CHAPTER IX

1855-1859

About a month after the date of the last letter, Mr. and Mrs. Browning

left Italy for the second time. As on the previous occasion (1851-2),

their absence extended over two summers and a winter, the latter being

spent in Paris, while portions of each summer were given up to visits to

England. Each of them was bringing home an important work for

publication, Mr. Browning's 'Men and Women,' containing much of his very

greatest poetry, being passed through the press in 1855, while Mrs.

Browning's 'Aurora Leigh,' although more than half of it had been

written before she left Florence, was not ready for printing until the

following year. They travelled direct from Florence to London, arriving

there apparently in the course of July, and taking up their quarters at

13 Dorset Street. Their stay there was made memorable, as Mrs. Browning

records below, by a visit from Tennyson, who read to them, on September

27, his new poem of 'Maud;' and it was while he was thus employed that

Rossetti drew a well-known portrait of the Laureate in pen and ink. But

in spite of glimpses of Tennyson, Ruskin, Carlyle, Kenyon, and other

friends, the visit to England was, on the whole, a painful one to Mrs.

Browning. Intercourse with her own family did not run smooth. One sister

was living at too great a distance to see her; the other was kept out of

her reach, for a considerable part of the time, by her father. In

addition, a third member of the Barrett family, her brother Alfred,

earned excommunication from his father's house by the unforgivable

offence of matrimony. Altogether it was not without a certain feeling of

relief that, in the middle of October, Mrs. Browning, with her husband

and child, left England for Paris. The whole visit had been so crowded

with work and social engagements as to leave little time for

correspondence; and the letters for the period are consequently few and

short.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

13 Dorset Street, Baker Street:

Tuesday, [July-August 1855].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I have waited days and days in the answering of

your dear, kind, welcoming letter, and yet I have been very very

grateful for it. Thank you. I need such things in England above other

places.

For the rest, we could not go to Herefordshire, even if I were rational,

which I am not; I could as soon open a coffin as do it: there's the

truth. The place is nothing to me, of course, only the string round a

faggot burnt or scattered. But if I went there, the thought of _one

face_ which never ceases to be present with me (and which I parted from

for ever in my poor blind unconsciousness with a pettish word) would

rise up, put down all the rest, and prevent my having one moment of

ordinary calm intercourse with you, so don't ask me; set it down to

mania or obstinacy, but I never _could_ go into that neighbourhood,

except to die, which I think sometimes I should like. So you may have me

some day when the physicians give me up, but then, you won't, you know,

and it wouldn't, any way, be merry visiting.

Foolish to write all this! As if any human being could know thoroughly

what _he_ was to me. It must seem so extravagant, and perhaps affected,

even to _you_, who are large-hearted and make allowances. After these

years!

And, after all, I might have just said the other truth, that we are at

the end of our purse, and can't travel any more, not even to Taunton,

where poor Henrietta, who is hindered from coming to me by a like

pecuniary straitness, begs so hard that we should go. Also, we are bound

to London by business engagements; a book in the press (Robert's two

volumes), and _proofs_ coming in at all hours. We have been asked to two

or three places at an hour's distance from London, and can't stir; to

Knebworth, for instance, where Sir Edward Lytton wants us to go. It

would be amusing in some ways; but we are tired. Also Robert's sister is

staying with us.

Also, we shall see you in Paris on the way to Pau next November, shall

we not? Write and tell me that we shall, and that you are not disgusted

with me meanwhile.

Do you know our news? Alfred is just married at the Paris Embassy to

Lizzie Barrett.... Of course, he makes the third exile from Wimpole

Street, the course of true love running remarkably rough in our house.

For the rest, there have been no _scenes_, I thank God, for dearest

Arabel's sake. He had written to my father nine or ten days before the

ceremony, received no answer, and followed up the silence rather briskly

by another letter to announce his marriage.... I am going to write to

him at Marseilles.

You cannot imagine to yourself the unsatisfactory and disheartening

turmoil in which we are at present. It's the mad bull and the china

shop, and, _nota bene_, we are the china shop. People want to see if

Italy has cut off our noses, or what! A very kind anxiety certainly, but

so horribly fatiguing that my heart sinks, and my brain goes round under

the process. O my Florence! how much better you are!

Have you heard that Wilson is married to a Florentine who lived once

with the Peytons, and is here now with us, a good, tender-hearted

man?[46]

I am tolerably well, though to breathe this heavy air always strikes me

as difficult; and my little Penini is very well, thank God. I want so

much to show him to you. We shall be here till the end of September, if

the weather admits of it, then go to Paris for the winter, then return

to London, and then--why, _that_ 'then' is too far off to see. Only we

talk of Italy in the distance.

My book is not ready for the press yet; and as to writing here, who

could produce an epic in the pauses of a summerset? Not that my poem is

an epic, I hurry on to say in consideration for dear Mr. Martin's

feelings. I flatter myself it's a _novel_, rather, a sort of novel in

verse. Arabel looks well.

What pens! What ink! Do write, and tell me of _you both_. I love you

cordially indeed.

Your ever affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

13 Dorset Street: Tuesday, [July-August 1855].

My dearest Mona Nina,--I write to you in the midst of so much fatigue

and unsatisfactory turmoil, that I feel I shall scarcely be articulate

in what I say. Still, it must be tried, for I can't have you think that

I have come to London to forget you, much less to be callous to the

influence of this dear affectionate letter of yours. May God bless you!

How sorry I am that you should have vexation on the top of more serious

hurts to depress you. Indeed, if it were not for the _other side of the

tapestry_, it would seem not at all worth while for us to stand putting

in more weary Gobelin stitches (till we turn into goblins) day after

day, year after year, in this sad world. For my part, I am ready at

melancholy with anybody. The air, mentally or physically considered, is

very heavy for me here, and I long for the quiet of my Florence, where

somehow it always has gone best with my life. As to England, it affects

me so, in body, soul, and circumstances, that if I could not get away

soon, I should be provoked, I think, into turning monster and _hating_

the whole island, which shocks you so to hear, that you will be provoked

into not loving me, perhaps, and _that_ would really be too hard, after

all.

The best news I can give you is that Robert has printed the first half

volume of his poems, and that the work looks better than ever in print,

as all true work does brought into the light. He has read these proofs

to Mr. Fox (of Oldham), who gives an opinion that the poems are at the

top of art in their kind. I don't know whether you care for Mr. Fox's

opinion, but it's worth more than mine, of course, on the ground of

_impartiality_, to say no otherwise, and it will disappoint me much if

you don't confirm both of us presently. The poems, for variety,

vitality, and intensity, are quite worthy of the writer, it seems to me,

and a clear advance in certain respects on his previous productions.

Has 'Maud' penetrated to you? The winding up is magnificent, full of

power, and there are beautiful thrilling bits before you get so far.

Still, there is an appearance of labour in the early part; the language

is rather encrusted by skill than spontaneously blossoming, and the

rhythm is not always happy. The poet seems to aim at more breadth and

freedom, which he attains, but at the expense of his characteristic

delicious music. People in general appear very unfavourably impressed by

this poem, _very unjustly_, Robert and I think. On some points it is

even an advance. The sale is great, _nearly five thousand copies

already_.

Let me see what London news I have to tell you. We spent an evening with

Mr. Ruskin, who was gracious and generous, and strengthened all my good

impressions. Robert took our friend young Leighton to see him

afterwards, and was as kindly received. We met Carlyle at Mr. Forster's,

and found him in great force, particularly in the damnatory clauses. Mr.

Kinglake we saw twice at the Procters', and once here.... The Procters

are very well. How I like Adelaide's face! that's a face worth a drove

of beauties! Dear Mrs. Sartoris has just left London, I grieve to say;

and so has Mrs. Kemble, who (let me say it quick in a parenthesis) is

looking quite magnificent just now, with those gorgeous eyes of hers.

Mr. Kenyon, too, has vanished--gone with his brother to the Isle of

Wight. The weather has been very uncertain, cloudy, misty, and rainy,

with heavy air, ever since we came. Ferdinando keeps saying, 'Povera

gente, che deve vivere in questo posto,' and Penini catches it up, and

gives himself immense airs, discoursing about Florentine skies and the

glories of the Cascine to anyone who will listen. The child is well,

thank God, and in great spirits, which is my comfort. I found my dear

sister Arabel, too, well, and it is deep yet sad joy to me to look in

her precious loving eyes, which never failed me, nor could. Henrietta

will be hindered, perhaps, from coming to see me by want of means, poor

darling; and the same cause will keep me from going to Taunton. We have

a quantity of invitations to go into the country, to the Custs, to the

Martins, &c. &c., and (one which rather tempts _me_) to Knebworth, Sir

Edward Lytton having written us the kindest of possible invitations; but

none of these things are for us, I see.

Dearest friend, I do hope you won't go to Rome this winter. When you

have been to Vienna, come back, and let us have you in Paris. I am glad

Lady Elgin liked the book. The history of it was that she asked Robert

to get it for her, and he _presented_ it instead.

Our M. Milsand likes you much, he says, and I like you to hear it....

Oh, we read your graceful, spirited letter in the 'Athenæum.' By the

way, did you see the absurd exposition of 'Maud' as an allegory? What

pure madness, instead of Maudness!

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

13 Dorset Street: Monday, [August-September 1855].

Day after day, my dearest Mrs. Martin, I have been meaning to write to

you, always in vain, and now I hear from Mrs. Ormus Biddulph that you

are not quite well. How is this? Shall I hear soon that you are better?

