3201. EBB to Henrietta Cook
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 19, 89–95.
Florence–
May 14. [1853] [1]
My ever dearest Henrietta, Oh, what a time it seems since I wrote to you. I always set it down as nearly the same when I write to Arabel, & the opportunitites towards Wimpole Street are more numerous– Then I hate writing to you both by the same opportunity, because that makes two stupid letters instead of one. Also, you never seem to cry out to me with your needs as our dear Arabel does .. your babies cry out to you instead .. to say nothing of Surtees when he is in the garden or on the stairs. Dearest dearest Henrietta, believe that I love & think of you always, always .. tenderly & truly. Now let us have a little talk.
We are not in Rome. We have no ship money this year—& Robert thinks it impossible to go under such circumstances. I begin to be afraid therefore that Paris & England will be both thrown out of the question for the year– We cant go back to the north before we see Rome, .. & a sweep through Naples, or even without Naples, through Paris to London would be far beyond the margin of our possibilities– At least so it seems– And now the season is late, you see, for Rome. Vexed, vexed I am. Then my poems being out of print, & the new edition not out yet, there’s no chance of income from that source for months to come. We must be patient. Rich people have certain advantages in their liberty, there’s no denying—is there? It must be pleasant to be able to do what one likes. Robert’s play has come out with applause & success—but a play of that refinement & delicacy of sentiment, without much action, is not likely to have what is called “a run” & to bring in any considerable profit. As for you .. I hear you have a scheme about London & I do hope you may be able to get there, for Arabel’s sake as well as your own .. still more for her’s than your’s—but even you and Surtees are not, so bound in heart to Taunton as not to be pleased with a little change. Meanwhile, Henrietta, I hear of you!– That’s the way you live a retired life,—is it? giving sylvan routs, conciliatory routs between town & county, balls & supper parties! Did the babies appear among the company? Do you & Surtees quarrel as Robert & I do, about keeping the nursery in decent shadow on social occasions? Robert wont let me take Penini with us when we pay a morning visit—which I all but revolt against. Wait till I get to London & go out with Arabel .. & you ..! See if I wont have my own way & work my vanity into light just as I please. Penini too, who is just made to be carried about & shown off, with his long purple feather shaking over his trailing golden ringlets, & the small black silk jacket I have just finished embroidering for him! He does look like a fairy king of a child—& is intended to be looked at accordingly. And he is looked at pretty well. He never goes out without being stopped & kissed, & sometimes has a circle of ladies round him, Wilson says. But then I want to have my share of the glory, you see!– And Penini is extremely fond of society, you must understand. Whoever pays us a visit, Penini is in the room two minutes afterwards, .. & he makes supernatural efforts to keep his eyes open, so as to be awake at the time of the “large teas”—only he cant, poor child. “Lily, you muss do mine hair velly pretty, & put on mine silk dless, betause I mean to have tea wiz Mama & Papa & Misser Lytton.” Not a bit of it!– ‘Mine silk dress’ cant keep mine eyes open. He’s forced to give it up at last. For you are to observe, (in spite of Robert’s despotism) if Penini could manage his eyes he would manage Papa too. Nobody resists Penini in this house, if he once has a mind to insist on a thing!—& Robert as little as anybody– Set down that.
I should not have been so patient about not hearing from you Henrietta, if Arabel had not told me heaps of things about you all—still it wont do any longer, & I must pull at your sleeve & entreat you to write to me & tell me all about you in particular & in general—about the babes .. out of the wood so far .. & about you yourself .. whether your strength keeps up through the nursing. Does Altham begin to talk? & what words does he say. I dont agree with you on the subject of prayers– I will agree that to some persons of formed habits, forms of prayer may be better & more convenient than spontaneous prayer, both in public & private—but for children I hold that it never can be better. The danger to children, is precisely that they should use the words without the thought– The memory is always quicker than the intelligence in children, & runs before. I, as a child, was not without religious feeling, but I remember distinctly that every prayer I ever learnt by heart, I used without my heart– When I began really to pray, I took my own words. I would rather that a little child asked God to bless him in a breath, than that he talked out a fine piece of theology like a talking machine or a parrot– Oh what I hate & pray against is formalism in man or child! and I try to keep Wiedeman from the danger of it by all possible means.
Tell me about Altham’s hair, if the curl of it continues to prosper. I suppose he runs strongly by this time. Is he ever naughty? Do you send him out in his carriage?– Penini said to Robert the other day .. “Wobert! I want you to buy somesing for me.” “Well! what is it?” “I want you to buy a little carriage, and a whip for me, and a little brozer (brother) to go inside for a shentleman, and I be the toachman. Den I want a little poney .. no, not a poney .. a kind of horse .. I fordet what—” “A donkey” said I. “No, not a dontey.” “A mule”– “No, not a mule.” “A goat?” “Yes. lat’s it– A doat.” See what an impression the famous drive in the goat carriage made on him .. with the “shentleman inside.”!– Poor Penini has the greatest yearning for a “little brozer” on other occasions though, besides this. Luti Ley (Louisa Ley’s little girl) was here sometime ago & talked a good deal of her brother—& since then Penini is for ever recurring to the grand idea of having a ‘brozer’ of his own. Once or twice he has suggested that Vi[n]cenzio might go out and “catch a little boy, for me.” Poor child. Ah Henrietta! it’s a blessing for your Altham to have a companion ready made for him, even though of the less worthy sex. Dont you think so?
