4164. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 25, 93–99.
[Florence]
April 12– [1858] [1]
My ever dearest Arabel how grieved I am that you should have had so much anxiety about Emma. Dear, it is wrong however for you to emphasize on the notion of responsibility– Your having the child under your care is a pure kindness; and at worst you are responsible simply to God, as if she were your own child, for giving her the best care you can– I dont think that the sense of responsibility should be in the least more in such a case, than in the real mother’s. But, for the rest, of course there are anxieties about every child; and if the love does not come to make it worth while to bear them, you had better get rid of the relation. I cant advise you very well, the whole affair is so entirely a matter of taste & preference. For myself, if I had adopted a child at all, it should have been a baby, and I wd have had it given up to me soul & body. Do you remember our fine plans about the Foundling hospital?– Now, I would’nt have a child except my own,—now that I have mother-lights on the subject. And there are certainly drawbacks, such as you knew from the beginning. Only all your preferences seem to be for having plenty of drag-chains,—so as not to suffer from the “weight of too much liberty” [2] —& I dont see any new argument against poor little Emma. I like your account of her on the whole– There must be small difficulties with children; & though obstinacy is’nt my favorite vice, what you have conquered in, you will conquer in, .. yes, certainly. I never have a struggle with Pen. When he’s naughty, which happens, .. its always in a mild way—such as being disobedient in little things,—talking when he should’nt,—looking out of the window instead of looking on his book, & the like. He teazes me to rags sometimes at his lessons,—but its always with inattention,—talking nonsense, dawdling in finding his books, .. & kissing me instead of pleasing me. There’s no boy-brutality about the child– I frightened the tears into his eyes yesterday by saying that “he would teaze me till he killed me some day, & then he would have no mama on earth”– Poor pet–– It was quite an exception last week, when Annunciata came to tell me that he was naughty to Alessandro. Alessandro is a particular friend of his who comes to play sometimes, .. more than eleven years old, but very fond of Peni. Alessandro had broken “a most beautiful house” of Pen’s (made of pieces of wood nailed together by himself—) & Pen had given him a push or a slap or something of the kind. I found Peni supremely calm, standing up in the middle of the room, & looking so lovely that I could’nt help admiring him—cheeks like scarlet, eyes all of a blue glow, the head in a fluff of ringlets,—& in the attitude of one greatly wronged. Alessandro was putting on his coat to go away .. pretending to go .. which Peni was quite aware of, for he observed quietly to Annunciata—“He wont go away, I know– He has need of my society—ha bisogno della mia società”– Of course, the first thing I did, was to send Alessandro away, telling him that I hoped Peni would behave better another day– Then I led Pen off into the drawing-room & gave him a lecture. He told me that I was “not at all just,” not to have asked what Alessandro had done before I blamed him, Peni .. that “Alessandro had been a most naughty boy,” & that he, Peni, was resolved “never to forgive him, not never, not in a year, not in a week even”– I asked “if he remembered how often it was, Jesus said, that a man must sin against you in one day & yet you were to forgive him”– Pen did’nt remember. ‘Seventy seven times,’ said I. [3] Upon which, the child, who had been perfectly calm till that moment, burst out into sobs & cried, “Yes, and I dare say Alexandro wont forgive me even once.” Then there was a quantity of embracing & kissing, & he did his best to persuade me to send for Alessandro, which of course I would’nt do because it was right to punish Peni after all, & to teach him that people had’nt absolute need of his society– This has been the only overt act lately in Pen—& even here, it was but a moment’s impulse,—no fighting, no struggle of any sort. We have never had since, any of the scenes you witnessed in Devonshire Place– He is gentle, not boisterous even in joy. We have no noise in the house– I wonder sometimes what would become of me if I had a boy like Sophie Cottrell’s,—a beautiful boy, but encouraged by his father, I fancy, to be “manly” & “English,” & always talking at the top of his voice of knocking people down– The last time he came, we were all perfectly quenched by him,—& Pen gave an opinion afterwards to this effect—“He’s pretty, but not good”. By the way, poor Sophie is again laid up with expectations, & the probabilities all against her,—lifted from the sofa to the bed, & back again.
