3143. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 18, 259–262.
Lyons. Hotel de l’univers–
Monday– [25 October 1852] [1]
Beloved Arabel, here we are at Lyons! The journey from Paris to Chalons was delightful– I never travelled more comfortably, though, after my exhortations, we took the second class. Robert is quite of my mind now, & never more will think of first class carriages on the continent. We were alone the greater part of the way, & it was really impossible, in the midst of so many cushions, to feel anything like fatigue. The day was as warm as June & my cough all but gone. The steamboat from Chalons to Lyons, though, steaming down the Soane [sic], took us through rain & mist, & we were shut up in the cabin the whole day—and today it rains, & I cant go out to see Lyons, which vexes me, but our hotel is most comfortable & we are all, Peninni included of course, in great spirits. Oh Arabel! if you were but here, to cross the Mont Cenis with us & find yourself with us in my Italy! What complete joy it would be to me!
Yes, we have decided for the Mont Cenis pass. The weather is so very mild & we hear such encouraging reports on all sides, that we have decided on braving it. Also, I am really much, wonderfully better since I left England. And the cheapness & quickness are on the Mont Cenis side of the question, & then we shall see Turin—observe! We did not decide till last night, and the arguments were weighed on both sides.
We have not paid a sous for Peninni since we left England, either through his smallness, or through the large liberality of the railway-people. We took him to be looked at, in Paris, & they gave him a “gratuitous ticket” immediately, together with many complimentary expressions––“Mais c’est un enfant charmant, que ce petit enfant ci. Il est vraiment joli.” [2] (Think of railroad managers stopping to compliment you so in England.) Three or four hours afterwards I asked Peninni what the man said of him when he gave him the ticket—just wishing to make out how much he had understood. The child answered without hesitation & with his slyest smile .. “Charmant.”! He was horribly frightened for fear Flush should fall into the Soane [sic], as we entered & left the steamboat, .. shrieking & crying .. “O Fushie, tate tare– No fal in water”—but no human creature of any size could enjoy a journey more, on the whole, than he has done this. He enquires about the names of the towns, & remembers them all. He did’nt like sleeping at Chalons because he said he wanted to go, .. “no Chalons .. Florence,” .. and Lyons, he fancied at first was a dangerous district of the Zoological Gardens .. but now he calls it “bello, bello,” [3] appreciating the hotel as a “velly nice palace,” which really it is.
Do you know, Arabel, I was quite touched & sorry to leave poor Mr Browning & Sarianna, in Paris. His simplicity & affectionateness to me draw me a good deal—poor victim of a villainous woman, [4] who, if he had been less pure than he is, would have escaped the whole trap laid for him. He cant understand any of it, .. not he!– It is enough to make one both smile & sigh, to see how he struggles against facts & necessities– I pity him from the deepest of my heart. And then, Robert naturally enough, every now & then, gets impatient——as for instance the other day—the poor old man turned to me & said dolefully that “he knew it had been a trouble to me”– “Of course, it has, said Robert—“what did you imagine?” —At which he looked so very miserable that I had to break in with an assurance that I was’nt troubled at all & rather liked it upon the whole– Poor kind man. How he cried when we came away, & kissed me again & again—and as to Peninni, Peninni is the pearl of children & scarcely to be parted with– Dear Sarianna too was affected– But they have a most pretty & comfortable apartment, & I indeed think that they will be happy in Paris. You would be surprised to see the pretty rooms Robert took for them at a pound a week—good enough for ourselves, I should have thought, I assure you. It is a miracle of cheapness– We dined with them & spent the evening the day before the last, & everything pleased me, & Robert comes away perfectly satisfied that he has done the best & most successfully for them. For my own part, if I were Sarianna, I should a hundred times rather live there than either at New Cross or Bayswater—but her pride suffers—that, I see, and cant wonder at much.
Dont let me forget again to tell you how we heard a great deal about the Morton business, [5] & how we both are convinced that though very foolish, very careless, very inconsequential, he was entirely innocent of the crime for which he suffered. You will wonder how such innocence can be proved now—& I cant explain to you how it can. Only it can, I believe,—and Mr Bower is himself said to be convinced of it now. That Bower, by the way, is a bad man .. a bad husband—the mark of his kicks was found on his wife’s body in the hospital .. the madhouse, .. where she was sent. Horrible tragedy! but better to die so, innocent than guilty, of course! Poor Mr Morton! We passed his house & the other house where he was murdered, every day as we went to dinner at the Paris restaurants– [6]
I spent my last evening at Paris with the Hedleys. We had just dined, & dropped in with our goodbyes & found them on the point of dining, so they forced us to sit at their dinner table, &, to Robert’s absolute astonishment, I accepted the proposition to take some mutton broth. I grow upon Robert, he says!– He did’nt take account before of my capabilities!– Well—he would’nt let me go to the Corkranes, & I stayed with the Hedleys till ten, & uncle Hedley gave me a very pretty little box to hold a watch .. which wont be quite as useful as pretty, but that’s not his fault.
