Robert’s love with that of your attached
Ba.
We go on the 22nd of this month. You have seen Mr. Chorley’s book, I daresay, which I should like much to see.
To Miss Browning
Casa Guidi: Thursday, [end of May 1854].
My dearest Sarianna, — I am delighted to say that we have arrived, and see our dear Florence, the queen of Italy, after all. On the road I said to Penini, ‘Make a poem about Florence.’ Without a moment’s hesitation he began, ‘Florence is more pretty of all. Florence is a beauty. Florence was born first, and then Rome was born. And Paris was born after.’ Penini is always en verve. He’s always ready to make a poem on any subject, and doesn’t ask you to wait while he clears his voice. The darling will soon get over the effect of that poisonous Roman air, I do trust, though it is humiliating to hear our Florentines wailing over the loss of bloom and dimples; it doesn’t console me that his amount of growth is properly acknowledged. Well, good milk and good air will do their work in a little time with God’s blessing, and a most voracious appetite is developed already, I am glad to say. Even in the journey he revived, the blue marks under the darling eyes fading gradually away, and now he looks decidedly better, though unlike himself of two months ago. You are to understand that the child is perfectly well, and that the delicate look is traceable distinctly and only to the attacks he had in Rome during the last few weeks. Throughout the winter he was radiant, as I used to tell you, and the confessed king of the whole host of his contemporaries and country-babies....
The Kembles were our gain in Rome. I appreciate and admire both of them. They fail in nothing as you see them nearer. Noble and upright women, whose social brilliancy is their least distinction! Mrs. Sartoris is the more tender and tolerant, the more loveable and sympathetical, perhaps, to me. I should like you to know them both. Then there is that dear Mr. Page. Yes, and Harriet Hosmer, the young American sculptress, who is an immense favorite with us both.
A comfort is that Robert is considered here to be looking better than he ever was known to look. And this notwithstanding the greyness of his beard, which indeed is, in my own mind, very becoming to him, the argentine touch giving a character of elevation and thought to the whole physiognomy. This greyness was suddenly developed; let me tell you how. He was in a state of bilious irritability on the morning of his arrival in Rome from exposure to the sun or some such cause, and in a fit of suicidal impatience shaved away his whole beard, whiskers and all! I cried when I saw him, I was so horror-struck. I might have gone into hysterics and still been reasonable; for no human being was ever so disfigured by so simple an act. Of course I said, when I recovered breath and voice, that everything was at an end between him and me if he didn’t let it all grow again directly, and (upon the further advice of his looking-glass) he yielded the point, and the beard grew. But it grew white, which was the just punishment of the gods — our sins leave their traces.
Well, poor darling, Robert won’t shock you after all, you can’t choose but be satisfied with his looks. M. de Monclar swore to me that he was not changed for the intermediate years.
Robert talks of money, of waiting for that, among other hindrances to setting out directly. Not my fault, be certain, Sarianna! We seem to have a prospect of letting our house for a year, which, if the thing happens, will give us a lift.
We spent yesterday evening with Lytton at his villa, meeting there Mr. and Mrs. Walpole, Frederick Tennyson, and young Norton (Mrs. Norton’s son), who married the Capri girl. She was not present, I am sorry to say. We walked home to the song of nightingales by starlight and firefly-light. Florence looks to us more beautiful than ever after Rome. I love the very stones of it, to say nothing of the cypresses and river.
Robert says, ‘Are you nearly done?’ I am done. Give Penini’s love and mine to the dear nonno, and tell him (and yourself, dear) how delighted we shall be [to] have you both. You are prepared to go to England, I hope. By the way, the weather there is said to be murderous through bitter winds, but it must soften as the season advances. May God bless you! I am yours in truest love.
Ba.
We had a very pleasant vettura journey, Robert will have told you.
To Miss Mitford
Florence: June 6, 1854.
Yes, dearest friend, I had your few lines which Arabel sent to me. I had them on the very day I had posted my letter to you, and I need not say how deeply it moved me that you should have thought of giving me that pleasure of Mr. Ruskin’s kind word at the expense of what I knew to be so much pain to yourself....
