3468. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 20, 304–309.
[Florence]
[12 September 1854] [1]
My ever beloved Arabel I have been living on the hope of having a letter from you today– I had hoped for it before—and it does’nt come even today. Dearest Arabel, do you not fancy how anxious I must be to have letters from you at this time? Certainly your accounts were cheering & hopeful, but the fact of such news coming at all, were a great shock to me—and then, at such a distance, at such a distance! Dearest, I beseech you to write. Oh—if I have to wait till you answer that prayer of mine! Perhaps tomorrow a letter may come. Perhaps– Do you know, Arabel, by the return of the post which brought me your information about the accident, [2] I wrote to Papa—just a few words—not to ask for any sign in return .. simply to say that I had heard—& how I felt. I would not write to you at the time lest you should feel nervous & be embarrassed in your answers in the case of questions being asked. My letter was enclosed to London, & put into the London post office—and I made Penini write the direction, to give it a chance of being opened– Penini was inspired for the occasion I do believe, taking the greatest pains & writing so beautifully that Robert fancied I had written the “Esquire” myself. The truth is, the child was immensely flattered by my asking him to direct my letter. “Oh”—said he—“you ta’nt do it yourself– Oh,” said he.
Married today eight years. How happy I should be if I had had a good letter from you, darling. Penini said to me for his last words last night—“Dood night! Try not to sint too much about being mallied.” “Why,” I asked– “Because then you wont have such pleasure from the pretty things–” He meant I should’nt be so surprised by the drawings he brought as presents in the morning .. & by the fresh flowers which he & Wilson & Ferdinando arranged in the vases. Then Robert had a gift for me .. after the precious love undim through all these years .. a beautiful malachite broach: he knew that I admired malachite– It is mystically marked, & of as deep a green as the Elysian ghosts walk in when the poets guide them. But the words he gave it with were more costly. We bought for Wilson a foulard silk, very pretty. By the way she is reluctant to go out of mourning lest she should find her sisters still in black next summer– [3] But surely this is’nt likely to be the case– Here on the continent any mourning that exceeds the year is considered most peculiar, and I had understood that it was much the same now in England.
Dearest Arabel, how good God was to us that that sad accident did not happen worse still. It thrills me to the bones to think of it– Then again I think that out of this evil, good may come .. must come, since the evil was permitted– It may bring him closer to his children (I dont mean Henrietta & me) & make him more cognizant of their attachment & tenderness.
Sept. 13. It was a very pleasant day yesterday– You cant think what a darling that Penini was all day– I was kissed nearly to extinction– “I do love you so much– I like your birsday more than my own birsday. How old are you today?” “Eight,” said I. A venerable age he seemed to think that– Still he had a sort of idea about the true meaning of the day– “You have been married before,” he enquired. Also he said to Wilson in the course of the morning, “Dear Lily when is your wedding day.” He dined with us & had tea with us, and we had knead cakes & crumpets—but Penini read & wrote just as usual .. his usual half hour .. because it’s our way to do that .. even on sundays. He is none the happier for missing his one half hour of application. Only he could’nt read for kissing me—he “loved me the two worlds full,” he said. Wilson maintains there never was such a child for love as Penini. Whenever anything goes wrong he shows his naughtiness by reproaching people for not loving him– “Nobody loves me– You dont love me, not a bit. Sometimes you are a little naughty, yes, and I love you still. But you dont love me .. oh no.” Then there’s a scene, & a quantity of embraces & kissings to make it all up. He has written you a letter today, Arabel, [4] .. entirely his own, understand, composition & all but the spelling,—& it was begun & finished this morning instead of his usual writing lesson, so that the dear little fingers were weary & began to stagger in the middle. He had ruled lines under the paper of course—but he wont let me rule the paper with a pencil—he considers it infra dig: altogether. Certainly I consider his writing extraordinary for his age. People can scarcely believe it to be genuine when they look at it. “Such an infant as that!” Indeed I hear he is celebrated in the critic newspaper for “beauty & genius” [5] —so Miss Sandford tells me. Robert is a little disturbed because Henry is’nt mentioned in the letter—but I would’nt interfere with a word to make it less his own in any way. George was immortalized by the famous pump which is still a favorite toy—& generally he speaks of “my uncles & my George,” as if the latter was something especial in relationship.
