palmerston was out of favour with Court & premier, & they wanted an opportunity of getting rid of him. The only person really to blame in the Paris affair appears to me to have been Lord Normanby who was extremely indiscreet, to say the least. [26]
Pray dont call me a Napoleonist, Arabel. I am no Napoleonist, by any possible wrenching of the word. I love truth, justice, & the people—that’s my confession of faith.
The other evening at Lady Elgin’s, Robert met Mr Owen, [27] & he called on me the next morning. Very glad I was to see him—though I did’nt think I should be, do you know– I hate to see people, seen last too long ago. Well—who is going to be married? You wont guess. Julia Bayford. She is to marry an Italian, a Neapolitan, a Roman Catholic, a M. di Salis [28] .. of high family, & a favorite officer of that wretch the King of Naples. [29] Julia writes home to say that she “hopes all her relations will approve of her marriage”—upon which (to begin!) poor Angela goes into hysterics. It is natural enough that they should not like either the complete separation involved in this connection, or the “devotion to the pope” which makes one of the ostensible virtues of the bridegroom—but Mr Owen spoke very sensibly about it .. & they all mean to make the best of it & be as kind to Julia as possible– I do hope she may be happy, poor thing? You know I can understand marriage with a Catholic. I am not as severe as you are. Yet the difference of religion must be a great drawback in my view as in yours. What surprises me most excessively, I must say, is, that Julia should marry at all—& marry an Italian, who cares so much generally for the outsides & mere manners of women! She use<d sca>rcely to speak at Florence. Not agreeable like the other Bayfords! But there’s a fate in these things– He is well off & has a château in Switzerland where he goes to spend the summer.
I am so afraid I shall make you pay overweight for this long letter– I had other things to say too– Mr Owen & I talked a little theology .. but there’s no room. This paper Robert has bought, is too thick––
Love to dearest Trippy, & the dearest with you– God bless you for your own Ba
Robert’s best love—.
Wilson is delighted to hear about her sister’s marriage. [30] How is dear Minny? Mr Owen told me something of a “miracle” which has taken place lately in his church. Very curious & interesting. Mr Carrè, the ‘pastor’ (I think he is, here) is a very intelligent man—but without breadth & depth, as seems to me. Lady Elgin has a strong leaning to their church, but does not join them so far!
Address: Angleterre / Miss Barrett / 50. Wimpole Street / London.
Publication: EBB-AB, I, 453–461.
Manuscript: Berg Collection.
1. Year provided by postmark.
2. Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli, ed. J.F. Clarke, R.W. Emerson, and W.H. Channing (1810–84), had just been published in Boston and London. Several chapters are headed with quotations from the Brownings’ poetry.
3. A two-part notice of Margaret Fuller’s Memoirs appeared in The Athenæum of 7 and 14 February 1852 (no. 1267, pp. 159–161, and no. 1268, pp. 193–195). The first part included an extract from a letter in which she gave her impressions of Thomas Carlyle. Referring to him as a “Teufelsdrockh vulture,” she continued: “The worst of hearing Carlyle is that you cannot interrupt him. I understand the habit and power of haranguing have increased very much upon him, so that you are a perfect prisoner when he has once got hold of you” (p. 160). EBB had nothing to fear in the way of extracts about the Brownings; neither review contained any. The book itself mentioned them a few times only.
4. Étienne Cabet (1788–1856), socialist writer whose utopian novel Voyage en Icarie (1840) inspired attempts by a group known as the “Icarians” to establish communes in America, most notably, in 1849, at Nauvoo, Illinois, the abandoned settlement of the Mormons. Charles Louis Blanc (1811–82), socialist, journalist and historian, was the author of Histoire de dix ans (1841), which severely attacked the July Monarchy. It formed part of his comprehensive Histoire de la révolution française (1847–62).
5. A type of mantle or cloak, more for summer wear than winter; see C. Willett Cunnington, English Women’s Clothing in the Nineteenth Century, 1937, p. 177.
6. “The basquin body with revers either opening down to the waist, or en demi-cœur” became a popular style of bodice about this time (Cunnington, p. 178).
7. Hamlet, I, 2, 185. In this and subsequent quotations from Shakespeare’s works, the line numbers correspond to those used in The Riverside Shakespeare (Boston, 1974).
8. “A battalion of soldiers.”
9. “Good, Papa?”
10. “Pretty, Mama?”
11. “Tomorrow.”
12. “Pennini good—Papa good. Mamma good—Lili good. Flush good– All, all good. Thanks to God.”
13. “We have to be thankful.”
14. “Thanks to God and Lili.”
15. One of four unmarried daughters of Robert William Brandling (1774–1848), barrister-at-law, of Low Gosforth, near Newcastle, and his wife Mary (née Jaques, d. 1841). Brandling had died in Brussels on 30 December 1848, having suffered heavy financial losses in railway speculations. The daughters were: Mary (b. 1807), Frances Sarah (1812–87), Laura Eleanor (1818–97), and Emma Elizabeth (1826–84).
