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 100l. 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 6,500l. to Robert Browning and 4,500l. 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 nos
egays. 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.
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 gai
n 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.
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 210