4988. RB to William Wetmore Story & Emelyn Story
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 29, 255–258.
1. Chichester Road, Upper Westbourne Terrace,
Nov. 10. ’61.
My dear Friends,
The last day I spent at St Enogat, [1] I remember I was bent on writing an answer of some sort to the letters, brimful of kindness, which I had received just before: I had to go to St Malo’s however, & could not get a clear quarter of an hour– I meant therefore to write on arriving at Paris: the end is, that all this while I have said nothing—& as a consequence heard nothing. But you do know my feeling to you all, & whether it is likely to grow less now. I have one of my old headaches this morning,—cannot attend to Pen, nor go out for a walk (in the rain)—a duty of religion enforced on me at leisure minutes—so I will chat a little with you, if you please, as if I came in, the dear old way—taking my seat by the corner of the “mobile,” whatever it should be called, where my elbow goes so well—& there you are in the customary places! Well, I stayed at Paris only a day or two, being impatient to get to London on many accounts. I saw Mr Burridge (nobody else)—he was far too kind & good with Peni as usual: I gave him some photographs & notes with them for various friends,—& something, a note, I think—for you: I cannot hear whether he has arrived at Rome or no. I had an adventure in going to Boulogne—was strangely misinformed as to the proper train,—that which transports horses—and the people refused to take me: I proved the fault was theirs (having their printed paper to show) & also their officials’, and explaining the loss of time & money they would put me to unless I was suffered to take Pen’s pony by the express-train—(my own, that was to have been, went without me)—declared (in all good humour, for they were polite enough) that I would prosecute them: I was upwards of two hours in this weary work of battling with them. “it could not be”!—but at the last moment, literally, it was—they pushed me into the train, put the horse-box on, which there was no time even to pay for, & so I got off, reached Boulogne in time to get the pony thro’ the Custom house, & consequently not miss the boat direct to London which sailed two hours after midnight: missing moreover the accident which happened to the “proper train for me”, which I certainly should have taken had they beaten me, & which was run into by another train at Amiens leaving “22 wounded & 10 or 12 killed,” said the “Times”, two days after. [2] Another strange thing happened while I was in the train,—I had been thinking much of the meeting I had with Tennyson ten years ago when he was the first person I chanced upon in Paris,—I must have told you, for it always impressed me—well, I, in like manner, not having seen an English friend since I left Florence, put my head out of window at the Amiens Station—out came Tennyson & entered a carriage: he was changed, had a great beard, but I could not be deceived: at Boulogne I met him in the doorway & was re-assured—but I kept out of sight– When the luggage was disposed of, Pen proposed to go & see the quay: the Folkestone-boat was on the point of starting. I said “I’ll show you Tennyson”—& presently he came forward with his wife & two beautiful children—they seated themselves a few yards from me: I pulled my hat over my face,—not that they would have recognized me—& so saw them off. Odd, is it not, to leave Florence twice, and twice meet, for the first English face—Tennyson’s! I wonder whether he, also, had missed the afternoon train & its smash. I arrived at Arabel Barrett’s, stayed with her a fortnight, then came to this lodging, a few doors off: her kindness has been perfect, & it is a great relief to have her at hand for Pen—her knowledge helping my ignorance. She has suffered much since my coming from the sudden death of Octavius Barrett’s wife—which happened a week after the poor thing’s confinement: & yesterday came the news of an uncle’s still more sudden death. [3] I have seen nobody but her, whom I could possibly avoid seeing—always excepting people whose information might be of use for Pen: I am still unprovided with a Tutor for him—wanting the best possible: I cannot decide yet whether to send him to Eton before Oxford—there is much against, & nearly as much in favor of that scheme. If the question is found to lie between giving up all other advantages now acquired or acquiring, & only securing Greek, Latin & gentility at Eton, I shall give up these last: if the rules of Eton will allow me to keep Pen with me so long that enough Greek & Latin may be added to what he is now learning, I will risk the neglect of these for two or three years at Eton—but not otherwise. Everybody is very kind & it is promised that Pen will have particular favor & advantage: but he is so good & goes on so well that I cannot bear the thought of suspending Music, French, German, Italian & Drawing—to gain Latin & Greek now instead of two years later, merely because boys are not admitted to Eton after fourteen—& he is twelve & a half: it is amusing to hear my informants talk—(people entirely qualified to speak on the subject, of course)—they say (actually, & not in joke)—[“]if your boy has a private tutor till he goes to the University, he will be so much more advanced than those of his own standing he will find there, that the effect may be disastrous—he will look down on his fellows, & they, naturally, take a prejudice against him: that advantage at Eton is not of getting scholarship, but of-of-of”—why, getting aristocratic connexions & friendships, which in England is the chief end of man! In a week or two, I shall decide: meantime, all the teaching falls on me, even the music, as of old: for everybody is away, & I want to make no provisional arrangements, but get settled once & for a long time: one German master happened to be at hand, & I secured him, [4] as wanted more urgently than anybody else—but, I assure you, this will all be over in another week,—& I shall have to turn my mind to other matters. Pen is in a very satisfactory state: his health perfect, apparently—his good temper, docility & application really praiseworthy. He is much grown, much changed—you certainly would find it hard to recognize in him the old Peni with the curls & pretty dresses. He rides out daily alone—looks quite old enough for that. He remembers you all every day, & probably every hour– I shall make his eyes sparkle when I tell him I have written to you. My own time (to end with all this about myself)—every minute is taken up– I have much to do with the printers, & shall have for some weeks more. [5] I see nobody—have only called on people about business—the main business being about Pen: there being what is called “nobody in Town”, there was no need to enquire who made the exception– I shall presently go about, I suppose, for people have been very kind indeed. Miss Blagden is opposite, [6] in a house no further from this than your ball-room from the green drawing room. She came last week & will stay three months at least,—pleasantly for me.
