Florence: [about July 1857].

I write soon, you see, dearest Fanny. I thank you for all, but I do
beseech you, _dear_, not to say a word more to me of what is said of me.
The truth is, I am made of paper, and it tears me. Do not, dear. Make no
reference to things personal to myself. As far as I could read and
understand, it was absurd, perfectly _ungenuine_. I shall say nothing to
anybody. I have torn that sheet. Do not refer to the subject to Isa
Blagden. And there--I have done.

No--I thank you; and I know it was your kindness entirely. Will you, if
you love me, _not_ touch on the subject (I mean on the personal thing to
myself) in your next letters, not even by saying that you were sorry you
did once touch on them. I know how foolish and morbid I must seem to
you. So I am made, and I can't help my idiosyncrasies.

Now don't mistake me. Tell me all about the spirits, only not about what
they say of _me_. I am very interested. The drawback is, that without
any sort of doubt they _personate falsely_.

We are seething in the heat. The last three days have been a composition
of Gehenna and Paradise. It is a perpetual steam bath. Yet Robert and I
have not finished our plans for escaping. Mrs. Jameson is here still,
recovering her health and spirits. The Villa hospitality goes on as
usual, and the evening before last we had tea on the terrace by a divine
sunset, with a favoring breath or two. Only even there we wished for
Lazarus's finger.

Certainly Florence will not be bearable many days longer. Write to me
though, at Florence as usual....

It is said that Hume, who is back again in Paris and under the shadow of
the Emperor's wing, has been the means of an extraordinary
manifestation, two spiritual figures, male and female, who were
_recognised_ by their friends. Five or six persons (including the
medium) fainted away at this apparition. It happened in Paris, lately.

Yes, I mistrust the mediums less than I do the spirits who write. Tell
me....

Write and tell me everything _with exceptions_ such as I have set down.
And forgive my poor brittle body, which shakes and breaks. May God love
you, dear.

Yours in true affection,
BA.

      * * * * *


At the end of July, Florence had become unbearable, and the Brownings
removed, for the third time, to the Bagni di Lucca, whither they were
followed by some of their friends, notably Miss Blagden and Mr. Robert
Lytton. Unfortunately, their holiday was marred by the dangerous illness
of Lytton, which not only kept them in great anxiety for a considerable
time, but also entailed much labour in nursing on Mr. Browning and Miss
Blagden. Besides Mrs. Browning's letters, a letter from her husband to
his sister is given below, containing an account of the earlier stages
of the illness.

      * * * * *


_Robert Browning to Miss Browning_

Bagni di Lucca: August 18, [1857].

Dearest,--We arrived here on the 30th last, and two or three days after
were followed by Miss Blagden, Miss Bracken, and Lytton--all for our
sake: they not otherwise wanting to come this way. Lytton arrived
unwell, got worse soon, and last Friday week was laid up with a sort of
nervous fever, caused by exposure to the sun, or something, acting on
his nervous frame: since then he has been very ill in bed--doctor,
anxiety &c. as you may suppose: they are exactly opposite us, at twelve
or fifteen feet distance only. Through sentimentality and economy
combined, Isa would have no nurse (an imbecile arrangement), and all has
been done by her, with me to help: I have sate up four nights out of the
last five, and sometimes been there nearly all day beside....[55] He is
much better to-day, taken broth, and will, I hope, have no relapse, poor
fellow: imagine what a pleasant holiday we all have! Otherwise the place
is very beautiful, and cool exceedingly. We have done nothing notable
yet, but all are very well, Peni particularly so: as for me, I bathe in
the river, a rapid little mountain stream, every morning at 6-1/2, and
find such good from the practice that I shall continue it, and whatever
I can get as like it as possible, to the end of my days, I hope: the
strength of all sorts therefrom accruing is wonderful: I thought the
shower baths perfection, but this is far above it.... I was so rejoiced
to hear from you, and think you so wise in staying another month. I sent
the 'Ath.' to 151 R. de G. Kindest love to papa: we can't get news from
England, but the Americans have paid up the rest of the money for
'Aurora:' by the by, in this new book of Ruskin's, the drawing book,[56]
he says '"Aurora Leigh" is the finest poem written in any language this
century.' There is a review of it, which I have not yet got, in the
'Rivista di Firenze' of this month. God bless you. I will write very
soon again. Do you write at once. Ba will add a word. How fortunate
about the books! How is Milsand? Pray always remember my best love to
him.

      * * * * *


_E.B. Browning to Miss Browning_

[Same date.]

My dearest Sarianna,--Robert will have told you, I dare say, what a
heavy time we have had here with poor Lytton. It was imprudent of him
to come to Florence at the hottest of the year, and to expose himself
perfectly unacclimated; and the chance by which he was removed here just
in time to be nursed was happy for him and all of us. We have had great
heat in the days even here, of course--no blotting out, even by
mountains, of the Italian sun; but the cool nights extenuate very
much--refresh and heal. Now I do hope the corner is turned of the
illness. Isa Blagden has been devoted, sitting up night after night, and
Robert has sate up four nights that she might not really die at her
post. There is nothing _infectious_ in the fever, so don't be afraid.
Robert is quite well, with good appetite and good spirits, and Peni is
like a rose possessed by a fairy. They both bathe in the river, and
profit (as I am so glad you do). Not that it's a real river, though it
has a name, the _Lima_. A mere mountain stream, which curls itself up
into holes in the rocks to admit of bathing. Then, as far as they have
been able on account of Lytton, they have had riding on donkeys and
mountain ponies, Peni as bold as a lion.

[_The last words of the letter, with the signature, have been cut off_]