3051. EBB to Henrietta Cook
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 18, 145–150.
138. Avenue des Champs Elysées.
June 10– [1852] [1]
My ever dearest Henrietta I have really seemed to behave badly to you. Only it always comes into my head that a letter to Arabel is much the same as one to yourself; & then, lately, I have been less inclined to write than usual, from one cause and another– Now, being better & blyther, you shall have me for the whole morning. My dear dearest Henrietta, if you think I have not thought of you through the whole length of the silence, you think very wrong indeed. On the contrary you have been full in my thoughts, you & your baby, & the anxiety you have suffered about him .. & I have anxiously hunted the track of you through Arabel’s letters– He seems to be feverishly inclined—the price you pay for his gigantic size & general vigour. Children are said always to suffer more from teething, under those magnificent circumstances. With fourteen teeth through, however, there is not much to complain of—the worst is over, I should imagine– I dont think that Wiedeman had cut as many at his age. And for the walking, you are not at all late—be sure of that—Wiedeman, being the small, light creature you have seen, had no excuse for not walking earlier; but to take Altham in his own category, he does quite as much as he ought to do, and if I were you I should beware of inciting or even encouraging him to trot off by himself at present. Tell me his exact age, Henrietta. He is not seventeen months old yet, is he? [2] How pretty it will be, your two babies together! Ah, I envy you the little girl which is coming! Now remember, this time, that I have the small nightcaps ready for her & that they will be in England without fail. Talking of England, dearest Henrietta I am not behind you the least inch in anxiety about our meeting in London. Why, there’s a necessity as to our meeting. It would vex me for ever if I missed you—and I will not, if it depends on me. At the same time, I must tell you that through my having been particularly unwell this spring, & through the disastrous accounts we receive from everybody in England of the state of the weather, Robert is unwilling to let me go before quite the end of this month or the beginning of next– You see I somehow or other caught cold in May, &, though the cold itself was nothing, it stirred up my old symptoms .. & I had quite an attack after the ancient fashion, which reduced me horribly & made me look even worse than the reality warranted. Poor Robert was annoyed to the quick, by the remarks people made to him about my looking ill. Now I am well again, & people remark accordingly—but the cough is not quite gone, nor am I as strong as before .. only getting strong, & recovering my appetite & power of moving about. Oh—we were all at the jardin des plantes the other day, inspecting the elephants—so you may suppose that I am well enough– But, you see, Robert is rather more nervous than usual about me still—and certainly the chest may be in too irritable a state to bear with impunity, just immediately, that horrible English climate– While we are shutting the ‘persiennes’ and opening doors & windows to keep ourselves cool, Arabel writes to me with her feet on the fender. Such splendid days & nights we have had here—the air like crystal, the sunshine streaming in floods!– It has been exactly like a Florentine spring—and Peninni is out of doors from morning till night, either on our great terrace, or under the trees in the garden when the sun is too hot, to say nothing of more erratic excursions– He got over his hoopingcough victoriously,—thank God for all God’s mercies,—and is now nearly as fat as he was before—looking quite well again, & in the most frantic good spirits. I was uneasy at the time,—& that, together with the fear about Robert’s having to go to London on business which would have saddened him for months, (to say the least of it) [3] helped to upset me a good deal when I had rather topsy-turvy tendencies. And now, consider, Henrietta– From your own account you would not yourselves, at any rate, pass through London before the end of the month or the beginning of July– Do, for love’s sake, do both of you, dear Surtees & Henrietta, put it off as long as you can, because, so, it will be safest. As to travelling by railroad, my dearest Henrietta, here is Mrs Ogilvy who expects her confinement in July. The day before yesterday she set off for London, will remain there a fortnight, & then go down to Scotland (Perth) for the event. Travelling a few hours on a railroad, where there are no bad tendencies, cant be a matter of apprehension, no indeed. I do wish, with all my heart, as Arabel tells me she does, that you would be satisfied to let Surtees go for a week or two to Taunton by himself, & stay on at Mr Cook’s [4] till August, &, so, come to London for your confinement. I dont understand how it would be much more expensive—there would be the expense of the rooms certainly: and the comfort to you & to all of us would be inexpressible. But you know best, and it is the purest impertinence on my part to intrude such words on you. Dearest Henrietta—how frightened you must have been about Surtees!—how I understand & feel for you! He will beware of white lead for the future, I do hope. And what was he painting? garden-gates, or canvass?