16. “Companion.” We are unable to determine which one of Wilson’s sisters was in Miss Brandling’s service. All five sisters are identified in vol. 13, p. 381.
17. Sarah Torrens (née Patton, 1781–1863), widow of Sir Henry Torrens (1779–1828).
18. Lady Torrens’s daughter-in-law was Louisa Anne (née Law, b. 1817), second wife of Henry Whitelocke Torrens (1806–52), who was serving in West Bengal as agent to the Governor-General. The Torrenses married on 20 November 1835 and had four children at the time of this letter: Henrietta (1836–1909), Constance (1838–1901), Mary Jane (b. 1840), and Arthur (1845–1906).
20. This six-page manuscript, entitled “Il Tevere” (“The Tiber”), is from chapter 18 in Francesco Domenico Guerrazzi’s novel Beatrice Cenci, storia del secolo xvi (Pisa, 1854). The manuscript sold as part of lot 255 in Browning Collections (see Reconstruction, L115). Guerrazzi had been a prisoner in Florence since the fall of the Tuscan republican government in April 1849.
21. Le Murate, in Florence on Via Ghibellina near the city wall, was a Benedictine convent from 1424 until 1808. Some years later it was converted into a prison and continued in that function until the 1980’s.
22. EBB had referred to Guerrazzi as a “traitor” in letter 2773. The words he objected to come from a six-line passage in Casa Guidi Windows (1851):
A mere free press, and chambers!—frank repeaters
Of great Guerazzi’s praises. … “There’s a man
The father of the land!—who, truly great,
Takes off that national disgrace and ban,
The farthing tax upon our Florence-gate,
And saves Italia as he only can.”
II, 135–140.
24. Sand’s friend, Marc Étienne Gustave Dufraisse (1811–76), republican journalist and former deputy, had been ordered to Cayenne for his opposition to the Orleans decree. Sand met with Louis Napoleon on 6 February, and thanks to her intervention, Dufraisse was granted “remission (that is, exile instead of deportation to French Guiana)” (Renee Winegarten, The Double Life of George Sand: Woman and Writer, New York, 1978, p. 279).
25. Joseph Milsand.
26. Palmerston’s dismissal from office by Lord John Russell on 19 December 1851 (see letter 2991, note 3) had undoubtedly been hastened by Lord Normanby, the British ambassador in Paris. Normanby, “a difficult and haughty man,” who “had been nursing for five years the feeling that Palmerston had abandoned him in his bitter quarrel with Guizot,” retaliated “behind the scenes” (Herbert C.F. Bell, Lord Palmerston, 1936, II, 47). Normanby requested “an explanation of the discrepancy between the cabinet’s instructions and the foreign secretary’s comment” and claimed that “the Paris embassy had been placed in a situation of great embarrassment” (II, 49). Russell demanded Palmerston’s resignation, and “the Queen was almost incredulous in her delight” (II, 50). It was generally accepted that “the Queen had been trying to free herself from Palmerston for years” (II, 50). Furthermore, Normanby’s brother was secretary to Prince Albert, and Normanby’s wife, a favourite with the Queen, wrote letters to her brother-in-law that “were cleverly designed to please the Court, and to place Napoleon and Palmerston in the worst light possible” (II, 48).
27. Henry John Owen (1796–1872), eldest son of Rev. Dr. John Owen (1765–1822) and his wife Charlotte (née Green, d. 1844). He succeeded his father as minister of Park Chapel, Chelsea, and in 1835 became the first minister of the Catholic Apostolic (Irvingite) Church in College Street, Chelsea. He had married EBB’s cousin, Angela Bayford, in 1829. Possibly, the last time EBB saw Owen was in July 1830 at Hope End; see letter 376.
28. The marriage was announced in The Times of 1 July 1852: “At Naples, on the 27th of May last, Daniel Baron de Salis Soglio, eldest son of the late Pierre Baron de Salis Soglio, of Zurich, in Switzerland, to Julia, youngest daughter of the late John Bayford, Esq., of Doctors’-commons.” Julia (1814–98) was Angela’s sister. The baron died in 1854.
29. Ferdinand II (1810–59), Bourbon King of the Two Sicilies, succeeded to the throne in 1830 on the death of his father, Francis I. Although Ferdinand began his reign with promises of liberality, he soon proved to be a tyrant. He suppressed opposition by means of imprisonment and torture, and he put down insurrections with unwavering brutality. He became known as “King Bomba” after ordering a relentless bombardment of Messina in 1848. Gladstone exposed Ferdinand’s cruelty to political prisoners in two letters sent to Lord Aberdeen, the first of which was published in July 1851 as A Letter to the Earl of Aberdeen on the State Prosecutions of the Neapolitan Government. Subsequent editions, which included a second letter, numbered fourteen by 1859.
30. Frances Wilson (b. 1822) married John Parnell, a draper, of Oxford Street, on 15 February at Old Church St. Pancras. Elizabeth Bonser, Arabella’s maid, was a witness.
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