5632. RB to Isa Blagden
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 31, 278–281.
Ste Marie près Pornic, Loire Inferieure, France.
Aug. 19. ’65.
Dearest Isa, Your letter came safely enough from St Marcello: [1] I am glad you have been there, little satisfactory as circumstances may have made your stay, for I feel affectionately about that little place which I never saw, nor probably shall see: when I first went to Italy, that was the place we rather wanted to go to—having heard about its seclusion & attractiveness from an English family that tried it: San Benedetto [2] is another retreat akin, I think. I wish the poor Cottrells well out of all their troubles, especially this—I know: he means well, I believe. Let him make amends now, and I won’t mind the past. I want to hear all is over, and be able to think of seeing Florence, if so minded, some day, without having to face that particular pain. What you can do you will—I know also. [3] You see, I am here again—as two years ago. Mind the address, and write to me here next time—I shall have the delight of your letter a day sooner. We are the same party, in the same house—and all but the same other house—for Mrs Bracken & Willy could not get the old one, and are a few yards nearer. Nothing is changed– Pornic itself, two miles off, is full of company, but our little village is its dirty, unimproved self—a trifle wilder than before, if possible. The weather is not good: rain every day, with intervals of sun, but a contrast to the wonderful Biarritz & Cambo blaze of last year: at the same time, it suits me, & I think the others, better by far: the sea is the great resource. I used not to care about it inordinately till of late years—now, it seems to be the obbligato [4] accompaniment to my last home but one. I bathe daily—and feel much the better for it. Pen and Willy swim capitally—far better than any other person out of the many who exhibit daily—(not at my little retired creek, which is close by.) My sister seems particularly well,—and my Father also. Mrs Bracken does well enough, I believe. She is a woman of a mild mournful voice over minute grievances, chiefly culinary, but really devoted to Willie– I don’t see much more to say about the place except that since our arrival a fortnight ago, they have pulled—or are busy pulling down Pornic Church, mentioned in a poem of mine: [5] on arriving, I went inside and found all as I had left it—last evening I looked through great gaps in the walls and saw the inside a mere shell: it was very old, and built on a natural pedestal of living rock—and there’s the whole bare country round about to build on: also at this Ste Marie church opposite they have taken away old pillar-ornaments, column-heads with quaint figures; made all smooth and white-washed where they were,—and flung them where they now lie, on a heap of stones by the road-side—where my father goes to draw them in his sketch books—groaningly.
As to those nonsensical reports, I never supposed you believed any of them, but, then, after all, people change their minds, and I have no right to pass for something above changes even of that sort: only observe that these reports were more impertinent and intentionally false than merely nonsensical: my sister told me that Mrs Carmichael Smith, [6] Annie’s grandmother, regularly came to condole with her (S) about Pen’s approaching change of circumstances under another mother-in-law,—whose name, as you don’t mention, I shall not: this was my first acquaintance with that report, just as stupid or spiteful as the rest. If there were not an intention of being spiteful, there are other names of people in houses where I visit, which are those at least of ladies I do occasionally see and converse with, and like well enough,—but you’ll never hear of them, I think. I suppose that what you call “my fame within these four years” comes from a little of this gossiping and going out, and showing myself to be alive: and so indeed some folks say—but I hardly think it: for remember I was uninterruptedly (almost) in London from the time I published Paracelsus—till I ended that string of plays with Luria: and I used to go out then, and see far more of merely literary people, critics &c. than I do now,—but what came of it? There were always a few people who had a certain opinion of my poems, but nobody cared to speak what he thought, or the things printed twenty five years ago would not have waited so long for a good word—but at last a new set of men arrive who don’t mind the conventionalities of ignoring one and seeing everything in another: Chapman says, “The orders come from Oxford & Cambridge,” and all my new cultivators are young men: more than that, I observe that some of my old friends don’t like at all the irruption of outsiders who rescue me from their sober and private approval and take those words out of their mouths “which they always meant to say,” and never did. When there gets to be a general feeling of this kind, that there must be something in the works of an author, the reviews are obliged to notice him, such notice as it is: but what poor work, even when doing its best!– I mean, poor in the failure to give a general notion of the whole works,—not a particular one of such and such points therein. As I began, so I shall end, taking my own course, pleasing myself or aiming at doing so, and thereby, I hope, pleasing God. As I never did otherwise, I never had any fear as to what I did going ultimately to the bad,—hence in collected editions I always reprinted every thing, smallest and greatest. Do you ever see, by the way, the Numbers of the Selection which Moxons publish? [7] They are exclusively poems omitted in that other Selection by Forster: [8] it seems little use sending them to you, but when they are completed, if they give me a few copies, you shall have one if you like. Just before I left London, McMillan was anxious to print a third Selection, for his Golden Treasury, which should of course be different from either: but three seem too absurd. There, enough of me. I certainly will do my utmost to make the most of my poor self before I die—for one reason, that I may help old Pen the better: I was much struck by the kind ways, and interest in me shown by the Oxford undergraduates, —those that were introduced to me by Jowett: [9] I am sure they would be the more helpful to my son. So, good luck to my great venture, the murder-poem, [10] which I do hope will strike you and all good lovers of mine.
