4931. RB to John Forster
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 29, 183–185.
[Florence]
[17 July 1861] [1]
<***> resting before setting out for Siena: She was weak—too weak to be taken to Paris as we desired—but less than unduly weak, considering the effect of her sister’s six months’ illness and death last December: [2] we were both of us sure that a summer of rest & silence would remedy all that remained wrong. The weather was suffocatingly hot, there came breezes & coolness on the evenings, and she sate at the window in a draught, as was habitual to her. She caught cold. “It was nothing”—but, two nights after, the oppression at her chest increased and I called in the best physician here,—an acquaintance, but who attended her for the first time. He said the state of her lungs was serious—but the appearances might be of long standing, & this was an exceptional case. She said; “of the longest standing,—I have heard all this years & years ago—it is one of my common attacks—not so severe as that two years ago,—and is nothing.” She rose every day, sate in the drawing room till evening,—and so we talked. I chose to sit up at nights, to her great displeasure, to be ready with the little medicine there was to give, & to fan her: also I believe I had an instinctive alarm from before the beginning—tho’ I could not reason it out against her reasons. On Friday evening we talked over our plans, and she was urgent we should take a Villa here “for three years”—we both of us conceived a sudden dislike for this poor Casa Guidi we had been happy in so long,—found it hot, noisy, incommodious. Isa B saw her,—& talked of a friend’s report of Ricasoli’s identity of policy with that of Cavour: I said “I won’t have talking,” but while I turned my back, she whispered in her old way to her friend—“He said his policy and Cavour’s were absolutely the same, only they differed as to the method of carrying it out.”—“Ay, I thought so—I thought so!”– Then came Made Romagnoli (her old maid, you remember)—in her presence she made her usual toilette “for half an hour” quite unassisted, brushing her hair &c. Made R. left saying “She is much better”—whereat the other servants attacked the Italian good, faithful maid for being “a bird of ill omen”– Peni surmised something from the talk—he went to bid her goodnight—“Are you really better?” “Much better”—he asked twice more and was twice so answered. Then I came in, and found her “composed for the night.” I sent away the two men servants, & bade the maid go to bed, which she did. Then I sate there all night. All wrong was in her sleep,—heavy, troubled breathing, and waking with oppression—no positive pain: she was always “better—if I would but come to bed!”– At times she would wander a very little in her mind, thro’ the slightly increased dose of morphine acting on the weakness of body. I would say “Do you know me?”—“Know you!” (and then what I can’t write)—“And you know where you are?”—“Why—not quite!”—“And you feel?” “Comfortable—much better!” Only once she said, “Our lives are held by God.” At four o’clock I observed her feet were cold, with other disquieting symptoms– I called the maid, sent the Porter for the Physician—got hot water. She sate up, smilingly– “Well, you do make an exaggerated case of it!”—“And my hands too”—then she turned to me and said what must stay in my heart—but happily, smilingly,—almost laughingly. There was an incident about a familiar thing at which she laughed,—at this, I said “For my sake will you take some jelly?”– (She hated it & would not be persuaded to taste it) “Yes”—and she took two saucers full—as much as I thought prudent to give. Then she bade, “God bless me” repeatedly till I laid her down to sleep again. “How do you feel?” “Beautiful”—and she slept at once—in a few minutes I saw there was an internal difficulty—I took her in my arms, supported her head with mine. There was no struggle, no sigh even, only a dreadful suspense for a minute or two—then a silence– I thought she had only fainted as her head lay on my arm—then there was one least contraction of the brow—& Annunziata cried, “The blessed Soul has passed away!”– Why should I not have tried to tell you so much of this as will give you my own one comfort in some degree and not leave you to fancy there was pain, struggling, or the consciousness of departure & separation?—she went, like God’s child, into his presence with no more apprehension or difficulty than that! Dr Wilson came presently—it was daylight. He says he expected nothing so sudden—it must have been a breaking of an abscess on the lung,—there could have been no help; there was no pain.
On Monday she was buried in the Protestant Cemetery. All the few strangers, English & American, were there—the dear & noble Italians honored themselves by honoring her—their newspapers bade “all go & pay homage to the great poetess, the true friend of Italy” [3] —and they did go. The hearse passed thro’ the streets, which is never allowed—with crowns on it, laurel & white flowers—& in our street the shops were closed. I just saw once, in a sort of flash, at the grave, Italian men crying like children, Villari the historian, Dall’Ongaro the Poet, & many others unknown to me—but I will have done with all this—only, see if they are not grateful, this traduced people! Cavaliere Peruzzi called on me a week ago: he said he & the Italians all were anxious I should not leave Florence,—or if that must be, yet that Pen might continue to be “a Tuscan”,—he could go away for a year or two and come back—“only, let him try a career with us—we want those who were friends in our ill days to share in our coming good fortunes—every thing will be open to him!” —Of course Pen is & will be English as I am English and his Mother was pure English to the hatred of all un-English cowardice, vituperation, and lies—but so he spoke, and so I shall remember.
I sate down to write a line, & you see!– But you will understand and I think feel relieved by what I have caught out of the crowd of incidents that recur to me; tell the sum of it to any friends that may have been apprehensive of worse news. I have had kind, so kind letters from many—& others who have not written feel too, I need no assurance. Should you want to find me, address at my father’s, 151. Rue de Grenelle, Faubourg St Germain,—in a week I go thither at latest. Dear Forster, dear Mrs Forster, I am & shall be yours affectionately
Robert Browning.
Publication: NL, pp. 137–140.
Manuscript: Victoria and Albert Museum.
1. Dated by RB’s reference to Peruzzi’s visit of “a week ago,” which he also reported in letter 4930.
2. News of Henrietta’s death on 23 November 1860 reached the Brownings at Rome in early December.
3. See letter 4923, notes 3 and 4.
___________________
