4060. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 24, 151–153.
Baths of Lucca
Sept. 28. [1857] [1]
My dearest, dearest Arabel, I write again to bid you write to me at Florence, where we are going as soon as we can get away from this place. I have bad news to tell you—for you will call it bad news that my darling precious Penini has been ill with gastric fever .. the same fever as Mr Lytton’s, though lighter in its character, .. & that he is still confined to his bed. But I do thank God (help me to thank Him, dearest) that the child is convalescent, & that for two nights (the nights are the dreadful times for the recurrence of fever) he has slept quite tranquilly. Here is the history of the whole, this crowning disaster of our summer. He had been looking like a live rose, as I think, I told you—had grown fat, was so pretty & round!– Last thursday week I had occasion to pay a visit two miles or a mile & a half away, & I went in a portantina. [2] Peni pressed to be allowed to walk by me. So we set off. The portantini men go fast,—& Peni was tired & heated. Then while I was talking to my friend (an American spiritualist) [3] Peni played by the river with her little boy. The time passed, & on our return it was dusk, & he complained of being tired till I took him up into the portantina with me. There was the sowing of the seed of evil. The next day he had fever, said his head ached. We gave him senna, thinking not much of it. The next morning there was an excursion into the mountains planned. Robert had set off at half past one (in the night) with Mr Eckley, the American, to scale a famous mountain peak, while his wife & I and her child & mine were to meet them & dine together– That morning Peni was so apparently recovered & insisted so on going that I took him. It was a carriage drive of twenty miles, & ten miles of donkey-work beyond into the mountains. He was in the highest spirits all day, & came home singing at the top of his voice. Since then however he has confessed that he did not feel very well, & the morning after, the fever set in. It was a complication of miseries. Wilson had to go to Florence at the risk of remaining here till December, & we had the new maid. Poor Peni. Then, the English physician Dr Trotman whom we trusted in, was gone to Florence—& our only resource was an Italian, [4] of whom we knew nothing of course– At first there was doubt whether the disorder was measles, or scarlet fever—but soon there was no doubt– Robert blamed me for looking like a terrified ghost. Could I help it? We had two dreadful nights, & the darling was in pain once, & cried– It was dreadful. Once too when he seemed so much better that the doctor let him get up for four hours, he had a relapse & was worse than ever. You are to understand– He has never been in absolute danger. It has been a light case– The pulse was very much faster than Lytton’s,—far above a hundred—but the tongue was better, & some bad symptoms did not occur at all. He has been in bed since sunday week, except for those four hours,—but now his staying in bed is matter of mere precaution & he is quite without fever—his chief complaint being hunger .. “ho un fame terribile”! [5] There he lies cutting out paper dishes for a “magnificent feast[”] he is to give at Florence– I have a paper written in his own hand & spelling .. “Penini’s party for his goodness”– That’s the title of it. Indeed he has been too affectingly good. To see him lying there with his long golden curls & his angel-face, the two cheeks burning with fever, & witness all his sweetness & patience, was a trial. “You pet,” said he to me, “dont be unhappy about me. Fancy it’s a boy in the street, and be a little sorry of course, but dont be unhappy.” The diet is very severe even now. He is allowed nothing (literally nothing, I mean, .. not a crumb, not a drop of tea) but thin broth—of which for several days he had only ten desert spoonfuls at a time, twice in the four-& twenty hours– Now the quantity is greater, but he really suffers from hunger– His ruling idea is to get to Florence. “Cant you put me into a basket & bring me home?–” This when he was worst. But now, I hope, we may go without danger early next week. The doctor calls him a most healthy subject,—& the keeping up of the spirits, which are difficult to restrain, proves that he is not weakened beyond a certain point. Yesterday he had the flower-girl in by his bedside, & was so funny & so characteristic, that we were all laughing,—swearing “per Bacco,” [6] & making immense complaints about the “signor Dottore” who would’nt let him eat enough—.
On that day on the mountains Robert’s horse fell over a precipice of sixty feet, head over heels– A tree broke the fall. Robert rescued himself, (by the grace of almost a miracle) by catching at a crag of rock, when the ground gave way beneath the horse’s hoofs– This happened when he & Mr Eckley were together .. in the ascent to the mountain-peak. I was not told of it till another day. Think of what an escape– I might be writing to you at this moment (or rather not writing to you) without a husband & without a child! Therefore thank God for me my beloved Arabel. I feel a good deal shaken altogether,—but I am not ill. I am joyous about my Peni. I tell you the truth. He is quite without fever now. Write to me at Florence. And if I dont write soon, never be uneasy. There is no cause now, remember. May God bless you darling. Take care of yourself & be happy & send me a cheerful letter. I cant read over– Post going. Your ever ever loving Ba.
Address: Miss Barrett / 7. Delamere Terrace / Harrow Road / London.
Publication: EBB-AB, II, 314–316.
Manuscript: Berg Collection and Gordon E. Moulton-Barrett.
1. Year provided by postmark.
2. “Sedan chair.”
3. Sophia Eckley.
4. Ridolfo Marchi; see letter 4051, note 3.
5. “I’m terribly hungry.”
6. “By Bacchus.”
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