3453. EBB to Henrietta Cook
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 20, 273–277.
Florence.
July 29– [1854] [1]
My beloved Henrietta, you will have given me up by this time I dare say, for a good for nothing Ba not worth a thought more. Understand how it has really been, rather .. how I have been swinging like a pendulum between places & doings, &, after, been broken off short & thrown on the floor & left to make the best of a bad position. Then I did’nt know where to find you till I had your address from Arabel. Dearest dear Henrietta, believe me that I have not sinned against the love of you & the anxiety about you. You are at Plymouth—and you dont dislike it, Arabel says, in spite of having only half a Surtees there– I mean that with the exception of such a disadvantage, you like the place. But there’s a danger of Ireland still [2] —how is that? Tell me of yourselves—I am so anxious. Be good & tender to me & write, & forgive this silence which was not a real silence, seeing that you heard the news of me from London regularly & I trusted to that. The conclusion about the shipmoney has embarrassed us more than we have yet been embarrassed, from pecuniary causes. Not only we could’nt go to Paris & London .. which was a luxury,—but we could’nt go to Lucca .. which was almost a necessity for health, in these burning summers of Florence. To live on from day to day for the next three months is the only thing possible—and even that cant be done probably without selling out at an immense loss (in these war-days) some of the last one hundred pounds left to us as a free resource. Thank God, our Penini has steadily improved since Rome & does’nt seem to suffer from this hot weather,—(83 Fahrenheit in the cool of the evening!)– A little languid now & then he is, but not unhealthily so, & chiefly at lessons .. simply given to run about as much as possible “in the nude,” & lie on the floor tossing his legs. He said yesterday, too, he “felt intlined to say naughty words”—an inclination suddenly repressed by my exclaiming, “How frightened I should be if I were you. Some evil spirit must be trying to make you wicked. If I were you I would pray to gentle Jesus to keep me good and safe.” You ought to have seen his face!– Poor darling!– To be “tutto bagnato” [3] all day, as the Italians say elegantly, to denote perspiration, is inconvenient & trying,—but after all Florence is his native place & healthy though hot, & he does’nt seem to be the worse. Not that I would’nt gladly have taken him to the Baths of Lucca where he grew so fat & rosy in the shadow of the mountains last summer. But it cant be helped. We must do the best we can. Robert objects to my writing for the magazines, or we might have remedied the difficulty at once—and I, who dont agree in the least, yield the point like a patient Griselda, [4] conjugally & meekly, Henrietta!
Dear, I have been so deeply pained by the last letter from Arabel .. you know how & why. I am not to mention the subject in my letters she says—& indeed there is nothing to be said or done, .. & I suspect that, as it is, a good deal of money (chiefly that dear George’s perhaps) has been thrown into a bottomless pit, without a hope of filling it up an inch. Alfred should submit, & not accept sacrifices—that is my opinion—and your’s, I dare say. The bankruptcy court is a dismal business, but to meet a necessity frankly is wise as well as right. As to Papa he alone could give real help:—he refuses, &, in that he acts as he has acted to his family for years, .. strangely, hardly, but consistently of course. O miserable consistency!– I cant trust myself to speak on this subject. I feel more sadly for him than for all of us together, though the straight of some of us were greater than it is now. Poor dearest Papa!–
And Arabel has to live on there in Wimpole Street & bear it all .. & I cant be in London to cheer her a little! It is sad, sad. Her letter pained me to the roots of my heart.
I want somebody to tell me– Lizzie’s father died. [5] In what state were his affairs when he died? & what was left to her?
After all, these money-difficulties, taken by themselves, are the least of the vexations which come to men & women. As for ourselves, Penini being well, we make ourselves contented, and even Robert is wonderfully free from his usual fever & frenzy over unhappy ‘sums.’ He has been arranging our books these two days, & utilizing two very pretty table-tops (bought last year) by putting legs to them .. black legs at four & sixpence a pair. Our rooms look picturesque & habitable, & we shall work at our books for the publication next spring, & be as happy as we can. Now I am over my disappointment, I should be quite happy, if I had good news from England of you all, and if (oh, those ‘ifs,’ Henrietta!) I were less anxious about dear Miss Mitford from whom Arabel enclosed me a note of very bad & melancholy omen. Arabel says, too, “she is very ill”—and I am most uneasy. Well—there is no use in teazing you. You cant help me, & ought’nt to be bored beyond your own sphere of necessary vexation.
