5314. RB to William Wetmore Story, Emelyn Story & Edith Story
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 31, 3–5.
London, 19. Warwick Crescent,
Upper Westbourne Terr:
Jan. 8. ’64.
Dearest Friends all,—At last—but not too late for your goodness, I know,—comes my letter: I could not write earlier. I have wronged Pen somewhat, however, seeing that he has really written and then, in despair at waiting for me, torn up his performances—you feel, even at your distance, how his cheeks glowed at getting those choice slippers and charming words from Edie: they (the slippers) are made up—but not worn yet,—too precious for that! Now, for myself: I finished, last year, correcting the book [1] —the delay in getting it out was none of mine, depend on it: but there is a good deal of new matter, beside corrections, and the Printers would do it no quicklier. You may have got a copy by this, for aught I know. If the printers attended to my corrections, all is right now: I am sure you will forgive me if any thing may seem overcorrected, in some trifling matters—but I wanted the book to be right,—not merely blameless so far as my strict share in it goes: thus, I try at uniformity in the titles Saint &c—since we say, St Augustine, I say St Bernardino, not San.—St Anne not Sta Anne—&c. &c. Also, when an English expression or word is referred to as original, if that is Latin, I give it rather than Italian,—equally a derivative,—when this last would look like a blunder—e.g. “beaks of ships (rostri)” I change to the real “rostra”, & so on: the book reads well throughout, and nothing is lost, you will see, except the early history of the Jews,—all the statistics are in,—so good luck to it! Always,—if you are satisfied with my doings,—let me have the correcting your labours of this kind. Next, I have to thank you for all your kindness to George, who expresses himself warmly on the subject: poor fellow, his illness is very annoying at this sight-seeing time, in a strange place. He writes to me about that impossible Bust: [2] it can only be from his little acquaintance with the procedures of Art, especially your Art: for a painter might give a few traits in full and leave the rest to one’s fancy—but a sculptor must make a whole somehow,—and for me, at least, the result would be, “the better—the worse∙” To strangers an idealization might do very well. In the Tomb now constructing—the central circle will contain no attempt at a portrait, much as I should desire it, but a simple “Poetry” with no pretence at anything but a symbol. [3] George thinks there would be help in the magnified reproduction of the photograph made at Hâvre, he does not remember that it is an ambrotype, [4] —beneath, or at the back of, glass,—incapable of being reproduced, as a picture would be with a glass over it: even the original is not in a state to be sent to Italy, having been cracked across the face in its last passages thither [5] —the least motion would divide it. I can quite believe that George, seeing what you can do,—Saul and Sappho, [6] —may hope even this might be within your compass—but, I know it will never be—and I hate that you should even try vainly to do anything,—and that, of all other things. Understand me—dear Story! I shall write to George—the first disappointment will be easier to bear than a later one: If you made a beautiful head which we could not bear to look on!
Poor Thackeray! [7] I was to have met him on Wednesday 23d at dinner—we talked about his empty chair: he was to dine next day, 24, at another friends where I was certainly to see him—and where heard, on arriving, what had happened in the morning. He was no worse than I ever knew him; in higher spirits than of old,—I often met him. He never got rid of the silly way of doing himself injustice by affecting—but never mind now—one has forgotten all about it.
Pen is out skating—we have bitter frost: he is very well, save for the remains of a cough he caught by going to a hot place & out again,—without a great coat: I have much to do to day—how gladly I could begin to dream upon paper about you, Rome, and years to come—but I won’t keep this long. All love to you all,—best new year’s wishes: shall I see you, I wonder? It is just in the dice that I may. Remember me to all friends—Perkins, the Bruens, Hatty and the rest. How is Wild? Here is his beautiful little picture opposite me. [8] All regard to him. Do write soon,—ever yours affectionately,
R Browning.
How about Mrs Eckley?—and the poor fellow? [9] Lady W. is very well, on the whole. Love to Made Du Quaire particularly. She writes great things of “Sappho.”
Have the kindness to let George have the enclosed note. [10]
Publication: BAF, pp. 139–141.
Manuscript: Yale University.
1. A one-volume edition of Story’s Roba di Roma (see letter 5295, note 2).
2. Of EBB (see letter 5298, note 4).
3. RB refers to the monument above EBB’s grave in the Protestant Cemetery at Florence. Apparently, RB and Frederic Leighton (the monument’s designer) considered incorporating an image of EBB. But as RB writes in letter 5298: “It could not be, and I think never can.”
4. A copy made from a photograph of EBB taken by the Macaire brothers at Le Havre in the late summer of 1858 (see letter 4243, note 3).
5. i.e., on the Brownings’ return trip to Italy from France in 1858.
6. See letter 5162, note 7, and letter 5212, note 3.
7. William Makepeace Thackeray died of a stroke after returning home on the night of December 23rd (see letter 5306, note 6).
8. The portrait of Pen on his pony by Hamilton Gibbs Wild (1827–84).
9. Her husband, David Eckley, Jr.
10. RB’s note to George has not surfaced.
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