I want something to cheer me up a little. The bull is out of the china

shop, certainly, but the broken pottery doesn't enjoy itself much the

more for that. I have lost my Arabel (my one light in London), who has

had to go away to Eastbourne; very vexed at it, dear darling, though she

really required change of air. We, for our parts, are under promise to

follow her in a week, as it will be on our way to Paris, and not cost us

many shillings over the expenses of the direct route. But the days drag

themselves out, and there remains so much work (on proof sheets, &c.) to

be done here, that I despond of our being able to move as soon as I fain

would. I assure you I am stuffed as hard as a cricket ball with the work

of every day, and I have waited in vain for a clear hour to write

quietly and comfortably to you, in order to say how your letter touched

me, dear dear friend. You always understand. Your sympathy stretches

_beyond_ points of agreement, which is so rare and so precious, and

makes one feel so unspeakably grateful....

London has emptied itself, as you may suppose, by this time. Mrs. Ormus

Biddulph was so kind as to wish us to dine with them on Monday (to-day),

but we found it absolutely impossible. The few engagements we make we

don't keep, and I shall try for the future to avoid perjury. As it is, I

have no doubt that various people have set me down as 'full of arrogance

and assumption,' at which the gods must laugh, for really, if truths

could be known, I feel even morbidly humble just now, and could show my

sackcloth with anybody's sackcloth. But it is difficult to keep to the

conventions rigidly, and return visits to the hour, and hold engagements

to the minute, when one has neither carriage, nor legs, nor time at

one's disposal, which is my case. If I don't at once answer (for

instance) such a letter as you sent me, I must be a beggar....

May God bless you both, my very dear friends! My husband bids me

remember him to you in cordial regard. I long to see you, and to hear

(first) that you are well.

Dearest Mrs. Martin's ever attached

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

13 Dorset Street: Tuesday, [October 1855].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I can't go without writing to you, but I am

ground down with last things to do on last days, and it must be a word

only. Dearest friend, I have waited morning after morning for a clear

half-hour, because I didn't like to do your bidding and write briefly,

though now, after all, I am reduced to it. We leave England to-morrow,

and shall sleep (D.V.) at 102 _Rue de Grenelle, Faubourg St. Germain,

Paris_,--I am afraid in a scarcely convenient apartment, which a zealous

friend, in spite of our own expressed opinion, secured for us for the

term of six months, because of certain yellow satin furniture which only

she could consider 'worthy of us.' We shall probably have to dress on

the staircase, but what matter? There's the yellow satin to fall back

upon.

If the rooms are not tenable, we must underlet them, or try....

One of the pleasantest things which has happened to us here is the

coming down on us of the Laureate, who, being in London for three or

four days from the Isle of Wight, spent two of them with us, dined with

us, smoked with us, opened his heart to us (and the second bottle of

port), and ended by reading 'Maud' through from end to end, and going

away at half-past two in the morning. If I had had a heart to spare,

certainly he would have won mine. He is captivating with his frankness,

confidingness, and unexampled _naïveté_! Think of his stopping in 'Maud'

every now and then--'There's a wonderful touch! That's very tender. How

beautiful that is!' Yes, and it _was_ wonderful, tender, beautiful, and

he read exquisitely in a voice like an organ, rather music than speech.

War, war! It is terrible certainly. But there are worse plagues, deeper

griefs, dreader wounds than the physical. What of the forty thousand

wretched women in this city? The silent writhing of them is to me more

appalling than the roar of the cannons. Then this war is _necessary_ on

our sides. Is _that_ wrong necessary? It is not so clear to me.

Can I write of such questions in the midst of packing?

May God bless you both! Write to me in Paris, and do come soon and find

us out.

Robert's love. My love to you both, dearest friends. May God bless you!

Your ever affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mr. Ruskin_

13 Dorset Street:

Tuesday morning, October 17, 1855 [postmark].

My dear Mr. Ruskin,--I can't express our amount of mortification in

being thwarted in the fulfilment of the promise you allowed us to make

to ourselves, that we would go down to you once more before leaving

England. What with the crush rather than press of circumstances, I have

scarcely needed the weather to pin me to the wall. Sometimes my husband

could not go with me, sometimes I couldn't go with him, and always we

waited for one another in hope, till this last day overtook us.

To-morrow (D.V.) we shall be in Paris. Now, will you believe how we have

wished and longed to see you beyond these strait tantalising

limits?--how you look to us at this moment like the phantasm of a thing

dear and desired, just seen and vanishing? What! are you to be ranked

among my spiritualities after all? Forgive me that wrong.

Then you had things to say to me, I know, which in your consideration,

and through my cowardice, you did not say, but yet will!

Will you write to me, dear Mr. Ruskin, sometimes, or have I disgusted

you so wholly that you won't or can't?

Once, I know, somewhat because of shyness and somewhat because of

intense apprehension--somewhat, too, through characteristic stupidity

(no contradiction this!)--I said I was grateful to you when you had just

bade me not. Well, I really couldn't help it. That's all I can say now.

Even if your appreciation were perfectly deserved at all points, why,

appreciation means sympathy, and sympathy being the best gift nearly

which one human creature can give another, I don't understand (I never

could) why it does not deserve thanks. I am stupid perhaps, but for my

life I never could help being grateful to the people who loved me, even

if they happened to say, 'I can't help it! not I!'

As for Mr. Ruskin, he sees often in his own light. That's what I see and

feel.

Will you write to me sometimes? I come back to it. Will you, though I am

awkward and shy and obstinate now and then, and a wicked spiritualist to

wit--a _realist_ in an out-of-the-world sense--accepting matter as a

means (no matter for it otherwise!)?

Don't give me up, dear Mr. Ruskin! My husband's truest regards, and

farewell from both of us! I would fain be

Your affectionate friend,

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Our address in Paris will be, _102 Rue de Grenelle, Faubourg St.

Germain_.

* * * * *

The house in the Rue de Grenelle, however, did not prove a success, in

spite of the consolations of the yellow satin, and after six weeks of

discomfort and house-hunting the Brownings moved to 3 Rue de Colisée,

which became their home for the next eight months. It was a period,

first of illness caused by the unsuitable rooms, and then of hard work

for Mrs. Browning, who was engaged in completing 'Aurora Leigh,' while

her husband was less profitably employed in the attempt to recast

'Sordello' into a more intelligible form. No such incident as the visits

to George Sand marked this stay in Paris, and politics were in a very

much less exciting state. The Crimean war was just coming to a close,

and public opinion in England was far from satisfied with the conduct of

its ally; but on the whole the times were uneventful.

The first letter from Paris has, however, a special interest as

containing a very full estimate of the character and genius of Mrs.

Browning's dear friend, Miss Mitford. It is addressed to Mr. Ruskin, who

had been unceasingly attentive and helpful to Miss Mitford during her

declining days.

* * * * *

_To Mr. Ruskin_

Paris, 102 Rue de Grenelle, Faubourg St. Germain:

November 5, [1855].

My dear Mr. Ruskin,--I thank you from my heart for your more than

interesting letter. You have helped me to see that dear friend of ours,

as without you I could not have seen her, in those last affecting days

of illness, by the window not only of the house in Berkshire, but of the

house of the body and of the material world--an open window through

which the light shone, thank God. It would be a comfort to me now if I

had had the privilege of giving her a very very little of the great

pleasure you certainly gave her (for I know how she enjoyed your

visit--she wrote and told me), but I must be satisfied with the thought

left to me, that now _she_ regrets nothing, not even great pleasures.

I agree with you in much if not in everything you have written of her.

It was a great, warm, outflowing heart, and the head was worthy of the

heart. People have observed that she resembled Coleridge in her granite

forehead--something, too, in the lower part of the face--however unlike

Coleridge in mental characteristics, in his tendency to abstract

speculation, or indeed his ideality. There might have been, as you

suggest, a somewhat different development elsewhere than in

Berkshire--not very different, though--souls don't grow out of the

ground.

I agree quite with you that she was stronger and wider in her

conversation and letters than in her books. Oh, I have said so a hundred

times. The heat of human sympathy seemed to bring out her powerful

vitality, rustling all over with laces and flowers. She seemed to think

and speak stronger holding a hand--not that she required help or

borrowed a word, but that the human magnetism acted on her nature, as it

does upon men born to speak. Perhaps if she had been a man with a man's

opportunities, she would have spoken rather than written a reputation.

Who can say? She hated the act of composition. Did you hear that from

her ever?

Her letters were always admirable, but I do most deeply regret that what

made one of their greatest charms unfits them for the public--I mean

their personal details. Mr. Harness sends to me for letters, and when I

bring them up, and with the greatest pain force myself to examine them

(all those letters she wrote to me in her warm goodness and

affectionateness), I find with wonder and sorrow how only a half-page

here and there _could_ be submitted to general readers--_could_, with

any decency, much less delicacy.

But no, her 'judgment' was not 'unerring.' She was too intensely

sympathetical not to err often, and in fact it was singular (or seemed

so) what faces struck her as most beautiful, and what books as most

excellent. If she loved a person, it was enough. She made mistakes one

couldn't help smiling at, till one grew serious to adore her for it. And

yet when she read a book, provided it wasn't written by a friend, edited

by a friend, lent by a friend, or associated with a friend, her judgment

could be fine and discriminating on most subjects, especially upon

subjects connected with life and society and manners. Shall I confess?

She never taught _me_ anything but a very limited admiration of Miss

Austen, whose people struck me as wanting souls, even more than is

necessary for men and women of the world. The novels are perfect as far

as they go--that's certain. Only they don't go far, I think. It may be

my fault.