If you could see me here. Low arm-chair—feet on the sofa .. costume .. as little as possible, & chiefly expressed by negatives. No stays, no gown, scarcely any petticoat,—a white half-dressing gown .. dimity jacket, I mean. The other morning, Robert called me just so (when I had had the modesty to run away) to receive young Mr Norton .. who, by the way, sate exactly four hours with us, keeping his carriage waiting at the door. I say his carriage, & should have said his fiacre .. for which he must have paid as you may suppose. In my opinion he was transfixed by the sight of my costume. Nothing else could account for it.
I forget whether I ever told Arabel anything about Mr Norton. He is the younger son of the poetess, & not one & twenty yet. About a year ago at Naples he married a Capri peasant girl of his own age, to the consternation of his whole family,—& they are residing in Florence now & in daily expectation of her confinement. I proposed calling upon her at once—for which he thanked me, fearing that I would get small pleasure from the acquaintance– “She is no companion for you as she is only just beginning her education.” In fact the education has, as yet, only attained the point of wearing shoes & stockings, & reading syllables in three letters. He said, as he turned over Penini’s copybook .. “How I wish my wife could write as well”—and he confided to us how he had begun by teaching her himself, but on finding that he only made her burst into tears at every fresh difficulty, had resolved on engaging a governess– I went to see her. She is not in the least pretty .. which is curious .. but has a good, honest face, rather coarse in character– The figure one cant talk of under her circumstances– Not at all shy—the Italians scarcely ever are– They are often much gracefuller in manner however than this Capri bride is. She talked an immense deal about the “signore,” in detestable Italian & with a harsh unsusceptible voice—nothing will ever refine that woman. Is’nt it astonishing? and he, over-polished rather than under .. full of poetical sentiment, wearing sky-blue silk cravats, in delicate health, dreaming dreams, wearing a golden cross under his waistcoat! The inconsistencies of men are stupendous– I like him very much. He is earnest, frank & ingenuous—told us all about his marriage, & his previous life, and refused to dine with us because he “liked to see Marie cook his soup & macaroni.” Certainly she is fitter for it than for being Lady Grantley [6] as she is likely to be ere long—his elder brother [7] having a “bad life” as it is called. I dont wonder that poor Mrs Norton (the poetess) should be considerably horrified. She is coming to Florence, he hopes, to stay. In spite of our straightened circumstances & my scanty costume at this writing, I assure you, Henrietta, I have bought three gowns this summer. Forced to do it, I was, seeing that I had not bought one since leaving England though I threatened to do it at Rome. Two muslin gowns, & a barége .. (brown, blue, lilac) made with flounces in all orthodoxy to please Robert .. & jackets with basques, .. opening in front. I have had all my muslin sleeves fastened on to the corresponding waistcoat-bodies which are so much worn just now, & find this arrangement of a convenience which I recommend to your attention. I think Arabel recommended it first to mine. Then I have had a black silk jacket made .. which I cant wear now for the heat, .. with open sleeves—very pretty. Illus. You tell me to tell you sometimes: & I like to know, for my part, what you & Arabel are wearing, because then I can fancy you as you are. As to Penini I have been hard at work embroidering for him– I have embroidered a grey jaconette [8] (how do you spell it) dress with white braid .. a little blouse, low in the neck & short sleeves, with a jacket to correspond for out of doors. A raw silk (the colour of silkworm’s silk) blouse & jacket, embroidered in black silk. A white jean dress .. the same. After all I am not sure that I like these blouses as well as the frocks .. which he wears in change with them—though he really looks pretty enough in all. His Leghorn hat is as usual—trimmed with a wide, white & red & blue tartan ribbon, & a drooping white feather. His trowsers are beautifully embroidered .. for I have found a treasury of cheap muslin embroidery in Florence—& I am extravagant about his trowsers & collars– One must be extravagant about some things—and does’nt he tell me that he “loves me better than all the ladies in the world.”