To Miss Mitford
58 Welbeck Street: Tuesday, [September 1852].
Alas, no; I cannot go to you before the Saturday you name, nor for some days after, dearest friend. It is simply impossible. Wilson has not come back, nor will till the end of next week, and though I can get away from my child for two or three hours at once during the daytime, for the whole day I could not go. What would become of him, poor darling?...
And I can’t go to you this week, nor next week, probably. How vexatious! My comfort is that you seem to be better — much, much better — and that you have courage to think of the pony carriages and the Kingsleys of the earth. That man impressed me much, interested me much. The more you see of him, the more you will like him, is my prophecy. He has a volume of poems, I hear, close upon publication, and Robert and I are looking forward to it eagerly.
Mr. Ruskin has been to see us (did I tell you that?)... We went to Denmark Hill yesterday by agreement, to see the Turners — which, by the way, are divine. I like Mr. Ruskin much, and so does Robert. Very gentle, yet earnest — refined and truthful. I like him very much. We count him among the valuable acquaintances made this year in England....
Mr. Kenyon has come back, and most other people are gone away; but he is worth more than most other people, so the advantage remains to the scale. I am delighted that you should have your dear friend Mr. Harness with you, and, for my own part, I do feel grateful to him for the good he has evidently done you. Oh, continue to be better! Don’t overtire yourself — don’t use improvidently the new strength. Remember the winter, and be wise; and let me see you, before it comes, looking as bright and well as I thought you last year. God bless you always.
Love your ever affectionate
Ba.
Robert’s love.
To Miss Mitford
London: Friday, [October 6, 1852].
My dearest Miss Mitford, — I am quite in pain to have to write a farewell to you after all. As soon as Wilson had returned — and she stayed away much longer than last year — we found ourselves pushed to the edge of our time for remaining in England, and the accumulation of business to be done before we could go pressed on us. I am almost mad with the amount of things to be done, as it is; but I should have put the visit to you at the head of them, and swept all the rest on one side for a day, if it hadn’t been for the detestable weather, and my horrible cough which combines with it. When Wilson came back she found me coughing in my old way, and it has been without intermission up to now, or rather waxing worse and worse. To have gone down to you and inflicted the noise of it on you would have simply made you nervous, while the risk to myself would have been very great indeed. Still, I have waited and waited, feeling it scarcely possible to write to you to say, ‘I am not coming this year.’ Ah, I am so very sorry and disappointed! I hoped against hope for a break in the weather, and an improvement in myself; now we must go, and there is no hope. For about a fortnight I have been a prisoner in the house. This climate won’t let me live, there’s the truth. So we are going on Monday. We go to Paris for a week or two, and then to Florence, and then to Rome, and then to Naples; but we shall be back next year, if God pleases, and then I shall seize an early summer day to run down straight to you and find you stronger, if God blesses me so far. Think of me and love me a little meanwhile. I shall do it by you. And do, do — since there is no time to hear from you in London — send a fragment of a note to Arabel for me, that I may have it in Paris before we set out on our long Italian journey. Let me have the comfort of knowing exactly how you are before we set out. As for me, I expect to be better on crossing the Channel. How people manage to live and enjoy life in this fog and cold is inexplicable to me. I understand the system of the American rapping spirits considerably better....
The Tennysons in their kindest words pressed us to be present at their child’s christening, which took place last Tuesday, but I could not go; it was not possible. Robert went alone, therefore, and nursed the baby for ten or twelve minutes, to its obvious contentment, he flatters himself. It was christened Hallam Tennyson. Mr. Hallam was the godfather, and present in his vocation. That was touching, wasn’t it? I hear that the Laureate talks vehemently against the French President and the French; but for the rest he is genial and good, and has been quite affectionate to us....
So I go without seeing you. Grieved I am. Love me to make amends.
Robert’s love goes with me.
Your ever affectionate
Ba.
To John Kenyon
[Paris,] Hôtel de la Ville-l’Évêque, Rue Ville-l’Évêque:
Thursday, [November 1852].
