3920. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 23, 122–125.
Florence–
Sunday– [2 November 1856] [1]
My beloved Arabel, I should have written yesterday to announce our safe arrival—but I went out & came home too late for our too early post! I do hope you have not counted the days upon us– George, of course, got my letter from Marseilles– We had a splendid passage,—the sea like glass—coasting by the islands of Hyères, the water an intense purple under us, as if we were Kings of the East walking home upon carpets. I was in a dreadful humour, to set out with,—which, together with the smell of a newly painted ship, helped to make me rather sick—while Robert kept well, to his immense exultation & triumph– Wilson was ill as a matter of course—but only a part of the way—& Penini for a few moments. Peni was in glory, climbing about with the sailors up & down ladders—he looked like a black small chimney-sweeper when we came to land. He & I had a cabin to ourselves,—there being no other first-class passengers,—& at six in the morning or earlier, there was no peace but to let him get up & go on deck by himself– [‘]‘He would promise, not to lean over.” Instead of which, he was seen a quarter of the way up the mast, standing by the side of the captain, to Wilson’s horror, when she emerged!– Such a child, that is. He came in to make me get up to see the sunrise– “Oh, it is so glorious! just like a house on fire! or else just like heaven.” Out of my berth I tumbled myself too slowly. “Oh now, mama, the most striking part is over”. Peni’s cheeks were much the redder for the sea-voyage, .. as much of them as could be seen for blackness. At Genoa we landed, after twenty six hours of sea, at about twelve oclock in the day. I had touched nothing since eleven on the preceding day, .. & the first step I took on land I reeled & all but fainted—Wilson cried out “You’ll fall into the sea” .. & perfectly indifferent I was to that prospect. But after a moment, I recovered myself and walked or was dragged up to the hotel, where the ravages of famine were repaired rapidly, with exquisite coffee, cold ham, eggs & bread– Never did I enjoy anything in the shape of nourishment so much. Peni who had been eating fish & sausages on board ship, till it might be supposed he could want nothing more,—stirred by emulation, began again. When we were all satisfied, we took it by turns to go into the next room & perform our ablutions & brush our hair,—& then after a luxurious rest on the sofa, I was perfectly resuscitated & we took an open carriage & had an hour’s drive round the public gardens & up & down that gorgeous Genoa– Full summer it was—not English summer, .. but a pure cloudless sky .. a “perfect chrysolite”. [2] Oh divine Italy! elsewhere, men live imperfectly. How I thought of you, & longed for you! We were all in high good humour, & Robert who of course had been horribly enraged with me for not eating for four & twenty hours, .. as if one could help feeling deadly sick from the smell of paint &c .. forgave me like a Christian, seeing that I had made up for my sins to such a satisfactory point of devouring appetite. In gratitude for which gracious pardon, I took upon myself an engagement, to eat my dinner immediately on our return to the ship—yes, & kept it, Arabel,—though painfully aware that most of the dishes were cooked in oil! We returned at five that afternoon, & at half past nine the next morning were landed at Leghorn—after a night of extraordinary calm; breakfasted at the best hotel in great comfort,—& at two were on our way to Florence by train– Robert & I being extravagantly disposed, took two first class places & had a carriage to ourselves—n.b. there’s only a shilling difference between first & second class—& it seemed worth paying that for the seclusion– (Peni preferred going with Wilson & Ferdinando.) We arrived at Florence at five, or a little after, & found our house in excellent order, & M. Biondi [3] waiting at the door,—with notes of welcome from our friends on the table. After tea & while I undressed & went to bed (before eight) Robert ran up the hill to see Isa, who was in our drawing-room the next morning. Florence looks perfectly lifeless & dull, Robert says .. which of course must be the impression after London & Paris—but we are likely to stay through the winter, in spite of that– We have already subscribed to two libraries, [4] & I am enjoying the repose & the beauty. Many persons in former relation to us (tradespeople &c) died of cholera last year, and the accounts of that pestilence are fearful to listen to– Now, people are in better spirits—prices are reasonable, & the last vintage is an improvement. Frederick Tennyson, I grieve to say, has gone to live at Pisa. As he was returning with his family from the sea, he saw “a very nice house, with a back door as well as a front door”, .. so that “Arthur might go in & out” without being an eyesore! [5] whereupon Frederick took the house at once & has furnished it, & will repent at leisure of course. Or I [6] shall, for him. So sorry I am to lose Frederick Tennyson. The Cottrells returned two days before we did. I saw her yesterday. Isa & Mr Jarvis spent yesterday evening with us. And I sate upon needles, for Isa would talk of the spirits– Oh—by the way. You heard of Mr Kirkup & his medium, Regina,—the girl with lucent spaniel eyes– You must have heard Robert & me quarrel about her. We thought yesterday we would go to see him, & were talking together (in a very peaceable spirit—for Robert & I are on excellent terms just now) about this mediumship, just at his door, .. when out came a little girl, twelve years old, Regina’s younger sister. [7] She smiled to our greeting– [‘]‘And,” said Robert, “how is Regina?– Come va la Regina?” “Not well,” said the child .. “poco bene! È morta.” ‘Dead,’ cried both of us at once– (Oh, such a shock it was.) “Yes—she died last night. She’s up there.”—(pointing up to the windows.) After a pause .. “And how is your mother?” “She’s dead too– She died five months ago.”– Round we turned, & put off our visit– It thrilled me through from head to foot. Poor old man—it will be a great hole in his life—for he seemed really to have no other human interest left to him. She died of consumption with a superinduction of milliary fever. I shall be curious to hear how the spiritual experiences went on or off to the last. Mr Jarves told us last night that ‘the spirits’ had forbidden Mr Kirkup to throw her into ‘the trance’ for some time, & that he had obeyed implicitly–
Peni is enchanted with Florence, & his great drum,—with which he has been regaling our ears these two days–
At the station at Dijon we met our friend M. Milsand– Was’nt it curious?
