4793. EBB to Arabella Moulton-Barrett
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 28, 243–246.
Rome–
Saturday– [8 December 1860] [1]
My own dearest, I am forced to write to you– There is pressure from within– I think of you, oh, I think of you. As you said, we are drawn closer together, Arabel–
Not that the other bond is slackened. That is not, nor can be– She is only in the next room—though for me I cannot see her or hear her– Others might–
Beloved– I am very grateful to those who made you go away from that house– It was George I think you said, & Storm who did it– I am very grateful to them– Because what could be done was done—& your duty turned otherwhere– You owe yourself to us now—to them, & to me—to your poor Ba who has done nothing for anyone, & has no comfort in the thought of some little service rendered or look received– Robert tells me it is quite wrong of me to be sorry that I did not go– He would have let me go if I had persisted—only he would have deeply disapproved, he says—and I was influenced by his opinion & by yours too– Now I cant help feeling some bitterness about it– Only that’s foolish, of course– But all our grief is foolish, if we could see aright.
I am convinced, Arabel, that she is as in the next room—that the change, too, is not great– There are so many things I believe which are comforting– And yet, see how it is—— It is like some precious wine poured into an ill-tempered cup—this cup of my nature—and the moment this is set down to the fire .. cup breaks .. wine runs out–
Because I am so unworthy Arabel—The word is made for me– “I believe,—help Thou in my unbelief”– [2] He is sufficient even for this insufficiency.
Tell me—did the clergyman come to the last almost– [3] Did she never feel any hope about herself .. as to the present life, I mean. Did the illness come as suddenly as it seemed to me?– When she went to London, was there alarm?– [4] I dig into the dark with my poor heart in wondering at these things– Did she never speak of the children .. in reference to what was coming–
If it does not hurt you to write it, my darling, tell me–
There is not much to say– What else we want to know we must look up for—to our Lord .. & Hers–
Think of me that I have not yet written to poor poor Surtees– He made her very happy—and I shall be for ever his debtor–
I yearn after the children with the heart of a mother– My own Penini’s face is hard to bear sometimes .. with some thoughts & memories–
Have you thought at all, (or would it be permitted to you) of taking little dear Mary?– You see I know so little–
Dearest dear, I ought not to name myself—but if you knew what the last three weeks or more have been to me—what that journey was– It seems (looking back) as if the blood of my heart must be left in stains on the stones of the road– Here it is all very still– And Robert takes care of me, & keeps away every face, & I am much, much better through his tenderness– I helped Peni to prepare his Latin testament for the abbé today—so you may see how well I am– Dear, I was frightened through all that illness– From the beginning—that little light soft hint you gave pierced me through like a knife. And Robert thought me foolish & that I really did want some evil to cry about–
But you see he did not understand. And then besides, because he loves me & was anxious about me, he struggled to present the bright side of things.
Arabel, my own—would it be quite wrong that you & George should come out here when you have rested a little—or is the journey at this time of year too far & a risk—? I dare not prefer anything, but the change & the climate might be good for you—would, if there were no risk otherwise– It is very mild. I can scarcely bear any fire– We have comfortable rooms .. only high—more than eighty steps– I shall never attempt to climb them—I dare say—but there’s a way of coming on the queen’s cushion [5] which does not tire the people who carry you– And you should try that way, if you came–
How good George was to me– Writing, writing– Robert telegraphed to Florence & got five letters at once– I could not bear to hear them all read then—but Robert read some things– The fault was in the Florence post office—which has been much in fault lately. Not that I suffered from it till then–
I am very anxious about you my darling– Write to me when you can– Dont mind length or shortness– Pray for me as I do for you– And oh, Arabel—let us not forget there is a communion of saints [6] —and that the angel who sits highest on the pinnacles of grace is not too high for the Lord’s help or (therefore) for the church’s prayer–
I believe this—not papistically, nor with the vulgar purgatorical idea, believe me–
I shall like to know that you have the comfort of dear Mr Stratten’s society–
Our poor Minny will have gladness in the recovery into her sight of you—though I know she is grieved––poor dear Minny– I hope she is pretty well.
Arabel—for love’s sake .. that is, if you love me at all .. take care of yourself, & rest .. & be cheerful with your great Christian heart– Tell me of Storm. Where is he?– My true tender love–
Your devoted Ba–
Robert’s love– He wrote to you at least twice at Delamere Terrace I think, & I once before–
Address, in RB’s hand: Angleterre. / Miss Barrett, / 7. Delamere Terrace / Harrow Road, / London.
Publication: EBB-AB, II, 505–507.
Manuscript: Berg Collection.
1. This letter is postmarked 10 December 1860, a Monday.
2. Cf. Mark 9:24.
3. William Henry Lance (d. 1911, aged 88) was Curate of Thurlbear with Stoke St. Mary from 1859 to 1885. In Surtees’s account of Henrietta’s burial, he wrote: “Lance our kind pastor saying the last office, with a voice choked with tears” (Surtees, 30 November 1860).
5. “A seat (for a girl) made by the crossed hands of two persons” (OED).
6. A phrase from the Apostles’ creed. Harriet Beecher Stowe refers to it in the penultimate paragraph of letter 4782.
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