Dearest Arabel you will be glad to hear that Mr Kenyon remembered, [6] with kind expressions of regret for the forgetfulness, & a command that we should remind him in future. Also, the David Lyon has come in, & will give an immense dividend .. it is supposed as much as £175, when accounts are made out .. so that there will be every facility for England next summer. We have not had such a dividend since the year after our marriage—but I suppose it wont be paid for months, which will be less convenient. Still I ought not to complain of ‘inconvenience’ when we expected nothing at all till next summer. We have been straightened altogether this year, & I was vexed at being disabled from Lucca (for Penini’s sake) but as the child is well there’s little to regret now, & really it has been a very agreeable summer in many ways. Yes, London is always more oppressive than Florence when London is at the hottest. Only, with you, there’s hope (which makes a difference) hope of a wind, hope of a rain, hope of a change. With us, we are “in for it,” & look forward to a perpetuity of perspiration––“con rispetto,” [7] be it said. Now it is cool enough for shawls in the evening, & even for a blanket at night with certain persons, .. though of course the sun remains burning in the middle of the day. Divine weather it is & has been—& no cholera in Florence. I am anxious about the cholera in London– [8] Ah Arabel! if I dont get a letter today!–
Dearest, we send directions to Chapman & Hall to let you have an accumulation of books & letters which lie at his house for us. Tell us the names of the books—& open the letters & give us some brief account of their insides.
I must throw a light on Penini’s letter. He saw a dinner-set in the bazaar here, which he described as a “beau– … tiful dinner-set, wiz silver plates in cotton-wool.” “Will papa buy it for me?” Said papa cruelly, it was too expensive for anybody who did’nt understand Greek. Penini threw himself into an oratorical attitude—“Here’s my sumb! (thumb!) Look—it has a gift on it! I sint the evil spillets have been looking round the world for somesing pretty for Penini, and then they found that beau .. tiful dinner set, and then they put this gift on my sumb [9] to show my papa he must give it to me!” “Well”—said Robert—“I’m glad you admit they are evil spirits .. you, at least!” “Oh no, no, no! I not meant evil spillets—” (it was a slip of the child’s tongue.) “I mean spillets! I mean dood, beau .. tiful angels!” We were all in fits of laughter, and the American sculptress, Hatty Hosmer, who was present, had the great goodnature to buy this “beau .. tiful dinner set” & send it to him anonymously directly afterwards. She observed he was the most original child she ever saw—and really I cant give you a notion of his manner & the tones of his voice in conducting this argument of his which turned out so successful.
While I write Robert brings me in .. no letter from you but one from dearest George. Give him my love & tell him I am very thankful to him for writing. For this half hour I have been groaning & moaning over his letter, though– “Permanent lameness”—“one leg shorter than another”—but how can a simple fracture produce such consequences? how can they know at any rate, till he walks? I should be more distressed than I am if I fairly believed in any such thing. Write to me, Arabel, & tell me more particulars. Unless there’s contraction .. what can be the meaning of this probability? “It is probable,” says George. How, probable? Oh—grievous the very idea of such a thing is—my poor dearest dearest papa! It would interfere so with his comfort & activity—it would be horrible. Mind you write, Arabel. You might have put in another sheet to George’s letter which was too brief .. the only fault of it. I entreat you all to take care, to take every precaution against cholera, and to allow no “admonitory symptom” to escape you, without immediate remedy. As for ourselves we shall not leave Florence this year I think. The “fifty pounds” in question were just necessary .. and it will be hard to get on with our bread & butter until the arrival of the ship-money, without eating it on the Appenines. Then Lucca is cold, not cool, now—& Florence is grown cool enough for comfort. As to Penini he’s in a flourishing state—he wants no change– I am easy about him. Now, in the matter of Routledge– [10] Tell George with Robert’s love that he approves & I approve much of his idea about the ballads. If George will have the goodness to carry out what he had the goodness to propose doing,—let him go to Routledge & ascertain what he will give me for such an edition of my ballads in a popular shape, I furnishing a few new ballads to complete the collection?– I have a few, one or two written this summer [11] & by no means my worst I think. I do not doubt that a little book of the kind at a cheap rate, would sell well, & would not interfere with the general sale of my works—but I must know what Routledge would give me & then I will consider. Of course it would’nt do to ‘be ungenerous[’] to Chapman & Hall. We must not be too rash about it—we must consider a little.
Isa Blagden’s knee is not much better, though her general health is, .. & I hope it is a mere nervous fancy of hers that all her bones are softening. There’s no swelling of the knee, understand—but the kneecap does’nt adhere, & the bones yield. Poor thing—she has to be carried upstairs whenever she comes to us. Her warm heart & active mind keep her alive & gay, & she thinks as much of other people as if she had no reason for thinking sadly of herself. Really I respect & love dear Isa. She means to spend this winter in Florence & to go north when we do– Mr & Mrs Irving are also here. Hatty Hosmer, the sculptor, our great pet, Robert’s & mine, is passing the summer in Isa’s villa. Mr Norton “has presented the world with a baby” as Robert is fond of saying– It’s generally said of the lady—but poor Mrs Norton goes for nothing, you know. I went to see her the other day & the baby, and she looked very good & innocent with that sweet tender smile of her’s, & for the first time I thought her pretty. The poetess sent for her son when the confinement had taken place ten days– “He wd be better away—his wife had her baby to amuse her.” There was a Nortonian sentiment! I said to poor “Marie” that I would’nt suffer my husband to go if I were she. What could she do, she exclaimed .. the “signora madre” would be so “arrabiata”!! [12] However, he has not been well, & this has deferred the departure. She speaks horrible Italian, every word clipt off in the middle. The baby is a nice little thing.