Oh—that I had a letter from you saying that you were well, & that papa was better! I drag a lengthened chain, [8] & turn no where but the fetters clink. So anxious I am.
Of myself I can send you an excellent account. I grew much stronger every hour I travelled, & have left off coughing, except a cough now & then at intervals—sleep well, eat well, & am quite pulled up from the pulling down of the last month in London. Robert wants me to have asses’ milk—but I wont—considering it to be altogether unnecessary just now. This vital air does more for one than the milk of many asses. I hear that Lord John Russell is here, & also Macauley– [9]
I left directions that the earliest copy of Aurora shd be sent to you. I found a letter from Mr Kenyon, to express his .... ever so many kind things .. about the poem, .. saying I came out “as pure gold” &c &c. So, I suppose, Aurora is pardoned .. I mean, Aurora herself,—my heroine––though George never wd marry her, never. It seemed diabolical of me to let Mr Kenyon have revises at last, which you had’nt,—but it was through our being so pressed for time that I could’nt get another set of sheets from Mr Chapman.
My dearest, dearest Arabel, write to me—& write all the good you can in truth—& may God make the truth good– I hunger & thirst [10] for a good letter. Remember what I prayed you—about yourself, I mean. Robert’s true love– My true tender love to you all. God bless you
my dearly beloved Arabel– Ba
Address: <Angleterre viâ France> / Miss Barrett / 50 Wimpole Street / London.
Publication: EBB-AB, II, 264–267.
Manuscript: Gordon E. Moulton-Barrett.
1. Date provided by EBB’s reference to the Brownings’ “safe arrival.” They returned to Florence on 30 October 1856, a Thursday.
2. Cf. Othello, V, 2, 144–145.
3. Lorenzo Biondi (b. 1793), the husband of the Brownings’ former nurse (see letter 2813, note 18).
4. One of these was Vieusseux’s reading rooms and circulating library, located in Piazza Santa Trinita. In its subscription records for 2 November 1856, RB is listed as having paid for six months. The other of the “two libraries” was probably Brecker’s bookshop, located near Casa Guidi at 1877 (now 15) Via Maggio. EBB had previously referred to Brecker’s as “the ‘German library’” (see the second paragraph in letter 3465).
5. Arthur Tennyson (1814–99); see letter 3319, note 12. Frederick Tennyson’s address in Pisa is listed in the Brownings’ second joint address book (AB-4) as “Casa Magherini, Via del Carmine.”
6. Underscored twice.
7. We are unable to provide further information about the sister or mother of Regina Ronti (1837–56); see letter 3518, note 10.
8. Cf. Goldsmith, The Traveller (1764), line 10.
9. Macaulay was in England at this time. He had been in Italy in August and September 1856, travelling through the northern part of the country with his long-time friend, Thomas Flower Ellis (1796–1861). There is no record of a visit to Florence during this holiday. He returned to London on 27 September (see The Letters of Thomas Babington Macaulay, ed. Thomas Pinney, Cambridge, 1981, 6, 57–63). Lord John Russell had arrived in Florence with his family in late September or early October 1856; they occupied the Villa Capponi until January 1857 (see Spencer Walpole, The Life of Lord John Russell, 1891, II, 284–285).
10. Cf. Matthew 5:6.
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