4502. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 26, 328–332.
Siena.
October 7– 8– [1859] [1]
My ever dearest Arabel, I shall direct to you in London where I hope you are not, but I dont know where else to find you. When your letter came I had just sent one to Henrietta, [2] so it seemed better to wait. I am much stronger & better in all ways—and Robert told me yesterday that I was twice as heavy as I was a few weeks ago. Also I look well. So there’s no need to think of me further, than to think that it is wise and safe for us to go to Rome according to our present programme again this winter. My doctor [3] said it would be a risk, staying in Florence—and I dare say it might be so: it would’nt do to have another attack like the last soon again. Then Rome is more in the way than Palermo or Spain, and agrees well with me—besides other obvious reasons—for at this season of disturbance Italy is safer for us at least, than Sicily is. Here, political affairs are going on admirably. With the consent of Piedmont, annexation has taken place in form, the King’s arms [4] being put up in all these towns. The thrilling shout with which the ceremony took place at Siena among the assembled multitude, is said to be a thing not easy to forget. We went into the town, but not in time to witness this, I regret to say—only to admire the general effect of the display of the double tricolor flags, (Italian & French) at the windows of every house. I thank God for what is, and wait for what shall be. Arabel– Be so good as to insert between the sixth & seventh stanza of my Tale of Villafranca the following, omitted by an oversight, & which I would not press on the Atheneum Editor [5] because I thought my doing so might induce the exclusion of the whole poem, & I wanted the poem printed. But you must read after the sixth stanza, this ..
“A great deed in this world of ours?
Unheard of the pretence is.
It threatens plainly the Great Powers;
Is fatal in all senses.
A just Deed in the world? call out
The rifles! [6] be not slack about
The National Defences.”
You wont like any of it, any of you—but more truth was never written– Indeed whenever I have been false to the truth, (too often!) it has been in prose. In poetry, the love of the truth constrains me.
Now, my darling Arabel, reward me for sending you no more politics, & for abusing no farther today that black-hearted Times newspaper, by giving me a speedy letter & plenty of detail in it about yourself– Oh—it made me so very happy, my darling, to think of the sea having relieved you so far– [7] May God be thanked. I do thank Him. And now, be good, & try not to be ill again through the overwork & the bad air you get in London. I do wish any human being could persuade you to set up an establishment for the invalid London poor at Hastings, & direct it yourself—letting your Delamere Terrace house. You would do a great deal of good in your own way, & enable your body to keep step with the services of your soul. People who are ill, help nobody, as I have often been unpleasantly reminded—but you never seem to think of that. No, your way is to run till you drop– Pray dont, any more.
I heard of you from Mrs Martin, who murmurs softly at your refusing to go to Colwall. Now I think you might have gone .. as you went to the Peytons. [8] Poor Mrs Martin– She has always been so kind. She said that you reminded her of Henrietta & me too, so that she seemed to see us all three together. Which meant that you were three times as good as me—which you are, Arabel.
Now I must tell you of ourselves. I have been driving with Robert daily in this pretty, pretty country, and it is still so hot that I shrink rather from the idea of returning to Florence into the burning & roaring, as we must do next monday. Robert would willingly let me stay,—(How precious silence is, when people are not at the strongest .. which pinnacle I have not reached yet!) but if we go to Rome in the early part of november, there will be much to do & prepare, setting aside the necessity of Robert’s establishing his adopted son Mr Landor with Wilson, whose apartment cant be ready till the first of november. Robert has advanced her money (which she will gradually repay from her receipts) for taking & furnishing a ground-floor and first floor apartment. Mr Landor will pay her one pound English a week for his three rooms on the first floor, which look out on a convent garden, & a small garden belonging to the house. Wilson will occupy, with her children & maid, the ground-floor,—will have the use of whatever may be left of Mr Landor’s food .. ‘spolia’ as we call it in Florence, .. and receive besides for all the care she is to take of him, twenty two pounds a year, English. Now that, I think, is an excellent arrangement for her. She will support her family out of it, besides keeping the advantages connected with her old apartment. Ferdinando is very pleased,—but she simply accedes– I dont think she considers we have done extraordinarily well for her. Wilson is strange in some things– Only she is’nt mad any longer, thank God: her mind seems quite cleared. (Say nothing to her family, pray, that she does not thank us enough,—nor of anything that I say!)– After all, madness is simply possession. It was the medium nature, (complicated with some weakness of faculty), which issued in those insane delusions– The more I think of it, the more I think so– By the way Mr Kirkup is having extraordinary manifestations in Florence– Things carried away by spirits through open windows & returned into rooms locked & sealed—the seals remaining unbroken: window looking high down upon the Arno. No access possible to a human being– Robert can suggest no way of accounting for it. Mr Story believes it, and so do I. This villa is said to be haunted. We have heard noises– Rustlings in the doorways, steps on the floor, knockings here & there: Annunciata so frightened that she would’nt sleep alone. Poor Annunciata! Let me remember to tell you how very good she was to me during my illness. The attention & feeling she showed, made me really grateful. She is an indefatigable person, & besides, very kind, very affectionate. The first time I went out, when she saw me dressed, she broke out into tears & threw herself on me & kissed me. And I sometimes think that the incessant way in which she brought me teacups of chicken-tea when I could just take that & no more, did as much for me as all Dr Grizonowsky’s medecines–
Since we came here she has done all the ironing, except that we have paid a paul (five pence halfpenny) to a girl who once a week came to assist her with Robert’s shirts– The washing of the house we gave out at the expense of two shillings & ten pence a week. It has not been expensive altogether. This villa, though imperfectly furnished, pleases us more & more– I shall like to come again, whenever we have to pass a summer in Tuscany.
