3292. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 20, 2–8.
Rome. Via Bocca di Leone. 43.
Monday– Tuesday– [28–29 November 1853] [1]
My ever dearest Arabel. We have been at Rome since tuesday & I scarcely believe it even now, .. though it does indeed seem like some city of the tombs– The Storys had busied themselves to get us an apartment, & we called at their house, [2] as was previously arranged, in order to know where we were to drive. Mrs Story ran down stairs & induced me to go up & take a cup of coffee, while Mr Story went on with Robert to give him the choice of two apartments. Little Edith & Joe were not there—she was out walking .. & he, said Mrs Story, “had caught cold .. she had given him some slight medecine, & he had fallen asleep & had better not be disturbed. Tomorrow he would be well .. might Penini come & dine tomorrow with him & Edith?” The Storys came with us to our apartment, when Robert had decided on it, .. sate by us a moment or two, hearing us praise the rooms, & so we parted, bright faces on both sides. The next morning before breakfast .. the man-servant brings in Edith. “Joe had just been in convulsions .. Mama was crying. Mama had sent her over to us.” (Edith is nine years old.) Robert & I, leaving Edith with Wilson & Penini, set out instantly of course to see what the evil was. Oh—Arabel, it was death’s own evil! The child had a succession of convulsions .. never recovered consciousness, & before the night had set in, was dead under Robert’s eyes, [3] .. he never leaving it for a moment. A boy six years old, & beloved by its mother above all her loves– Husband, & remaining child are as nothing in her sight compared to the least remembrance of that boy. I shall not forget the destraction in which she threw herself down, beside the empty little chair. O ever loving God!—what agonies are permitted on this earth of ours by that great love of Thine!– She has one of the soft, flexible expansive natures, however, which by talking as well as weeping out its grief, relieves itself easily, and I do not expect for her any very protracted affliction. I was more afraid for Mr Story—much more. Now hear the rest. Edith, left at our house, sickened—lay on the bed all day in a state of fever .. was carried down stairs (because we had no night-room to give her) to the apartment below occupied by friends of the Story’s, [4] —the physician who came to see her having given it as his opinion that she could not safely go home—and that following night was in extreme danger. “She may not live till morning” was the medical apprehension. So the poor mother & father quitted their own house, with the still unburied little body of their boy in it, and came here to wait & tremble before the possibility of another blow– The anxiety has been great & wearing—but she is better on this sixth day of the fever, & although we are warned to look for further fluctuations, I am sanguine now as to the result. Meanwhile, the English nurse [5] too is dangerously ill– In all three cases, it has been gastric fever, which is apt to complicate itself with nervous & brain fever, & so to become fatal. At first I was troubled with the fear of infection. Robert & I were on the point of sending Penini to Miss Blagden, but took the precaution of asking Dr Pantaleone, [6] the physician in attendance, who assured us that the sort of fever was not contagious nor infectious in the slightest degree—& that the coincidence of the illnesses arose from all three patients having been exposed to a coup de vent [7] late in the evening of sunday. Think what an abyss of misery we have fallen into by our first step into Rome. Except to Joe’s deathbed, I have been nowhere. Robert went to his grave. The place is embittered to me—the taste of these aloes will not leave my lips, I think, while I stay here. Miss Blagden has come to try to talk me up again .. but I drop. Oh—it is so sad! That poor child on the bed down stairs, asked her mother “how Joe was,” & she answered quietly “he is better”– Think of that! The child is constantly talking of Joe, & of wishing to “go to play with him.” But it is absolutely necessary to keep her calm, & the mother’s & father’s heart bear up courageously. Oh—hard, hard!
