5449. RB to Julia Wedgwood
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 31, 127–128.
Maison Gastonbide, Plage des Basques,
Biarritz, Basses-Pyrénées
Sept. 19. ’64
Do you see what a scrap of writing this cannot otherwise than be? The meaning of the piece of a sheet is, that I was frightened this morning by a calculation made betwixt asleep and awake as to the possibilities of hearing from you before I leave this place—which must happen on the 30th, and may happen on the 28th—so I shall say, my word, and (parenthetically) see what you are made of, trying your generosity, as a friend should sometimes—for I shall count the lines of the reply to this and determine whether you give me one the less: it is in the proprieties of our friendship that I should ask favours occasionally. Once when I was at Rome, there befell me some chance of being presented to the Pope—(Gregory, [1] that was)—and on my landlord, an old Roman, hearing of it—said he, “What favour shall you ask him?”—“Why, what should I ask”?—“Oh, it’s improper to ask nothing,—as if you were in no need of him, indeed!”– However, I did not go, did not ask, and only put this pretty lesson to use this same early morning at Biarritz—where I find myself stationed by sheer inability to move elsewhere—St. Jean de Luz, whereto I was inclined, being still filled with Spaniards glad to use the new railway. This house is close to the sea, and out of the heart of the noisy town, and we do well enough for the little while that is to be cared for. The sea-view, with the mountains, make all amends: there are extraordinary tides, too, and the standing attraction at one of the bathing-places is the increasing probability of somebody’s being drowned in a certain ugly current which sucks you unawares under the rock: I saw one man who, two days ago, all but gave us the due entertainment. Now, then—what were we talking about?
I know Miss B. Carter, and like her much,—though she don’t believe it, on account of a failure on my part of going to some party to which she invited me. I ought to have seen that statuette, [2] —and now do see it, exactly, through your eyes, and, Simeon-like, [3] may depart in peace. Confess that my subject [4] argues the more artistic nature—(mine because I found it, of course—did not invent it.) As to the poem about the old Farmer, [5] I am certain, from the remarks on it of the two or three people who have written to me, that I shall enjoy it enormously: all I know of the book is “Enoch Arden,” & the old pieces, of course.
There, my letter is wanted—now, I shall see what I shall see!—if I see a letter of yours before I leave.
Ever yours affectionately
RB.
Publication: RB-JW, pp. 85–86.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library.
1. Gregory XVI, Bartolommeo Alberto Cappellari (1765–1846), was pope from 1831 to 1846. RB refers to his stay in Rome in the autumn of 1844.
3. See Luke 2:25–29.
4. i.e., Helen of Troy “dedicating a goblet”; see the last paragraph in letter 5446.
5. Tennyson’s “Northern Farmer” (Enoch Arden, 1864).
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