We mean to stay at Florence a week or two longer and then go northward. I love Florence, the place looks exquisitely beautiful in its garden-ground of vineyards and olive trees, sung round by the nightingales day and night, nay, sung into by the nightingales, for as you walk along the streets in the evening the song trickles down into them till you stop to listen. Such nights we have between starlight and firefly-light, and the nightingales singing! I would willingly stay here, if it were not that we are constrained by duty and love to go, and at some day not distant, I daresay we shall come back ‘for good and all’ as people say, seeing that if you take one thing with another, there is no place in the world like Florence, I am persuaded, for a place to live in. Cheap, tranquil, cheerful, beautiful, within the limit of civilisation yet out of the crush of it. I have not seen the Trollopes yet; but we have spent two delicious evenings at villas on the outside the gates, one with young Lytton, Sir Edward’s son, of whom I have told you, I think. I like him, we both do, from the bottom of our hearts. Then our friend Frederick Tennyson, the new poet, we are delighted to see again. Have you caught sight of his poems? If you have, tell me your thought. Mrs. Howe’s I have read since I wrote last. Some of them are good — many of the thoughts striking, and all of a certain elevation. Of poetry, however, strictly speaking, there is not much; and there’s a large proportion of conventional stuff in the volume. She must be a clever woman. Of the ordinary impotencies and prettinesses of female poets she does not partake, but she can’t take rank with poets in the good meaning of the word, I think, so as to stand without leaning. Also there is some bad taste and affectation in the dressing of her personality. I dare say Mr. Fields will bring you her book. Talking of American literature, with the publishers on the back of it, we think of offering the proofs of our new works to any publisher over the water who will pay us properly for the advantage of bringing out a volume in America simultaneously with the publication in England. We have heard that such a proposal will be acceptable, and mean to try it. The words you sent to me from Mr. Ruskin gave me great pleasure indeed, as how should they not from such a man? I like him personally, too, besides my admiration for him as a writer, and I was deeply gratified in every way to have his approbation. His ‘Seven Lamps’ I have not read yet. Books come out slowly to Italy. It’s our disadvantage, as you know. Ruskin and art go together. I must tell you how Rome made me some amends after all. Page, the American artist, painted a picture of Robert like an Italian, and then presented it to me like a prince. It is a wonderful picture, the colouring so absolutely Venetian that artists can’t (for the most part) keep their temper when they look at it, and the breath of the likeness is literal. Mr. Page has secrets in the art — certainly nobody else paints like him — and his nature, I must say, is equal to his genius and worthy of it. Dearest Miss Mitford, the ‘Athenæum’ is always as frigid as Mont Blanc; it can’t be expected to grow warmer for looking over your green valleys and still waters. It wouldn’t be Alpine if it did. They think it a point of duty in that journal to shake hands with one finger. I dare say when Mr. Chorley sits down to write an article he puts his feet in cold water as a preliminary. Still, I oughtn’t to be impertinent. He has been very good-natured to me, and it isn’t his fault if I’m not Poet Laureate at this writing, and engaged in cursing the Czar in Pindarics very prettily. ‘Atherton,’ meanwhile, wants nobody to praise it, I am sure. How glad I shall be to seize and read it, and how I
thank you for the gift! May God bless and keep you! I may hear again if you write soon to Florence, but don’t pain yourself for the world, I entreat you. I shall see you before long, I think.
Your ever affectionate
E.B.B.
Robert’s love.
To Miss Mitford
Florence: July 20, .
My dearest Miss Mitford, — I this moment receive your little note. It makes me very sad and apprehensive about you, and I would give all this bright sunshine for weeks for one explanatory word which might make me more easy. Arabel speaks of receiving your books — I suppose ‘Atherton’ — and of having heard from yourself a very bad account of your state of health. Are you worse, my beloved friend? I have been waiting to hear the solution of our own plans (dependent upon letters from England) in order to write to you; and when I found our journey to London was definitively rendered impossible till next spring, I deferred writing yet again, it was so painful to me to say to you that our meeting could not take place this year. Now, I receive your little note and write at once to say how sad that makes me. It is the first time that the expression of your love, my beloved friend, has made me sad, and I start as from an omen. On the other hand, the character you write in is so firm and like yourself, that I do hope and trust you are not sensibly worse. Let me hear by a word, if possible, that the change of weather has done you some little good. I understand there has scarcely been any summer in England, and this must necessarily have been adverse to you. A gleam of fine weather would revive you by God’s help. Oh, that I could look in your face and say, ‘God bless you!’ as I feel it. May God bless you, my dear, dear friend.