You lay down your finger and stop me, and exclaim that it's my way

perhaps to attribute a leaning of the judgment through personal sympathy

to people in general--that I do it perhaps to _you_. No, indeed. I can

quite easily believe that you don't either think or say 'the pleasantest

things to your friends;' in fact, I am sure you don't. You would say

them as soon to your enemies--perhaps sooner. Also, when you began to

say pleasant things to me, you hadn't a bit of personal feeling to make

a happy prejudice of, and really I can't flatter myself that you have

now. What I meant was that you, John Ruskin, not being a critic _sal

merum_ as the ancients had it, but half critic, and half poet, may be

rather encumbered sometimes by the burning imagination in you, may be

apt sometimes, when you turn the light of your countenance on a thing,

to see the thing lighted up as a matter of course, just as we, when we

carried torches into the Vatican, were not perfectly clear how much we

brought to that wonderful Demosthenes, folding the marble round him in

its thousand folds--how much we brought, and how much we received. Was

it the sculptor or was it the torch-bearer who produced that effect? And

like doubts I have had of you, I confess, and not only when you have

spoken kindly of _me_. You don't mistake by your heart, through loving,

but you exaggerate by your imagination, through glorifying. There's my

thought at least.

But what I meant by 'apprehending too intensely,' dear Mr. Ruskin, don't

ask me. Really I have forgotten. I suppose I did mean something, though

it was a day of chaos and packing boxes--try to think I did therefore,

and let it pass.

You please me--oh, so much--by the words about my husband. When you

wrote to praise my poems, of course I had to bear it--I couldn't turn

round and say, 'Well, and why don't you praise him, who is worth twenty

of me? Praise my second Me, as well as my Me proper, if you please.'

One's forced to be rather decent and modest for one's husband as well as

for one's self, even if it's harder. I couldn't pull at your coat to

read 'Pippa Passes,' for instance. I can't now.

But you have put him on the shelf, so we have both taken courage to send

you his new volumes, 'Men and Women,' not that you may say 'pleasant

things' of them or think yourself bound to say anything indeed, but that

you may accept them as a sign of the esteem and admiration of both of

us. I consider them on the whole an advance upon his former poems, and

am ready to die at the stake for my faith in these last, even though the

discerning public should set it down afterwards as only a 'Heretic's

Tragedy.'

Our friend Mr. Jarves came to read a part of your letter to us,

confirmatory of doctrines he had heard from us on an earlier day. The

idea of your writing the art criticisms of the 'Leader' (!) was so

stupendously ludicrous, there was no need of faith in your loyalty to

laugh the whole imputation, at first hearing, to uttermost scorn. I must

say, in justice to Mr. Jarves, that he never did really believe one word

of it, though a good deal ruffled and pained that it should have been

believed by anybody. He is full of admiring and grateful feeling for

you, and has gone on to Italy in that mind.

As for me, I almost yearn to go too. We have fallen into a pit here in

Paris, upon evil days and rooms, an impulsive friend having taken an

apartment for us facing the east, insufficiently protected, and with a

bedroom wanting, so that we are still waiting, with trunks unpacked, and

our child sleeping on the floor, till we can get emancipated anyhow.

Then, through the last week's cold, I have not been well--only it will

not, I think, be much, as I am better already, and there will be no

practical end to the talk of Nice and Pau, which my husband had begun a

little. All this has hindered me from following my first impulse of

thanking you for your letter immediately.

How beautiful Paris is, and how I agree with you, as we both did with

dear Miss Mitford, on the subject of Louis Napoleon. I approve of him

_exactly because_ I am a democrat, and not at all for an exceptional

reason. I hold that the most democratical government in Europe is out

and out the French Government (which doesn't exclude the absolutist

element, far from it); but who in England understands this? and that the

representative man of France, the incarnate republic, is the man Louis

Napoleon? An extraordinary man he is. I never was a Buonapartist, though

the legend of the First Napoleon has wrung tears from me before now, and

I was very sorry when Louis Napoleon was elected instead of Cavaignac.

At the _coup d'état_ I was not sorry. And since then I have believed in

him more and more.

So far in sympathy. In regard to the slaves, no, no, no; I belong to a

family of West Indian slaveholders, and if I believed in curses, I

should be afraid. I can at least thank God that I am not an American.

How you look serenely at slavery, I cannot understand, and I distrust

your power to explain. Do you indeed?

Dear Mr. Ruskin, do let us hear from you sometimes. It is such a great

gift, a letter of yours. Then remember that I am a spirit in prison all

the winter, not able to stir out. Up to this time we have lived _perdus_

from all our acquaintances because of our misfortunes. With my husband's

cordial regards, I remain most truly yours always,

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

The publishers are directed to send you the volumes on their

publication.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

[Paris] 3 Rue du Colisée, Avenue des Champs-Elysées:

Saturday, December 17, 1855 [postmark].

How pleasant, dearest Mona Nina, to hear you, though the voice sounds

far! Try and come back to us soon, and let us talk, or listen, rather,

to your talking. Why shouldn't _I_, too, have a sister of charity, like

others? I appeal to you.

Still, I have only good to tell you of myself. I am better through the

better weather and through our arrival in this apartment, where, as

Robert says, we are as pleased as if we had never lived in a house

before. Well, I assure you the rooms are perfect in comfort and

convenience; not large, but _warm_, and of a number and arrangement

which exclude all fault-finding. Clean, carpeted; no glitter, nothing

very pretty--not even the clocks--but with sofas and chairs suited to

lollers such as one of us, and altogether what I mean whenever I say

that an 'apartment' on the Continent is twenty times more really

'comfortable' than any of your small houses in England. Robert has a

room to himself too. It's perfect. I hop about from one side to the

other, like a bird in a new cage. The feathers are draggled and rough,

though. I am not strong, though the cough is quieter without the least

doubt.

And this time also I shall not die, perhaps. Indeed, I do think not.

That darling Robert carried me into the carriage, swathed past possible

breathing, over face and respirator in woollen shawls. No, he wouldn't

set me down even to walk up the fiacre steps, but shoved me in upside

down, in a struggling bundle--I struggling for breath--he accounting to

the concierge for 'his murdered man' (rather woman) in a way which threw

me into fits of laughter afterwards to remember. 'Elle se porte très

bien! elle se porte extrêmement bien. Ce n'est rien que les poumons.'

Nothing but lungs! No air in them, which was the worst! Think how the

concierge must have wondered ever since about 'cet original d'Anglais,'

and the peculiar way of treating wives when they are in excellent

health. 'Sacre.'

Kind Madame Mohl was here to-day, asking about you; and the Aides, male

and female, whom we did not see, being at dinner; and dear Lady Elgin

came to the door in her wheel-chair.

We keep Penini (in a bed this time) in our bedroom. He was so pathetic

about it, we would not lose him.

Write to us, keep writing to us, till you come. I think much of you,

wish much for you, and feel much _with_ you. May God bless you, my dear

dear friend! The frost broke up on Thursday, and it is raining warmly

to-day; but I can't believe in the possibility of the cold penetrating

much into this house under worse circumstances; and I shall be bold, and

try hard to begin writing next week.

Oh! George Sand. How magnificent that eighteenth volume is; I mean the

volume which concludes with the views upon the _sexes_! After all, and

through all, if her hands are ever so defiled, that woman has a clean

soul.

On the magnetic subjects, too, her 'je ne sais' is worthy of her. And

yet, more is to be known I am sure, than she knows.

I read this book so eagerly and earnestly that I seem to burn it up

before me. Really there are great things in it.

And to hear people talking it over coldly, pulling it leaf from leaf!

Robert quite joins with me at last. He is intensely interested, and full

of admiration.

Now do write. With our united love, we are ever yours, be certain!

R.B. and E.B.B.

Remember not to agree to do the etching. Pray be careful not to involve

the precious eyes too much. How easy it would be to etch them out!

Frightfully easy.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

[Paris] 3: Rue du Colisée:

Monday, January 29, 1856 [postmark].

Dearest Fanny,--I can't get over it that you should fancy I meant to

'banter' you.[47] If I wrote lightly, it was partly that _you_ wrote

lightly, and partly perhaps because at bottom I wasn't light at all.

When one feels out of spirits, it's the most natural thing possible to

be extravagantly gay; now, isn't it?

And now believe me with what truth and earnestness of heart I am

interested in all that concerns you; and this is every woman's chief

concern, of course, this great fact of love and marriage. My advice is,

be sure of him _first_, and of yourself _chiefly_. For the rest I would

marry ('if I were a woman,' I was going to say), though the whole world

spouted fire in my face. Marriage is a personal matter, be sure, and the

nearest and wisest can't judge for you. If you can make up two hundred a

year between you, or less even, there is no pecuniary obstacle in my

eyes. People may live very cheaply and very happily if they are happy

otherwise.

As for me, my only way was to cut the knot--because it was an untieable

knot--and because my fingers generally are not strong at untieing. What

do you mean by Mr. Kenyon's backing me? Nobody backed me except the

north wind which blew us vehemently out of England. Mr. Kenyon knew no

more of the affair than you did, though he was very kind afterwards and

took my part. And as to money, there was (and is) little enough. It was

a case of pure madness (for people of the world), just like table-moving

and spirit-rapping and the 'hands'!

But you, my dear friend, I do earnestly entreat you to consider if you

are sure of principles, sentiment--and _of yourself_. Because, whether

you know it or not, you are happily situated _now_ as far as exterior

circumstances are concerned. They are not worth much, but they have

their worth. They give you liberty to follow your own devices, to think

the beautiful and feel the noble; to live out, in short, your individual

life, which it is so hard to do in marriage, even where you marry

worthily.

I say this probably 'as one who beateth the air;' yet you _must_

consider that I who say it, and who say it _emphatically_, consider a

happy marriage as the happiest state, and that all pecuniary reasons

against love are both ineffectual and _stupid_.

Flippancy, flippancy, of course. London would be better (for your

friends) as a residence for you, than Wittemberg can be; and for that,

and no other account, I could be sorry that you did not settle _so_.

Well, never mind! The description sounds excellently; almost

over-romantic, though. Is there steadiness, do you think, and depth, and

reliableness altogether? What impression does he make among those who

have known him longest? Dearest Fanny, do nothing in haste.