Yes, it was terrible about George Hedley– But I, for my own part, like aunt Jane the better for what she did, whether it was strictly right or wrong. She was giving me the most miserable account possible the other day about poor uncle James .. not saying a word, though, of that family arrangement of which you will hear from Arabel. (keep that secret, mind!) Think of his suffering agonies of remorse for his past life, .. crying & groaning like a child, .. crying out for “God to have mercy on his soul” in paroxysms of religious despair. His mind wanders—he can scarcely walk—he is pale & feeble—cast down to the lowest depth– It is terrible to think of– Well for him, indeed, that at last he should turn to remember God .. but sorrowful, that he should have no more light or help. Aunt Jane says that he is surrounded at Tours by the most affectionate friends, and there is a good clergyman who visits & talks to him—I hope the right view may be presented to him of Christ’s cross & God’s grace—but I dont like to hear of religious despondency in any case, whatever the life or the crime. [5]
Ibbit is in England, staying with Arabel Bevan,—who is to be confined in August, par parenthése. [6] Ibbit is a fine girl, but not comparable to Arabella, in my mind, and she has had no success in Paris at all this last winter—she wants grace & flexibility, & conversation—she has not carried out her childhood the least in the world. Her sisters have no pretension to beauty—they are plain little girls, & unlikely to emerge, I think, any one of them, hereafter .. though it is difficult to predict on questions of the kind. Aunt Jane thinks that Fanny will be very handsome. If she is, she must considerably change. Uncle Hedley looks much better for his residence in Paris, which evidently agrees better with him than Tours did– The Martins were struck with the change for good in his appearance.
Such an affectionate letter I had yesterday from dear Mrs Martin– She was gratified, it appears, by our reception of her & Mr Martin .. which was only affectionate & sincere,—for we could not do anything for them, of course. They are true friends whom I love. She tells me that Hope End is let for three years to Lady Sherbrooke & her sister Miss Pyndar, [7] which she seems half sorry for, as an “agreeable gentleman” would have been advantageous to Mr Martin. He has suffered from an attack of cough since their return to the “ungenial climate,” but hopes to be better again as the weather improves a little. She warns me against the excitements of Paris– I was not quite myself when she was here, & grew worse afterwards,—& I dare say she saw that I was in a brittle sort of state; and the truth is I am better when quietly not amused a bit– I cant help being excited by one thing & another thing, & then in the midst, I break. Though the Paris salons seem very calm, you cant turn your head without seeing or hearing something interesting .. and I, you know, have had such a shut-up life, that it is natural I should be more than usually interested– Robert calls me “infantine,” because I am always staring in at the shop windows of the world as well as of the boulevards. Then such opportunities of divine music, you have here, Henrietta!– But I never could bear going out much in winter or summer—I must be strict with myself & accept moderation in all things. The only sort of excitement which can be said to agree with me is the excitement of travelling, which I do bear wonderfully, considering that I am not strong. I assure you I can bear more in the way of travelling than very many strong women can. It’s the continual change of air, I think, which pours in oil as the lamp burns–
Peninni is never done talking now—and it is the best thing possible to hear him talk French to Desirée– In a few more months, he would talk French quite nicely, I think,—but of course he will forget it after six weeks in England. He begins to be proud of understanding so many languages—that is to say, he plainly looks down on Desirée because she knows only French, & not Italian & English– He says an Italian word to Wilson, & then translates it, with an air, to Desirée—“pesce Lili,—pois[s]on, [8] Detitée” .. but his own language is most extraordinary for the most part, I must confess, & perfectly Babylonish. Only he does talk—he has a word, in one language or another, for almost everything now .. & last year he had but a very few in use– When he goes to England he will accomplish himself in English .. for even now he understands it perfectly. He talks in the most affected way of “bella Italia” [9] and how he must go there to see the churches– I tell him that he must go to England first .. which he accedes to—but adds .. “Bella Italia apres” [10] —he cant give up “bella Italia.” Mrs Ogilvy’s boy, who is six months older, & largely