Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Surely I have made up for silence. Dearest friends, both of you, may God bless you!

  Your affectionate

  Ba.

  Robert’s love and Peni’s.

  In the summer of 1858 an expedition was made to France, in order to visit Mr. Browning’s father and sister; but no attempt was made to extend the journey into England. In fact, the circle of their flights from Florence was becoming smaller; and as 1856 saw Mrs. Browning’s last visit to England, so 1858 saw her last visit to France, or, indeed, beyond the borders of Italy at all. It was only a short visit, too, — not longer than the usual expeditions into the mountains to escape the summer heat of Florence. In the beginning of July they reached Paris, where they stayed at the Hôtel Hyacinthe, rue St. Honoré, for about a fortnight, before going on to Havre in company with old Mr. Browning and Miss Browning. There they remained until September, when they returned to Paris for about a month, and thence, early in October, set out for Italy.

  To Miss E.F. Haworth

  Hôtel Hyacinthe, St. Honoré:

  Wednesday and Thursday, July 8, 1858 [postmark].

  My dearest Fanny, — The scene changes. No more cypresses, no more fireflies, no more dreaming repose on burning hot evenings. Push out the churches, push in the boulevards. Here I am, sitting alone at this moment, in an hotel near the Tuileries, where we have taken an apartment for a week, a pretty salon, with the complement of velvet sofas, and arm-chairs, and looking-glasses, and bedrooms to correspond, with clocks at distances of three yards, as if the time was in desperate danger of forgetting itself — which it is, of course. Paris looks more splendid than ever, and we were not too much out of breath with fatigue, on our arrival last night, to admit of various cries of admiration from all of us. It is a wonderfully beautiful city; and wonderfully cold considering the climate we came from. Think of our finding ourselves forced into winter suits, and looking wistfully at the grate. I did so this morning. But now there is sunshine.

  We had a prosperous journey, except the sea voyage which prostrated all of us — Annunziata, to ‘the lowest deep’ of misery. At Marseilles we slept, and again at Lyons and Dijon, taking express trains the whole way, so that there was as little fatigue as possible; and what with the reviving change of air and these precautions, I felt less tired throughout the journey than I have sometimes felt at Florence after a long drive and much talking. We had scarcely any companions in the carriages, and were able to stretch to the full longitude of us — a comfort always; and I had ‘Madame Ancelot,’ and ‘Doit et Avoir,’ which dropped into my bag from Isa’s kind fingers on the last evening, and we gathered ‘Galignanis’ and ‘Illustrations’ day by day. Travelling has really become a luxury. I feel the repose of it chiefly. Yes, no possibility of unpleasant visitors! no fear of horrible letters! quite lifted above the plane of bad news, or of the expectation of bad news, which is nearly the same thing. There you are, shut in, in a carriage! Quite out of reach of the telegraph even, which you mock at as you run alongside the wires.

  Yes, but some visitors, some faces, and voices are missed. And altogether I was very sad at leaving my Italy, oh, very sad!...

  Tell me how you like ‘up in the villa’ life, and how long you shall bear it.

  Paris! I have not been out of the house, except when I came into it. But to-day, Thursday, I mean to drive out a little with Robert. You know I have a weakness for Paris, and a passion for Italy; which would operate thus, perhaps, that I could easily stay here when once here, if there was but a sun to stay with me. We are in admiration, all of us, at everything, from cutlets to costumes. On the latter point I shall give myself great airs over you barbarians presently — no offence to Zerlinda — and, to begin, pray draw your bonnets more over your faces.

  I would rather send this bit than wait, as I did not write to you from Marseilles.

  May God bless you! If you knew how happy I think you for being in Italy — if you knew.

  I shiver with the cold. I tie up three loves to send you from

  Your truly affectionate

  Ba.

  To Miss I. Blagden

  Hôtel Hyacinthe, St. Honoré, Paris:

  Thursday [July 8, 1858].