Now I am going to tell you something which has vexed me, and continues

to vex me. The clock. If you knew Robert, you never would have asked

him. He has a sort of mania about shops, and won't buy his own gloves.

He bought a pair of boots the other day (because I went down on my knees

to ask him, and the water was running in through his soles), and he will

not soon get over it. Without exaggeration, he would rather leap down

among the lions after your glove, as the knight of old, than walk into a

shop for you. If I could but go out, there would be no difficulties; but

I am shut up in my winter prison, in spite of the extraordinarily mild

weather, through having suffered so much in the beginning of the winter.

I asked Sarianna; she also shrinks from the responsibility; is afraid of

not pleasing you, &c. The end of it all is that Mrs. Haworth will think

us all very disobliging barbarians, and that really I am vexed. Why not

ask Mrs. Cochrane to get the thing for you? You can but ask, at any

rate.

I am very anxious just now about dear Mr. Kenyon, who has been

alarmingly ill, and is only better, I fear. Miss Bayley wrote to tell

me, and added that he was going to Cowes when he could move, which

pleases me; for only change of air and liberation from London air can

complete his convalescence.

For the rest, I am busy beyond description; but never too much so, mind,

dear Fanny, to be glad to get your letters. Write soon. Your ever

affectionate

E.B.B.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

[Paris]: 3 Rue du Colisée: February 21, [1856].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I should have answered your note days ago! If

you saw how I am in a plague of industry just now, and not a moment

unspotted!--how, for instance, I kept an 'Examiner' newspaper (sent to

us from London) three days on the table before I could read it,--you

would make an allowance for me. It's a sort of _furia_! I must get over

so much writing, or I shall be too late for the summer's printing. If it

isn't done by June, what will become of me? I shall go back to Italy in

disgrace, and considerably poorer than I need be, which is of more

practical consequence. So I fag. Then there's an hour and a half in the

morning for Penini's lessons. We breakfast at nine, and receive nobody

till past four. This will all prove to you two things, dearest

friend--first (I hope) that I'm pardonable for making you wait a few

days longer than should have been, and secondly that I'm tolerably well.

Yes, indeed. Since our arrival in this house, after just the first, when

there was some frost, we have had such a miraculous mildness under the

name of winter, that I rallied as a matter of course, and for the last

month there has been no return of the spitting of blood, and no

extravagance of cough. I have persisted with cod's liver oil, and I look

by no means ill, people assure me, and so I may assure _you_. But I am

not very strong, and was a good deal tired after a two hours' drive

which I ventured on a week ago in the Bois de Boulogne. The small rooms,

and deficiency of air resulting from them, make a long shutting up a

more serious thing than I find it in Florence in our acres of apartment.

But it is easy to mend strength when only strength is to be mended, and

I, for one, get strong again easily. I only hope that the cold is not

returning. The air was sharp yesterday and is to-day; but it's

February, and the spring is at the doors, and we may hope with

reason....

What do you say of the peace as a final peace? You are not at least

vexed, as so many English are, that we can't fight a little for glory to

reinstate our reputation. You'll excuse that. Still, I can't help

feeling disappointed in the peace--chiefly, perhaps, because I hoped too

much from the war. Will nothing be done after all for Italy? nothing for

Poland?

You want books. Read About's 'Tolla.' He is a new writer, and his book

is exquisite as a transcript of Italian manners. Then read Octave

Feuillet. There is much in him.

Will there be war with America, dear Mr. Martin? Never will I believe it

till I hear the cannons.

Talking of what we should believe, it appears that Mrs. Trollope has

thrown over Hume[48] from some failure in his moral character in

Florence. I have had many letters on the subject. I have no doubt that

the young man, who is weak and vain, and was exposed to gross flatteries

from the various unwise coteries at Florence who took him up, deserves

to be thrown over. But his _mediumship_ is undisproved, as far as I can

understand. It is simply a physical faculty--he is quite an electric

wire. At Florence everybody is quarrelling with everybody on the

subject. I thought I would tell you.

Penini, the pet, is radiant, and learning French triumphantly. May God

bless you! Write to me, dearest Mrs. Martin, and tell me of both of you.

Robert's love.

Your ever, ever affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

[Paris]: 3 Rue du Colisée: February 28, 1856 [postmark].

My dearest Mona Nina,--Three letters, one on the top of another, and I

don't answer. Shame on me. How I have thought of you, to make up! And

you write to apologise to _us_, from a dreamy mystical apprehension that

we may peradventure have lost eightpence on your account! Well, it would

have been awful if we had. And so Providence interposed with a special

miracle, and obliged the officials to accept the actual penny stamp for

the fourpenny stamp you meant to put, and _we paid just nothing for the

terrible letter_! Take heart, therefore, in future, before all

hypothetical misfortunes. That's the moral of the tale....

My dear friend, how shall I pull you and make you come to Paris? Madame

de Triqueti was here the other day, and spoke of you, and swore she

wouldn't help to take rooms for you, unless you came near _her_. As to

the two rooms you speak of, I am sure you might have what rooms you

pleased now, in this neighbourhood. What would you give? Our present

apartment is comfort itself, and except some cold days a short time

after you went away, we have really had no winter. The miraculous warmth

has saved me, for I was so _felled_ in that Rue de Grenelle, I should

scarcely have had force against an ordinary cold season. Little Penini

has been blossoming like a rose all the time. Such a darling, idle,

distracted child he is, not keeping his attention for three minutes

together for the hour and a half I teach him, and when I upbraid him for

it, throwing himself upon me like a dog, kissing my cheeks and head and

hands. 'O you little pet, _dive_ me one chance more! I will really be

dood,' and learning everything by magnetism, getting on in seven weeks,

for instance, to read French quite surprisingly. He has written a poem

on the war and the peace, called 'Soldiers going and coming,' which

Robert and I thought so remarkable that I sent it to Mr. Forster. Oh,

such a darling, that child is! I expect the wings to grow presently.

As for my poem (far below Penini's), I work on steadily and have put in

order and transcribed five books, containing in all above six thousand

lines ready for the press. I have another book to put together and

transcribe, and then must begin the composition part of one or two more

books, I suppose. I must be ready for printing by the time we go to

England, in June. Robert too is much occupied with 'Sordello,'[49] and

we neither of us receive anybody till past four o'clock. I mean that

when you have read my new book, you put away all my other poems or most

of them, and know me only by the new. Oh, I am so anxious to make it

good. I have put much of myself in it--I mean to say, of my soul, my

thoughts, emotions, opinions; in other respects, there is not a personal

line, of course. It's a sort of poetic art-novel. If it's a failure,

there will be the comfort of having made a worthy effort, of having done

it as well as I could. Write soon to me, and love us both constantly, as

we do you.

Your ever affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

[Paris]: May 2, 1856 [postmark].

My dearest Mona Nina,--It's very pleasant always to get letters from

you, and such kind dear letters, showing that you haven't broken the

tether-strings in search of 'pastures new,' weary of our cropped grass.

As for news, you have most of the persons upon whom you care for gossip

in your hand now--Mrs. Sartoris, Madame Viardot, Lady Monson, and the

Ristori herself. Robert went to see her twice, because Lady Monson led

him by the hand kindly, and was charmed; thought the Médée very fine,

but won't join in the cry about miraculous genius and Rachel

out-Racheled. He thinks that as far as the highest and largest

development of sensibility can go, she is very great; but that for those

grand and sudden _aperçus_ which have distinguished actors--such as

Kean, for instance--he does not acknowledge them in her. You have heard

perhaps how Dickens and others, Macready among the rest, depreciated

her. Dickens went so far as to say, I understand, that no English

audience would tolerate her defects; which will be put to the proof

presently. By the way, you had better not quote Macready on this

subject, as he expressed himself unwilling to be quoted on it....

So now we are well again,[50] thank God; and if Robert will but take

regular exercise, he will keep so, I hope. As to Penini, he is radiant,

and even I have been out walking twice, though a good deal weaker for

the winter. More open air, and much more, is necessary to set me growing

again, but I shall grow; and meantime I have been working, and am

working, at so close a rate that if I lose a day I am lost, which is too

close a rate, and makes one feel rather nervous. We see nobody till

after four meantime. I have finished (not transcribed) the last book but

one, and am now in the very last book, which must be finished with the

last days of May. Then the first fortnight of June will be occupied with

the transcription of these two last books, and I shall carry the

completed work with me to England on the 16th if it please God. Oh, I do

hope you won't be disappointed with it--much! Some things you will like

certainly, because of the boldness and veracity of them, and others you

_may_; I can't be so sure. Robert speaks well of the poetry--encourages

me much. But then he has seen only six of the eight books yet.

He just now has taken to drawing, and after thirteen days' application

has produced some quite startling copies of heads. I am very glad. He

can't rest from serious work in light literature, as I can; it wearies

him, and there are hours which are on his hands, which is bad both for

them and for him. The secret of life is in full occupation, isn't it?

This world is not tenable on other terms. So while I lie on the sofa and

rest in a novel, Robert has a resource in his drawing; and really, with

all his feeling and knowledge of art, some of the mechanical trick of it

can't be out of place.

To-night he is going to Madame Mohl, who is well and as vivacious as

ever. When Monckton Milnes was in Paris he dined with him in company

with Mignet, Cavour, George Sand, and an empty chair in which Lamartine

was expected to sit. George Sand had an ivy wreath round her head, and

looked like herself; But Lady Monson will talk to you of _her_, better

than I can. Now, mind you ask Lady Monson.

As to this Government, I only entreat you _not_ to believe any of the

mendacious reports set afloat here by a most unworthy Opposition, and

carried out by the English 'Athenæum' and other prints. Surely a cause

must be bad which is supported by such bad means. In the first place,

Béranger did _not_ write the verses attributed to him. The internal

evidence was sufficient--for Victor Hugo is his personal enemy--to say

nothing of the poetry. Then it would be wise, I think, in considering

this question, and in taking for granted that the 'literature and

talent' of the country are against the Government, to analyse the

antecedents and character of the persons who _do_ stand out, persons

implicated in former Governments, or favored by former Governments, and

whose vanity and prejudices are necessarily contrary to a new order.