Now, good bye, dearest Isa. I shall be glad to know what you decide on for your “pied-a-terre”—how is the plan for the Cottage with Trollope? And how is he, pray? Do you read the “Fortnightly,” with the “Belton Estate” in it? [11] I like that much: it is the only novel of Anthony’s that I have read of late years: very unpretending, but surely real, and so far a gain. Miss Braddon’s I stop my ears to. [12] I conjure you to be careful, to digest & re-digest what you write, and to do yourself justice. Don’t trouble yourself about “keeping your name before the public,” or anything but the main thing—to produce a real book. I wonder whether if I were by your side, snake-fashion, [13] a-snubbing you in my ogre-fashion, (as you used to say) I should be of any use: or can anybody be of use to any other body? How I wish you success in all things, you must know well enough.
That Bust arrived: [14] there are reminiscences in it, certainly, and on the whole, it is much to my mind: I wish it were mine: nobody but Story could have brought so much together.
At Paris, I saw a friend of my sister’s, Miss Church, [15] an American young lady,—who desired to be kindly remembered to you. I like her extremely: she is just going home. I have only time to add that Pen sends his best love—so do my Father & Sister. You hear from Miss Smith—& probably know that she is going to live with some friends, finding the solitary life irksome after her sister’s death. [16]
Ever affectionately yours,
Robert Browning.
Publication: DI, pp. 218–222.
Manuscript: British Library.
2. Now called San Benedetto in Alpe, site of a former monastery, about midway between Florence and Forli. The Brownings would probably have passed through it when they returned to Florence from their Adriatic holiday in the summer of 1848 (see letter 2754).
3. A further reference to the monument over EBB’s grave in Florence. Its construction had been less than adequately supervised by Henry Cottrell.
4. “Obligatory.”
5. “Gold Hair” (1864), line 71.
6. Anne Carmichael-Smyth (née Becher, formerly Thackeray, 1792–1864); see letter 2979, note 20.
9. During his recent visit to Oxford, 10–12 June 1865.
10. The Ring and the Book.
11. The Belton Estate by Anthony Trollope was serialized in The Fortnightly Review from 15 May 1865, the date of the periodical’s first issue, to 15 January 1866, shortly after which it was published in book form by Chapman and Hall.
12. Only a Clod, the most recent novel by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (see letter 5135, note 30), was published in May 1865 by John Maxwell & Co.
14. Of EBB; see letter 5298, note 4.
15. Emma Conant Church (1832–93), American painter and copyist, was the daughter of Pharcellus Church (1801–86), a Baptist minister, and his wife, Chara (née Conant, 1809–87). She met Sarianna in Paris sometime in 1861 and may have met Isa Blagden during her residence in Rome (1862–65).
16. Jane Browning Smith’s twin sister, Mary Norton Smith (1805–63).
___________________