See what a horrible letter I am about to send you. But we are tolerably well ourselves—quite well except for the shatter of nerves—and we are in very comfortable rooms .. I must admit so much comfort. Such an exquisite journey we had .. took a holiday on the road at Perugia where we passed forty eight hours—made an excursion to the monastery & triple church at Assissi [sic] [8] .. another excursion to Terni .. I was sorry when it was all over, even though I thought the glories of Rome, & not this sorrow, were to come after. I kept saying “I wish we were travelling on for eight more days.” We never made a journey with so little fuss & so much enjoyment– No bills to pay—the vetturino managing everything. Rooms & provender ready for us—and such a Penini all the way! So bright & joyous that child was .. making friends at the inns with his chattering Italian .. people looking at him in admiration everywhere. Certainly, Arabel, he grows much prettier– His eyes have an intenser expression, his cheeks have a vivider colour, & then the bright golden ringlets dropping nearly to the waist are very picturesque. He would sit with Ferdinando in the coupè more than half the time—and once when we took him in towards evening for fear of cold (the coupè being more open than the interior) we had rather a scene—he cried a little, & went to sleep, and on awaking at the inn afterwards, there was great lamentation & sense of humiliation. “All the peoples” said he “would sink him to be twite a baby and not a bit a toashman.” (His idea was that being in the coupé proved him a coachman at once.) Then bursting into sobs .. “Oh, dont tell lese peoples I not dood.” Really he was good the whole journey, with scarcely the exception of a minute. Every time he said his prayers, he asked to be “taken tare of in the traveller, in the carriage, on the hills,” & the night he arrived at Rome, it was thus he prayed while my heart swelled to hear him, .. “Tank you, God, for bwinging us safe through the tountily, (country) and to see Blome.” I like to feel that his little imperfect prayers are at least something growing out of his life .. vital so far .. and not exterior things said by rote. For instance the other evening he had been crying with a pain in his teeth. When he came to say his prayers, he put in, (unsuggested by anybody of course) “and tate away mine toosate—” (toothache.) He prayed God to “make Joe well” after Joe was well indeed– Wilson had not the heart to tell the truth. I called the child to me and said how it was .. that “God had taken Joe to be happy in heaven”—. He looked at me with his earnest eyes and said, “Did Papa see the angels tate Joe”? “No” said I, “he did not see.” “How then”? he asked .. “Did Joe do up to gentle Jesus by himself?” I tried to explain that “the outside of Joe had died on the bed, & that we knew then how the real alive Joe had gone to God.” He fixed his eyes on me & said slowly, “When I and papa & mama & Ferdinando & Lily go to God, then we see Joe again”. Robert who had listened in his dressing-room, opened the door & said, “Penini, what has mama been telling you?” The child paused for a moment, and then bursting out crying, said, “Oh. Joe dead!” He screamed so at first & sobbed so afterwards that Wilson was vexed with us—— “So young as he was, how was it possible he should understand?”—but the fact was that he understood perfectly—and any way, it was necessary to tell him the fact. The emotion soon passed & he recovered his spirits like the baby he is, poor darling. As to working upon his feelings I would’nt do such a thing for the world. I would’nt blot the divine sunshine of his infancy with the shadow of the handsbreadth of a cloud—but these poor children, though older than he, have been his playmates all the summer, & he is likely to see Edith continually, if God spares her. Two days, since we have been here, he & Wilson have spent at Miss Blagden’s .. she is very very kind, and would have him to dine &c—& he became suddenly quite familiar with her & at home, & has bewitched the whole house, it appears. On her first visit to us he brought out your green frock with the immortal buttons, (“shining lite the sun”, said he) to show her. Wilson has let down the waist to meet his growth, & it still is a beautiful frock & the especial glory of its owner. He wears, too, George’s blue frock .. the frock made from the pelisse .. and I bought him at Florence a plaid merino which we have trimmed with black velvet, so that he is well off, & looks .. oh, so pretty!– But just now I look at him with a tremble at the heart! These treasures,—which at once are ours, & not ours!!