Dearest, why should you think I have a “disgust” against your house.? I have no disgust against anything that pleases you, do believe me. Still, the neighbourhood of water is not healthy in London, (that is scientifically known) & the testimony of people who live in a situation, is never reliable, because they always have a prejudice– Wimpole Street was dark, & undesireable in other respects than you say—but better for being without the canal, I must think– I myself would prefer it for my child, for instance—to say nothing of the nearness to civilized life– But this is not the question,—& for the rest, I have’nt the least doubt that your house is extremely pretty & delightfully comfortable—I dont require to see it, to be sure of that– Prove its healthiness by being well yourself, dear darling, & convict me of folly—& I shall be too pleased. You will admit that these two fevers are rather awkward beginnings, & I do confess I shall be anxious to hear how things go on. [4] Henry was very kind as he always is, & ‘Amelia’ was kinder still, & both of them very foolish I must observe. For as Henry could not help to nurse, he would merely have added to your anxieties, by the chance of catching the malady himself– I approve of Alfred much more– If I had a contagious illness either in my own person or anywhere in the house, I would not suffer anyone I loved to come into it—that’s my principle, & conviction, observe– Oh—of course Emma’s was not contagious– But if it had been—. Well—I know many people think differently—only their wisdom I by no means apprehend. Now here is Fanny Haworth, (who is living in Wilson’s house, a door off this)! She went a fortnight ago to pay a visit to friends of hers with whom there had been a case of meazles, & saw the child who had just recovered, & was just out of bed– She considered this an act of sympathy, & one too from which she herself was the less likely to suffer that she had had the meazles already in childhood. What is the result? She is siezed with fever, headache, .. & after frightening poor Wilson & everybody with the notion that it must be gastric or milliary fever, .. meazles declares itself—& she is in for a disagreeable illness which helps nobody whatever. At the end of which, she falls into low spirits & in her gentle mild way, evidently reproaches all her friends with abandonning her, because there is not a universal rush towards her rooms– She has her own maid, & is well attended to—& I hold that its the duty of us all to take precautions & keep away. When Mr Lytton had the fever at the Baths of Lucca last summer, I did not suppose it to be a contagious fever, or I & mine wd have acted differently– Of course in the case of need,—of service required, .. one is bound to sacrifice oneself: not otherwise, I think: not certainly from a mere desire of proving that one is goodnatured, & not afraid.
Robert goes for two evenings in the week to see M. Mignaty; a clever artist here, draw from the nude. Also, he has made two purchases—a skeleton, Arabel! (which he cant persuade me to look at even.) and a Homœopathic chest of medecine … Robert who was as hard against the homœopathists as against the spiritualists,—think of that! But he cannot resist the facts—the positive benefit derived from the medecines. No medecines seem to take hold of the constitution with so firm a clasp: they penetrate you. We hear of wonderful cures—one case of a woman suffering from inward tumour & given up by all the physicians,—cured absolutely. I believe that in any chronic case if anything avails these remedies do—though where aperient medecines are indispensable, they fail– It is an undevelopped science, as in fact, all sciences are. Nothing ever did you so much good, stopped the swelling of the ankles—I remember well: & why you gave it up (on the ground of its being too expensive, I remember) will always be extraordinary to me. They have a way now of diluting the globules—which makes them more impressive, I understand.
A bad winter have I had? In some ways, but not with my chest. The fact is that last summer when I wanted repose to recover from a great shock, I could’nt get it,—& my usual strength did’nt return the whole year,—& Peni’s illness ended by breaking me to pieces when I was peculiarly brittle– Then a colder winter than usual– Altogether I am not as strong as usual, nor fit for plans. Its too early to make plans– I never did make promises. I count however on seeing you some time this summer, my darling Arabel, & all the more as I have sworn to Robert to go with him, not to Jerusalem, but to Ægypt next winter– I am not equal to Jerusalem & the camels, but a water-journey of six or seven months might be compassed perhaps,—& Robert made me swear because he distrusted my wishes & intentions, I think– However, plans make one sick—& it is too early for planning– The winter just over—the honeysuckles on the terrace just in leaf; I just able to crawl a little– The Brownings were so kind as to offer to meet us on the borders of France, if we could’nt from any cause reach Paris—but we probably shall reach Paris. Nothing is even talked of yet: And I want a little repose & air, in order to get strength. That’s my want just now– Dearest, did I say I was “brooding”?. But I dont brood, dear, dear,—I dont brood, in your sense, intentionally. I should be dead by this time if I brooded– I worked at the sort of work I could do, even last year, .. (& worked off the back of a German dictionary)– Robert said he really “respected” me for my application. But if one gets up & walks across the room, then comes … what I call, myself, “brooding”, though it is not intentional .. not at all. Did I tell you ever that cheerfulness was a christian duty–? [5] I should rather have said, (if I did not say) that it is the proof of a higher spiritual life. I think so still. So much I think so, that I would compound for less knowledge, as the price of it: I would rather be mistaken in dogma, than downcast as a habit of mind. I think this is always a proof of a low spiritual state, and a reason for looking back to see where the life has been wrong .. or the tenets unscriptural. I think that if we cant do God’s work cheerfully in this world, we shall not do it cheerfully in the next. You know I dont believe in any sudden dropping at death, into joy or pain. After death, there is the continuance as well as consequence of the life here. If Christ has not redeemed us, He never will– If we are born again here, [6] the new life has begun in us already,—and if we do not like that here, it is a bad sign. That is my persuasion. Only one is human, of course, & feels grief & bitterness under loss or estrangement– When the knife cuts, one cries: that’s certain– A special pang from a special wound, is different from habitual depression. I am sure I should never have suffered, .. I am sure I never have, .. except for my real good—not even where I have seemed to myself somewhat hardly used by certain of His instruments– Also, I have deserved much more pain– His mercy is in the pain itself; & I struggle against habitual sadness as against corruption & ignorance, & against ingratitude besides– But I have a horrible vibrating body– If I am uneasy in mind for half an hour, I am unwell,—& then, being unwell makes one uneasy again. It acts, & reacts. I go out regularly in the carriage now, [7] & we have delightful drives through hedges of maybloom, the almond trees & peachtrees blossoming on the other side. Still I dont get strong as I might do, & shall presently, I dare say,—though I have doubled my cod’s liver oil, taking two tablespoonfuls a day– See how virtuous I am, Arabel. I dont do everything I like, I assure you–— If Peni has’nt written to you its rather my fault than his,—for after his lessons, I get lazy about attending to him—but he shall write. He reproaches me for it, I assure you.