Penini has a pair of rabbits which he keeps on the terrace before his window. Ferdinando (who conspired with him to get them) cleans the place every morning that there may be no smell, but Wilson is a good deal scandalized at Penini’s speculations on the subject. There’s a “man rabbit,” you are to understand, & a “woman-rabbit”—and the “man-rabbit’s” as bold as brass, while the “woman-rabbit keeps in her hole & is quite shocked” to eat cabbages in public—and Ferdinando has made a house for her where she is “to make her little babies.”
Do you hear ever of Mrs Jago? Because I never do. Tell me what you know. Tell me something about dearest Trippy whom you dont mention this time, & give her my very best love– And yourself Arabel. I ask you again & again to speak of yourself– Now, I do beseech you to speak of yourself. I want to hear exactly how you are—do, dearest, if I am dear to you at all. I adjure you by that word. Was any sign given in respect to my letter? did anybody guess that it came? I mean, the letter to Papa– Henrietta in barracks– [13] Ah, but that must surely be uncomfortable. I am going to write to dearest Henrietta—tell her so– May God bless you & keep you. Let me tell you one thing– “The Spirits” said to me about the time of the accident .. “Your poor father is very ill—in bed.” I was so frightened I ran away (like me!) & would’nt see any writing for days afterwards. Then, the subject was not taken up again. It might have been a coincidence, but was very curious. Seldom is anything painful ever said, & so I was the more startled.
Address: Angleterre viâ France. / Miss Barrett / 50. Wimpole Street / London.
Publication: EBB-AB, II, 95–100.
Manuscript: Berg Collection.
Enclosure:
Casa Guidi.
[13] Sept: 1854.
Dearest Arabel,
I send this note because I think it will please you. How is George, & my uncles, & Minny? I hope you are all quite well. I want you to tell George the handle of the pump is broke, but now I have had it mended.
One day, there came a gift on my thumb, & the next day afternoon, a ring at the bell came. I was pumping. And then I saw a large box! I ran & took it in my arms, and took it in the drawing room. I opened it,—& there was a dinner set,—& then a thing to make butter with, & a thing to hold water! And one morning, I made some butter, & I ate it for my tea, & it was very nice.
Goodbye my affectionate friends, Arabel & George.
Penini.
Love to dear Trippy.
Miss Barrett–
Wimpole Street.
1. Date provided by EBB’s reference to the Brownings’ eighth wedding anniversary.
2. In August 1854, EBB’s father was struck by a cab in Wimpole Street, resulting in a broken leg.
3. Wilson’s mother had died in October 1853. See letter 3286, note 8.
4. See the enclosure at the end of this letter.
5. The Italian correspondent, writing from “Florence, June 30, 1854” in The Critic of 1 August 1854, described seeing “Mr. and Mrs. Browning … at home in that Casa Guidi which has become classic in English poetry—an old mansion in one of the quietly respectable and most pleasant streets on the less populous side of the Arno, which bears an aspect of ancestral dignity in its spacious apartments, lofty portals, and wide staircase. Here, in a tapestried drawing-room, several objects of antique art have been collected with taste by Mr. Browning; and here was born the beautiful and singularly intelligent little boy who promises to prove worthy of his parents, perhaps the inheritor of their genius” (pp. 422–423).
6. His semi-annual gift of fifty pounds (see letter 2905, note 3).
7. “With respect.”
8. The Times had been carrying reports on the current outbreak there. An article in the issue of 6 September 1854 stated: “The deaths from cholera during the last nine weeks have been 1, 5, 26, 133, 399, 644, 729, 847, 1,287” (p. 5). The majority of the fatal cases were occurring south of the Thames. The neighborhood of Cavendish Square, which included Wimpole Street, had experienced only two deaths from cholera in the previous eight weeks.
9. “A white speck on the finger-nails, supposed to portend a gift” (OED).
10. The publishing firm of George Routledge & Co. at 2 Farringdon Street, founded by George Routledge (1812–88). Nothing came of the proposal EBB mentions.
11. One of these was certainly “Bianca Among the Nightingales” (Last Poems, 1862), which contains echoes of EBB’s descriptions of evening walks home from Lytton’s villa at Bellosguardo. See, for example, the third to last paragraph in letter 3430 and compare it with the first stanza of the poem.
12. “The ‘lady mother’ would be so ‘angry’!!”
13. In June 1854 Surtees and his regiment had been posted to Plymouth, where he was soon joined by Henrietta and the children. Two months later he recorded: “We this day, moved into field officers’ quarters No. 1. in the Citadel—to try a B[arrac]k. life” (Surtees, 19 August 1854).
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