– The late affliction has been all the more painful to me that the persons afflicted have very unformed opinions .. belief which is no belief .. a certain vague natural piety on Emelyn’s side, but on her husband’s, what I must call absolute infidelity .. The immortality of the soul he believes in indeed, & he is’nt troubled by doubts about the happiness of his child– The Divine goodness is so great, Arabel, that God seems to help persons who scarcely admit His personality .. as is the way with the holders of Emersonian doctrines. [9] She sees farther than he does .. or rather feels farther, which is the case with women, sometimes. Robert fancied that conviction was struck into them both by this blow—but grief of itself does not convert—no. Say nothing of all this. I write to you because my heart is open to you. Little Joe was buried (on the third day) by Mr. Baird, [10] the american minister of the Scotch church, [11] an excellent man, whose ministry we mean to attend. Robert liked him much– Think of my poor Robert! Not only did he never leave the deathbed of the child, but when all was over he (and a manservant helping him) did everything horrible in the last necessary offices to the poor little body, (being entreated) & yielded to the mother’s pathetic fancies in the arrangement of this & that– She made a garland for the head, Arabel, with her own hands .. twisting up violets & white roses with twists of her hair– How my very soul sickened while I sate by her. She could do it. For me, this way is’nt my way. This dust is not my beloved. I recoil from this paddling with clay, when what made it precious to me is above, looking down upon it & me. Robert & I feel much alike as to such things, but we had to be tender & bear with other sorts of feelings. The funeral took place on the third day—Robert chose the place .. close to Shelley’s grave in the cemetery– [12] I thought <R>obert would have been quite l<ai>d up– He looked broken by the labour of heart & hand. Emelyn is a sweet, loving creature; we would either of us do anything for her—or indeed, for him. I did not see the body– I was afraid they would make me go in .. that I could not avoid it without wounding their feelings .. but Robert managed to spare me that– It was dreadful enough, even so.
Today Mr Story has gone to his studio, & Edith is decidedly better though the fever will run its course obviously, & cover five or six more days. Still, we begin to see light. The nurse is better. I have persuaded Robert to go & call on Isabella Blagden—it will do him good. The weather too which since our arrival has <bee>n miserably cold (we had exquisite weather on the road) <is> beginning to be bright & beautiful– Our apartment is very complete, & <full> of sunshine– On a third floor [13] .. which is considered more healthy at Rome—& the stairs are easy—it is’nt like the third floor of a London house, understand. We pay forty scudi a month .. at the rate of a fraction more than two pounds a week .. but the prices everywhere here are exorbitant .. and the rooms are quite unexceptional– Illus. Two or three windows, you see, in each room, & every corner carpeted. Furniture comfortable. Armchairs, & sofas enough to please me even. Then the situation is excellent—just off the Piazza di Spagna—in the heart of the English quarter which is considered espe<cially he>althy. I have just taken courage to arrange the rooms, as if we meant to live in them & not die. Robert praises me you know, for my knack of arranging rooms, & I had begun it, the first dreadful morning .. & there the tables stood, just as I had pushed them, when interrupted, in the middle of the floor! But now it all is put into order, & looks pretty & cheerful– I told you that the Storys were with friends of theirs down stairs, in the second-floor apartment. The friend is Mr Page—the great American artist .. the “American Titian” as he is called. His three grown up daughters (young girls) are with him, & his second wife, who looks like one of them .. such a mere girl, she is. [14] He is a Swedenborgian “with reservations,” I understand .. & he has taken a decided part in the spiritualism which has been going on at Rome, Mrs Shaw told me. People talk of him as a man of extraordinary eloquence in conversation .. but I have heard none of it yet, though we have been thrown together several times by these events, of course. Always he has been peculiarly silent– Last night I said to him in an aside, that I hoped to hear his opinions on some points on which we sympathized—but I have resolved to avoid such subjects where they were likely to lead to discussion—and the Storys’ sympathy was entirely out of the question.