Have you a piano for Emma? or how does she practise? Peni says, “If I had a lady to teach me, how very naughty I should be!” .. quite a cool, philosophical observation.! He has a longer lesson now from M. del Bene, & generally gives two hours & a half a day to his music,—which you will say is too great a sacrifice,—but his faculty & taste are so decided & application of this kind does so little harm to the brain (after the first knowledge is attained) that we think it right to give him an open course. In fact, there’s no use in learning music now-a-days unless it is learnt well. Peni will be a fine performer, if his life is spared. M. Del Bene’s little boy is twelve years old, [8] and is being educated professionally– He has a fine musical organization & practises nearly four hours a day—& little Pen, who calls him his friend, is full of emulation of course– There is a duet which they play together, Peni taking the treble,—& really Pen plays it with a fire & expression, quite surprising in such a child. Sigr Del Bene is going to give a musical soirée, & Peni is to perform, .. in a solo or two, & this duet,—& he is very full of it, & by no means shy, .. not he. [9] “He [(]M. Del Bene[)] has bought a new chandelier,” says Pen, “for the festa, & it will be so beautiful!”!– Meanwhile, he has’nt learnt the multiplication-table——there will be time for it, I fancy– But .. I wish you had heard him read & translate nearly two pages of Grimm’s German tales today– I assure you there were not more than four or five words he did’nt know. He read it quite fluently into English. French, of course– As for Italian, the Italians consider him an Italian,—& one of them observed the other day, that he “spoke English very well for his age.” He has the very intonation of the Florentines,—& the way in which he sets me down as a “foreigner,” is sometimes quite too funny. “Dear mama, you see you cant like the same things that I do, because you’re a foreigner.” Never mind, perhaps England will be proud of him presently– And he shall be a “citizen of the world” [10] after my own heart & ready for the millenium–
Hume is to be in Florence some day this month. Did I tell you that an English lady had left him £260 a year, [11] for having convinced her of the immortality of the soul? I hear a great deal of the spirits always, .. only as you dont believe & wont, there’s no use in telling you about it—anymore– Give my best love to dearest Bummy if she is still with you– Whenever I see her I shall tell her things she will like to hear, if she is like me. A friend of mine here, Mr Jarves, has the spirits sensibly near him almost always,—feels them, knows them. He has a strong desire to die .. that is to go out into that happier life—& was very “disappointed” when at a storm at sea lately, the ship did not go down– In which desire he is perfectly wrong, of course—but that is the fault of a want of knowledge in other respects, which will be corrected presently, in spite of the misery, poor man, of some of his external circumstances. [12]
So dear Minny suffers from her leg. Give her my sympathizing love–
Here’s a letter for which you will pay double-retribution for your accusing me of sending short letters– Oh Arabel—compare the length of mine with your’s! That’s all!– And I tell you all I know & you tell me a quarter– May God bless you darling– Speak of yourself—say how you are. And the ear?
Robert’s love & Pen’s.
Your fondly attached
Ba
Oh Miss Bayley!– [13]
Address: Angleterre viâ France. / Miss Barrett / 7. Delamere Terrace / Harrow Road / London.
Publication: EBB-AB, II, 342–348.
Manuscript: Berg Collection.
1. Year provided by postmark. EBB may have begun this letter on an earlier day. She later tells Henrietta that she had written it “by bits” (see letter 4169).
2. Wordsworth, “Nuns Fret Not at Their Convent’s Narrow Room” (1807), line 13.
3. EBB has conflated the two gospel accounts of Christ’s exhortation to the disciples: “Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven” (Matthew 18:21–22); and “… If thy brother trespass against thee, rebuke him; and if he repent, forgive him. And if he trespass against thee seven times in a day, and seven times in a day turn again to thee, saying, I repent; thou shalt forgive him” (Luke 17:3–4).
4. The two fever victims were Emma Barrett and an unidentified servant (see SD2150).
5. Cf. John 16:33.
6. Cf. John 3:7.
7. RB’s account book of this period records payments for the hiring of a carriage on 11 March, 21 March, and 12 April (see Appendix IV). EBB was probably going on carriage rides with Isa Blagden as well.
8. Emilio Del Bene.
9. EBB describes the “musical soirée” in letter 4169.
10. Francis Bacon, “Of Goodnesse And Goodnesse of Nature,” XIII (Essayes, 2nd. ed., 1625): “If a Man be Gracious, and Curteous to Strangers, it shewes, he is a Citizen of the World.”
12. One of these circumstances was an unhappy marriage (see letter 4108, note 7).
13. From EBB’s comments in letter 4229, this cryptic remark evidently refers to something that Miss Bayley said to Anne Braun, who had been diagnosed with cancer.
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