3564. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 21, 183–187.
138. Avenue des Champs Elysées
Monday. June 25. [1855] [1]
My beloved Arabel,
Yes—here we are at last, thank God—but after various crosses & vicissitudes of life, owing of course to our having set off on the thirteenth, in the first instance, a day fatal we were assured by certain judicious friends, to all undertakings. We set off to Leghorn & had to return, as you know. We found Florence as I hinted to you lapsing into cholera, and had not spent two days there before I fell into a sort of panic. Cholera never has taken root in Florence from some reason or other which the learned dispute concerning, and even now it can scarcely be called epidemical. Also, the terrors of the Florentines exaggerated the actual facts, I have no doubt. Still, with all allowance made, there were certain points of the city in which cholera began to be found in clots, & the extraordinary thing is that, about Casa Guidi and the Pitti palace, there were the most cases, .. just round us. [2] It began outside the porta Romana, our gate of Florence, & crept down to us & round us. There was talk of fourteen persons being dead in the street immediately behind Casa Guidi—and in the Church [3] up against our terrace, the cholera bodies were deposited for a short time, being carried under our windows– Robert went to see Mr Kinney– The whole house in confusion! His man servant dying of cholera—another servant in the same house died the same day—& also, a child of Mr Read, [4] the American poet, was taken ill & supposed to be dying when we left Florence. Robert saw both those cases with his eyes—being drawn into the room American-fashion (the Americans think nobody can die in peace except in a crowd!) to my great subsequent consternation. Well—you may suppose the agreeable condition of bodies & minds this cholera produced. Whether I or Mr Tennyson was most frightened, it would be hard to distinguish perhaps for obtuse persons,—but I assure you solemnly I was heroic in comparison with Mr Tennyson who could’nt even talk of the “spirits” he confessed, he was so entirely crushed & absorbed in apprehension. As for me I went one morning to Robert, & told him that though he set me down as mad he must pardon me & take us away to Leghorn at once, & wait for the ship there. To which, being an angel, he answered benignly, by begging me to be quiet & wait till the next day, when if rumours became worse, he would do whatever I liked—it would be time then. Well—shifting the care to Robert made me better– You see I was chiefly in fear about Penini—& I had the promise to go tomorrow in case of need. But the next day things ameliorated—several physicians insisted on it that there was no epidemic, nor would be an epidemic—& that imprudences in diet from the excessive abundance of cheapness of fruit & vegetables were the cause of much of the evil. At any rate the cases had diminished both in number & severity on those last days– Poor dear Florence! I hope it may be spared. So we waited to the wednesday fixed for the packet, & in order to be in time embarked in the Corsican boat at eleven in the morning, to sail at half past four. The sea was not rough. Penini ran about to enquire of the sailors about the wind, & came back with considerable satisfaction to inform me that there “would be a little wind, but not strong enough to overturn the ship.” After which, he was very happy, & the next morning moralized much on the fears he “used to have when he was a baby, & knew no better” … meaning the preceding day. We anchored at Corsica, before Bastia, & spent the night; & Robert & Penini & I went into the town in the morning, & entered a church there, & roamed about a little .. for the glory of walking in Corsica. [5] About nine the steamer started again for Marseilles which we did not reach till the next morning—a long day & night of it—not a rough sea nor much wind, but every human being ill, & poor Wilson at the worst. Of course I had Penini to myself (Robert being ill too) Penini clinging to me at nights with his darling embracing arms—& the consequence of it all being extreme fatigue—& a general black & blue-ism. Both he & I, too, had our turn in sickness—very little however, .. & Peni in immense spirits, the moment he was relieved. I crept up on the deck at twelve at night & four in the morning while he was asleep—& at six we both adjourned there together & stayed there in company with the thirty six French soldiers on their way to the Crimea, whom he admired immensely. The nature too, he was full of admiration for .. “that beautiful blue on the sea, and that white of motion!” (meaning the foam) and the “smoke of the ship all trembling on the blue sky” .. nothing escapes Penini—nobody of any age enjoys travelling more than he does. He went about on the deck making friends, & talking Italian to anyone who would talk to him in it! “Dear mama? do you see that man,” ‘Yes.’ “Well—I know him a little. He’s going to Paris just like us.” At Marseilles, being thrown out on the quay, everybody except Penini more dead than alive, and he in extreme haste to go on to the ‘station’ .. (he wants to travel night & day, that child!) we went to the hotel to rest & breakfast dine & sleep. On enquiring about Alfred, we were told that he inhabited a room next our own—on the same floor! Think of that! Robert accused me of a want of sisterly affection because I insisted on washing my face & breakfasting before I sent for him—but, if I had’nt, I certainly should have dropped down in a fit at the first word of greeting. So we breakfasted—& then we sent Penini in alone with a slip of paper .. Mr & Mrs Browning, in the costume of brigands! Well—& so he came & we met. And I assure you, dear Alfred’s kindness quite touched me– He was so affectionate, so kind—insisted on taking Penini out to walk, (by the way, he said, everybody turned round to look at Peni!) & brought him home laden with bonbons, toys & flowers– Penini’s heart was perfectly won. He said to me afterwards—“Mama, I leally do lite your uncle.” “But he is’nt my uncle—he’s your’s– He’s one of your uncles & when you know the others, you’ll see which of them you like best.” “Well—for the present I lite Alfled leally almost as much as you and papa.”– In fact he refused to dine with Ferdinando (a remarkable circumstance) & pressed to go down to the table d’hôte with Alfred & us—so, as Alfred seemed to wish it, he went. Alfred treated us with a bottle of champagne & Penini had his portion .. upon which he observed upon the phenomenon of the table going round “just lite the table in the ship” we thought it best to stop the supplies. It was very pleasant that little glimpse of Alfred—though he told me the bad news of my dear Sette having the second attack. [6] Dear, dear Sette– Give him my love & say how I grieve that he should suffer so terribly. Can there be no remedy to cases of this kind?– Alfred is in high spirits—delighted with France, testifying to the “liberality of the French government,” seeming pleased with his position & prospects altogether. He had taken a country-house for six months, furnished with plate & linen, & paid only twenty pounds for it– What you tell me of his intentions is a key to this—but not a word did he tell me. He did say however that he was going to Paris in a week—and depend upon it Arabel, he comes here to meet & marry Lizzie. [7] That’s certain. I am very, very sorry.
