3858. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 23, 52–56.
3. Parade. West Cowes–
[Postmark: 11 September 1856]
My beloved Arabel, here is another revise! [1] I wanted to write yesterday, but was carried away to drive, after the full morning at the necessary proof-work. Our days go here like clock-work. At such an hour, Miss Bayley takes us out in the carriage– Dear Mr Kenyon has not once, since we have been here, gone out. Indeed I am more & more alarmed about him—he is in a distressing state .. suffering much, much—not pain, but what is worse, because it seems as if the struggle were, to live. Oh, no, no—Arabel! There’s no asthma in the case. Even an unlearned person can see that, at a glance—there is no sort of resemblance to asthma—though he talks of “his asthma”,.—but that’s a mere form of words even to himself. The heart may be affected symptomatically only, & not organically—the medical men cant say,—(& still more certainly they cant know—) but the affection is plain—the breath has to be wrestled for .. & to stand by & witness it, is sad indeed. He makes great exertions not to seem an invalid—but the countenance tells, more than words—there is the peculiar look in the eyes, which you cant mistake. Still, (perhaps because I am sanguine), I repeat that I should hope, if he were younger. As to Italy, he is not fit for removal—nor would climate in the least alleviate these symptoms. To avoid attacks of bronchitis is of course desireable, because they irritate & weaken the general system—but the fear is not concerning bronchitis. In effect, the hot weather does not agree—& he was worse while it lasted. Oh, yesterday, I felt in horrible spirits about him, & wished we had not come– He varies however, & is better this morning– They give powerful medecines, & he is upset by taking them—& then he leaves them untaken, by Miss Bayley’s advice—so that it is’nt one thing or another. I urge him a little to try homœopathy—because if the allopathists do nothing (or worse than nothing) why not have recourse to the other mode?– I must say, there never was a more beautiful patience & cheerful sweetness—it would honor Christianity!– But he—there’s the misery! He cant help showing & saying, however, through it all, that he desires death—death, to have rest in it. Life is too laborious, in spite of all alleviations found possible. His kindness & consideration for us are infinitely touching under these circumstances,—and my wrath waxes hotter [2] & hotter against the other side of the house. [3]
For my part & Robert’s, we are perfectly convinced that the ‘rapport’ here is of the purest friendship——but if it had been otherwise .. if it had been otherwise, Arabel .. a brother is inexcuseable to have left his only brother in such a straight, .. dying, .. as he & others supposed. It was entirely the wife’s influence—& she, having taken it into her wise head that she was to be received here as exclusive nurse, shut herself up, & behaved in the most astonishing manner. Observe, the relation’s between herself & Miss Bayley had been always affectionate,—& all the summer Miss B. had written her bulletins three times a week, which she affectionately responded to. But Mr Kenyon, of course, would not, at a moment’s notice, give up his former nurse, & instal his sister-in-law—& anyone who had ever been an invalid will understand this. Years ago, he had said to Miss Bayley——“If I should fall into serious illness I shall be very desolate—having no family—no one, to look to”—and she said, “If that happens to you & I am alive, I will come & be your nurse—” Simply, she keeps her promise. There is no imputation upon character implied—it is simply, a feeling on Mrs Edward K’s side, that her position as sister-in-law, should have excluded all relations on the part of others. She was furious with Mdme Braun, for instance,—who was here at the time. I do think it is a very bad case. She is a violent woman plainly, & of a vulgar order– As to her husband, he is simply influenced—as many good men are– He writes letters to Mr Kenyon, ending ‘yours truly’, and this in reply to the most affectionate letters. Nothing, under the circumstances, can excuse such things—and Mr Kenyon is so hurt, that he has given directions of the minutest kind, in order to avoid troubling his brother in the case of his death.– How sad!– I dont know whether I exaggerate upon the ordinary estimates of the duties of love,—but if a brother of mine were ill, & if even he had an undeniable mistress en titre [4] in the house, .. I [5] would not leave him on that account– God would leave me [6] as soon!–
We dont go away on saturday. We stay on till the beginning of the week at least. He likes to keep us, it seems—but as to its being any comfort to him, I cant fancy it. Of Taunton we dont talk– My cough is somewhat better at nights—through the warmer house, I think. We found a fire in the sittingroom set apart for us,—but have’nt had it or wanted it since. In fact there has been less east wind than we had at Ventnor.