What am I to say about England? That you are in England—which would make me love it, if there were not another reason.
Tell dearest Henrietta that I think of her little she-creature, & herself, often & often. Tell me whatever you hear. If there should be anything like a convocation, Arabel, they will be settling definitely in the church of England what is to be believed or disbelieved on the subject of baptism & other things, .. and then will come a great visible schism—it will be curious– High & low church in such a case, never can go on without a schism. I wonder how the ministry can venture to think of a convocation, as I see they do, or are supposed to do, in the papers. [7]
Now, goodbye—dearest, dearest. Our best, best, dearest love to you, & all. Let me hear at Florence. When I write again the Alps will be between us. We go tonight at eight oclock by diligence, & travel all night to Chambery & shall try to get on to St Jean or St Michel to sleep. [8] We have the coupè & shall be very comfortable. Peninni says he does’nt mean to go to sleep but to eat pears all the night. He is in a paradise of fruits of every kind.
Has Henry come back! Tell me if he likes Ireland. Tell me of them all. How does Minny get on? Give our best love to dearest Trippy, & tell me how she is & how her landlord does.
Until slain by an avalanche (& after) & before,
your own Ba–
This note to Mr Chapman will bring you the books to Berry. [9] Explain to her with my love.
Address: Angleterre / Miss Barrett / 50 Wimpole Street / London.
Publication: EBB-AB, I, 509–513.
Manuscript: Berg Collection.
1. This letter is postmarked 26 October 1852, a Tuesday.
2. “But this is a charming child, this little child is. He is truly handsome.”
3. “Beautiful, beautiful.”
4. Martha von Müller; see letter 3060, note 2.
5. Savile Morton (1811–52) was the Paris correspondent for The Morning Advertiser; Harold Elyott Bower (1814–84), for The Morning Post. The two men had known each other as students at Cambridge and renewed their acquaintance when they met in Paris. Morton, an intimate friend of Thackeray, was known for his profligacy. Thackeray wrote to his mother on 15 March 1852: “I am very much pained indeed to hear of Morton, and you may say that I say so. He is shocking about women. Directly I hear of his being fond of one, I feel sorry for her. He lusts after her and leaves her” (The Letters and Private Papers of William Makepeace Thackeray, ed. Gordon N. Ray, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1945–46, 3, 24). Morton’s affair with Bower’s wife, Isabella Frances (née Michell, b. 1816), led to his death when, on 1 October 1852, Mrs. Bower declared to her husband that Morton, who was present in the house, was the father of their new-born child, Charles (b. 2 September 1852). Bower flew into a fit of rage and stabbed Morton to death. He was subsequently tried for murder but was acquitted. According to a report of Bower’s trial in The Annual Register for 1852, none of the three principal parties was innocent; they had all confessed to committing adultery.
6. Morton is listed in the Brownings’ address book of this period (AB-3) at 29 Boulevard des Capucines. Bower lived nearby at 22 Rue des Capucines.
7. Newspapers of this period carried numerous editorials, news reports, and letters to the editor concerning a proposed convocation. Editorials in The Daily News of 19 October 1852 (p. 4) and in The Times of 21 October 1852 (p. 4) warned against reviving convocation (see letter 3110, note 9). Both argued, as does EBB, that it would lead to an open battle between the two extreme factions of the Church of England, the Puseyites and the Evangelicals, and the result of one side winning would be the end of the Church as it had been known. Both editorials worried that the present control the State had over the Church would be jeopardized in the event of convocation and thought the prime minister, Lord Derby, would be making a terrible mistake if he recommended that the Queen call one into session. Nevertheless, a convocation was convened on 5 November 1852 at St. Paul’s Cathedral, but without the anticipated dire consequences.
8. St. Jean de Maurienne and St. Michel are small villages on the road between Chambéry and the Mont Cenis pass.
9. See the following letter in which RB directs Edward Chapman to send a parcel of the Brownings’ books to “Mrs. Selwyn”; that is, Eliza Berry Selwyn.
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