3677. EBB to Henrietta Cook
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 21, 350–353.
Paris. 102. Rue de Grenelle.
Faubourg St Germain–
Nov. 15– [1855] [1]
My ever dearest Henrietta I cant bear to think of having been here so long without sending you one word—and yet there has been so little to write of except discomfort, that it was only merciful not to pull hard at your sympathy. You know from Arabel how we fell upon evil days [2] and yellow satin sofas in the Rue de Grenelle .. due east in aspect, & with draughts flying about like frantic birds. I caught cold accordingly & was not well, being in an irritable state of chest through London. Now I am all but right again however, and if we can but get into a comfortable apartment which we shall be free to do in another month, we may unpack our boxes & not cough or sigh any more. Penini too has spoiled all his sudden bloom of good looks which came to us with the Parisian air, by catching a cold—but he is almost clear of it, & has gone today to see the Emperor’s carriages & other glories connected with the closing of the Exhibition. Up to now, Paris has’nt been Paris,—though our first fortnight was (until quite the end) one sweep of exquisite weather,—& though in spite of our discomfort indoors, I had begun to take heart & believe again in blue skies & intense sunshine. But we have been lying perdue in our hole, hiding from the faces of men & women, & seeing nobody except such as we fell upon by chance & could’nt help speaking to: Sir Edward Lytton for instance—& Ros[s]etti, the chief of the pre-Raffaelites in England, .. & Madme Mohl, & Mrs Sartoris, who is here & came & found us out. Robert has not made his way to dear Lady Elgin even, though he saw Lady Charlotte Locker & was urged to do so– In fact we are in that amiable & Christian frame of mind which indisposes people to think of anybody but themselves. But you are we. I do believe I have offended Arabel by not writing sooner– She wont answer my letter now. She encloses me one from Sophia Cottrell, from Florence, with just an envelope line, & that’s all she vouchsafes to write. Really I am horribly used by everybody. Write to me at least to say how you are, Henrietta, for I am seeing black wherever I look, and it is not pleasant.
Dear, I hope you will receive duly your “Men & Women” which the publishers were directed to send you. [3] Though the book was only published on saturday we hear good news of the promise of success, “the trade” having “subscribed” (as they call it) largely .. that is, .. having made large orders—so that the expenses were covered after three days. Robert will stand higher than ever through these poems. I am ready to die for them, at the stake, that they are his ablest works. They are making translations of nearly half of them for the “Revue des deux Mondes,” [4] and Mr Milsand told me quietly the other day, that he considered the poems “superhuman”– Mark that! Only superhuman–
As for me, I cant write under our present circumstances of course—all heaped up together. I dont know how my poem is ever to be finished. It’s as much as I can do, to get through Peni’s lessons. He has finished “Rosamond” in Italian, and is reading ‘Harry & Lucy.’ He reads Italian so well that really it is a pretty thing to hear him now– His present ambition is to learn French—but as we have’nt a French servant, of course it is more difficult. I have been buying him for three francs a pair of merino wool gaiters which draw up over the knees—white. He always wears them out of doors in the winter, but these are particularly pretty & Parisian. Does Altham wear gaiters? You would not send out the little bare legs, I think. Peni has a black velvet hat & feather—which .. they tell me .. he pulled from his head & waved in a transport of enthusiasm at the sight of the emperor .. in spite of Sarianna’s entreaties, who was afraid of the child’s catching more cold. The empress looked pale but beautiful. Young Lytton told me the other day that nothing can be more charming & full of grace than her manner—not royal but charming .. as if she entreated your tolerance that she was obliged to be empress. She is really enceinte this time, & going on favorably. As a woman I am very glad for her.
I have heard some more wonderful things about the spirits—so extraordinary that I scarcely like repeating them except upon evidence which I have not yet. Think of water-colour drawings being produced by the spirits, & letters written & folded & put into your hand—& this not once, but by hundreds. Sir Edward Lytton told it to me. Mr Jerves, in a minute’s talk I had with him, said simply that he himself had attained to hearing & seeing spirits .. not the rapping sounds, observe, but the spiritual voices—which of course demands very high mediumship. The spirits come to him at night & waken him up—but in the day also. You asked me to tell you what I hear .. so I tell you. The manifestations seem deepening & strengthening on all sides, & soon will be too strong for the sceptics & the intolerant– It’s a struggle however. Also one must admit that it is natural, this unwillingness to receive facts which militate against generally received opinions.