Now, tell me in turn how you are & what you do & mean to do, so far as you can: the last letter was saddened with disastrous strokes which had glanced on you from the general struggle in America: have your fears been justified? [7] I want earnestly to be assured, as I have been hoping, that better expectations have displaced them. I cannot understand, for instance, that business of the evaporation of the money subscribed for the Statue—if it ever was there, where can it be gone to? And has the Bust of Parker actually been lost? Story talked of the “work in his studio being suspended”—that cannot be altogether the case surely? At any rate, the two great works [8] are to come to London, are they not? And my bust, [9] —I recollect that you mentioned its having been begun,—is the progress of that suspended also? I have put myself out of the way of hearing all this, which interests me so much, by stupidly delaying to give even my address,—that, I dare say, would have drawn a few lines, from your benevolence. Something Story must be doing—& discouraging as neglect (comparative) & perverseness (positive) may be in common cases, he must live them down & through & be sure of the end. You will also tell me, I hope, all your household doings which used to interest me so much in the happy old days: what is Edie doing now? The poor Abbé is no longer employed, I suppose. Tell Edie I forget none of my promises to her,—for instance the autographs—but I only once opened the desk where they lie, [10] & let it fall again: when I make up my mind to examine, I shall do it effectually. Are you coming to London, yes or no? Can I do anything for you now or then? You have taken the measure pretty accurately, I dare say, of what I am worth in the way of returning the countless kindnesses laid by in my heart—but you do know that if I can try at some poor return I will—so enough of that.
It is not because I do not feel the deepest interest in the American news that I rather turn from writing about it—particularly to you who understand so much more,—foresee, & perhaps apprehend more than can the uninstructed here. The grin of the “Times” may be hard to bear, but indeed the feeling of the few people I see is altogether free from its malicious self-satisfaction: I never hear a word for “the South,” even from those who think the North underestimated its strength, & despair of a better issue than separation: we say, fight it out to the last—but for English lookers-on, who abjure heroics, to say that—would be saying “Do yourselves as much harm as you can”. The Italian hope deferred again is also a weariness—but not worse, I think. Dear Friends, we feel together, hope together,—did so & will do so! Here is a “length”, as the actors used to say! Remember me to any friend that still cares to know. I heard from Cartwright yesterday. Diceys go to you immediately. Can you tell me where the Bruens & Perkins are? The Eckleys are coming here presently. I can’t stay longer with you in the cheerful room, so good bye, Story, goodbye, Mrs Story, goodbye, Edie, & God bless you all.
RB.
Publication: BAF, pp. 82–88.
Manuscript: Keats-Shelley Memorial Association.
1. Friday, 20 September.
2. The Times reported that the railway accident resulted in five deaths (see letter 4969, note 4). We have been unable to confirm the number of casualties that RB cites.
3. Thomas Butler (1783–1861), 8th Baronet, husband of EBB’s maternal aunt, Frances (née Graham-Clarke, 1790–1868), died on 9 November at the residence of his son, Richard Pierce Butler, Bennekerry, Ireland.
4. Leopold Noa (1826–97), who lived nearby at 31 Blomfield Road (see AB-4).
5. RB was editing EBB’s Last Poems, which Chapman and Hall published on 20 March 1862.
6. At 1 Montpelier Villas, Chichester Road, with Jane Browning Smith.
7. RB discusses the “disastrous strokes” in the second paragraph of letter 4965.
8. “Cleopatra” and “The Libyan Sibyl” (see letter 4867, note 15).
10. EBB’s writing desk; see letter 2773, note 14.
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