These persons, either in themselves or their friends, have all been

tried in action and found wanting. They have all lost the confidence of

the French people, either by their misconduct or their ill-fortune.

They are all cast aside as broken instruments. Under these circumstances

they think it desirable to break themselves into the lock, to prevent

the turning of another key; they consider it noble and patriotic to

stand aside and revile and throw mud, in order to hinder the action of

those who _are_ acting for the country. In my mind, it is quite

otherwise; in my mind and in many other minds--Robert's, for instance!

and he began with a most intense hatred of this Government, as you well

know. But he does not shut his eyes to all that is noble and admirable

going on, on all sides. At last he is sick of the Opposition, he admits.

In respect to literature, nothing can be more mendacious than to say

there are restraints upon literature. Books of freer opinion are printed

now than would ever have been permitted under Louis Philippe, as was

reproached against Napoleon by an enemy the other day--books of free

opinion, even licentious opinion, on religion and philosophy. _There is

restraint in the newspapers only._ That the 'Athenæum' should venture to

say that in consequence of the suppression of books compositors are

thrown out of work and forced to become transcribers of verses like

Béranger's (which are not Béranger's) is so stupendous a falsehood in

the face of _statistics which prove a yearly increase in the amount of

books printed_ that I quite lose my breath, you see, in speaking of it.

The Government is steadily solving, or attempting to solve, that

difficult modern problem of possible _Socialism_ which has been knocking

at all our heads and hearts so long. _That_ is its vexation. It is a

Government for the _'bus people_, the first settled and serious

Government that ever attempted _their_ case. Its action is worth all the

pedantry of the _doctrinaires_ and the middling morals of the _juste

milieu_; and I, who am a Democrat, will stand by it as long as I can

stand, which isn't very long just now, as I told you.

Dearest Mona Nina, I am so uneasy about dear Mr. Kenyon, who has been

ill again--_is_ ill, I fear. He is in London--more's the pity! and Miss

Bayley is with him. He gives me sad thoughts.

Do write of yourself. Don't _you_ be sad, dearest friend. Oh, I do wish

you could have come, and let us love you and talk to you--but on the

16th of June, at any rate.

Your ever affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

[Paris]: Monday, May 6, 1856 [postmark].

My dearest Mona Nina,--Your letter makes me feel very uncomfortable. We

are in real difficulty about our dear friend Mr. Kenyon, the impulse

being, of course, that Robert should go at once, and then the fear

coming that it might be an annoyance, an intrusion, something the

farthest from what it should be at all. If you had been more

explicit--_you_--and we could know what was in your mind when you 'ask'

Robert to come, my dear friend, then it would be all easier. If we could

but know whether anything passed between you and Miss Bayley on this

subject, or whether it is entirely out of your own head that you wish

Robert to come. I thought about it yesterday, till I went to bed at

eight o'clock with headache. Shall I tell you something in your ear? It

is easier for a rich man to enter, after all, into the kingdom of heaven

than into the full advantages of real human tenderness. Robert would

give much at this moment to be allowed to go to dearest Mr. Kenyon, sit

up with him, hold his hand, speak a good loving word to him. This would

be privilege to him and to me; and love and gratitude on our parts

justified us in _asking_ to be allowed to do it. Twice we have asked.

The first time a very kind but decided negative was returned to us on

the part of our friend. Yesterday we again asked. Yesterday I wrote to

say that it would be _consolation_ to us if Robert might go--if we might

say so without 'teasing.' To-morrow, in the case of Miss Bayley sending

a consent, even on her own part, Robert will set off instantly; but

without an encouraging word from her--my dear friend, do you not see

that it might really vex dearest Mr. Kenyon? Observe, we have no more

right of intruding than you would have if you forced your way upstairs.

It's a wretched world, where we can't express an honest affection

honestly without half appearing indelicate to ourselves; nothing proves

more how the dirt of the world is up to our chins, and I think I had my

headache yesterday really and absolutely from simple disgust.

You see, Robert might go to stay till Mr. Edward Kenyon arrives--if it

were only till then. I still hope and pray that our dearest friend may

rally, to recover at least a tolerable degree of health. He has certain

good symptoms; and some of the bad ones, such as the wandering, &c., are

constitutional with him under the least fever. You may suppose what

painful anxiety we are in about him. Oh, he has been always so good to

me--so true, sympathising, and generous a friend!

I shall always have a peculiar feeling to that dear kind Miss Bayley for

what she has been to him these latter months.

Now I can't write any more just now. Leighton has been cut up

unmercifully by the critics, but bears on, Robert says, not without

courage. That you should say 'his picture looked well' was comfort in

the general gloom, though even you don't give anything yet that can be

called an opinion. Mrs. Sartoris will be much vexed by it all, I am

sure.

May God bless you! Write to me. Robert's love with that of

Your ever affectionate

BA.

Did you observe a portrait of Robert by Page? Where have they hung it,

and how does it strike you?

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

[Paris]: 3 Rue du Colisée:

Saturday, June 17, 1856 [postmark].

My dearest Fanny,--I was just going to write to you to beg you to apply

to Chapman for Robert's book, when he came to stop me with the

newspaper. Thank you, my dearest Fanny, for having thought of me when

you had so much weary thought; it was very touching to me that you

should. And I am vexed to have missed two days before I told you

this--the first by an accident, and the second (to-day) by its being a

blank post-day; but you will know by your heart how deeply I have felt

and feel for you. May God bless you and love you! If I were as He to

comfort, you should be strong and calm at this moment. But what are we

to one another in this world? How weak, how far, we all feel in moments

like these.

Still, I should like to know that you had some friend near you, to hold

your hand and look in your face and be silent, as those are silent who

know and feel. When you can write again, tell me how it is with you in

this respect, and in others.

So sudden, so sudden! Yet bereavements like these are always sudden to

the soul, more or less. All _blows_ must needs be sudden. May your

health not suffer, dear Fanny. We shall be in London in about a week

after the 16th, for we are delayed through my not having finished my

poem, which nobody will finish reading perhaps. We go to Mr. Kenyon's

house in Devonshire Place, kindly offered to us for the summer. Shall we

find you, I wonder, in London?

Yes; there are terrible costs in this world. We get knowledge by losing

what we hoped for, and liberty by losing what we loved. But this world

is a fragment--or, rather, a segment--and it will be rounded presently,

to the completer satisfaction. Not to doubt _that_ is the greatest

blessing it gives now. Death is as vain as life; the common impression

of it, as false and as absurd. A mere change of circumstances. What

more? And how near these spirits are, how conscious, how full of active

energy and tender reminiscence and interest, who shall dare to doubt?

For myself, I do not doubt at all. If I did, I should be sitting here

inexpressibly sad--for myself, not you....

Robert unites with me in affectionate sympathy, and Sarianna was here

last night, talking feelingly about you. You shall have Robert's book

when we get to England. Think how much I think of you.

Your ever affectionate

BA.

Mr. Kenyon has been very ill, and is still in a state occasioning

anxiety. He is at the Isle of Wight.

* * * * *

At the end of June the Brownings came back to London, for what was, as

it proved, Mrs. Browning's last visit to England. Mr. Kenyon had lent

them his house in London, at 39 Devonshire Place, he himself being in

the Isle of Wight; but a shadow was thrown over the whole of this visit

by the serious and ultimately fatal illness of this dear friend. It was

partly in order to see him, and partly because Miss Arabel Barrett had

been sent out of town by her father almost as soon as her sister reached

Devonshire Place, that about the beginning of September they made an

expedition to the Isle of Wight, staying first at Ventnor with Miss

Barrett, and subsequently at West Cowes with Mr. Kenyon. All the while

Mrs. Browning was actively engaged in seeing 'Aurora Leigh' through the

press, and the poem was published just about the time they left England.

The letters during this visit are few and mostly unimportant, but the

following are of interest.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

39 Devonshire Place:

Friday morning [July-August 1856].

My dearest Mona Nina, my dear friend,--I am so grieved, so humiliated.

If it is possible to forgive me, do.

I received your note, delayed answering it because I fancied Robert

might _learn_ to accept your kindness about the box after a day's

consideration, and so forgot everything bodily, taking one day for

another, as is my way lately, in this great crush of too much to do and

think of. When I was persuaded to go yesterday morning for the first and

last time to the Royal Academy, on the point of closing, I went in like

an idiot--that is, an innocent--never once thinking of what I was

running the risk of losing; and when I returned and found you gone, you

were lost and I in despair. So much in despair that I did not hope once

you might come again, and out I went after dinner to see the Edward

Kenyons in Beaumont Street, like an innocent--that is, an idiot--and so

lost you again. You may forgive me--it is possible--but to forgive

myself! it is more difficult. Try not quite to give me up for it. Your

note gave me so much pleasure. I _wished_ so to see you! For the future

I mean to write down engagements in a text-hand, and set them up

somewhere in sight; but if I broke through twenty others as shamefully,

it would not be with as much real grief to myself as in this fault to my

dearest Mona Nina. Do come soon, out of mercy--and magnanimity!