made, has not more than his six months advantage in height, we all think—only Peninni is slight & delicate in the bones, & looks young for his age. I observe that all strangers call him “a baby” still, though he is above three years old—and Wilson carries him about in her arms as if he were really a baby. I dare say Altham is twice his size. Peninni is not short, though, in proportion, & he grows fast. He went the other day with Wilson to see the cows milked. A cow lowed tremendously during the operation, & I believe he thought it rather supernatural altogether, .. for though he kept saying .. “Bella e buona, [11] Lili” .. he could’nt be persuaded either to approach very near or to drink the milk. He explained to me afterwards that he liked milk in tea, & when it was hot, but he did’nt like it the other way—“it came in such a questionable shape”. Tell me if Altham says any words yet. He will be more learned in cow-milking & other pastoral matters than my child is. Peninni, however, is an enthusiast in nature, & descants upon the “red trees” (he calls everything red which has any sort of colour) and the “beautiful sun, which God hangs up on a nail,” .. and on the flowers—he makes drawings of gardens with trees & rows of flowers .. “lolli,” (fiori) as he calls them .. & he keeps flowers of his own in a tumbler & makes a great fuss about them indeed. The baby-jumper must be a capital thing– The Jagos have one for their baby, & Mr Jago thinks very highly of it’s advantages. Dearest Henrietta, I am sorry you should have more suffering than you had last time in some respects, though the sickness is less. Never mind—perhaps the crisis will be more endurable—people always tell you than [sic, for that] the first trial is the worst of all. I hope you are able to eat for two—remember you ought, if you can. As Mr Cook is so hospitable & “in brotherly love” cordial to you, it’s a pity, as it seems to me, that you cant stay on where you are for a month or six weeks at least. Ah well—what cant be, cant be. I come back, like a mouse, to nibble at the wires of my mousetrap. Much good I do by it, I suppose.
I do earnestly hope that Surtees will gain something by the militia bill, and, if he does, it will go far to reconcile me to what I consider a signal piece of national folly on the part of my compatriots. A house would be a gain—or if they gave you an equivalent for a house, you would like that better still, would you not? Then you would not be tied. Do write all your plans to me. We take on this apartment from week to week now. I am much better, you are to understand plainly .. indeed well to most intents & purposes. I went to Lady Elgin’s last monday, & to Madame Mohl’s the friday evening before, & suffered neither time. God bless you my dear dear Henrietta. Yes, I was quite uneasy about Arabel. You see I have no faith whatever in homœopathy, though it may do very well for delicate persons in a normal state. And then, that precious Arabel overfatigues herself in her works of charity. But I hope & trust she is as well now as she calls herself. Kiss darling Altham, & give mine & Robert’s best love to Surtees .. yes, & you may offer my very kind remembrances (if he will admit of so much cousinship from a person so unknown to him) to Mr Cook—will you? I have at last written you a letter .. almost as long as my silence. I love you dearly–
Your ever attached Ba.
Address: Angleterre / Mrs Surtees Cook / The Vicarage / South Benfleet / Rayleigh / Essex.
Publication: Huxley, pp. 161–164 (in part).
Manuscript: British Library.
1. Year provided by postmark.
2. Altham Surtees Cook was born on 23 January 1851.
3. EBB refers to the funeral of RB’s cousin James Silverthorne; see letter 3045, note 3.
4. At South Benfleet, Essex, where Henrietta and her family had been staying since the latter part of April; see letter 3034, note 8.
5. From hints that EBB gives here and in earlier letters, it appears that James Graham-Clarke led a somewhat self-indulgent, if not dissipated, life. In letter 2717 she refers to his being “as stout as ever,” and in letter 2761 she wonders “that uncle James’s ‘singular life’ has continued up to now.” The illness that plagues him over the next seven years until his death is never named, but it evidently included, or was the cause of, a psychological disorder.
6. “Incidentally.”
7. Mary Pyndar (1796–1893), sister of Katherina, Lady Sherbrooke (née Pyndar, 1782–1856), widow of John Coape Sherbrooke (1764–1830). Lady Sherbrooke was the eldest daughter of Reginald Pyndar (1755–1831), Rector of Madresfield, and his wife Mary (née Foxcroft, 1762–1849). EBB had called on the Pyndars years before (see Diary, p. 47).
8. “Fish.”
9. “Beautiful Italy.”
10. “Beautiful Italy after.”
11. “Beautiful and good.”
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