So we shall come back of course, if we live; indeed, we leave this house ready to come back to, meaning, if we can, to let our rooms simply.

Little Penini looks like a rose, and has, besides, the understanding and sweetness of a creature ‘a little lower than the angels.’  I don’t care any less for him than I did, upon the whole.

I hear the Sartoris’s think of Paris for next winter, and mean to give up Rome.  She has been a good deal secluded, until quite lately, they say, on account of her father’s death and brother’s worse than death, which may account in part for any backwardness you may have observed.  As to her ‘not liking Dr. Braun,’ do you believe in anybody’s not liking Dr. Braun? I don’t quite.  It’s more difficult for me to ‘receive’ than the notion of the spiritual hand—­’tenderly touching.’

Do you know young Leighton[43] of Rome?  If so, you will be glad of this wonderful success of his picture,[44] bought by the Queen, and applauded by the Academicians, and he not twenty-five.

The lady who brought your book did not leave her name here, so of course she did not mean to be called on.

Our kindest regards for dear Dr. Braun, and repeated truest thanks to both of you.  Among his discoveries and inventions, he will invent some day an Aladdin’s lamp, and then you will be suddenly potentates, and vanish in a clap of thunder.

Till then, think of me sometimes, dearest Madame Braun, as I do of you, and of all your great kindness to me at Rome.

Ever your affectionate
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

To Mr. Ruskin

Florence:  June 2, 1855.

My dear Mr. Ruskin,—­I believe I shall rather prove in this letter how my head turns round when I write it, than explain why I didn’t write it before—­and so you will go on to think me the most insusceptible and least grateful of human beings—­no small distinction in our bad obtuse world.  Yet the truth is—­oh, the truth is, that I am deeply grateful to you and have felt to the quick of my heart the meaning and kindness of your words, the worth of your sympathy and praise.  One thing especially which you said, made me thankful that I had been allowed to live to hear it—­since even to fancy that anything I had written could be the means of the least good to you, is worth all the trumpet blowing of a vulgar fame.  Oh, of course, I do not exaggerate, though your generosity does.  I understand the case as it is.  We burn straw and it warms us.  My verses catch fire from you as you read them, and so you see them in that light of your own.  But it is something to be used to such an end by such a man, and I thank you, thank you, and so does my husband, for the deep pleasure you have given us in the words you have written.