Kindest regard to Mr. Martin and all.

Yours faithfully ever,
ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

E.B.  Browning to Mrs. Martin

Florence:  July 1, [1857].

Thank you, thank you from my heart, my dearest friend—­this poor heart, which has been so torn and mangled,—­for your dear, tender sympathy, whether expressed in silence or in words.  Of the past I cannot speak.  You understand, yes, you understand.  And when I say that you understand (and feel that you do), it is an expression of belief in the largeness of your power of understanding, seeing that few can understand—­few can.  There has been great bitterness—­great bitterness, which is natural; and some recoil against myself, more, perhaps, than is quite rational.  Now I am much better, calm, and not despondingly calm (as, off and on, I have been), able to read and talk, and keep from vexing my poor husband, who has been a good deal tried in all these things.  Through these three months you and what you told me touched me with a thought of comfort—­came the nearest to me of all.  May God bless you and return it to you a hundredfold, dear dear friend!

I believe hope had died in me long ago of reconciliation in this world.  Strange, that what I called ‘unkindness’ for so many years, in departing should have left to me such a sudden desolation!  And yet, it is not strange, perhaps.

No, I cannot write any more.  You will understand....

We shall be in Paris next summer.  This year we remain quietly where we are.  Presently we may creep to the seaside or into the mountains to avoid the great heats, but no further.  My temptation is to lie on the sofa, and never stir nor speak, only I don’t give up, be certain.  I drive out for two or three hours on most days, and I hear Peni’s lessons, and am good and obedient.  If I could get into hard regular work of some kind, it would be excellent for me, I know; but the ’flesh is weak.’  Oh, no, to have gone to England this summer would have helped nobody, and would have been very overcoming to me.  I was not fit for it, indeed, and Robert was averse on his own account....

May God bless you both, dearest friends.  My little Penini is bright and well.  I have begun to teach him German.  I do hope you won’t fatigue yourselves too much at Colwall.  Enjoy the summer and the roses, and be well, be well.  We shall meet next year....

Once more, goodbye.

Your ever affectionate and grateful
BA.

Robert’s love as ever.

This is the first letter I have written to anyone out of my own family. 
I hate writing, and can’t help being stupid.

* * * * *

To Miss E.F.  Haworth

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.