[Paris], 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysees: June 2, [1852].
My husband went directly to Rue Vivienne and came back without the book.
We waited and waited, but at last it reached us, and we have read it, and since then I have let some days go by through having been unwell.
You seemed to let me sit still in my chair and do nothing; you did not call too loud. So was it with most other things in the universe. Now, having awakened from my somnolency, recovered from "La Grippe" (or what mortal Londoners call the influenza), the first person and first book I think of must naturally be you and yours.
So I thank you much, much, for the book. It has interested me, dear Miss Mulock, as a book should, and I am delighted to recognise everywhere undeniable talent and faculty, combined with high and pure aspiration. A clever book, a graceful book, and with the moral grace besides--thank you. Many must have thanked you as well as myself.
At the same time, precisely because I feel particularly obliged to you, I mean to tell you the truth. Your hero is heroic from his own point of view--accepting his own view of the situation, which I, for one, cannot accept, do you know, for I am of opinion that both you and he are rather conventional on the subject of his marriage. I don"t in the least understand, at this moment, why he should not have married in the first volume; no, not in the least. It was a matter of income, he would tell me, and of keeping two establishments; and I would answer that it ought rather to have been a matter of faith in G.o.d and in the value of G.o.d"s gifts, the greatest of which is love. I am romantic about love--oh, much more than you are, though older than you. A man"s life does not develop rightly without it, and what is called an "improvident marriage" often appears to me a n.o.ble, righteous, and prudent act. Your Ninian was a man before he was a brother. I hold that he had no right to sacrifice a great spiritual good of his own to the worldly good of his family, however he made it out. He should have said: "G.o.d gives me this gift, He will find me energy to work for it and suffer for it. We will all live together, struggle together if it is necessary, a little more poorly, a little more laboriously, but keeping true to the best aims of life, all of us."
That"s what _my_ Ninian would have said. I don"t like to see n.o.ble Ninians crushed flat under family Juggernauts, from whatever heroic motives--not I. Do you forgive me for being so candid?
I must tell you that Mrs. Jameson, who is staying in this house, read your book in England and mentioned it to me as a good book, "very gracefully written," before I read it, quite irrespectively, too, of my dedication, which was absent from the copy she saw at Brighton. It was mentioned as one of the novels which had pleased her most lately.
I shall like to show you my child, as you like children, and as I am vain--oh, past endurance vain, about him. You won"t understand a word he says, though, for he speaks three languages at once, and most of the syllables of each wrong side foremost.
No, don"t call me a Bonapartist. I am not a Bonapartist indeed. But I am a Democrat and singularly (in these days) consequent about universal suffrage. Also, facts in England have been much mis-stated; but there"s no room for politics to-day.
When I thank you, remember that my husband thanks you. We both hope to see you before this month shall be quite at an end, and then you will know me better, I hope; and though I shall lose a great deal by your knowing me, of course, yet you won"t, _after that_, make such mistakes as you "confess" in this note which I have just read over again. Did I think you "sentimental"? Won"t you rather think _me_ sentimental to-day?
Through it all,
Your affectionate ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
_To Mrs. Martin_
[Paris], 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysees: June 16, [1852].
My first word must be to thank you, my dearest kind friend, for your affectionate words to me and mine, which always, from you, sink deeply.
It was, on my part, great gratification to see you and talk to you and hear you talk, and, above all, perhaps, to feel that you loved me still a little. May G.o.d bless you both! And may we meet again and again in Paris and elsewhere; in London this summer to begin with! As the Italians would say in relation to any like pleasure: "Sarebbe una _benedizione_."
We are waiting for the English weather to be reported endurable in order to set out. Mrs. Streatfield, who has been in England these twelve days, writes to certify that it is past the force of a Parisian imagination to imagine the state of the skies and the atmosphere; yet, even in Paris, we have been moaning the last four days, because really, since then, we have gone back to April, and a rather cool April, with alternate showers and sunshine--a crisis, however, which does not call for fires, nor inflict much harm on me. It was the thunder, we think, that upset the summer.
