4067. EBB to Jane Wills-Sandford
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 24, 170–172.
Bagni di Lucca–
Oct. 4th [1857] [1]
But direct to Casa Guidi
Florence–
My dearest Jane, I hope I may understand from your letter that you did hear from me in June [2] —otherwise I am sure I must have seemed to you very indifferent, when I was only very sad– [3] But I have thought much of you, dear, & of your having been so ill, & of your being still weak & depressed– Only I had not a strong hand to hold out to any one,—& weeping with those who weep, [4] is not always good for them.
After the shock which came with such force & left so much bitterness in April last, I grew very weak physically & wanted repose, repose– In July we came here– You dont know this place,—nor how sublimely the mountains look their serenity into you– But just as the spell began to work, we were followed here by dear friends,—and Robert Lytton (Owen Meredith) who was one of them, was siezed with gastric fever– Did I tell you that?– He caught it at Florence & brought the seeds in him– There was nothing but grief & fear for nearly six weeks—& then when he left us convalescent,—what do you think happened? My precious, precious Penini (through overfatigue & exposure one unfortunate day when he would run by the side of my portantina) [5] was struck down with fever—gastric fever again– Oh, to see that angel face on the pillow, in the midst of its golden curls, with its scarlet cheeks & poor patient eyes!—and to hear his cry for pain in the night, as I did once! It was almost more than I could bear– Then as he became a little better, the Italian maid who was there in Wilson’s place … (for I should tell you that poor Wilson had to leave us for Florence while he was ill, for her confinement—she went all in tears, poor thing!) the Italian maid whom he had accepted instead of Wilson, & who was very devoted to him, became ill too– Fever again– But she was able to leave her bed after three or four days– Think what a complication it was altogether! Well—it has given me a good shake & taught me rudely what worse might be if God pleased– And now I am very, very thankful to see my Peni out of bed, playing on the piano, (did I ever before hear such music?) & allowed to go out in the carriage, as he was for the first time yesterday– He was so reduced that he could not stand—& even now his poor little arm is but a bone– But he gains strength hour by hour, has a prodigious appetite, & looks altogether as little altered as it was possible to hope—really only rather more delicate in the colouring; & we shall get the colours back quickly says the doctor, by the course of steel [6] he has just recommended– We go back to Florence the day after tomorrow—to stay there through October & November & then to go perhaps to Rome or perhaps to Naples. Unless indeed we go to Ægypt & the Holy Land which we had talked of—but Peni being more delicate than usual I should be nervous about exposing him to perils by land & water, I do think. As to Paris, no—we shall not be in Paris this winter– As to London .. I wish I could say that I shall never be in it again– The thought of England makes me sick, sick at heart– Your picture of Hove Place [7] is good, but your dream of Geneva is better– I would live with you (& Caroline!) [8] at the Geneva villa & we would read Rousseau in a boat on the lake [9] —only I’ve seen Italy. Italy spoils me for other countries– Here I go about in the portantina for miles & miles in the footsteps of the goats in the mountains– Such a solitude,—full of hills & chesnut forests & a thousand streams singing, singing!– And the Italian skies over all–
The Torrigiani Tennyson has wronged us by settling himself at Pisa– He says he cant sleep at Florence, so he goes to Pisa where people do nothing but sleep. Sometimes he comes over to see us for a day or two—when we are at Florence I mean. Owen Meredith is at Florence .. where his father talks of coming–
My sister Arabel’s address in London is, 7 Delamere Terrace, Harrow Road,—but she is in Wales now with my brothers–
Yes, Mrs Gaskell’s book is very interesting– [10] We saw her in the early spring in Florence, and Mrs Stowe also– And do you know I positively and in spite of prejudices & to my own great surprise, liked Mrs Stowe much the better– Now, should you have thought that?
‘Aurora Leigh’ is in the third edition already– I see it is reviewed in the Westminster, but whether for good or evil, is not to be guessed– [11] I am glad you dont give it up, dear– I should not like you to think me very wicked. I know some people do—but my comfort is, that they are not generally the most intelligent nor the most spiritual– Certainly I did not mean to write an immoral book, & my own belief is that I have not. May I send kindest remembrances to FB.? [12] I may, to Mr Sandford– And I may send love to your sisters indeed–
Robert & I often talk of you. Dearest Jane write to me, and believe me that in sadness as in gladness I never could forget, no, nor think less lovingly of you–
Peni & I have been reading German together lately—and you cant think how well he plays the piano– Is “Deut[s]che Liebe” a novel? [13]
Awful indeed are the accounts from India– [14] And the future is charged with clouds–
Now may God bless you, dearest Jane,
prays your ever affectionate friend
Elizabeth B Browning
Address: Angleterre viâ France. / Miss Wills Sandford / Hove Place / Brighton.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library.
1. Year provided by postmark.
2. This letter is not extant.
3. Because of her father’s death on 17 April 1857.
4. Cf. Romans 12:15.
5. “Sedan chair.”
7. The Wills-Sandfords’ Brighton address, a short distance from the sea.
8. Caroline Julia Wills-Sandford (1834–1915), Jane’s youngest sister.
9. Jean Jacques Rousseau (1712–78) was born and raised at Geneva.
10. The Life of Charlotte Brontë (1857).
12. Possibly Lucinda Frances Burleigh (afterwards Close, 1850–1920), Jane’s first cousin, once removed. She was the granddaughter of Jane’s father’s sister Anne Burleigh (née Wills, d. 1827).
13. Deutsche Liebe (Leipzig, 1857) is a series of eight “recollections” written as fragmented memories by Friedrich Max Müller (1823–1900), a Sanskrit scholar and philologist at Oxford.
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