? Penini is considerably interested about the war, & pretends to read the newspaper in Italian about “bellissimi regimenti,” [9] and how his friend Napoleon has sent eight hundred thousand “uomini in Turchia.” [10] It’s amusing to hear him. He asked me the other day if I did’nt dislike the Austrians very much. I said, “yes, I disliked them in Florence– They had no business here.”– “The Tedeschi [11] are velly naughty, I sint. The Flench are dood. The Russians .... oh, hollid! The Turts, velly dood.” So he passed judgement on the nations. It is’nt I, I assure you .. it’s altogether Ferdinando, who helps him to his opinions on politics. Two days since he had been paying a visit to Mrs Kinney’s little girls, [12] & Wilson told me that he had not been kind & good to a little french girl who was visiting them at the same time. I said, .. “Now, Penini, you promised me to be good.” “Well—I was velly good to the others—but evellybody not loves that girl. Ought I be the only one that loves her.” “Certainly”—said Robert, “If other people are not kind to her you should be more kind to make up for it.” “Now, I will tell you—” (throwing himself into an attitude & using the most animated gesticulation) “This girl is naughty. First, she is Tedesch– I know she is. She speats flench, but she has yellow in her dless. Then she says priests is God. Lat’s not tlue. I say, priests is priests—and wolves is wolves—and lions is lions– I dont say wolves is lions, and priests is God! Lat’s velly naughty.” It was absolutely impossible to keep one’s countenance. Wilson told me he had heard one of the little Kinneys (girls of eleven & twelve) say that the french girl was a catholic, & that the catholics put their priests in the place of God .. & Penini understood her after his own fashion. He never meddled with controversy before, & really I dont think he came ill out of the first essay. This hot weather is’nt favorable to the lessons. He finds it very laborious to exert himself to spell a hard word, & “guesses out”, as he calls it, most unscrupulously. A sweeter-tempered child never was in the world. Any small naughtiness is over in a moment, & at worst there is nothing worse than a little pettishness—violence is not in his nature. I was a very different child, & so was Robert, he says. Now write to me, & tell me of your darlings. Tell me of Altham—costume & lessons & plays & all. It interests me as you may imagine. Tell me if you have let your house at Taunton, & if the children bathe– I should like some sea air for my treasure. I too—but God arranges right for us all. Have you pleasant rooms at Plymouth? Tell all, & write soon I do beseech you. Remember that I am dependent on you all for letters– God bless you dearest dear Henrietta & dear Surtees, & the darlings. Robert’s love with that of
your Ba
The Spirits seen as usual– Among my regrets about England is that you shd not all see phenomena, which are very strange.
Address: Angleterre via France– / Mrs Surtees Cook / 4. Crescent Place / Plymouth / Devon.
Publication: Huxley, pp. 204–206 (in part).
Manuscript: British Library.
1. Year provided by postmark.
3. “Soaked.”
4. Griselda, the heroine of the final story in Boccaccio’s The Decameron, whose patience and loyalty are repeatedly tested by her husband.
5. George Goodin Barrett (1792–1854) had died in Jamaica on 1 May 1854. His estate was entailed for the lifetime and care of his wife, Elizabeth Jane (née Turner, 1800–86) who went insane shortly after Lizzie’s birth. However, her mother’s trustees agreed to “allot a share of her income” towards Lizzie’s maintenance (Edward George Barrett to Edward Moulton-Barrett, 17 April 1854, ms at Eton). In that same letter it was revealed that Lizzie’s and Edward George’s father had “debts owing” of “about £4200.”
6. She became Lady Grantley in 1875 when her husband succeeded to the title of 4th Baron Grantley.
7. Fletcher Cavendish Charles Conyers Norton (1829–59), attaché to the British embassy at Paris. He died of consumption in that city on 13 October 1859. The 3rd Baron Grantley, Fletcher Norton (1798–1875), had no children, leaving his brother George’s eldest son next in line to the title.
8. Sic, for jaconet.
9. “Very beautiful regiments.”
10. “Men to Turkey.”
11. “Germans.”
12. Elizabeth Clementine Kinney (afterwards Kip, 1842–1920) and Mary Burnet Kinney (afterwards Easton, 1843–1924).
___________________