Your _ever_ affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

3 Parade, West Cowes:

September 9, 1856 [postmark].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--Your letter has followed us. We have been in

the south of the island, at Ventnor, with Arabel, and are now in the

north with Mr. Kenyon. We came off from London at a day's notice, the

Wimpole Street people being sent away abruptly (in consequence, plainly,

of our arrival becoming known), and Arabel bringing her praying eyes to

bear on Robert, who agreed to go with her and stay for a fortnight. So

we have had a happy sorrowful two weeks together, between meeting and

parting; and then came here, where our invalid friend called us. Poor

Arabel is in low spirits--very--and _aggrieved_ with being sent away

from town; but the fresh air and _repose_ will do her good, in spite of

herself, though she swears they won't (in the tone of saying they

shan't). She is not by any means strong, and overworks herself in London

with schools and Refuges, and societies--does the work of a horse, and

_isn't_ a horse. Last winter she was quite unwell, as you heard. In

spite of which, I did not think her looking ill when I saw her first;

and now she looks well, I think--quite as well as she ever does. But she

wants a new moral atmosphere--a little society. She is thrown too

entirely on her own resources, and her own resources are of somewhat a

gloomy character. This is all wrong. It has been partly necessary and a

little her fault, at one time. I would give my right hand to take her to

Italy; but if I gave right and left, it would not be found possible. My

father has remained in London, and may not go to Ventnor for the next

week or two, says a letter from Arabel this morning.... The very day he

heard of our being in Devonshire Place he gave orders that his family

should go away. I wrote afterwards, but my letter, as usual, remained

unnoticed.

It has naturally begun to dawn upon my child that I have done something

very wicked to make my father what he is. Once he came up to me

earnestly and said, 'Mama, if you've been very, very naughty--if you've

_broken china_!' (his idea of the heinous in crime)--'I advise you to go

into the room and say, "_Papa, I'll be dood._"' Almost I obeyed the

inspiration--almost I felt inclined to go. But there were

considerations--yes, good reasons--which kept me back, and must continue

to do so. In fact, the position is perfectly hopeless--perfectly.

We find our dear friend Mr. Kenyon better in some respects than we

expected, but I fear in a very precarious state. Our stay is uncertain.

We may go at a moment's notice, or remain if he wishes it; and, my

proofs being sent post by post, we are able to see to them together,

without too much delay. Still, only one-half of the book is done, and

the days come when I shall find no pleasure in them--nothing but

coughing.

George and my brothers were very kind to Robert at Ventnor, and he is

quite touched by it. Also, little Pen made his way into the heart of

'mine untles,' and was carried on their backs up and down hills, and

taught the ways of 'English boys,' with so much success that he makes

pretensions to 'pluck,' and has left a good reputation behind him. On

one occasion he went up to a boy of twelve who took liberties, and

exclaimed, 'Don't be impertinent, sir' (doubling his small fist), 'or I

will show you that _I'm a boy_.' Of course 'mine untles' are charmed

with this 'proper spirit,' and applaud highly. Robert and I begged to

suggest to the hero that the 'boy of twelve' might have killed him if he

had pleased. 'Never mind,' cried little Pen, 'there would have been

somebody to think of _me_, who would have him hanged' (great applause

from the uncles). 'But _you_ would still be dead,' said Robert

remorselessly. 'Well, I don't tare for _that_. It was a beautiful place

to die in--close to the sea.'

So you will please to observe that, in spite of being Italians and

wearing curls, we can fight to the death on occasion....

Write to me, and say how you both are. Robert's love. We both love you.

Very lovingly yours,

BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss Browning_

[West Cowes]: September 13, 1856 [postmark].

My dearest Sarianna,--Robert comes suddenly down on me with news that he

is going to write to you, so, though I have been writing letters all the

morning, I must throw in a few words. As to keeping Penini at the sea

longer, he will have been three weeks at the sea to-morrow, and you must

remember how late into the year it is getting--and we with so much work

before us! And if Peni recovered his roses at Ventnor, I recovered my

cough (from the piercing east winds); but I am better since, and last

night slept well. It's far too early for cough, however, in any shape.

We have heaps of business to do in London--heaps--and the book is only

half-done. Still, we are asked to stay here till three days after Madame

Braun's arrival, and it isn't fixed yet when she will arrive; so that I

daresay Peni will have a full month of the sea, after all. Then I have a

design upon Robert's good-nature, of persuading him to _go round by

Taunton_ to London (something like going round the earth to Paris), that

I may see my poor forsaken sister Henrietta, who wants us to give her a

week in her cottage, pathetically bewailing herself that she has no

means for the expense of going to London this time--that she has done it

twice for me, and can't this time (the purse being low); and unless we

go to her, she must do without seeing me, in spite of a separation of

four years. So I am anxious to go, of course.

Robert will have told you of our dear friend here. We began by finding

him much better than we expected, but gradually the sad truth deepens

that he is very ill--oh, it deepens and saddens at once. The face lights

up with the warm, generous heart; then the fire drops, and you see the

embers. The breath is very difficult--it is hard to live. He leans on

the table, saying softly and pathetically 'My God! my God!' Now and then

he desires aloud to pass away and be at rest. I cannot tell you what

his kindness is--his consideration is too affecting; kinder he is than

ever. Miss Bayley is an excellent nurse--at once gentle and

decided--and, if she did but look further than this life and this death,

she would be a perfect companion for him. Peni creeps about like a

mouse; but he goes out, and he isn't over-tired, as he was at Ventnor.

We think he is altogether better in looks and ways.

Your affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

A short visit to Taunton seems to have been made about the end of

September, as anticipated in the last letter, and then, at some time in

the course of October, they set out for Florence. But Mrs. Browning, in

thus quitting England for the last time, left behind her as a legacy the

completed volume of 'Aurora Leigh.' This poem was the realisation of her

early scheme, which goes back at least to the year 1844, of writing a

novel in verse--a novel modern in setting and ideas, and embodying her

own ideals of social and moral progress. And to a large extent she

succeeded. As a vehicle of her opinions, the scheme and style of the

poem proved completely adequate. She moves easily through the story; she

handles her metre with freedom and command; she can say her say without

exaggeration or unnatural strain. Further, the opinions themselves, as

those who have learnt to know her through her letters will feel sure,

are lofty and honourable, and full of a genuine enthusiasm for humanity.

As a novel, 'Aurora Leigh' may be open to the criticism that most of the

characters fail to impress us with a sense of reality and vitality, and

that the hero hardly wins the sympathy from the reader which he is meant

to win. But as a poem it is unquestionably a very remarkable work--not

so full of permanent poetic spirit as the 'Sonnets from the Portuguese,'

not so readily popular as 'The Cry of the Children' or 'Cowper's

Grave'--but a highly characteristic work of one whose character was

made up of pure thoughts and noble ideals, which, in spite of the

inevitable change of manners and social interests with the lapse of

years, will retain into an indefinite future a very considerable

intrinsic value as poetry, and a very high rank among the works of its

author.

At the time of its publication its success was immediate. The subjects

touched on were largely such as always attract interest, because they

are open to much controversy; and the freshness of style and originality

of conception (for almost the only other novel-poem in the language is

'Don Juan,' which can hardly be regarded as of the same type as 'Aurora

Leigh') attracted a multitude of readers. A second edition was required

in a fortnight, a third in a few months--a success which must have

greatly pleased the authoress, who had put her inmost self into her

work, and had laboured hard to leave behind her an adequate

representation of her poetic art.

This natural satisfaction was darkened, however, by the death, on

December 3, of Mr. Kenyon, in whose house the poem had been completed,

and to whom it had been dedicated. Readers of these letters do not

require to be told how near and dear a friend he had been to both Mrs.

Browning and her husband. During his life his friendship had taken the

practical form of allowing them 100_l._ a year, in order that they might

be more free to follow their art for its own sake only, and in his will

he left 6,500_l._ to Robert Browning and 4,500_l._ to Mrs. Browning.

These were the largest legacies in a very generous will--the fitting end

to a life passed in acts of generosity and kindness to those in need.

* * * * *

_To Miss Browning_

[Florence. November 1856.]

Robert says he will wait for me till to-morrow, but I leave my other

letters rather and write to you, so sure I am that we oughtn't to put

that off any longer. Dearest Sarianna, I am very much pleased that you

like the poem, having feared a little that you might not. M. Milsand

will _not_, I prophesy; 'seeing as from a tower the end of all.' The

'Athenæum' is right in supposing that it will be much liked _and_ much

disliked by people in general, although the press is so far astonishing

in its goodwill, and although the extravagance of private letters might

well surprise the warmest of my friends. But, patience! In a little

while we shall have the other side of the question, and the whips will

fall fast after the nosegays. Still, I am surprised, I own, at the

amount of success; and that golden-hearted Robert is in ecstasies about

it--far more than if it all related to a book of his own. The form of

the story, and also something in the philosophy, seem to have caught the

crowd. As to the poetry by itself, anything good in _that_ repels

rather. I am not as blind as Romney, not to perceive this. He had to be

blinded, observe, to be made to see; just as Marian had to be dragged

through the uttermost debasement of circumstances to arrive at the

sentiment of personal dignity. I am sorry, but indeed it seemed

necessary.

You tantalise me with your account of 'warm days.' It is warmer with us

to-day, but we have had snow on all the mountains, and poor Isa has been

half-frozen at her villa. As for me, I have suffered wonderfully

little--no more than discomfort and languor. We have piled up the wood

in this room and the next, and had a perpetual blaze. Not for ten years

has there been in Florence such a November! 'Is this Italy?' says poor

Fanny Haworth's wondering face. Still, she likes Florence better than

she did....

Is it not strange that dear Mr. Kenyon should have lost his brother by

this sudden stroke? Strange and sad?... He was suffering too under a

relapse when the news came--which, Miss Bayley says, did not dangerously

affect him, after all. Oh, sad and strange! I pity the unfortunate wife

more than anyone. She said to me this summer, 'I could not live without

him. Let us hope in God that he and I may die at the same moment.'...

There's much good in dear M. Milsand's idea for us about Paris and the

South of France. Still, I'm rather glad to be quite outside the world

for a little, during these first steps of 'Aurora.' Best love to the

dear Nonno. May God bless you both!

Your ever affectionate

BA.

