13 Dorset Street:
Tuesday morning, October 17, 1855 [postmark].

My dear Mr. Ruskin,--I can't express our amount of mortification in
being thwarted in the fulfilment of the promise you allowed us to make
to ourselves, that we would go down to you once more before leaving
England. What with the crush rather than press of circumstances, I have
scarcely needed the weather to pin me to the wall. Sometimes my husband
could not go with me, sometimes I couldn't go with him, and always we
waited for one another in hope, till this last day overtook us.
To-morrow (D.V.) we shall be in Paris. Now, will you believe how we have
wished and longed to see you beyond these strait tantalising
limits?--how you look to us at this moment like the phantasm of a thing
dear and desired, just seen and vanishing? What! are you to be ranked
among my spiritualities after all? Forgive me that wrong.

Then you had things to say to me, I know, which in your consideration,
and through my cowardice, you did not say, but yet will!

Will you write to me, dear Mr. Ruskin, sometimes, or have I disgusted
you so wholly that you won't or can't?

Once, I know, somewhat because of shyness and somewhat because of
intense apprehension--somewhat, too, through characteristic stupidity
(no contradiction this!)--I said I was grateful to you when you had just
bade me not. Well, I really couldn't help it. That's all I can say now.
Even if your appreciation were perfectly deserved at all points, why,
appreciation means sympathy, and sympathy being the best gift nearly
which one human creature can give another, I don't understand (I never
could) why it does not deserve thanks. I am stupid perhaps, but for my
life I never could help being grateful to the people who loved me, even
if they happened to say, 'I can't help it! not I!'

As for Mr. Ruskin, he sees often in his own light. That's what I see and
feel.

Will you write to me sometimes? I come back to it. Will you, though I am
awkward and shy and obstinate now and then, and a wicked spiritualist to
wit--a _realist_ in an out-of-the-world sense--accepting matter as a
means (no matter for it otherwise!)?

Don't give me up, dear Mr. Ruskin! My husband's truest regards, and
farewell from both of us! I would fain be

Your affectionate friend,
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Our address in Paris will be, _102 Rue de Grenelle, Faubourg St.
Germain_.

      * * * * *


The house in the Rue de Grenelle, however, did not prove a success, in
spite of the consolations of the yellow satin, and after six weeks of
discomfort and house-hunting the Brownings moved to 3 Rue de Colisee,
which became their home for the next eight months. It was a period,
first of illness caused by the unsuitable rooms, and then of hard work
for Mrs. Browning, who was engaged in completing 'Aurora Leigh,' while
her husband was less profitably employed in the attempt to recast
'Sordello' into a more intelligible form. No such incident as the visits
to George Sand marked this stay in Paris, and politics were in a very
much less exciting state. The Crimean war was just coming to a close,
and public opinion in England was far from satisfied with the conduct of
its ally; but on the whole the times were uneventful.

The first letter from Paris has, however, a special interest as
containing a very full estimate of the character and genius of Mrs.
Browning's dear friend, Miss Mitford. It is addressed to Mr. Ruskin, who
had been unceasingly attentive and helpful to Miss Mitford during her
declining days.