You seem to have had a sort of inkling about my brittleness when you were here. It was the beginning of a bad attack of cough and pain in the side, the consequence of which was that I turned suddenly into the likeness of a ghost and frightened Robert from his design of going to England. About that I am by no means regretful; he was not wanted, as the event proved abundantly. The worst was that he was annoyed by the number of judicious observers and miserable comforters who told him I was horribly changed and ought to be taken back to Italy forthwith. I knew it was nothing but an accidental attack, and that the results would pa.s.s away, as they did. I kept quiet, applied mustard poultices, and am now looking again (tell dear Mr. Martin) "as if I had shammed." So all these misfortunes are strictly historical, you are to understand.
To-night we are going to Ary Scheffer"s to hear music and to see ever so many celebrities. Oh, and let me remember to tell you that M. Thierry, the blind historian, has sent us a message by his physician to ask us to go to see him, and as a matter of course we go. Madame Viardot, the prima donna, and Leonard, the first violin player at the Conservatoire, are to be at M. Scheffer"s.
After all, you are too right. The less amused I am, clearly the better for me. I should live ever so many years more by being shut up in a hermitage, if it were warm and dry. More"s the pity, when one wants to see and hear as I do. The only sort of excitement and fatigue which does me no harm, but good, is _travelling_. The effect of the continual change of air is to pour in oil as the lamp burns; so I explain the extraordinary manner in which I bear the fatigue of being four-and-twenty hours together in a diligence, for instance, which many strong women would feel too much for them.
All this talking of myself when I want to talk of you and to tell you how touched I was by the praises of your winning little Let.i.tia!
Enclosed is a note to Chapman & Hall which will put her "bearer" (if she can find one in London) in possession of the two volumes in question. I shall like her to have them, and she must try to find my love, as the King of France did the poison (a "most unsavoury simile," certainly), between the leaves. I send with them, in any case, my best love. Ah, so sorry I am that she has suffered from the weather you have had. She is a most interesting child, and of a nature which is rare....
Robert"s warm regards, with those of your
Ever affectionate and grateful BA.
Madame Viardot is George Sand"s heroine Consuelo. You know that beautiful book.
With the last days of June the long stay in Paris came to an end, and the Brownings paid their second visit to London. Their residence on this occasion was at 58 Welbeck Street ("very respectable rooms this time, and at a moderate price"), and here they stayed until the beginning of November. Neither husband nor wife seems to have written much poetry during this year, either in Paris or in London.
_To Miss Mitford_
[London], 58 Welbeck Street: Sat.u.r.day, [June-July 1852].
... We saw your book in Paris, the Galignani edition, and I read it all except the one thing I had not courage to read. Thank you, thank you. We are both of us grateful to you for your most generous and heartwarm intentions to us. As to the book, it"s a book made to go east and west; it"s a popular book with flowers from the "village" laid freshly and brightly between the critical leaves. I don"t always agree with you. I think, for instance, that Mary Anne Browne should never be compared to George Sand in "pa.s.sion," and I can"t grant to you that your extracts from her poems bear you out to even one fiftieth degree in such an opinion. I agree with you just as little with regard to Dr. Holmes and certain others. But to _have_ your opinion is always a delightful thing, and "it is characteristic of your generosity," to say the least, we say to ourselves when we are "dissidents" most.
I am writing in the extremest haste, just a word to announce our arrival in England. We are in very comfortable rooms in 58 Welbeck Street, and my sister Henrietta is some twenty doors away. To-morrow Robert and I are going to Wimbledon for a day to dear Mr. Kenyon, who looks radiantly well and has Mr. Landor for a companion just now. Imagine the uproar and turmoil of our first days in London, and believe that I think of you faithfully and tenderly through all. I am overjoyed to see my sisters, who look well on the whole ... and they and everybody a.s.sure me that I show a very satisfactory face to my country, as far as improved looks go.