I showed Isabella <Bla>gden the paper on which was the mystical writing of Eliza Flower’s sister’s second name. She agreed with me that the name (Fuller) was distinctly written. Yet Mr Story insisted it was not .. that “it might be anything” .. & carried away Robert from his first impression. [15] I say calmly .. the disbelief of men is more wonderful to me than the access of spirits! I never discuss the subject now with Robert– I never will again– He said to me suddenly the other day—“If those are spirits, Ba, they are evil spirits”. That remains to be proved. It is not proved to me. There <is a> mixture, evidently, to my mind. This thing has been working in the Newman street churches,—precisely this thing, whatever it is, I do believe– Dont quote me on the subject however, because I have not seen much– Some of the spirits announce the beginning of the Millen[n]ial reign. So much more I have to tell you—it does me good to write. Speak of Henrietta—of Trippy—of Minny too—of my dearest Papa– Write, I beseech you! Your own Ba my own beloved! Tell me of yourself. Wilson is much better, but is in great anxiety at not hearing from her sisters. She has not heard once from any of them since her mother’s death & the letter which told it. Is it kind?
Tell me if this letter is charged single. I want to know how much I may send with impunity.
Address, on integral page: Angleterre viâ France. / Miss Barrett / 50. Wimpole Street / London.
Publication: EBB-AB, II, 43–49.
Manuscript: Berg Collection and Gordon E. Moulton-Barrett.
1. This letter is postmarked 30 November 1853, a Wednesday.
2. At 93 Piazza di Spagna.
3. Joseph Story died on 23 November 1853.
4. Identified by EBB below as William Page and his family.
6. Diomede Pantaleoni (see letter 3279, note 2). EBB habitually misspells his surname.
7. “Sudden gale”; or “gust of wind.”
8. The monastery, Sagro Convento di San Francesco, and the “triple church” were built in honor of St. Francis of Assisi (1182–1226). The complex was begun in 1228, the year of his canonization. Murray’s A Handbook for Travellers in Central Italy (1853) describes the “triple church” as “2 conventual churches, piled one over the other; or, if we include the subterranean ch. excavated to receive the body of St. Francis, their number may be said to be 3” (part I, p. 248). The churches contain frescoes by Cimabue and Giotto.
9. i.e., Transcendentalists, who viewed God as present in all living things, rather than as an individual. Additionally, they followed the Unitarians in believing that Christ was mortal. Many Transcendentalists had been or were Unitarians, including Emerson, an ordained Unitarian minister.
10. Charles Washington Baird (1828–87) graduated from the Union Theological Seminary “in the spring of 1852, and, after licensure by the Presbytery of New Brunswick, sailed for Europe in the month of September, to become chaplain of the American Chapel in the city of Rome. … During his vacation in the summer of 1853, he returned for a few weeks to the United States, in order to receive ordination at the hands of the same presbytery by which he had been licensed to preach the Gospel” (Henry M. Baird, “Biographical Sketch,” Memorials of the Rev. Charles W. Baird, D.D., ed. Margaret E. Baird, New York, 1888, p. 5). Baird is listed in the Brownings’ address book of this period (AB-3) at 26 Piazza di Spagna.
11. According to Murray’s Handbook, Presbyterian services were “celebrated every Sunday at the United States Legation, in the Piazza del Popolo, in a large apartment liberally appropriated by the Minister for that purpose, and where persons of all countries are freely admitted” (part II, p. 7).
12. Joe Story was buried in the old part of the Protestant Cemetery in Rome, opposite the grave of Shelley.
13. i.e., three stories above the ground floor.
14. Sara Augusta Page (née Dougherty, afterwards Sweeny, 1825–92), the youngest child of William Walter Dougherty (b. 1784), of Albany, New York, and his wife Frances (née Hopkins), had married William Page in 1843. He and his first wife, Lavinia (née Twibill, b. 1815), had three daughters: Anne (afterwards Fortuna, b. 1834), Mary (afterwards Williams, b. 1836), and Emma (afterwards Watson, b. 1839). Sara Page’s portrait by her husband is reproduced facing p. 179.
15. See EBB’s description of the automatic writing in letter 3286.
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