  My dearest dear Isa, — We are here, having lost nothing — neither a carpet bag nor a bit of our true love for you. We arrived the evening before last, and this letter should have been written yesterday if I hadn’t been interrupted. Such a pleasant journey we had, after the curse of the sea! (‘Where there shall be no more sea’ beautifies the thought of heaven to me. But Frederick Tennyson’s prophets shall compound for as many railroads as they please.)

  In fact, we did admirably by land. We were of unbridled extravagance, and slept both at Lyons and Dijon, and travelled by express trains besides, so that we were almost alone the whole way, and able to lie at full length and talk and read, and ‘Doit et Avoir’ did duty by me, I assure you — to say nothing of ‘Galignanis’ and French newspapers. I was nearly sorry to arrive, and Robert suggested the facility of ‘travelling on for ever so.’ He (by help of nux) was in a heavenly state of mind, and never was the French people — public manners, private customs, general bearing, hostelry, and cooking, more perfectly appreciated than by him and all of us. Judge of the courtesy and liberality. One box had its lid opened, and when Robert disclaimed smuggling, ‘Je vous crois, monsieur’ dismissed the others. Then the passport was never looked at after a glance at Marseilles. I am thinking of writing to the ‘Times,’ or should be if I could keep my temper.

  So you see, dear Isa, I am really very well for me to be so pert. Yes, indeed, I am very well. The journey did not overtire me, and change of air had its usual reviving effect. Also, Robert keeps boasting of his influx of energies, and his appetite is renewed. We have resolved nothing about our sea plans, but have long lists of places, and find it difficult to choose among so many enchanting paradises, with drawbacks of ‘dearness,’ &c. &c. Meanwhile we are settled comfortably in an hotel close to the Tuileries, in a pretty salon and pleasant bedrooms, for which we don’t pay exorbitantly, taken for a week, and we shall probably outstay the week. Robert has the deep comfort of finding his father, on whose birthday we arrived, looking ten years younger — really, I may say so — and radiant with joy at seeing him and Peni. Dear Mr. Browning and Sarianna will go with us wherever we go, of course.

  Paris looks more beautiful than ever, and we were not too dead to see this as we drove through the streets on Wednesday evening. The development of architectural splendour everywhere is really a sight worth coming to see, even from Italy. Observe, I always feel the charm. And yet I yearn back to my Florence — the dearer the farther.

  We slept at Dijon, where Robert, in a passion of friendship, went out twice to stand before Maison Milsand (one of the shows of the town), and muse and bless the threshold. Little did he dream that Milsand was there at that moment, having been called suddenly from Paris by the dangerous illness of his mother. So we miss our friend; but we shall not, I think, altogether, for he talked of following us to the sea, Sarianna says, and even if he is restrained from doing this, we shall pass some little time in Paris on our return, and so see him....

  Mrs. Jameson is here, but goes on Saturday to England.

  [Incomplete]

  To Miss E.F. Haworth

  2 Rue de Perry, Le Havre, Maison Versigny:

  July 23, 1858 [postmark].

  My dearest Fanny, — ... I gave you an account of our journey to Paris, which I won’t write over again, especially as you may have read some things like it. In Paris we remained a fortnight except a day, and I liked it as I always like Paris, for which I have a decided fancy. And yet I did nothing, except in one shop, and in a fiacre driving round and round, and sometimes at a restaurant, dining round and round. But Paris is so full of life — murmurs so of the fountain of intellectual youth for ever and ever — that rolling up the rue de Rivoli (much more the Boulevards) suggests a quicker beat of the fancy’s heart; and I like it — I like it. The a
rchitectural beauty is wonderful. Give me Venice on water, Paris on land — each in its way is a dream city. If one had but the sun there — such a sun as one has in Italy! Or if one had no lungs here — such lungs as are in me. But no. Under actual circumstances something different from Paris must satisfy me. Also, when all’s said and sighed. I love Italy — I love my Florence. I love that ‘hole of a place,’ as Father Prout called it lately — with all its dust, its cobwebs, its spiders even, I love it, and with somewhat of the kind of blind, stupid, respectable, obstinate love which people feel when they talk of ‘beloved native lands.’ I feel this for Italy, by mistake for England. Florence is my chimney-corner, where I can sulk and be happy. But you haven’t come to that yet. In spite of which, you will like the Baths of Lucca, just as you like Florence, for certain advantages — for the exquisite beauty, and the sense of abstraction from the vulgarities and vexations of the age, which is the secret of the strange charm of the south, perhaps — who knows? And yet there are vulgarities and vexations even in Tuscany, if one digs for them — or doesn’t dig, sometimes....