October 8th Penini, for his part, has enjoyed himself immensely. He has’nt been ill, but well .. & the pleasures of health in the country have fallen thick on him. Keeping sheep with the peasants, (who delight in the child) and running after their stray cows, & helping them to bake, and working at the vintage, driving oxen from the grape-carts, with just a little hole in the load of grapes for him to stand in,—cutting the grapes in the vineyards .. (the consequence of which was that he could eat neither breakfast nor dinner, of course)—and then, when the evening comes round, reading aloud the patriotic poems of the Venetian poet Dall’Ongaro, to an admiring circle of contadini– Count Alberti told Robert & me the other day that he was a most extraordinary child—so “assennato,” [9] that his conversation was as interesting as a man’s,—& so frank & fearless– “We have no children like that,” said he, “of Italian parents.” I must say he would be as rare in England. Circumstances have had something to do with it—an only child living in an atmosphere of absolute unrestraint with his parents, & used to a good deal of association beyond them. It’s peculiar, whether advantage or disadvantage– Peni has lived in the sun; & the shadow, whenever it comes, (& it must) may strike him as too strange. His very temperament is sunny, he is a holiday creature overmuch, I sometimes fear. Still there is hope for him as he gets older—& the other day when Robert went out, & left him with instructions that he should practise his two hours,—he was very faithful though nobody kept him to it—he made me look at the watch, & did not squander a minute. — Imagine his ecstacy, Arabel, when I tell you that Robert has actually bought the pretty Sardinian poney for him .. Stella .. called so from the white star on the forehead. You may well wonder! Never say that only I spoil Penini– Robert could’nt find it in his heart to separate the two—poney & child. Pen said “Stella was affectionated to him.” Of course the expense & trouble will be great, & for my part I should have been rather startled at it, had I been alone—but Robert has a lively sympathy about horses, & he being inclined, it was’nt likely that I could hold on to prudence, particularly in the face of Peni’s prayer .. “Oh mama, if Papa speaks to you about the horse, dont discourage him.” So we are in for it, and Stella is to go with us to Rome .. think of that. It’s a very pretty poney, of a light chesnut, with a long tail & long mane—not made like a poney though small .. not thick & punchy—also not shaggy– The learned say that when he has been a little attended to & had a few feeds of corn he will have a beautifully fine coat, which, even now looks smooth & well. Robert gave six pounds ten, English, for him. Four years old, & perfectly free from tricks & temper. Imagine Peni’s joy. His riding is most graceful & fearless, and the way the people round here admire him as he gallops about, seems to me only natural. Never does he look so pretty as on horseback—and it struck Mr. Wilde, the American artist staying with the Storys, so much, that he has made a small oil-painting of him, & had the great kindness to present it to me. [10] It is quite a lovely picture, most admirably executed– Pen wears his velvet blouse, with the full white trousers covering his knees, & his hat & feather– He has just pulled up his poney under the trees (.. through which there is a distant view of the city of Siena, ..) with the sort of half thoughtful, half pensive air & expression which are characteristic of him at moments– We are to frame the picture at Florence & take it with us to Rome for retouches—and then I shall have a photograph taken for you– Do tell me Arabel how Altham gets on at school, & whether he likes it as well now as at the beginning– Let me tell you. That generous Capt Pritchard is dead, & has left Sarianna a thousand pounds. We strongly advise her to sink it in an annuity, and I hope she will. I am very very glad of it for the best reasons,—& you will be I am sure– Be most particular in naming George’s headaches. What does Mr Stratten think of the Revivals– [11] Some of the phenomena are identical with what are called the spiritual—marks on the body, for instance. How is dear Mr Stratten? <***>
Publication: EBB-AB, II, 421–427.
Manuscript: Gordon E. Moulton-Barrett.
1. Year provided by EBB’s reference to “A Tale of Villafranca,” published in The Athenæum on 24 September 1859.
2. Letter 4489.
3. Dr. Gryzanowski.
4. See letter 4498, note 19.
5. William Hepworth Dixon (1821–79), editor of The Athenæum from 1853 to 1869.
6. See letter 4497, note 3.
7. Arabella spent the summer at Dawlish (see letter 4462, note 4) and, evidently, Lynton (see the first paragraph in letter 4489).
8. We have been unable to trace such a visit; presumably to Barton Court, the Peytons’ estate near Old Colwall and Hope End.
9. “Wise.”
10. This portrait of Pen on his pony by Hamilton Gibbs Wild is reproduced facing p. 305.
11. Since August, British newspapers had been carrying reports of revivals in Ulster that were often accompanied by physical manifestations in persons attending. The Daily News of 31 August 1859 contained the following eyewitness account of the manifestations: “The movements of the hands, arms, head, &c., in these cases—the expressions of the countenance, the sounds of the voice, cries, screams, moans, coughs, &c., have each a peculiar character, unlike to anything else” (p. 2). At times, the affected would display a “fleeting beauty” that was “commonly followed, and perhaps for a long time, by a haggard countenance, a muddy skin, and purple or brown hands and wrists, of which I noticed many instances in Belfast” (p. 2).
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