[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysees:
October 21, [1851].

But didn't you, dearest friend, get 'Casa Guidi' and the portrait of
Madme de Goethe, left for you in the London house? I felt a _want_ of
leaving a word of adieu with these, and then the chaotic confusion in
which we left England stifled the better purpose out of me.

With such mixed feelings I went away. Leaving love behind is always
terrible, but it was not all love that I left, and there was relief in
the state of mind with which I threw myself on the sofa at Dieppe--yes,
indeed. Robert felt differently from me for once, as was natural, for it
had been pure joy to him with his family and his friends, and I do
believe he would have been capable of never leaving England again, had
such an arrangement been practicable for us on some accounts. Oh
England! I love and hate it at once. Or rather, where love of country
ought to be in the heart, there is the mark of the burning iron in mine,
and the depth of the scar shows the depth of the root of it. Well, I am
writing you an amusing letter to-day, I think. After all, I wasn't made
to live in England, or I should not cough there perpetually; while no
sooner do I get to Paris than the cough vanishes--it is all but gone
now. The lightness of the air here makes the place tenable--so far, at
least. We made many an effort to get an apartment near the Madeleine,
but we had to sacrifice sun or money, or breath, in going up to the top
of a house, and the sacrifice seemed too great upon consideration, and
we came off to the 'Avenue des Champs-Elysees,' on the sunshiny side of
the way, to a southern aspect, and pretty cheerful carpeted rooms--a
drawing room, a dressing and writing room for Robert, a small dining
room, two comfortable bedrooms and a third bedroom upstairs for the
_femme de service_, kitchen, &c., for two hundred francs a month. Not
too dear, we think. About the same that we paid, out of the season, in
London for the miserable accommodation we had there. But perhaps you
won't come near us now; we may be too much 'out of the way' for you. Is
it so indeed? Understand that close by us is a stand of _coupes_ and
_fiacres_, not to profane your ears with the mention of the continual
stream of omnibuses by means of which you may reach the other end of
Paris for six sous. And there might be a possibility of taking a small
apartment for you in this very house. See how I castle-build.

But if the Crystal Palace vanishes from the face of the earth, who shall
trust any more in castles? Will they really pull it down, do you think?
If it's a bubble, it's a glass bubble, and not meant, therefore, for
bursting in the air, it seems to me. And you do want a place in England
for sculpture, and also to show people how olives grow. What a beautiful
winter garden it would be! But they will pull it down, perhaps; and
then, the last we shall have seen of it will be in this description of
your letter, and _that's_ seeing it worthily, too.

We were from home last night; we went to Lady Elgin's reception, and met
a Madame Mohl, who was entertaining, and is to come to us this morning--

She came as I wrote those words. She knows _you_, among her other
advantages, and we have been talking of you, dear friend, and we are
going to her on Friday evening to see some of the French. I shall have
to go to prison very soon, I suppose, as usual, for the winter months,
for here is the twenty-first of October, though this is the first fire
we have had occasion for. It was colder this morning, but we have had
exquisite weather, really, ever since we left England.

The 'elf' is flourishing in all good fairyhood, with a scarlet rose leaf
on each cheek. Wilson says she never knew him to have such an
irreproachable appetite. He is charmed with Paris, and its magnificent
Punches, and roundabouts, and balloons--which last he says, looking up
after them gravely, 'go to God.' The child has curious ideas about
theology already. He is of opinion that God 'lives among the birds.' He
has taken to calling himself '_Peninni_,'[3] which sounds something like
a fairy's name, though he means it for 'Wiedeman.'

Robert is in good spirits, and inclined to like Paris increasingly. Do
you know I think you have an idea in England that you monopolise
comforts, and I, for one, can't admit it. These snug 'apartments'
exclude the draughty passages and staircases, which threaten your life
every time that you run to your bedroom for a pocket-handkerchief in
England. I much prefer the Continental houses to the English ones, both
for winter and summer, on this account.

So glad I am that you are nearly at the end of your work. To rest after
work, what more than rest that always is!

Write to us often--do! We are not in Italy, and you have no excuse for
even _seeming_ to forget us. We are full in sight still, remember.

Are you aware that Carlyle travelled with us to Paris? He left a deep
impression with me. It is difficult to conceive of a more interesting
human soul, I think. All the bitterness is love with the point reversed.
He seems to me to have a profound sensibility--so profound and turbulent
that it unsettles his general sympathies. Do you guess what I mean the
least in the world? or is it as dark as my writings are of course?

I hope on every account you will have no increase of domestic care. How
is Miss Procter? How kind everybody was to us in England, and how
affectionately we remember it! God bless you yourself! We love you for
the past and the present, besides the future in December.

Your attached
E.B.B.