3551. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 21, 155–160.
[Florence]
May 15 [–17]. [1855] [1]
My beloved Arabel you are wondering at me for my dumbness, I dare say—pondering perhaps whether we mean after all to give you the slip this year again & not come to England. No—it is not so bad. I believe we are coming. In the meantime, in such a terrible trouble & fuss we can scarcely, either of us, turn round,—& to turn round to write a letter is difficult. So much to think of, too! You will have heard by this time about Wilson & Ferdinando. [2] He has been trying at it these two years, but she would not hear of it for some time—but where men are pertinacious in such things (or women either) they generally get their way– For my own sake, of course it is a shake to one’s comfort—nerves, comfort, everything—because although they will both remain with us as long as it is possible, the probability of course is that there will be results to render it impossible before very long—& then what’s to become of Penini .. to go no farther .. is saddening to think. It will be a heartbreak to the child– Still, there’s no use looking forward to what may not happen– Also, there’s no virtue in being utterly selfish, & thinking of everything but of poor dear Wilson herself, who should not, because she has been perfect to one’s child & good & kind in every way, be shut out on that account from her own prospects of domestic happiness. Happy I believe she will be. A better man, more upright & of a more tender nature, it would be difficult to find, than Ferdinando is. Robert, so opposed in general to mixed marriages, has not a word to say against this—has not a fear for Wilson—& is perfectly satisfied for her own sake, that she should act according to her feelings– Ferdinando is rather protestant than catholic, as you know .. & Wilson has been here so long that she feels herself, she says, half an Italian, and does not care much for English ways of life. They are to stay with us, as I think I said, till we are forced to part, or till some prospect of better separate fortune opens on them. Their fancy is rather, to be married in Paris on the road—but I advise against it—(though Wilson thinks it will save some fuss in England) & also whether we shall stay long enough in Paris remains uncertain. The prices seem exorbitant just now. If Mr Browning could meet us elsewhere … but I know nothing, except that we must positively see him before England: it would be too unkind, otherwise. As to the Paris exhibition, we dont care for it—and, if we did, we shall have enough of that in the autumn, on our return from London. Be sure we shall not linger in Paris at any rate. We linger a little here in the meantime. There’s so much to do. Robert has six thousand lines written out clear, & the rest nearly ready. I have’nt a line written out, but between six & seven thousand are ready. I hear Penini’s lessons, the first thing—then write—and such heaps of letters accumulate over my head that they grow unanswerable. Then there’s Girolama at work for us in the next room, & I have to go backwards & forwards to see to the doing of various things necessary to our going north– Our linen did not hold out, I am sorry to say, which it wd have done if we had gone to England last year; and we have been forced to replume ourselves in various ways. Twelve pairs of trowsers for Penini, for instance—embroidery for each—he’s expensive, that child .. and I’m vain about him. By the way, we were reading the other day in ‘Line upon Line’ about David’s being praised for killing his “tens of thousands,” & what came of it. [3] Said Penini to me .. “Mama, I want to say somesing– When I walk out & go to parties .. when I’m dressed nice, you know .. I hear people say, ‘Oh, what a velly pretty little boy that is!,’—and leally I dont like it, not a bit–” (There’s humility for you!) “Well,” said I, making an exemplary commonplace, “it is’nt worth much certainly to be praised for one’s prettiness– It would be better to be praised for being good”—— “Yes,” (eagerly) “but it’s the same sing. God mates us pretty & God mates us good, and so we ought’nt to be praised, but God ought!” “Certainly,” said I– David had slain his tens of thousands and Penini was pretty & good– It was clear that with all the latter’s Christian modesty, he had a considerable opinion of his own merits. Poor little Pen! Like most of us, he “walked on Plato’s pride with greater pride.” [4]
I’m very anxious to do the impossible as I fear it will prove. I want very much to go by land, the Genoa & Nice road, & see that glorious scenery we have always had to miss. It will be so this time again, I prophecy—for the first vetturino applied to, asks four & twenty napoleons [5] for taking us to Nice, exclusive of hotel-expenses. That’s preposterous of course—but it’s a bad beginning of enquiries– It will be at cheapest much more expensive than the sea-voyage. I hate the sea. And Penini has taken into his head to be frightened. He had heard at Rome about the “Arctic”, [6] I am sorry to say—— But we must do as we can. He tells us to “take all his scudi and pay,” but to take him by the mountains instead of the sea. (Did I tell you that Mr Kenyon sent him a guinea for his poem?) [7] The worst is that all his scudi wont be enough, poor child.