My dearest Mr. Kenyon, — I cannot do better to-day than keep my promise to you about writing. We have done our business in Paris, but we linger from the inglorious reason that we, experienced travellers as we are, actually left a desk behind us in Bentinck Street, and must get it before we go farther. Meanwhile, it’s rather dangerous to let the charm of Paris work — the honey will be clogging our feet very soon, and make it difficult to go away. What an attractive place this is, to be sure! How the sun shines, how the blue sky spreads, how the life lives, and how kind the people are on all sides! If we were going anywhere but to Italy, and if I were a little less plainly mortal with this disagreeable cough of mine, I would gladly stay and see in the Empire with M. Proudhon in the tail of it, and sit as a watcher over whatever things shall be this year and next spring at Paris. As it is, we have been very fortunate, as usual, in being present in a balcony on the boulevard, the best place possible for seeing the grandest spectacle in the world, the reception of Louis Napoleon last Saturday. The day was brilliant, and the sweep of sunshine over the streaming multitude, and all the military and civil pomp, made it difficult to distinguish between the light and life. The sunshine seemed literally to push back the houses to make room for the crowd, and the wide boulevards looked wider than ever. If you had cursed the sentiment of the day ever so, you would have had eyes for its picturesqueness, I think, so I wish you had been there to see. Louis Napoleon showed his usual tact and courage by riding on horseback quite alone, at least ten paces between himself and his nearest escort, which of course had a striking effect, taking the French on their weak side, and startling even Miss Cushman (who had been murmuring displeasure into my ear for an hour) into an exclamation of ‘That’s fine, I must say.’ Little Wiedeman was in a state of ecstasy, and has been recounting ever since how he called ‘“Vive Napoléon!” molto molto duro,’ meaning very loud (his Italian is not very much more correct, you know, than his other languages), and how Napoleon took off his hat to him directly. I don’t see the English papers, but I conclude you are all furious. You must make up your minds to it nevertheless — the Empire is certain, and the feeling of all but unanimity (whatever the motive) throughout France obvious enough. Smooth down the lion’s mane of the ‘Examiner,’ and hint that roaring over a desert is a vain thing. As to Victor Hugo’s book, the very enemies of the present state of affairs object to it that he lies simply. There is not enough truth in it for an invective to rest on, still less for an argument. It’s an inarticulate cry of a bird of prey, wild and strong irrational, and not a book at all. For my part I did wave my handkerchief for the new Emperor, but I bore the show very well, and said to myself, ‘God bless the people!’ as the man who, to my apprehension, represents the democracy, went past. A very intelligent Frenchman, caught in the crowd and forced to grope his way slowly along, told me that the expression of opinion everywhere was curiously the same, not a dissenting mutter did he hear. Strange, strange, all this! For the drama of history we must look to France, for startling situations, for the ‘points’ which thrill you to the bone....
May God bless you meantime! Take care of yourself for the sake of us all who love you, none indeed more affectionately and gratefully than
R.B. and E.B.B.
FOOTNOTES:
The Holy Scriptures.
Miss Haworth was a friend of Mr. Browning from very early days, and was
commemorated by him in ‘Sordello’ under the name of ‘Eyebright’ (see Mrs. Orr’s Life, p. 86). Her acquaintance with Mrs. Browning began with this visit to London, and ripened into a warm friendship. One subject of interest which they had in common was mesmerism, with the attendant mysteries of spiritualism and Swedenborgianism; and references to these are frequent in Mrs. Browning’s letters to her.
So spelt in the earlier letters, but subsequently modified to ‘Penini.’
Miss Mitford had lately moved into her new home at Swallowfield, about three miles from the old cottage at Three Mile Cross, commemorated in ‘Our Village.’
The article was by M. Joseph Milsand, and led to the formation of the warm friendship between him and Mr. Browning which lasted until the death of the former in 1886.
The May edict restricted the franchise to electors who had resided three years in the same district. In October Louis Napoleon proposed to repeal it, and the refusal of the Assembly no doubt strengthened his hold on the democracy.
The coup d’état took place in the early morning of December 2.
The constitution of 1848.
The point was rather whether they had the power.
Miss Mitford’s Recollections of a Literary Life contained a chapter relating to Robert and Elizabeth Browning, in which, with the best intentions in the world, she told the story of the drowning of Edward Barrett, and of the gloom cast by it on his sister’s life. It was this revival of the greatest sorrow of her life that so upset Mrs. Browning.