What nonsense one writes when one has but a moment to write in. I find people talking about the "facts in the "Times"" touching Louis Napoleon.
Facts in the "Times"!
The heat is _stifling_. Do send one word to say how you are, and love me always as I love you.
Your most affectionate BA.
_To Miss Mitford_
58 Welbeck Street: Friday, July 31, 1852 [postmark].
I want to hear about you again, dear, dearest Miss Mitford, and I can"t hear. Will you send me a line or a word.... I mean to go down to see you one day, but certainly we must account it right not to tire you while you are weak, and not to spoil our enjoyment by forestalling it. Two months are full of days; we can afford to wait. Meantime let us have a little gossip such as the G.o.ds allow of.
Dear Mr. Kenyon has not yet gone to Scotland, though his intentions still stand north. He pa.s.sed an evening with us some evenings ago, and was brilliant and charming (the two things together), and good and affectionate at the same time. Mr. Landor was staying with him (perhaps I told you that), and went away into Worcestershire, a.s.suring me, when he took leave of me, that he would never enter London again. A week pa.s.ses, and lo! Mr. Kenyon expects him again. Resolutions are not always irrevocable, you observe.
I must tell you what Landor said about Louis Napoleon. You are aware that he loathed the first Napoleon and that he hates the French nation; also, he detests the present state of French affairs, and has foamed over in the "Examiner" "in prose and rhyme" on the subject of them.
Nevertheless, he who calls "the Emperor" "an infernal fool" expresses himself to this effect about the President: "I always knew him to be a man of wonderful genius. I knew him intimately, and I was persuaded of what was in him. When people have said to me, "How can you like to waste your time with so trifling a man?" I have answered: "If all your Houses of Parliament, putting their heads together, could make a head equal to this trifling man"s head it would be well for England."
It was quite unexpected to me to hear Mr. Landor talk so.
He, Mr. Landor, is looking as young as ever, as full of life and pa.s.sionate energy.
Did Mr. Horne write to you before he went to Australia? Did I speak to you about his going? Did you see the letter which he put into the papers as a farewell to England? I think of it all sadly.
Mazzini came to see us the other day, with that pale spiritual face of his, and those intense eyes full of melancholy illusions. I was thinking, while he sate there, on what Italian turf he would lie at last with a bullet in his heart, or perhaps with a knife in his back, for to one of those ends it will surely come. Mrs. Carlyle came with him. She is a great favorite of mine: full of thought, and feeling, and character, it seems to me.
London is emptying itself, and the relief will be great in a certain way; for one gets exhausted sometimes. Let me remember whom I have seen.
Mrs. Newton Crosland, who spoke of you very warmly; Miss Mulock, who wrote "The Ogilvies" (that series of novels), and is interesting, gentle, and young, and seems to have worked half her life in spite of youth; Mr. Field we have not seen, only heard of; Miss ----, no--but I am to see her, I understand, and that she is an American Corinna in yellow silk, but pretty. We drove out to Kensington with Monckton Milnes and his wife, and I like her; she is quiet and kind, and seems to have accomplishments, and we are to meet f.a.n.n.y Kemble at the Procters some day next week. Many good faces, but the best wanting. Ah, I wish Lord Stanhope, who shows the spirits of the sun in a crystal ball, could show us _that_! Have you heard of the crystal ball?[14] We went to meet it and the seer the other morning, with sundry of the believers and unbelievers--among the latter, chief among the latter, Mr. Chorley, who was highly indignant and greatly scandalised, particularly on account of the combination sought to be established by the lady of the house between lobster salad and Oremus, spirit of the sun. For my part, I endured both luncheon and spiritual phenomena with great equanimity. It was very curious altogether to my mind, as a sign of the times, if in no other respect of philosophy. But I love the marvellous. Write a word to me, I beseech you, and love me and think of me, as I love and think of you. G.o.d bless you. Robert"s love.
Your ever affectionate BA.