Our reason for not going to England has not been from caprice, but a cross in money matters. A ship was to have brought us in something, and brought us in nothing instead, with a discount; the consequence of which is that we are transfixed at Florence, and unable even to ‘fly to the mountains’ as a refuge from the summer heat. It has been a great disappointment to us all, and to our respective families, my poor darling Arabel especially; but we can only be patient, and I take comfort in the obvious fact that my Penini is quite well and almost as rosy as ever in spite of the excessive Florence heat. One of the worst thoughts I have is about you. I had longed so to see you this summer, and had calculated with such certainty upon doing so. I would have gone to England for that single reason if I could, but I can’t; we can’t stir, really. That we should be able to sit quietly still at Florence and eat our bread and maccaroni is the utmost of our possibilities this summer.
Mrs. Trollope has gone to the Baths of Lucca, and thus I have not seen her. She will be very interested about you, of course. How many hang their hearts upon your sickbed, dearest Miss Mitford! Yes, and their prayers too.
The other day, by an accident, an old number of the ‘Athenæum’ fell into my hands, and I read for the second time Mr. Chorley’s criticism upon ‘Atherton.’ It is evidently written in a hurried manner, and is quite inadequate as a notice of the book; but, do you know, I am of opinion that if you considered it more closely you would lose your impression of its being depreciatory and cold. He says that the only fault of the work is its shortness; a rare piece of praise to be given to a work nowadays. You see, your reputation is at the height; neither he nor another could help you; such books as yours make their own way. The ‘Athenæum’ doesn’t give full critiques of Dickens, for instance, and it is arctical in general temperature. I thought I would say this to you. Certainly I do know that Mr. Chorley highly regards you in every capacity — as writer and as woman — and in the manner in which he named you to me in his last letter there was no chill of sentiment nor recoil of opinion. So do not admit a doubt of him; he is a sure and affectionate friend, and absolutely high-minded and reliable; of an intact and even chivalrous delicacy. I say it, lest you might have need of him and be scrupulous (from your late feeling) about making him useful. It is horrible to doubt of one’s friends; oh, I know that, and would save you from it.
We had a letter from Paris two days ago from one of the noblest and most intellectual men in the country, M. Milsand, a writer in the ‘Deux Mondes.’ He complains of a stagnation in the imaginative literature, but adds that he is consoled for everything by the ‘state of politics.’ Your Napoleon is doing you credit, his very enemies must confess.
As for me, I can’t write to-day. Your little precious, melancholy note hangs round the neck of my heart like a stone. Arabel simply says she is afraid from what you have written to her that you must be very ill; she does not tell me what you wrote to her — perhaps for fear of paining me — and now I am pained by the silence beyond measure.
Robert’s love and warmest wishes for you. He appreciates your kind word to him. And I, what am I to say? I love you from a very sad and grateful heart, looking backwards and forwards — and upwards to pray God’s love down on you!
Your ever affectionate
E.B.B., rather Ba.
Precious the books will be to me. I hope not to wait to read them till they reach me, as there is a bookseller here who will be sure to have them. Thank you, thank you.
To Miss Mitford
Florence: September 4, 1854.
Five minutes do not pass, my beloved friend, since reading this dear letter which has wrung from me tender and sorrowful tears, and answering it thus. Pray for you? I do not wait that you should bid me. May the divine love in the face of our Lord Jesus Christ shine upon you day and night, and make all our human loves strike you as cold and dull in comparison with that ineffable tenderness! As to wandering prayers, I cannot believe that it is of consequence whether this poor breath of ours wanders or does not wander. If we have strength to throw ourselves upon Him for everything, for prayer, as well as for the ends of prayer, it is enough, and He will prove it to be enough presently. I have been when I could not pray at all. And then God’s face seemed so close upon me that there was no need of prayer, any more than if I were near you, as I yearn to be, as I ought to be, there would be need for this letter. Oh, be sure that He means well by us by what we suffer, and it is when we suffer that He often makes the meaning clearer. You know how that brilliant, witty, true poet Heine, who was an atheist (as much as a man can pretend to be), has made a public profession of a change of opinion which was pathetic to my eyes and heart the other day as I read it. He has joined no church, but simply (to use his own words) has ‘returned home to God like the prodigal son after a long tending of the swine.’ It is delightful to go home to God, even after a tending of the sheep. Poor Heine has lived a sort of living death for years, quite deprived of his limbs, and suffering tortures to boot, I understand. It is not because we are brought low that we must die, my dearest friend. I hope — I do not say ‘hope’ for you so much as for me and for the many who hang their hearts on your life — I hope that you may survive all these terrible sufferings and weaknesses, and I take my comfort from your letter, from the firmness and beauty of the manuscript; I who know how weak hands will shudder and reel along the paper. Surely there is strength for more life in that hand. Now I stoop to kiss it in my thought. Feel my kiss on the dear hand, dear, dear friend.
