Ah, dearest friend, you feel how I must have felt about the accident in Wimpole Street.[36] I can scarcely talk to you about it.  There will be permanent lameness, Arabel says, according to the medical opinion, though the general health was not for a moment affected.  But permanent lameness!  That is sad, for a person of active habits.  I ventured to write a little note—­which was not returned, I thank God—­or read, I dare say; but of course there was no result.  I never even expected it, as matters have been.  I must tell you that our pecuniary affairs are promising better results for next year, and that we shall not, in all probability, be tied up from going to England.  For the rest—­if I understand you—­oh no!  My husband has a family likeness to Lucifer in being proud.  Besides, it’s not necessary.  When literary people are treated in England as in some other countries, in that case and that time we may come in for our share in the pensions given by the people, without holding out our hands.  Now think of Carlyle—­unpensioned!  Why, if we sate here in rags, we wouldn’t press in for an obolus before Belisarius.  Mrs. Sartoris has been here on her way to Rome, spending most of her time with us—­singing passionately and talking eloquently.  She is really charming.  May God bless and keep you and love you, beloved friend!  Love your own affectionate

BA.

May it be Robert’s love?

* * * * *

To Miss Browning

[Florence:] November 11, 1854 [postmark].

My dearest Sarianna,—­I shall be writing my good deeds in water to-day with this mere pretence at inks.[37] We are all well, though it is much too cold for me—­a horrible tramontana which would create a cough under the ribs of death, and sets me coughing a little in the morning.  I am afraid it’s to be a hard winter again this year—­or harder than last year’s.  We began fires on the last day of October, after the most splendid stretch of spring, summer, and autumn I ever remember.  We have translated our room into winter—­sent off the piano towards the windows, and packed tables, chairs, and sofas as near to the hearth as possible.

What a time of anxiety this war time is![38] I do thank God that we have no reasons for its being a personal agony, through having anyone very precious at the post of danger.  I have two first cousins there, a Hedley, and Paget Butler, Sir Thomas’s son.  I understand that the gloom in England from the actual bereavements is great; that the frequency of deep mourning strikes the eye; that even the shops are filled chiefly with black; and that it has become a sort of mode to wear black or grey, without family losses, and from the mere force of sympathy.