<…> [8]
Well—but I was telling you of our misfortunes. Arriving at Lyons we found that we had lost .. what do you suppose? .. only two of our boxes—one containing all my Penini’s pretty dresses, embroidered trowsers, collars, everything I had been collecting to make him look nice in—& the other, all my embroidered collars, bodies, lace—besides poor Lisa’s [9] gowns & bonnets—! Just imagine the state we are in. I wrote three notes to Alfred one after another—& we employed a courier who was going to Marseilles to enquire for us. Of course there was great negligence– But bride & bridegroom had their heads a little turned as was natural. And nobody knows if these boxes were left in the ship, or in the custom-house, or in the hotel– My Penini has nothing to wear (to the chastisement of my vanity!) except his two travelling frocks—and this for Paris!– Is’nt it horrible? If we really lose the boxes, it will be a loss of some twenty pounds—that’s all—and the least!——
I comfort myself for the cold by putting on my merino directly. Really it’s cold—and we feel the change. Sarianna & her father are in great joy to have us—& we have an apartment under them for a week ....
Dearest Arabel—your rooms are too dear– How can we pay three guineas a week? I appeal to you. Mr Kenyon sees things through a golden mist belonging to his own means & way of living– We have the fault (if it’s a fault in the eyes of our English friends) of being extremely poor, and if they object to come to see us on account of the disposition or indisposition of our rooms, they must be pleased to stay away. I should like to live in large light airy rooms quite as well as any of them—if that fact will recover me their esteem. As to Penini I am in trouble about him & Wilson. Robert says, “Of course you cant separate a man & his wife”. Well– I suppose we cant– And yet my Penini who wants somebody to take care of him, & be with him always—what’s to be done with him. As to his sleeping in a room by himself, it’s out of the question. I suppose he must have a crib in my room. I can’t fancy what to do. If he wakes in the dark, he cries instantly– Dearest darling Arabel, try again with the lodgings. Welbeck Street would suit us perfectly– As to the rooms, consult our means & not Mr Kenyon’s tastes, if you please. I am half afraid of the cold of England—everybody speaking of it as excessive– Even here, it’s not in the least like June–
Isa Blagden went by the express train, day & night from Marseilles—therefore we parted from her there–
We arrived here about seven yesterday evening– Write to me instantly. Postage is nothing at all here——remember. I want to hear–
I find a letter from Mr Ruskin .. quite affectionate—but warning me off from England on account of the cold. You cant imagine how kind & cordial he has been to me.
Oh—how I feel for the poor, poor Owens– [10] Yes—there’s the affliction! How hard to live down such agonies! Yet it’s to be done by souls, into which God has put his strength. If you write, speak of me—say how I feel for them. Do I not, when I look at my own treasure?–
You were wrong not to go to hear the spiritual utterance. Yet if you had gone you would probably have been disgusted, & therefore I dont regret your not going. I want to impress upon you the fact, that a spirit out of the body does’nt pretend to more infallibility than a spirit in the body. What you go to receive is the proof of access from the spiritual world, not to receive instruction in doctrine. All sorts of doctrine will be given—you have God’s word and God’s Spirit & your own. You dont look beyond for your gospel. But into the nature of the two worlds you get wonderful openings, in all these phenomena.
Certainly you shall see Hume. I will have it so. You might as well say that going up into a balloon is impious—as some aged gossips used to hold. You use no impious means– You use a natural gift in the name of God. Nothing is unclean of itself, [11] remember–
My love is with you all– How I yearn to you over this eleven hours interval– [12] Robert’s love & Penini’s– May God bless you dearest, dear Arabel– You dont speak of Henrietta.
Your ever ever attached Ba
We think of remaining here about a week. If we could but have a little fine weather for England!– What a scramble of a letter I have written, to be sure—still so tired– And in such haste!–
Address: Angleterre / Miss Barrett / 50. Wimpole Street / London.
Publication: EBB-AB, II, 155–159.
Manuscript: Berg Collection.
1. Year provided by postmark.
3. The church of San Felice.
4. Lily Read, aged 5, died on 20 June; her mother, Mary Read, who was pregnant at the time, died six days later.
5. Because of Napoleon I, who was born at Ajaccio, Corsica.
6. We have been unable to identify the nature of Septimus’s illness.
7. Alfred and Lizzie were married in Paris on 1 August 1855.
8. Seven lines have been obliterated after receipt, probably by Arabella. Presumably they explain why EBB is “very, very sorry” and may refer to the insanity on Lizzie’s mother’s side of the family (see letter 3611).
9. i.e., Wilson’s.
10. On 18 June, Edward Bayford Owen (b. 1848) died from an attack of scarlet fever at his parents’ home in London. At the time of his death, he was the eleventh surviving child of Henry and Angela Owen.
11. Cf. Romans 14:14.
12. Approximate travel time from Paris to London.
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