And, after all, I might have just said the other truth, that we are at the end of our purse, and can’t travel any more, not even to Taunton, where poor Henrietta, who is hindered from coming to me by a like pecuniary straitness, begs so hard that we should go.  Also, we are bound to London by business engagements; a book in the press (Robert’s two volumes), and proofs coming in at all hours.  We have been asked to two or three places at an hour’s distance from London, and can’t stir; to Knebworth, for instance, where Sir Edward Lytton wants us to go.  It would be amusing in some ways; but we are tired.  Also Robert’s sister is staying with us.

Also, we shall see you in Paris on the way to Pau next November, shall we not?  Write and tell me that we shall, and that you are not disgusted with me meanwhile.

Do you know our news?  Alfred is just married at the Paris Embassy to Lizzie Barrett....  Of course, he makes the third exile from Wimpole Street, the course of true love running remarkably rough in our house.  For the rest, there have been no scenes, I thank God, for dearest Arabel’s sake.  He had written to my father nine or ten days before the ceremony, received no answer, and followed up the silence rather briskly by another letter to announce his marriage....  I am going to write to him at Marseilles.

You cannot imagine to yourself the unsatisfactory and disheartening turmoil in which we are at present.  It’s the mad bull and the china shop, and, nota bene, we are the china shop.  People want to see if Italy has cut off our noses, or what!  A very kind anxiety certainly, but so horribly fatiguing that my heart sinks, and my brain goes round under the process.  O my Florence! how much better you are!

Have you heard that Wilson is married to a Florentine who lived once with the Peytons, and is here now with us, a good, tender-hearted man?[46]

I am tolerably well, though to breathe this heavy air always strikes me as difficult; and my little Penini is very well, thank God.  I want so much to show him to you.  We shall be here till the end of September, if the weather admits of it, then go to Paris for the winter, then return to London, and then—­why, that ‘then’ is too far off to see.  Only we talk of Italy in the distance.

My book is not ready for the press yet; and as to writing here, who could produce an epic in the pauses of a summerset?  Not that my poem is an epic, I hurry on to say in consideration for dear Mr. Martin’s feelings.  I flatter myself it’s a novel, rather, a sort of novel in verse.  Arabel looks well.

What pens!  What ink!  Do write, and tell me of you both.  I love you cordially indeed.

Your ever affectionate
BA.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Jameson

13 Dorset Street:  Tuesday, [July-August 1855].