Oh, the spirits! Hate of Hume and belief in the facts are universal

here.

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

[About December 1856.]

My dearest Isa,--Just before your note came I had the pleasure of

burning my own to you yesterday, which was not called for, as I

expected. You would have seen from _that_, that Robert was going to you

of his own accord and mine....

I am rather glad you have not seen the 'Athenæum'; the analysis it gives

of my poem is so very unfair and partial. You would say the conception

was really _null_. It does not console me at all that I should be

praised and over-praised, the idea given of the poem remaining so

absolutely futile. Even the outside shell of the plan is but half given,

and the double action of the metaphysical intention entirely ignored. I

protest against it. Still, Robert thinks the article not likely to do

harm. Perhaps not. Only one hates to be misrepresented.

So glad I am that Robert was good last night. He told me he had been

defending Swedenborg and the spirits, which suggested to me some notion

of superhuman virtue on his part. Yes; love him. He is my right 'glory';

and the 'lute and harp' would go for nothing beside him, even if

'Athenæums' spelled one out properly.

Dearest Isa, may God bless you! Let me hear by a word, when Ansuno

passes, how you are. Your loving

E.B.B.

* * * * *

The following letter was written almost immediately after the receipt of

the news of Mr. Kenyon's death. Mrs. Kinney, to whom it is addressed,

was the wife of the Hon. William Burnett Kinney, who was United States

Minister at the Court of Sardinia in 1851. After his term of office he

removed to Florence, for the purpose of producing an historical work,

but he did not live to accomplish it. Mrs. Kinney, who was herself a

poet, was also the mother of the well-known American poet and critic,

Mr. E.C. Stedman.[51]

* * * * *

_To Mrs. W.B. Kinney_

Casa Guidi: Friday evening [December 1856].

Your generous sympathy, my dear Mrs. Kinney, would have made me glad

yesterday, if I had not been so very, very sad with some news of the day

before, telling me of the loss of the loved friend to whom that book is

dedicated. So sad I was that I could not lift up my head to write and

express to you how gratefully I felt the recognition of your letter. You

are most generous--overflowingly generous. If I said I wished to deserve

it better, it would be like wishing you less generous; so I won't. I

will only thank you from my heart; _that_ shall be all I shall say.

Affectionately yours always,

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

Florence: December 26, 1856 [postmark].

My ever dear Friend,--To have three letters from you all unanswered

seems really to discredit me to myself, while it gives such proof of

your kindness and affection. No other excuse is to be offered but the

sort of interruption which sadness gives. I really had not the heart to

sit down and talk of my 'Aurora,' even in reference to the pleasure and

honour brought to me by the expression of your opinion, when the beloved

friend associated with the poor book was lost to me in this world, gone

where perhaps he no longer sympathises with pleasure or honour of mine,

now--for nearly the first time. _Perhaps._ After such separations the

sense of _distance_ is the thing felt first. And certainly my book at

least is naturally saddened to me, and the success of it wholesomely

spoiled.

Yet your letter, my dearest Mona Nina, arrived in time to give me great,

great pleasure--true pleasure indeed, and most tenderly do I thank you

for it. I have had many of such letters from persons loved less, and

whose opinions had less weight; and you will like to hear that in a

fortnight after publication Chapman had to go to press with the second

edition. In fact, the kind of reception given to the book has much

surprised me, as I was prepared for an outcry of quite another kind, and

extravagances in a quite opposite sense. This has been left, however, to

the 'Press,' the 'Post,' and the 'Tablet,' who calls 'Aurora' 'a

brazen-faced woman,' and brands the story as a romance in the manner of

Frederic Soulié--in reference, of course, to its gross indecency.

I can't leave this subject without noticing (by the way) what you say of

the likeness to the catastrophe of 'Jane Eyre.' I have sent to the

library here for 'Jane Eyre' (but haven't got it yet) in order to

refresh my memory on this point; but, as far as I do recall the facts,

the hero was monstrously disfigured and blinded in a fire the

particulars of which escape me, and the circumstance of his being

hideously scarred is the thing impressed chiefly on the reader's mind;

certainly it remains innermost in mine. Now if you read over again those

pages of my poem, you will find that the only injury received by Romney

in the fire was from a blow and from the emotion produced by the

_circumstances_ of the fire. Not only did he _not_ lose his eyes in the

fire, but he describes the ruin of his house as no blind man could. He

was standing there, a spectator. Afterwards he had a fever, and the

eyes, the visual nerve, perished, showing no external stain--perished as

Milton's did. I believe that a great shock on the nerves might produce

such an effect in certain constitutions, and the reader on referring as

far back as Marian's letter (when she avoided the marriage) may observe

that his eyes had never been strong, that her desire had been to read

his notes at night, and save them. For it was necessary, I thought, to

the bringing-out of my thought, that Romney should be mulcted in his

natural sight. The 'Examiner' saw that. Tell me if, on looking into the

book again, you modify your feeling at all.

Dearest Mona Nina, you are well now, are you not? Your last dear letter

seems brighter altogether, and seems to promise, too, that quiet in

Italy will restore the tone of your spirits and health. Do you know, I

almost advise you (though it is like speaking against my heart) to go

from Marseilles to Rome straight, and to give us the spring. The spring

is beautiful in Florence; and then I should be free to go and see the

pictures with you, and enjoy you in the in-door and out-of-door way,

both....

You will have heard (we heard it only three days ago) how our kindest

friend, who never forgot us, remembered us in his will. The legacy is

eleven thousand pounds; six thousand five hundred of which are left to

Robert, marking delicately a sense of trust for which I am especially

grateful Of course, this addition to our income will free us from the

pressure which has been upon us hitherto. But oh, how much sadness goes

to making every gain in this world! It has been a sad, sad Christmas to

me. A great gap is left among friends, and the void catches the eyes of

the soul, whichever way it turns. He has been to me in much what my

father might have been, and now the place is empty twice over.

You are yet _unconvinced_. You will be convinced one day, I think. Here

are wide-awake men (some of them most anti-spiritual to this hour, as to

theory) who agree in giving testimony to facts of one order. You shall

hear their testimony when you come. As to the 'supernatural,' if you

mean by that the miraculous, the suspension of natural law, I certainly

believe in it no more than you do. What happens, happens according to a

natural law, the development of which only becomes fuller and more

observable. The movement, such as it is, is accelerated, and the whole

structure of society in America is becoming affected more or less for

good or evil, and very often for evil, through the extreme tenacity or

slowness of those who ought to be leaders in every revolution of

thought, but who, on this subject, are pleased to leave their places to

the unqualified and the fanatical. Wise men will be sorry presently.

When Faraday was asked to go and see Hume, to see a heavy table lifted

without the touch of a finger, he answered that 'he had not time.' Time

has its 'revenges.'

I am very glad that dear Mr. Procter has had some of these last benefits

of one beloved by so many. What a loss, what a loss! Was there no

bequest to yourself? We have heard scarcely anything.

May God bless you, dearest Mona Nina, with the blessing of years old and

new.

Robert's love. Your ever attached

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

Florence: December 29, 1856.

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I am very, very sorry. I feel for you to the

bottom of my heart. But she was a pure spirit, leaning out the way God

had marked for her to go, and you had not associated this world too much

with her, as if she could have been meant to stay long in it. Always you

felt that she was about to go--did you not, dear friend?--and so that

she does not stay cannot be an astonishment to you. The pain is the

same; only it can't be the bitter, unnatural pain of certain

separations. Her sweetness has gone to the sweet, her lovely nature to

the lovely; no violence was done to her in carrying her home. May God

enable you to dwell on this till you are satisfied--glad, and not sorry!

That the spirits do not go far, and that they love us still, has grown

to me surer and surer. And yet, how death shakes us!

Yes indeed. I, too, have been very, very sad. This Christmas has come to

me like a cloud. I can scarcely fancy England without that bright face

and sympathetic hand, that princely nature, in which you might put your

trust more reasonably than in princes. These ten years back he has stood

to me almost in my father's place; and now the place is empty--doubly.

Since the birth of my child (seven years since) he has allowed

us--rather, insisted on our accepting (for my husband was loth)--a

hundred a year, and without it we should have often been in hard

straits. His last act was to leave us eleven thousand pounds; and I do

not doubt but that, if he had not known our preference of a simple mode

of life and a freedom from worldly responsibilities (born artists as we

both are), the bequest would have been greater still. As it is, we shall

be relieved from pecuniary pressure, and your affectionateness will be

glad to hear this, but I shall have more comfort from the consideration

of it presently than I can at this instant, when the loss, the empty

chair, the silent voice, the apparently suspended sympathy, must still

keep painfully uppermost.

You will wonder at a paragraph from the 'Athenæum,' which Robert thought

out of taste until he came to understand the motive of it--that there

had been (two days previous to its appearance) a brutal attack on the

_will_, to the effect that literary persons had been altogether

overlooked in the dispositions of the testator, in consequence of his,

being a disappointed literary pretender himself. Therefore we were

brought forward, you see, together with Barry Cornwall and Dr. Southey,

producing a wrong impression on the other side--only I can't blame the

'Athenæum' writer for it; nor can anyone, I think. The effect, however,

to ourselves is most uncomfortable, as we are overwhelmed with

'congratulations' on all sides, just as if we had not lost a dear,

tender, faithful friend and relative--just as if, in fact, some stranger

had made us a bequest as a tribute to our poetry. People are so obtuse

in this world--as Robert says, so '_dense_'; as Lord Brougham says, so

'_crass_.'

Whatever may be your liking or disliking of 'Aurora Leigh,' you will

like to hear that it's a great success, and in a way which I the least

expected, for a fortnight after the day of publication it had to go to

press for the second edition. The extravagances written to me about that

book would make you laugh, if you were in a laughing mood; and the

strange thing is that the press, the daily and weekly press, upon which

I calculated for furious abuse, has been, for the most part, furious the

other way. The 'Press' newspaper, the 'Post,' and the 'Tablet' are

exceptions; but for the rest, the 'Athenæum' is the coldest in praising.