Little Peni looks rosy, but does’nt talk above his breath—poor Peni! Still, he finds amends. He goes out on the coach-box, & blows an ivory whistle Mr Kenyon has given him, & takes walks, & plays in his own room, at being a ‘minister’—reading the Bible aloud from a pillow on the table, and giving out the hymns to ‘Lily’. It’s a new phase of life, rather more convenient just now than the military.—to say the least of it. I have bought him a black velvet dress, which is to be made en blouse—(given a pound for it, to finish ruining Robert—9s. 6d a yard.) Also, a brown straw hat & feather—the other falling into ruins. He does’nt at all like the indignity of dining by himself, but conforms with resignation. Sir Charles Fellowes’s boy is a resource. [7] Much he thinks of you, dearest Arabel,—and also, “mine untles.” Tell me if you have heard from Alfred, & what,—& where he is in London. I think we shall go to Taunton, though I dont absolutely know. Robert, at least, said so, on the road from Ventnor, in manner of consolation & drying of eyes.
But I feel sad to have left you, particularly as you seem to me quite low——which is altogether wrong & foolish of you, my precious dearest Arabel, seeing that you might very well (I [8] should, certainly, under the same circumstances) make your stay at Ventnor very pleasant as well as very advantageous to you. Tell me if you have begun the baths– Now I insist that you begin the baths. Also, take a donkey often, & explore the hills & downs, & do a little wholesome sketching—& subscribe to the chapel-library, & do a good deal of wholesome reading. Be sure of one thing– Apart from the great earthquakes & tragedies of life, which will interpose sometimes,—happiness is more an intellectual habit, than the product of circumstances. There is no truth, of which I am more sure than I am of that. For my part, I did’nt think ‘Anne Grey’ [9] was “trashy,” a bit—on the contrary– Tell me how you liked ‘Died.’ [10] And say how you like the poem as it gets on,—& how dear George likes it. How I thank him for his affectionate letter to Robert, which pleased Robert very much.
We see Mr Kenyon sometimes at breakfast—always at dinner—then a little in the evening. He fights with himself to eat—but it is difficult. Sometimes, quite overcome, he leans on the table, saying softly, ‘O my God, my God—’ the life seems impossible. There’s no cough to signify—nor phlegm on the chest, at all, as seems to me. He stoops much—the chest falls in. Sometimes I can scarcely bear to stay in the room, though we are not much together–
Miss Bayley is very calm, very sensible,—gentle yet decided. If she were a believer, there’s no one fitter to be here! But in the coolest way she talks of immortality & any doctrine connected with it, just as you do about my “spiritual manifestations’[’]– By the way, I was horribly vexed with Robert yesterday for disproving & laughing at all my convictions on that subject– Oh, I did not tell him so, but I was very vexed—very sorry–. Through this keyhole might a key be put—& through this, perhaps, only– The fact of the existence of a spiritual world and a future state, is the thing of consequence.
Mr K told me himself the other day that Dr Ashburner had taken to go to church again, through the so-called spiritual manifestations– ‘A very honest man’, said he, ‘but not always wise.’ Dr Ashburner is himself a ‘medium’.
What of Papa!– Now, Arabel, if anything should keep him in London, there may be a chance for us at Taunton—who knows? As to Carisbrook, [11] we are in chains here—it might be difficult—& would it be worth the pain after all? Just time for two kisses .. meeting & parting. Still, if we should stay here …
Now I cant go on writing. Write. Say that you are pretty well, my dearest dearest Arabel!– And be good to me through yourself, & take care of yourself. Best love from us two to all of you. Robert was so touched by what you wrote.
Your own attached
Ba–
Send on the revises.
Address: Miss Barrett / Milanese Villa / Ventnor.
Publication: EBB-AB, II, 247–250.
Manuscript: Gordon E. Moulton-Barrett.
1. A revised proof of Aurora Leigh. Evidently, EBB was sharing proofsheets with Arabella and later John Kenyon (see the penultimate paragraph in letter 3920).
2. Cf. Exodus 22:24.
3. i.e., Edward Kenyon and his wife; see the following paragraph.
4. “Official.”
5. Underscored twice.
6. Underscored three times.
7. Charles Francis Fellows (1846–1929), referred to as “Frank” in letter 3862, was the only son of Sir Charles Fellows (1799–1860) and his first wife, Eliza (née Hart, 1810–47). Sir Charles, the discoverer of the ruins of Xanthus, was knighted in 1845 for his efforts to remove the Xanthian marbles to England. He resided at Prospect House, just outside West Cowes.
8. Underscored twice.
9. An 1834 novel by Harriet Cradock (née Lister, 1809–84). Published anonymously, it is described by the ODNB as “a lively and unexaggerated tale of personal relationships in upper-middle-class English society.”
10. EBB’s poem “Died” was first collected in Last Poems (1862). A draft manuscript sold as part of lot 161 in Browning Collections (see Reconstruction, D203).
11. Carisbrooke, a village on the Isle of Wight, lies four miles S. of, and inland from, West Cowes. The village is notable for its thirteenth-century castle, added to in later centuries, and especially the Keep, which dates from the early twelfth century.
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