The Cottrells were here yesterday. Sophia asked after you as she always did. She has just had her baby weaned & sent away the balia [2] —at twenty two months. He is a very fine boy & begins to talk a little Italian. The English will come later. Penini’s is as fluent as possible—yes, & he gets on with his Italian too. He & I had a dispute the other day whether the Italian word for ‘cloud’ should be ‘nuvola’ or ‘nuvolo’. [3] He would stand up for ‘nuvolo’. “We say nuvolo,” said he. “And pray who are we?” “Oh– Penini and Girolama & Vincenzio!”—identifying himself with the Italian nation.
Are you not very sorry for the Hedleys? I am grieved for them. It is really hard upon uncle Hedley after all his tenderness & indulgence, to be so mortified in his sons—for even Robin has not entirely satisfied him, though I must add that that is not Robin’s fault. Still the fact is that uncle Hedley was a little vexed even there—about giving up the commission [4] while marrying on small means—&, as to the two other sons, they have absolutely disgraced him in different ways & most inexcusably on both their parts. You see it’s a stain upon Johnny. What can he do but go to Australia, or Canada, & work underground at getting money so as to make some sort of status for himself somewhere in the shade? A great deal of evil comes from public schools—& the army indeed itself is a sort of school, in the case of those very young men congregated together, without resource or business. I would write to aunt Jane, if I dared, .. but I suppose it is better not to touch on the subject. Condolences of every kind are as sharp as steel– It will be mortifying to Robin too—and to Ibbit. How painful!– There is Galignani’s newspaper which everybody reads on the continent, who can spell, .. hawking up the circumstances under their eyes in Paris!–
Do you hear often from Bummy? Tell me of her. I am uneasy about Miss Mitford who seems to me not to rally from her accident as she ought to do. She however writes in good spirits, & hopes from the influence of the warm weather. Here the weather is such as you have it in July when you have “a hot summer”. We live with the windows open .. French windows opening down to the floor like doors & out on the terrace—& we wait for the cool of the day to walk out. “What a blessing,” says Penini! he likes warm weather, & is passionately fond of flowers. We had an excursion the other day to Fiesole .. Robert & I, Wilson & Penini in an open carriage. There was a vision of a sunset over the mountains, as we looked across that wonderful valley where Florence lies enchanted. We climbed to the top of Fiesole (leaving the carriage) & sate down on an old wall which made me giddy to sit on .. & I got scolded for having a “weak head”, an expressive phrase. Well—but Penini looked over, & there he saw crowds of purple lilies– Oh—those lilies! how dreadful not to get at them! I proposed tying a rope round his waist & letting him down the wall, & then pulling him up again, lilies & all. He consented if he could have his own Lily tied with him—but he would’nt go by himself, he said. Ah well, then! what was to be done!– “Oh—so velly pretty lose flowers!” We were in a state of despair, when, behold, a ministering angel came in the shape of a young girl of fourteen or fifteen, who proposed to let herself down the wall & gather the flowers. I cried out for fear—she would kill herself– “No, no! non c’e pericolo. [5] Down she clambered by the creepers & ivy, & up she came again with her prize. Robert gave her twopence halfpenny English, & she thought he was a prince in disguise & Penini was in ecstasies—till he considered that he would like to have some may & roses to put with the lilies,—& the coachman did’nt stop the horses at the right hedges, which damped his joy a little—as is the way of all earthly joy, even when people go to Fiesole. Tomorrow Robert & I have a scheme in our heads, of going to Pistoia & Prato by the railroad, & of dining at a caffé somewhere, “like two lovers” Robert says. In order to which we leave our respectability & Penini behind us– He wont like being left, I can tell you! He thinks he has a right to be with us wherever we go, and as he enjoys everything just as much as we do, I really am inclined to think so too. People say, Henrietta, that he grows prettier & prettier, & that his hair must be put in curl-papers .. nothing but curl-papers can account for the ringlets. I should like you to see him dance with his tambourine. It’s really a pretty sight! Such steps, such attitudes, .. & everything in time to the music! He tells Robert to play first slow & then fast, & he begins in the most languishing manner! His one fault is considerable vanity– Applause he can never resist in any shape—that child of mine. You asked me once if I had begun to give him lessons, & I repudiated the charge. Now, I must confess to you I am teaching him to read. I want him to know how to read for his own pleasure’s sake & that he may inherit the fat of fairyland, & not that I have the least notion of beginning a course of education. One day Mr Lytton asked if he could read, & we had to say no, which was dreadful, even though we added that he could write very well indeed: so Penini determined at once that he would learn to read directly, & do “mine lessons evelly day.” We warned him not to say it if he did’nt mean it. He meant it, he persisted. The next morning Robert observed .. “Well—are you going to learn to read? God loves truth.” “And I”! said Penini with dignity—and he fetched his lesson. That’s several weeks ago, & he never has missed a morning, the reminding nearly always coming from himself. “Mine lesson” lasts about five minutes, and now he reads syllables of three letters, and even simple sentences very nicely. We never quarrel, because if he does’nt attend, I wont hear him—which was the case this morning. Off he ran to Wilson. Presently he came back, .. & looking in my face with an irresistible smile, he said, “You dood now, Mama”? Yes, I said, I was tolerably good, if he was. So he brought “mine lesson” & read it to perfection.