It's a puzzle to me, altogether. I don't know upon what principle the

public likes and dislikes poems. Any way, it is very satisfactory at the

end of a laborious work (for much hard working and hard thinking have

gone to it) to hear it thus recognised, however I must think, with some

bitterness, that the beloved and sympathetic friend to whom it was

dedicated scarcely lived to know what would have given him so much

pleasure as this.

Dearest Mrs. Martin, mind you tell me the truth exactly. I should like

much to have pleased you and Mr. Martin, but I like the truth _best_ of

all from you....

Dearest friends, keep kind thoughts of

Your affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss Browning_

[Florence: January 1857.]

My dearest Sarianna,--A great many happy years to you, and also to the

dear Nonno. I am glad, for my part, to be out of the last, which has

been gloomy and almost embittering to me personally; but we must throw

our burdens behind our backs as far as possible, and be cheerful for the

rest of the road. If Robert alone wrote about 'Aurora,' I won't leave it

to him to be alone grateful to dear M. Milsand for his extraordinary

kindness. Do tell him, with my love, that I could not have expected it,

even from himself--which is saying much. Most thankfully I leave

everything to his discretion and judgment. On this subject I have been,

from the beginning, divided between my strong desire of being translated

and my strong fear of being ill-translated. Harrison Ainsworth's novels

are quite one thing, and a poem of mine quite another. Oh yes! and yet,

so great is my faith in Milsand, that the touch of his hand and the

overseership of his eyes must tranquillise me. I am simply grateful.

Peni has been overwhelmed with gifts this year. I gave him on Christmas

Day (by his own secret inspiration) 'a sword with a blade to dazzle the

eyes'; Robert, a box of tools and carpenter's bench; and we united in a

'Robinson Crusoe,' who was well received. Then from others he had

sleeve-studs, a silver pencil-case, books, &c. According to his own

magniloquent phrase, he was '_exceptionally_ happy.' He has taken to

long words; I heard him talking of '_evidences_' the other day. Poor

little Pen! it's the more funny that he has by no means yet left off

certain of his babyisms of articulation, and the combined effects are

curious. You asked of Ferdinando.[52] Peni's attachment for Ferdinando

is undiminished. Ferdinando can't be found fault with, even in

gentleness, without a burst of tears on Peni's part. Lately I ventured

to ask not to be left quite alone in the house on certain occasions; and

though I spoke quite kindly, there was Peni in tears, assuring me that

we ought to have another servant to open the door, for that 'poor

Ferdinando had a great deal too much work'! When I ventured to demur to

that, the next charge was, 'plainly I did not love Ferdinando as much as

I loved Penini,' which I could not deny; and then with passionate sobs

Peni said that 'I was very unjust indeed.' 'Indeed, indeed, dear mama,

you _are_ unjust! Ferdinando does everything for you, and I do nothing,

except tease you, and even' (sobbing) 'I am sometimes a very naughty

boy.' I had to mop up his tears with my pocket-handkerchief, and excuse

myself as well as I could from the moral imputation of loving Peni

better than Ferdinando.

We have been very glad in a visit from Frederick Tennyson.... God bless

you! Robert won't wait.

Your ever attached

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

Florence: February 2, 1857 [postmark].

My dearest Mona Nina,--To begin (lest I forget before the ending), don't

mind the sugar-tongs, if you have not actually bought them, inasmuch as,

to my astonishment, Wilson has found a pair in Florence, marking the

progress of civilisation in this South. In Paris last winter we sought

in vain. There was nothing between one's fingers and real silver--too

expensive for poets. But now we are supplied splendidly--and at the cost

of five pauls, let me tell you.

Always delighted I am to have your letters, even when you don't tell me

as touchingly as in this that mine are something to you. Do I not indeed

love you and _sympathise_ with you fully and deeply? Yes, indeed. On one

subject I am afraid to touch. But I _know_ why it is you feel so long,

so unduly--so morbidly, in a sense. People in general, knowing

themselves to be innocently made to suffer, would take comfort in

righteous indignation and justified contempt: but to you the indignation

and contempt would be the worst part of suffering; you can't bear it,

and you are in a strait between the two. In fact, it relieves you rather

to take part against yourself, and to conclude on the whole that there's

something really bad in you calling on the pure Heavens for vengeance.

Yes, that's _you_. You sympathise tenderly with your executioner....

And as for the critics--yes, indeed, I agree with you that I have no

reason to complain. More than that, I confess to you that I am entirely

astonished at the amount of reception I have met with--I who expected to

be put in the stocks and pelted with the eggs of the last twenty years'

'singing birds' as a disorderly woman and freethinking poet! People have

been so kind that, in the first place, I really come to modify my

opinions somewhat upon their conventionality, to see the progress made

in freedom of thought. Think of quite decent women taking the part of

the book in a sort of _effervescence_ which I hear of with astonishment.

In fact, there has been an enormous quantity of extravagance talked and

written on the subject, and I _know it_--oh, I know it. I wish I

deserved some things--some things; I wish it were all true. But I see

too distinctly what I _ought_ to have written. Still, it is nearer the

mark than my former efforts--fuller, stronger, more sustained--and one

may be encouraged to push on to something worthier, for I don't feel as

if I had done yet--no indeed. I have had from Leigh Hunt a very pleasant

letter of twenty pages, and I think I told you of the two from John

Ruskin. In America, also, there's great success, and the publisher is

said to have shed tears over the proofs (perhaps in reference to the

hundred pounds he had to pay for them), and the critics congratulate me

on having worked myself clear of all my affectations, mannerisms, and

other morbidities.

Even 'Blackwood' is not to be complained of, seeing that the writer

evidently belongs to an elder school, and judges from his own point of

view. He is wrong, though, even in classical matters, as it seems to

_me_.

I heard one of Thackeray's lectures, the one on George the Third, and

thought it better than good--fine and touching. To what is it that

people are objecting? At any rate, they crowd and pay.

Ah yes. You appreciate Robert; you know what is in his poetry. Certainly

there is no pretension in _me_ towards that profound suggestiveness, and

I thank you for knowing it and saying it.

There is a real _poem_ being lived between Mr. Kirkup and the 'spirits,'

so called.[53] If I were to _write_ it in a poem, I should beat 'Aurora'

over and over. And such a tragic face the old man has, with his bleak

white beard. Even Robert is touched.

Best love from him and your

Ever attached

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

Florence: February [1857].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I needn't say how much, how very much, pleasure

your letter gave me. That the poem should really have touched you,

reached you, with whatever drawbacks, is a joy. And then that Mr. Martin

should have read it with any sort of interest! It was more than I

counted on, as you know. Thank you, dearest Mrs. Martin--thank both of

you for so much sympathy.

In respect to certain objections, I am quite sure you do me the justice

to believe that I do not willingly give cause for offence. Without going

as far as Robert, who holds that I 'couldn't be coarse if I tried,'

(only that!) you will grant that I don't habitually dabble in the dirt;

it's not the way of my mind or life. If, therefore, I move certain

subjects in this work, it is because my conscience was first moved in me

not to ignore them. What has given most offence in the book, more than

the story of Marian--far more!--has been the reference to the condition

of women in our cities, which a woman oughtn't to refer to, by any

manner of means, says the conventional tradition. Now I have thought

deeply otherwise. If a woman ignores these wrongs, then may women as a

sex continue to suffer them; there is no help for any of us--let us be

dumb and die. I have spoken therefore, and in speaking have used plain

words--words which look like blots, and which you yourself would put

away--words which, if blurred or softened, would imperil perhaps the

force and righteousness of the moral influence. Still, I certainly will,

when the time comes, go over the poem carefully, and see where an

offence can be got rid of without loss otherwise. The second edition was

issued so early that Robert would not let me alter even a comma, would

not let me look between the pages in order to the least alteration. He

said (the truth) that my head was dizzy-blind with the book, and that,

if I changed anything, it would be probably for the worse; like

arranging a room in the dark. Oh no. Indeed he is not vexed that you

should say what you do. On the contrary, he was _pleased_ because of the

much more that you said. As to your friend with the susceptible

'morals'--well, I could not help smiling indeed. I am assured too, by a

friend of my own, that the 'mamas of England' in a body refuse to let

their daughters read it. Still, the daughters emancipate themselves and

_do_, that is certain; for the number of _young_ women, not merely 'the

strong-minded' as a sect, but pretty, affluent, happy women, surrounded

by all the temptations of English respectability, that cover it with the

most extravagant praises is surprising to me, who was not prepared for

that particular kind of welcome. It's true that there's a quantity of

hate to balance the love, only I think it chiefly seems to come from the

less advanced part of society. (See how modest that sounds! But you will

know what I mean.) I mean, from persons whose opinions are not in a

state of growth, and who do not like to be disturbed from a settled

position. Oh, that there are faults in the book, no human being knows so

well as I; defects, weaknesses, great gaps of intelligence. Don't let me

stop to recount them.

The review in 'Blackwood' proves to be by Mr. Aytoun; and coming from

the camp of the enemy (artistically and socially) cannot be considered

other than generous. It is not quite so by the 'North British,' where

another poet (Patmore), who knows more, is somewhat depreciatory, I

can't help feeling.

Now will you be sick of my literature; but you liked to hear, you said.

If you would see, besides, I would show you what George sent me the

other day, a number of the 'National Magazine,' with the most hideous

engraving, from a medallion, you could imagine--the head of a

'strong-minded' giantess on the neck of a bull, and my name underneath!

Penini said, 'It's not a bit like; it's too old, and _not half so

pretty_'--which was comforting under the trying circumstance, if

anything could comfort one in despair....