Paris: July 7, [1851].

My dearest Mr. Kenyon,--I have waited day after day during this week
that we have been here, to be able to tell you that we have decided this
or that--but the indecision lasts, and I can't let you hear from others
of our being in Paris when you have a right more than anybody almost to
hear all about us. I wanted to write to you, indeed, from Venice, where
we stayed a month, and much the same reason made me leave it undone, as
we were making and unmaking plans the whole time, and we didn't know
till the last few hours, for instance, whether or not we should go to
Milan. Venice is quite exquisite; it wrapt me round with a spell at
first sight, and I longed to live and die there--never to go away. The
gondolas, and the glory they swim through, and the silence of the
population, drifted over one's head across the bridges, and the
fantastic architecture and the coffee-drinking and music in the Piazza
San Marco, everything fitted into my lazy, idle nature and weakness of
body, as if I had been born to the manner of it and to no other. Do you
know I expected in Venice a dreary sort of desolation? Whereas there was
nothing melancholy at all, only a soothing, lulling, rocking atmosphere
which if Armida had lived in a city rather than in a garden would have
suited her purpose. Indeed Taglioni seems to be resting her feet from
dancing, there, with a peculiar zest, inasmuch as she has bought three
or four of the most beautiful palaces. How could she do better? And one
or two ex-kings and queens (of the more vulgar royalties) have wrapt
themselves round with those shining waters to forget the purple--or
dream of it, as the case may be. Robert and I led a true Venetian life,
I assure you; we 'swam in gondolas' to the Lido and everywhere else, we
went to a festa at Chioggia in the steamer (frightening Wilson by being
kept out by the wind till two o'clock in the morning), we went to the
opera and the play (at a shilling each, or not as much!), and we took
coffee every evening on St. Mark's Piazza, to music and the stars.
Altogether it would have been perfect, only what's perfect in the world?
While I grew fat, Wilson grew thin, and Robert could not sleep at
nights. The air was too relaxing or soft or something for them both, and
poor Wilson declares that another month of Venice would have killed her
outright. Certainly she looked dreadfully ill and could eat nothing. So
I was forced to be glad to go away, out of pure humanity and sympathy,
though I keep saying softly to myself ever since, 'What is there on
earth like Venice?'

Then, we slept at Padua on St. Anthony's night (more's the pity for us:
they made us pay sixteen zwanzigers for it!), and Robert and I, leaving
Wiedeman at the inn, took a caleche and drove over to Arqua, which I had
set my heart on seeing for Petrarch's sake. Did you ever see it, _you_?
And didn't it move you, the sight of that little room where the great
soul exhaled itself? Even Robert's man's eyes had tears in them as we
stood there, and looked through the window at the green-peaked hills.
And, do you know, I believe in 'the cat.'

Through Brescia we passed by moonlight (such a flood of white moonlight)
and got into Milan in the morning. There we stayed two days, and I
climbed to the topmost pinnacle of the cathedral; wonder at me! Indeed I
was rather overtired, it must be confessed--three hundred and fifty
steps--but the sight was worth everything, enough to light up one's
memory for ever. How glorious that cathedral is! worthy almost of
standing face to face with the snow Alps; and itself a sort of snow
dream by an artist architect, taken asleep in a glacier! Then the Da
Vinci Christ did not disappoint us, which is saying much. It is divine.
And the Lombard school generally was delightful after Bologna and those
soulless Caracci! I have even given up Guido, and Guercino too, since
knowing more of them. Correggio, on the other hand, is sublime at Parma;
he is wonderful! besides having the sense to make his little Christs and
angels after the very likeness of my baby.

From Milan we moved to Como, steamed down to Menaggio (opposite to
Bellaggio), took a caleche to Porlezza, and a boat to Lugano, another
caleche to Bellinzona, left Wiedeman there, and, returning on our steps,
steamed down and up again the Lago Maggiore, went from Bellinzona to
Faido and slept, and crossed the Mount St. Gothard the next day,
catching the Lucerne steamer at Fluellen. The scenery everywhere was
most exquisite, but of the great _pass_ I shall say nothing--it was like
standing in the presence of God when He is terrible. The tears
overflowed my eyes. I think I never _saw_ the sublime before. Do you
know I sate out in the coupe a part of the way with Robert so as to
apprehend the whole sight better, with a thick shawl over my head, only
letting out the eyes to see. They told us there was more snow than is
customary at this time of year, and it well might be so, for the passage
through it, cut for the carriage, left the snow-walls nodding over us at
a great height on each side, and the cold was intense.