No doubt M. Milsand was the writer in question.
The (forged) Letters of Shelley, to which Mr. Browning wrote an introduction, dealing rather with Shelley in general than with the letters.
‘Lines to Elizabeth Barrett Browning on her Later Sonnets’, printed in the Athenæum for February 15, 1851. The allusion to the voice which called ‘Dinah’ must refer to something in Miss Mulock’s letter. Dinah was Miss Mulock’s Christian name.
In another letter, written about the same date to Mrs. Martin, Mrs. Browning says: ‘Perhaps you never heard of the crystal ball. The original ball was bought by Lady Blessington from an “Egyptian magician,” and resold at her sale. She never could understand the use of it, but others have looked deeper, or with purer eyes, it is said; and now there is an optician in London who makes and sells these balls, and speaks of a “great demand,” though they are expensive. “Many persons,” said Lord Stanhope, “use the balls, without the moral courage to confess it.” No doubt they did.
CHAPTER VIII. 1852-55
The middle of November found the travellers back again in Florence, and it was nearly three years before they again quitted Italy. No doubt, after the excitement of the coup d’état in Paris, and the subsequent manœuvres of Louis Napoleon, which culminated in this very month in his exchanging the title of President for that of Emperor, Florence must have seemed very quiet, if not dull. The political movement there was dead; the Grand Duke, restored by Austrian bayonets, had abandoned all pretence at reform and constitutional progress. In Piedmont, Cavour had just been summoned to the head of the administration, but there were no signs as yet of the use he was destined to make of his power. Of politics, therefore, we hear little for the present.
Nor is there much to note at this time in respect of literature. A new edition of Mrs. Browning’s poems was called for in 1853; but beyond some minor revisions of detail it did not differ from the edition of 1850. Her husband’s play, ‘Colombe’s Birthday,’ was produced at the Haymarket Theatre during April, with Miss Faucit (Lady Martin) in the principal part; but the poet had no share in the production, and his literary activity must have been devoted to the composition of some of the fine poems which subsequently formed the two volumes of ‘Men and Women,’ which appeared in 1855. Mrs. Browning had also embarked on her longest poem, ‘Aurora Leigh,’ and speaks of being happily and busily engaged in work; but we hear little of it as yet in her correspondence. Her little son and her Florentine friends and visitors form her principal subjects; and we also see the beginning of a topic which for the next few years occupied a good deal of her attention — namely, Spiritualism.
The temperament of Mrs. Browning had in it a decidedly mystical vein, which predisposed her to believe in any communication between our world and that of the spirits. Hence when a number of people professed to have such communication, she was not merely ready to listen to their claims, but was by temperament inclined to accept them. The immense vogue which spiritualism had during ‘the fifties’ tended to confirm her belief. It was easy to say that where there was so much smoke there must be fire. And what she believed, she believed strongly and with a perfect conviction that no other view could be right. Just as her faith in Louis Napoleon survived the coup d’état, and even Villafranca, so her belief in communications with the spirit world was proof against any exposure of fraud on the part of the mediums. Not that she was guilty of the absurdities which marked many of the devotees of spiritualism. She had a great horror of submitting herself to mesmeric influences. She recognised that very many of the supposed revelations of the spirits were trivial, perhaps false; but to the fact that communications did exist she adhered constantly.
It is not of much interest now to discuss the ethics or the metaphysics of the ‘rapping spirits;’ but the subject deserves more than a passing mention in the life of Mrs. Browning, because it has been said, and apparently with authority, that ‘the only serious difference which ever arose between Mr. Browning and his wife referred to the subject of spiritualism.’ It is quite certain that Mr. Browning did not share his wife’s belief in spiritualism; a reference to ‘Sludge the Medium’ is sufficient to establish his position in the matter. But it is easy to make too much of the supposed ‘difference.’ Certainly it has left no trace in Mrs. Browning’s letters which are now extant. There is no sign in them that the divergence of opinion produced the slightest discord in the harmony of their life. No doubt Mr. Browning felt strongly as to the character of some of the persons, whether mediums or their devotees, with whom his wife was brought into contact, and he may have relieved his feelings by strong expressions of his opinion concerning them; but there is no reason to lay stress on this as indicating any serious difference between himself and his wife.