  In Paris we saw Father Prout, who was in great force and kindness, and Charles Sumner, passing through the burning torture under the hands of French surgeons, which is approved of by the brains of English surgeons. Do you remember the Jesuit’s agony, in the ‘Juif Errant’? Precisely that. Exposed to the living coal for seven minutes, and the burns taking six weeks to heal. Mr. Sumner refused chloroform — from some foolish heroic principle, I imagine, and suffered intensely. Of course he is not able to stir for some time after the operation, and can’t read or sleep from the pain. Now, he is just ‘healed,’ and is allowed to travel for two months, after which he is to return and be burned again. Isn’t it a true martyrdom? I ask. What is apprehended is paralysis, or at best nervous infirmity for life, from the effect of the blows (on the spine) of that savage.

  Then, just as we arrived in Paris, dear Lady Elgin had another ‘stroke,’ and was all but gone. She rallied, however, with her wonderful vitality, and we left her sitting in her garden, fixed to the chair, of course, and not able to speak a word, nor even to gesticulate distinctly, but with the eloquent soul full and radiant, alive to both worlds. Robert and I sate there, talking politics and on other subjects, and there she sate and let no word drop unanswered by her bright eyes and smile. It was a beautiful sight. Robert fed her with a spoon from her soup-plate, and she signed, as well as she could, that he should kiss her forehead before he went away. She was always so fond of Robert, as women are apt to be, you know — even I, a little....

  Forster wrote the other day, melancholy with the misfortunes of his friends, though he doesn’t name Dickens. Landor had just fled to his (Forster’s) house in London for protection from an action for libel.

  See what a letter I have written. Write to me, dearest Fanny, and love me. Oh, how glad I shall be to be back among you again in my Florence!

  Your ever affectionate

  Ba.

  To Mrs. Jameson

  Maison Versigny, 2 Rue de Perry, Le Havre:

  July 24, 1858 [postmark].

  Dearest Mona Nina, — Have you rather wondered at not hearing? We have been a-wandering, a-wandering over the world — have been to Étretat and failed, and now are ignominiously settled at Havre — yes, at Havre, the name of which we should have scorned a week ago as a mere roaring commercial city. But after all, as sometimes I say with originality, ‘civilisation is a good thing.’ The country about Étretat is very pretty, and the coast picturesque with fantastic rocks, but the accommodation dear in proportion to its badness; which I do believe is the case everywhere with places, now and then even with persons — dear in proportion to their badness. We could get three bedrooms, a salon, and kitchen, one opening into another and no other access, and the kitchen presenting the first door, all furnished exactly alike, except that where the bedroom had a bed the kitchen had a stove; wooden chairs en suite, not an inch of carpet, and just an inch of looking-glass in the best bedroom. View, a potato-patch, and price two hundred francs a month. Robert took it in a ‘fine phrenzy,’ on which I rebelled, and made him give it up on a sacrifice of ten francs, which was the only cheap thing in the place, as far as I observed anything. Also, the bay is so restricted that whoever takes a step is ‘commanded’ by all the windows of the primitive hotel and the few villas, and as people have nothing whatever to do but to look at you, you may imagine the perfection of the analysis. I should have been a fly in a microscope, feeling my legs and arms counted on all sides, and receiving no comfort from the scientific results. So, you see, we ‘gave it up’ and came here in a sort of despair, meaning to take the railroad to Dieppe; when lo! our examining forces find that the place here is very tenable, and we take a house close to the sea (though the view is interrupted) in a green garden, and quite away from a suggestion of streets and commerce. The bathing is good, we have a post-office and reading-rooms at our elbow, and nothing distracting of any kind. The house is large and airy, and our two families are lodged in separate apartments, though we meet at dinner in our dining-room. Certainly the country immediately around Havre is not pretty, but we came for the sea after all, and the sea is open and satisfactory. Robert has found a hole I can creep through to the very shore, without walking many yards, and there I can sit on a bench and get strength, if so it pleases God.