You would live at much less expence if you were in Florence of course. We have a manservant, which makes a difference—and indeed I may say two .. for I am convinced, & so is Wilson, that the porter of the Casa Guidi lives on us entirely. We permitted Vincenzio to give him “any little thing left over”—but the supply has long past a definition of that sort, it is evident; & on account of his being an old man & very poor, we cant find it in our hearts to make a revolution about it. Only we must take it into the reckoning when we reckon, or it wont be fair. We might live comfortably at thirty shillings a week, we are assured & I believe—only we dont manage as you do. Then, though we dont give balls & suppers, Henrietta, we have visitors at tea & coffee very often, .. every two or three days or more frequently, .. & there are units of expense everytime in crumpets, biscuits, &c besides the tea & coffee in supernumerary cups. And Penini has company to dinner– The units mount up. Quantities of Americans we have—but that’s a fluent sort of society which comes & passes. By the way, there was an American lady last night, [6] a very cultivated & pleasing person, who left me dreaming till morning about the American spirits– Her sister is a medium, her mother has had communications by the touch– The progress these things are making, is wonderful, & soon perhaps there will be no possibility of the most determined laughers laughing at them. As to “moving tables” it seems to be the fashionable amusement at Florence—& the continental newpapers swarm with the subject under different forms. It is a very curious state of things, & is not to be ‘pooh poohed’ away by “sensible people.” Let us wait quietly & we shall see further, I think.
Robert & I are by no means idle– We write [7] & we read—& by the bye, I no longer complain of a want of new books at Florence. We get everything new we want, from a little library close by, [8] & have attained to the last English novels such as Villette & Henry Esmond. Then I have a Galignani newspaper on the fourth day, & Robert goes to the reading room where he has the sight of nearly every newspaper printed in Europe. Do you subscribe to a library at Taunton? Do you play on the guitar, Henrietta? Do you draw? Dont give up any resource—& besides you will have to teach the girl-baby, remember! if not the boy. Penini will be learned on the piano, we intend—if he lives to learn.
Ah—poor darling Arabel, & her anxieties, which are ours too, though the immediate pressure rests on her, dear thing!– Indeed I agree with you—indeed we all agree about Lizzie. But what’s to be done? There seems no escape from the situation. As to Alfred, he loses the clerkship, I fear– George has evident fears in the letter he wrote to me about Robert’s play .. & which by the way I answered by private hand. [9] I hope George received what I wrote.
God bless you my dearest dear dear Henrietta! My love to dear Surtees—or rather say the love of us both. Kiss the darlings for me. Dont exhaust yourself with nursing. Write to me soon & at length, & let me have heaps of nursery news. Your ever attached Ba.
Address: Angleterre via France. / Mrs Surtees Cook / Wilton / near Taunton. / Somersetshire.
Publication: Huxley, pp. 181–186 (in part).
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library, Altham Archive; and British Library.
1. Year provided by postmark.
2. “Wet nurse.”
3. “Nuvolo” is translated as “cloudy,” although this is chiefly a Tuscan usage. “Cloudy” is usually translated as “nuvoloso.” “Nuvola” is “cloud.”
4. Robert (“Robin”) Hedley retired with the rank of captain from the 62nd Regiment of Foot on 17 August 1852, two days prior to his marriage to Charlotte Coote (see letter 3092, note 4). He had been in the army since receiving his commission in September 1843, first with the 32nd Regiment of Foot where he was made lieutenant in April 1846, then with the 62nd beginning in June 1848, becoming captain, by purchase, in September 1851.
5. “No, no! there’s no danger.”
6. Sara Jane Clarke; see letter 3200, note 3. Her mother was Deborah Clarke (née Baker, 1781–1874). The sister was probably Lucy Caroline Clarke, who, EBB reports in letter 3210, was living at home. She was the only unmarried daughter, other than Sara Jane, at the time of these experiences.
7. RB was working on poems that would appear in Men and Women (1855); EBB, on Aurora Leigh (1857).
8. Brecker’s bookshop at 1877 via Maggio, a short distance from Casa Guidi at 1902.
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