It has seemed necessary to say so much, lest it should be supposed that any of the omissions, which have been made in order to reduce the bulk of the letters within reasonable limits, cover passages in which such a difference is spoken of. In no single instance is this the case. The omissions have been made in the interests of the reader, not in order to affect in any way the representation which the letters give of their writer’s feelings and character. With this preface they may be left to tell their own tale.
To Miss Browning
Florence: November 14, 1852 [postmark].
My dearest Sarianna, — You can’t think how pleased I am to find myself in Florence again in our own house, everything looking exactly as if we had left it yesterday. Scarcely I can believe that we have gone away at all. But Robert has been perfectly demoralised by Paris, and thinks it all as dull as possible after the boulevards: ‘no life, no variety.’ Oh, of course it is very dead in comparison! but it’s a beautiful death, and what with the lovely climate, and the lovely associations, and the sense of repose, I could turn myself on my pillow and sleep on here to the end of my life; only be sure that I shall do no such thing. We are going back to Paris; you will have us safe. Peninni had worked himself up to a state of complete agitation on entering Florence, through hearing so much about it. First he kissed me and then Robert again and again, as if his little heart were full. ‘Poor Florence’ said he while we passed the bridge. Certainly there never was such a darling since the world began.... I suffered extremely through our unfortunate election of the Mont Cenis route (much more my own fault than Robert’s), and was extremely unwell at Genoa, to the extent of almost losing heart and hope, which is a most unusual case with me, but the change from Lyons had been too sudden and
severe. At Genoa the weather was so exquisite, so absolutely June weather, that at the end of a week’s lying on the sofa, I had rallied again quite, only poor darling Robert was horribly vexed and out of spirits all that time, as was natural. I feel myself, every now and then (and did then), like a weight round his neck, poor darling, though he does not account it so, for his part. Well, but it passed, and we were able to walk about beautiful Genoa the last two days, and visit Andrea Doria’s palace and enjoy everything together. Then we came on by a night and day’s diligence through a warm air, which made me better and better. By the way, Turin is nearly as cold as Chambéry; you can’t believe yourself to be in Italy. Susa, at the foot of the Alps, is warmer. We were all delighted to hear the sound of our dear Italian, and inclined to be charmed with everything; and Peninni fairly expressed the kind of generalisations we were given to, when he observed philosophically, ‘In Italy, pussytats don’t never scwatch, mama.’ This was in reply to an objection I had made to a project of his about kissing the head of an enchanting pussy-cat who presented herself in vision to him as we were dining at Turin.... God bless and preserve you. We love you dearly, and talk of you continually — of both of you. Your most affectionate sister,
Ba.
Best love to your father. — Peninni.
To John Kenyon
Casa Guidi: November 23, 1852.
We flatter ourselves, dearest Mr. Kenyon, that as we think so much of you, you may be thinking a little of us, and will not be sorry — who knows? — to have a few words from us.
November 24.
Just as I was writing, had written, that sentence yesterday, came the letter which contained your notelet. Thank you, thank you, dearest friend, it is very pleasant to have such a sign from your hand across the Alps of kindness and remembrance. As to my sins in the choice of the Mont Cenis route, ‘Bradshaw’ was full of temptation, and the results to me have so entirely passed away now, that even the wholesome state of repentance is very faded in the colours. What chiefly remains is the sense of wonderful contrast between climate and climate when we found ourselves at Genoa and in June. I can’t get rid of the astonishment of it even now. At Turin I had to keep up a fire most of the night in my bedroom, and at Genoa, with all the windows and doors open, we were gasping for breath, languid with the heat, blue burning skies overhead, and not enough stirring air for refreshment. Nothing less, perhaps, would have restored me so soon, and it was delightful to be able during our last two days of our ten days there to stand on Andrea Doria’s terrace, and look out on that beautiful bay with its sweep of marble palaces. My ‘unconquerable mind’ even carried me halfway up the lighthouse for the sake of the ‘view,’ only there I had to stop ingloriously, and let Robert finish the course alone while I rested on a bench: aspiration is not everything, either in literature or lighthouses, you know, let us be ever so ‘insolvent.’
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 195