Correspondence

4923.  RB to George Goodin Moulton-Barrett

As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 29, 169–171.

Dear George, you must not hate me for giving you any pain anybody else might have spared you,—tho’ I am too stupid to tell how. She was never “ill”, arrived “well”, had the news of Cavour’s death next day & was prostrated by it—recovering, I suppose, only partially when she caught cold, “the usual attack, no worse”,—was never in bed in the day time, till the last day, and then by a combination of circumstances which kept her from going into the drawing room, and kept assuring us that the doctor [2] was wrong in his serious view of the case till the end came. The last evening Wilson (the maid) came to see her & went away satisfied nothing would happen. My instinct knew better, all the while, but my reason was justified in believing her assurances, that she would “certainly soon be well again.” The last evening she wanted me [to] take & furnish a Villa for three years: thro’ the night she repeated she was better, “comfortable”, “beautiful”—bidding me “only come to bed now—why stay up now?” I knew the worst was impending by some instinct, I repeat—for I could explain away every ill symptom,—a little wandering, after a weeks absolute refusal of solid food, and a (prescribed) slight addition to the morphine dose, what was in that? The frightful thing, really, was only the vehement expression of her perfect love for me when, if nothing was to happen—there would be nothing to account for it in my simply standing beside her—but I will say, in profound gratitude, that her last words were bidding “God bless me” in tones and with what never accompanied any words of hers to me before. She laughed with pleasure and youth, and I believe in some perfectly gracious way allowed by God suffered no pain whatever, even as she averred. Had you been in the next house I don’t think I should have called you in—but I sate up myself every night but one—unknown to her, who supposed I slept on a sofa, to please my inward misgivings, for the most part, rather than satisfy any so apparent need. The best Doctor we have, stayed with us till morning the first night and supposed the difficulty was over and that “sleep now” would mend all: then he found out that one lung was solidified—the right– “The left, Dr Chambers would have it”—she replied—“it’s the old experience I’ve had in plenty—they don’t understand &c” and I was bound to hope they did not: the worst he remarked was—“If I were not assured this is a very exceptional case, and did I not know that there are such cases, I should suspect an abscess on the lungs– She is however certainly better to-day, better again this evening[”]—and so on. The last night she sate up by herself, cleaned her teeth, washed her face and combed her hair without the least assistance—and she took two saucers of jelly from me spoonful by spoonful and drank a glass of lemonade not a quarter of an hour before the end: there is all I can bear to tell you now of it, and I bear so much only to be relieved of your just reproach if my silence to you had arisen from disregard of an obviously impending calamity. She was buried yesterday—with the shops in the street shut, a crowd of people following sobbing, another crowd of Italians, Americans & English crying like children at the cemetery, for they knew who she was—“the greatest English Poet of the day, writer of the sublimest poem ever penned by woman, and Italy’s truest and dearest of friends” [3] —as the morning & evening papers told them, “calling on the friends of Art & Italy, of whatever tribe and sect, to go & pay a last homage” [4] —& so they did, I am told, for I saw nothing but for one minute a flush of faces—noble, grateful Italians.

I have nothing more to do with Italy for many a year, however. I shall at once go to England, or rather Paris, first, and then London: I shall give myself wholly up to the care & education of our child; I know all Ba’s mind as to how that should be, and shall try and carry out her desires– I have formed no particular plan as yet, but am certain enough of the main direction my life will take: but there is much to wind up here before I can go away with the relief of knowing that I need not return in a hurry. Penini is like an angel to me—inspired all at once: he is quite well and so am I,—I assure you, and beginning to get rid of the business already (the business of arranging affairs).

Wednesday / Dear George, I must write no more letters like this. I propose to go to England the moment I can wind up my affairs here, and to see Arabel for a few days: I shall then be able to say as much as I ought to say & no more—which I cannot manage now. For the last time, all brothers & relatives must forgive my not attempting to write to them– I am absolutely alone,—with much help of another kind, and every sort of offered assistance, but I cannot yet go over this again & again in letters. I hope I shall see you in England. Peni is quite well and very perfect in his goodness– I hope to get off in another week. I will write to Arabel of course. Ever yours affectionately,

Robert Browning.

Address: Angleterre. / George Moulton Barrett Esq. / Warnicombe House / near Tiverton / England.

Publication: B-GB, pp. 270–273.

Manuscript: Pierpont Morgan Library.

1. Year provided by postmark.

2. Dr. Wilson.

3. RB translates from the La Nazione of 30 June 1861 (pp. 2–3). For the full text of this brief obituary, see p. 371.

4. RB translates from the Gazzetta del Popolo of 1 July 1861 (p. 2). For the full text of this brief obituary, see pp. 371–372.

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