A previous letter of yours pained me much because I seemed to have given you the painful trouble in it of describing your state, your weakness. Ah, I knew what that state was, and it was therefore that the slip of paper which came with ‘Atherton’ seemed to me so ominous! By the way, I shall see ‘Atherton’ before long, I dare say. The ‘German Library’ in our street is to have a ‘box of new books’ almost directly, and in it surely must be ‘Atherton,’ and you shall hear my thoughts of the book as soon as I catch sight of it. Then you have sent me the Dramas. Thank you, thank you; they will be precious. I saw the article in the ‘Athenæum’ with joy and triumph, and knew Mr. Chorley by the ‘Roman hand.’ In the ‘Illustrated News’ also, Robert (not I) read an enthusiastic notice. He fell upon it at the reading-room where I never go on account of my she-dom, women in Florence being supposed not —
; (Part of this letter is missing)
Think of me who am far, yet near in love and thought. Love me with that strong heart of yours. May God bless it, bless it!
I am ever your attached
E.B.B., rather Ba.
I have had a sad letter from poor Haydon’s daughter. She has fifty-six pounds a year, and can scarcely live on it in England, and inquires if she could live in any family in Florence. I fear to recommend her to come so far on such means. Robert’s love. May God bless you and keep you! Love me.
To Miss Mitford
Florence: October 19, 1854.
I will try not to be overjoyed, my dear, dearest Miss Mitford, but, indeed, it is difficult to refrain from catching at hope with both hands. If the general health will but rally, there is nothing fatal about a spine disease. May God bless you, give you the best blessing in earth and heaven, as the God of the living in both places. We ought not to be selfish, nor stupid, so as to be afraid of leaving you in His hands. What is beautiful and joyful to observe is the patience and self-possession with which you endure even the most painful manifestation of His will; and that, while you lose none of that interest in the things of our mortal life which is characteristic of your sympathetic nature, you are content, just as if you felt none, to let the world go, according to the decision of God. May you be more and more confirmed and elevated and at rest — being the Lord’s, whether absent from the body or present in it! For my own part, I have been long convinced that what we call death is a mere incident in life — perhaps scarcely a greater one than the occurrence of puberty, or the revolution which comes with any new emotion or influx of new knowledge. I am heterodox about sepulchres, and believe that no part of us will ever lie in a grave. I don’t think much of my nail-parings — do you? — not even of the nail of my thumb when I cut off what Penini calls the ‘gift-mark’ on it. I believe that the body of flesh is a mere husk which drops off at death, while the spiritual body (see St. Paul) emerges in glorious resurrection at once. Swedenborg says, some persons do not immediately realise that they have passed death, and this seems to me highly probable. It is curious that Maurice, Mr. Kingsley’s friend, about whom so much lately has been written and quarrelled (and who has made certain great mistakes, I think), takes this precise view of the resurrection, with an apparent unconsciousness of what Swedenborg has stated upon the subject, and that, I, too, long before I knew Swedenborg, or heard the name of Maurice, came to the same conclusions. I wonder if Mr. Kingsley agrees with us. I dare say he does, upon the whole — for the ordinary doctrine seems to me as little taught by Scripture as it can be reconciled with philosophical probabilities. I believe in an active, human life, beyond death as before it, an uninterrupted human life. I believe in no waiting in the grave, and in no vague effluence of spirit in a formless vapour. But you’ll be tired with ‘what I believe.’
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 203