  Have I not sent you a full account of us? Now if you would return me a cent. per cent. — soll und haben. I want so much to know all about you — how you feel, dearest friend, and how you are. Do write and tell me of yourself. May God bless you ever and ever!

  Your affectionate and grateful

  Ba.

  To Madame Braun

  2 Rue do Perry, Le Havre, Maison Versigny:

  August 10 .

  My dearest Madame Braun, — If you have not heard from me before, it has not been that I have not thought of you anxiously and tenderly, but I had the idea that so many must be thinking of you, and saying to you with sad faces ‘they were sorry,’ that I kept away, not to be the one too many. It seems so vain when we sympathise with a suffering friend. And yet it is something — oh yes, I have felt that! But you knew I must feel for you, if I teased you with words or not; and I, for my part, hearing of you from others, felt shy, as I say, till I heard you were better, of writing to you myself. And you are feeling better, Mrs. Jameson tells me, and are somewhat more cheerful about your state. I thank God for this good news....

  One of the few reasons for which I regret our absence from England this summer is that I miss seeing you with my own eyes, and I should like much to see you and talk to you of things of interest to both of us. If illness suppresses in us a few sources of pleasure, it leaves the real ich open to influences and keen-sighted to facts which are as surely natural as the fly’s wing, though we are apt to consider them vaguely as ‘supernatural.’

  ‘More and more life is what we want’ Tennyson wrote long ago, and that is the right want. Indifference to life is disease, and therefore not strength. But the life here is only half the apple — a cut out of the apple, I should say, merely meant to suggest the perfect round of fruit — and there is in the world now, I can testify to you, scientific proof that what we call death is a mere change of circumstances, a change of dress, a mere breaking of the outside shell and husk. This subject is so much the most interesting to me of all, that I can’t help writing of it to you. Among all the ways of progress along which the minds of men are moving, this draws me most. There is much folly and fanaticism, unfortunately, because foolish men and women do not cease to be foolish when they hit upon a truth. There was a man who hung bracelets upon plane trees. But it was a tree — it is a truth — notwithstanding; yes, and so much a truth that in twenty years the probability is you will have no more doubters of the immortality of souls, and no more need of Platos to prove it.

  We have come here to dip me in warm sea-water, in order to an improvement in strength, for I have been very weak and unwell of late, as perhaps
Mrs. Jameson has told you. But the sea and the change have brought me up again, as I hope they may yourself, and now I am looking forward to getting back to Italy for the winter, and perhaps to Rome.

  Did you know Lady Elgin in Paris? She has been hopelessly, in the opinion of her physicians, affected by paralysis, but is now better, her daughter writes to me. A most remarkable person Lady Elgin is. We left her sitting in her garden, not able to speak — to articulate one word — but with one of the most radiant happy faces I ever saw in man or woman. I think I remember that you knew her. Her salon was one of the most agreeable in Paris, and she herself, with her mixture of learning and simplicity, one of the most interesting persons in it....

  Dearest Madame Braun, I won’t think of the possibility even of your writing to me, so little do I expect to hear. Indeed, I would not write if I considered it would entail writing upon you. Only believe that I tenderly regard and think of you, and always shall. May God bless you, my dear friend! Your attached