Isa Blagden goes on the thirtieth, as Louisa is to embark for India next month. Last night we were at another grand soirée musicale at the Villa Torrigiani,—fourteen professional persons, & divine music of Beethoven, Mozart & Weber—we go again on saturday. It’s princely of Mr Tennyson—is’nt it? He is assisted in some of the expense of it, but the greater part of this falls on him. The music is intensely to be enjoyed– Afterwards there is tea &c. Then we have had a day in the country with the Tennysons, Nortons, & others at the villa Tassinari– [8] Heaps of children were there .. Penini of course .. who was in glory & rode on a poney & saw a calf, & confounded me finally by filling up his pockets with strawberries. If he had’nt boasted of it to me privately, of course he would have spoiled his frock & the gowns of everybody in his neighbourhood—but I was in time happily to scrape out the pockets with a spoon. Such a mess! Fancy me, Arabel .. at a full-dress collation! “Oh Penini, how could you do such a thing.” “But I did’nt sint they would melt, dear Mama.”
Now, listen, all unbelievers in spirits! You cant survive, much longer, .. so make the most of your life– Mr Jerves who had seen personally nothing of these things, though he had believed in them for some time on account of letters containing his father’s & mother’s experience in America, went to London on his way home. He’s rather a cold man,—& honest. He was to try Hume the medium just arrived in London, as he passed through,—& Robert said on parting—“If you see anything, write to us, and I will receive your testimony.” With Mr Jerves, went a Mr Tilton, a Roman artist, whom we knew also & who was quite incredulous on the whole subject. Well—the day on which we had calculated on getting Mr Jerves’s letter, came & passed, & Robert was beginning already to blow the trumpet of triumph upon me– “I told you so. He’s an honest man. He has seen nothing & wont write. I knew he would’nt write. These things always slip through.” In the midst, in came the letter.! Such a letter! In the last fortnight, it has been running up & down through Florence, nothing else talked of, everybody snatching it from everybody, .. reading it, copying it, dreaming & discussing over it. I cant send you extracts, for it is out of my hands still. Here however are the results– He has seen a heavy table with a French lamp on it lifted into the air, without a finger touching it—the same table tilted up on end .. the lamp kept in its place unmoved .. contrary to all laws of gravitation––same table made so light that he could lift it with a finger—same table made so heavy that all the persons present tugging at it, could’nt stir it an inch. (This, in different private houses.) The raps .. in all their varieties, of course. Visions of the hands .. the spiritual hands. “As surely as I clasped your hand at parting” says Mr Jerves, “I clasped the hand of a spirit—” repeatedly he did—“hands of different sizes”—“softer & more thrilling than any woman’s”—“conveying an inexpressible pleasure”—the “softest & most loving tenderness of touch”– I give you the words as I remember them. These hands did anything you asked them to do—untied a lady’s apron-string & carried the apron across the room in an undulating gliding movement without mortal intervention—struck playfully or patted tenderly the persons present—took Mr Jerves’s handkerchief & knotted it in so ingenious a manner as would be hard for a man’s craft. Then there was music—an accordion was played upon exquisitely—in a full light observe (the room was brilliantly lighted—a private room belonging to friends of Mr Jerves) more exquisitely, says he, than a mortal could play it. That may or may not be exaggeration—but the fact is that it was played well, & by no visible performer. Mr Jerves took hold of the instrument during the music & held it bottom upwards, & felt the spirits pulling it– I must tell you that altho’ he felt the hands, clasped them, felt the fingers, was aware of their various size & pressure, yet he himself saw them indistinctly—a sort of floating cloud, each hand was to him—a thing which moved & played about him—but the other persons present, all of them, including Mr Tilton our unbeliever, saw the hands of the spirits as perfectly & clearly as they saw their own. Then the house was shaken as with an earthquake .. both the perpendicular & lateral movement .. until the master of it begged for quiet—he was afraid of the consequences to the walls. The whole ended in trance & prayer on the part of the medium—magnificent in character—“like Dr Channing” says Mr Jerves who had heard him. Well—not satisfied with all this, our friend desired to pass a night with Hume—the demonstrations being often interesting on such occasions. So they slept together. (You see Hume is known to Mr Jerves’s family—he is quite a gentleman—related to the Earl of Hume [9] —& said to be a most interesting young man .. refined, frank, affectionate, pious .. & rather like Mr Ruskin in personal appearance.) At night the spirits walked round the bed with distinct footsteps—drew the curtains backward & forward, lifted up the heavy fourpost bed into the air .. & did everything Mr Jerves asked them to do except one for which there seemed to be a reason. They said they wd try to do it, but they failed. He saw, but dimly, a full-length spirit, upon this occasion. He tells us that he has had extraordinary revelations made to him, not only upon his own affairs but upon matters connected with people in Florence——& two or three ladies here are in agonies here because something is hinted which may refer to one of them. Well—what do you say? As Robert observes we cant any of us sit down & conclude that the man whom we saw the other day cold & sensible .. & sceptical about Mr Kirkup’s pet medium Regina .. has gone suddenly mad. Robert says, “Upon the whole, I cant make up my mind to believe it is delusion.” Robert is a good deal shaken avowedly then—only he wont finally give up, (never give up—die game!) till he sees with his eyes. Meanwhile .. “if it’s spiritual,” says he, “I’m inclined to think it’s devilish”——which is the most cruel conclusion I ever heard. I protest against any such conclusion. Well—we are to see with our eyes—Robert & I and Isa Blagden .. and you .. wont you? Only we wont sleep with Mr Hume, we have agreed, unless you should particularly desire it.