Do you know we might yield the palm, and that Lucerne is far finer than
any of our Italian lakes? Even Robert had to confess it at once. I
wanted to stay in Switzerland, but we found it wiser to hasten our steps
and come to Paris; so we came. Yes, and we travelled from Strasburg to
Paris in four-and-twenty hours, night and day, never stopping except for
a quarter of an hour's breakfast and half an hour's dinner. So afraid I
was of the fatigue for Wiedeman! But between the unfinished railroad and
the diligence, there's a complication of risks of losing places just
now, and we were forced to go the whole way in a breath or to hazard
being three or four days on the road. So we took the coupe and resigned
ourselves, and poor little babe slept at night and laughed in the day,
and came into Paris as fresh in spirit as if just alighted from the
morning star, screaming out with delight at the shops! Think of that
child! Upon the whole he has enjoyed our journey as much as any one of
us, observing and admiring; though Robert and Wilson will have it that
some of his admiration of the _scenery_ we passed through was pure
affectation and acted out to copy ours. He cried out, clasping his
hands, that the mountains were 'due'--meaning a great number. His love
of beautiful buildings, of churches especially, no one can doubt about.
When first he saw St. Mark's, he threw up his arms in wonder, and then,
clasping them round Wilson's neck (she was carrying him), he kissed her
in an ecstasy of joy. And that was after a long day's journey, when most
other children would have been tired and fretful. But the sense of the
beautiful is certainly very strong in him, little darling. He can't say
the word 'church' yet, but when he sees one he begins to chant. Oh, he's
a true Florentine in some things.

Well, now we are in Paris and have to forget the 'belle chiese;' we have
beautiful shops instead, false teeth grinning at the corners of the
streets, and disreputable prints, and fascinating hats and caps, and
brilliant restaurants, and M. le President in a cocked hat and with a
train of cavalry, passing like a rocket along the boulevards to an
occasional yell from the Red. Oh yes, and don't mistake me! for I like
it all extremely, it's a splendid city--a city in the country, as Venice
is a city in the sea. And I'm as much amused as Wiedeman, who stands in
the street before the printshops (to Wilson's great discomfort) and
roars at the lions. And I admire the bright green trees and gardens
everywhere in the heart of the town. Surely it is a most beautiful city!
And I like the restaurants more than is reasonable; dining _a la carte_,
and mixing up one's dinner with heaps of newspapers, and the 'solution'
by Emile de Girardin, who suggests that the next President should be a
tailor. Moreover, we find apartments very cheap in comparison to what we
feared, and we are in a comfortable quiet hotel, where it is possible,
and not ruinous, to wait and look about one.

As to England--oh England--how I dread to think of it. We talk of going
over for a short time, but have not decided when; yet it will be soon
perhaps--it may. If it were not for my precious Arabel, I would not go;
because Robert's family would come to him here, they say. But to give up
Arabel is impossible. Henrietta is in Somersetshire; it is uncertain
whether I shall see her, even in going, and she too might come to Paris
this winter. And you will come--you promised, I think?...

I feel here _near enough_ to England, that's the truth. I recoil from
the bitterness of being nearer. Still, it must be thought of.

Dearest cousin, dearest friend, in all this pleasant journey we have
borne you in mind, and gratefully! You must feel _that_ without being
told. I won't quite do like my Wiedeman, who every time he fires his gun
(if it's twenty times in five minutes) says, 'Papa, papa,' because
Robert gave him the gun, and the gratitude is as re-iterantly and loudly
explosive. But one's thoughts may say what they please and as often as
they please.

Arabel tells me that you are kind to the manner of my poem, though to
the matter obdurate. Miss Mitford, too, says that it won't receive the
sympathy proper to a home subject, because the English people don't care
anything for the Italians now; despising them for their want of
originality in _Art_! That's very good of the English people, really! I
fear much that dear Miss Mitford has suffered seriously from the effects
of the damp house last winter. What she says of herself makes me anxious
about her.

Give my true love to dear Miss Bayley, and say how I repent in ashes for
not having written to her. But she is large-hearted and will forgive me,
and I shall make amends and send her sheet upon sheet. Barry Cornwall's
letter to Robert, of course, delighted as well as honoured me. Does it
appear in the new edition of his 'songs' &c.?

Mind, if ever I go to England I shall have no heart to go out of a very
dark corner. I shall just see you and that's all. It's only Robert who
is a patriot now, of us two. England, what with the past and the
present, is a place of bitterness to me, bitter enough to turn all her
seas round to wormwood! Airs and hearts, all are against me in England;
yet don't let me be ungrateful. No love is forgotten or less prized,
certainly not yours. Only I'm a citizeness of the world now, you see,
and float loose.

God bless you, dearest Mr. Kenyon, prays

Your ever affectionate
BA.

Robert's best love as always. He writes by this post to Mr. Procter. How
beautifully Sarianna has corrected for the press my new poem!
Wonderfully well, really. There is only one error of consequence, which
I will ask you to correct in any copy you can--of 'rail' _in the last
line_, to 'vail;' the allusion being of course to the Jewish temple--but
as it is printed nobody can catch any meaning, I fear. They tell me that
the Puseyite organ, the 'Guardian,' has been strong in attack. So best.

      * * * * *


After a few weeks in Paris the travellers crossed over to England, which
they had not seen for nearly five years. Their visit to London lasted
about two months, from the end of July to the end of September, during
which time they stayed in lodgings at 26 Devonshire Street.