Sophia Cottrell’s letter, which Arabel sent me, gives a terrible account of cholera in Florence this last summer, but speaks of the final subsidence of the epidemic– Her invalid aunt, Miss Ellen Tulk, succumbed to cholerine, through her previous weakness, & died after three days illness. The other sister has gone to England where they were both on the point of going to settle, all their packages having been sent before. Sophia’s boy has been much out of health, I fear, throughout the summer, & is still thin, though convalescent. It was’nt cholera. Her letter is sad & affectionate.
I wonder if Mary Ruxton will keep her word & come to Paris this winter. Does Arabel hear?
Well– I do hope & trust Arabel will write to me at last—and do write, yourself, my dearest dear Henrietta, for really it will relieve me to know that you are well, getting on well, & that the children are in their usual bloom. You think I’m in Paris. And I’m not the least in the world in Paris—but in the wilderness .. in the desert .. & out of sorts & spirits & comforts, through this detestable yellow satin & its consequences. We have subscribed to a library, [5] & are reading George Sand’s Memoirs, [6] & even she is dull on purpose to vex me. Peni maintains that he has never closed his eyes since he has had to sleep on the floor—never once. In spite of which he observed to my surprise yesterday that he would rather stay in this house upon the whole. Upon enquiry I found the mysterious reason to be that he liked sleeping in our room instead of in the dressing-room, which “was’nt tuite the same sing.” Poor little mite!–
Harriet was out of spirits lately through not getting a letter from home— “Well,” said Penini, “leally, Harriet, you are velly silly, I sint. When I was away at Eastbourne I had only one letter from my mama all the time,—and that did’nt mate me unhappy.” “I thought,” said I, “you were a little unhappy now & then.” “Oh yes. I was unhappy, yes. But that was, betause I wanted to det home, and not for letters.” Penini’s prodigious absence and journey to Eastbourne is the great event of his life, to which he is constantly referring. “When I was at Eastbourne”—“When I was by my own self wiz Alibel” &c &c. He has an omnibus toy, and as he draws it up & down the room, now I hear a cry of “To Italy” .. ‘To Leghorn’, ‘To Florence’, and then again, “To Eastbourne.”
No letter again from Arabel today! How vexatious. I am beginning to be really uneasy about her or papa or some of them. One of the more lively fancies is that she may have gone to that horrible ‘Refuge’ and caught the scarlet fever (which had taken root there when we were in London[)]– How hard, that I cant have a letter. Even Isa Blagden has left off writing to me. There seems to be an epidemic silence in England.
Only Robert has had a good letter today from his publishers–
Speak of yourself particularly, dearest Henrietta? have you lost the sickness at all? [7] How is uncle Hedley? It is not wise of him to brave an English winter. My love to all the Dear Hedleys– And yourselves– Oh, I do trust you are not likely to be turned adrift from pretty Wilton. Tell me.
Sir Edward <Lytton> expects peace within a year [8] —but I see no prospect of it. Choose your authority!—of course you’ll choose me.
My best love to my dear kind brother Surtees– (I shall not lightly forget his kindness to me.) Robert’s love to both of you. And heaps of kisses to the darlings–
Your ever attached Ba–
<...> [9]
Ferdinando writes Wilson romantic love letters beginning “Cara adorata moglie! [10] & yearns for her to come back; but she wont yet, I think. Harriet does well. Say how Susan is & where she means to live.
Address: Angleterre. / Mrs Surtees Cook / Wilton / Taunton / Somersetshire.
Publication: Huxley, pp. 232–234 (in part).
Manuscript: British Library.
1. Year provided by postmark.
2. Cf. Paradise Lost, VII, 25.
5. Doubtless Galignani’s reading room and circulating library (see letter 3537, note 21).
6. Histoire de ma vie (20 vols., 1854–55).
7. Morning sickness.
8. A peace treaty ending the Crimean War was signed in Paris on 30 March 1856.
9. About a line obliterated, probably by Henrietta.
10. “Dear adored wife!”
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