Louis Napoleon has invited Hume to Paris– [10] Lord Brougham has seen him. [11] I hear of lawyers dropping iron tears [12] at the proofs of the invisible world. This, in London.
Everybody must come over, because the truth is strong & will prevail. “I say with all reverence” writes Mr Jerves, “that I would stake my salvation upon the facts as I give them”. For my part I dont believe in the least degree more since I read his letter, simply because I believed entirely, previous to reading it.
Mr Hume comes to Europe in order to establish mediums & circles here. He will be present at any circle not exceeding six .. as he does’nt like to be too publicly ostentatious about it,—but he must be feed, [13] because he is poor & cannot contend with the expenses of Europe. In America he wd never, though he had enormous offers, do anything for money, but here he is obliged to pay his way. He is considered the most gifted medium at present known– He was studying for the church when the gift became developped, [14] & is highly spoken of for moral conduct & devoutness of disposition. Not that these have the least thing to do with the physical qualities which make a medium—but spirits are apt to come by affinity … well, but I have explained to you all that, till you are tired.
I am quite well in spite of over-work—& so are we all. I am chewing the cud bitterly of the word you dropped about going to the country– Now if you bring me across the Alps & then go into the country .. I shall hang myself with the bell-rope of <…> [15] of a London <…> Is dear Bummy with you—<…> a double kiss from me & say <…> be to see her soon. How is <…> rooms? satisfied a little better <…> I ought to be vexed with <…>. Mr & Mrs Stanhope (the Scudamore Stanhopes) [16] are next door to us, & having taken the trouble to write to Rome to get letters of introduction to us, we must honour them—which is a bore– So much to do!– Do write to me darling dearest & speak of yourself & Papa in detail!—also of the rest. True loves to all.
Your own Ba–
Make Wilson’s sister satisfied about her marriage, tell Minny– He is so good–
Mention Altham particularly. I wrote to Henrietta not long since. How is dear Minny? Arabel—perhaps papa may let you go to Paris for the exhibition in September—who knows? Robert’s love as ever.
Oh—Mr Ruskin. Such a letter he has written me. [17] Robert is delighted– He has selected my Catarina to Camoëns to be “illuminated” by his new old process. First he had fixed on Dante (first canto of the Inferno) & then he thought he would take instead an English poet and fixed on .. Ba!——
Address: Angleterre viâ France. / Miss Barrett / 50. Wimpole Street / London.
Publication: EBB-AB, II, 142–148.
Manuscript: Berg Collection.
1. Year and closing date provided by postmark of 17 May 1855.
2. They were engaged and would be married the following month in Florence.
3. In Line upon Line (part II, 1853), Favell Lee Mortimer presents the story of I Samuel 18, which tells of Saul’s jealousy of, and attempts to kill, David. After David proves himself in battle against the Philistines, the women of Israel sing: “‘Saul has slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands.’ Do you think that David liked to hear these Songs? No. David did not wish to be praised. He wished God to be praised” (Chapter 49, “David, or the Javelin”).
4. Cf. Byron, Don Juan, XVI, 43, 387.
5. Equivalent to about nine and a half pounds.
6. On 21 September 1854, an American steamer, The Arctic, left Liverpool for New York with 233 passengers. Six days later, about 55 miles S.E. of Cape Race, Newfoundland, she collided with the French steamer Vesta, and 350 lives were lost. The Brownings’ friend Mrs. Kinney recorded in her journal of 22 January 1855 that “eight persons who went down in that ill-fated vessel spent last winter at Florence,—some of them passed the last evening they were here in our parlour” (ms at Columbia).
8. Various sources indicate that the Tassinaris’ villa was located about three miles north of Florence.
10. Home would appear before Napoleon III and Eugénie in February 1857.
11. We are unable to confirm that Lord Brougham had met Home by this time. He attended two of Home’s séances in June 1855, first at Cox’s Hotel in London, later at the Rymer house in Ealing. In both instances Brougham was accompanied by Sir David Brewster.
12. Cf. Milton, Il Penseroso (1673), line 107.
13. i.e., “paid by fees; hired” (OED).
15. EBB has written this part of the letter on the flap of the envelope, nearly half of which has been torn away, resulting in loss of text here and below. The postscripts were written in the margins of the previous pages.
16. Henry Edwyn Scudamore-Stanhope (1821–87), later (1883) 9th Earl of Chesterfield, and his wife Dorothea (née Hay, 1827–1923), daughter of Sir Adam Hay, of Smithfield, and his wife Henrietta (née Grant). Henry is listed in the subscription records of Vieusseux’s reading rooms for 28 April 1855 at Casa Guidi. The Scudamore-Stanhopes, who had married in 1851, were occupying the other apartment on the Brownings’ floor (piano nobile).
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