ear, admirable Arabel
sent a note the very next day to prove to Ba that there was nothing to
fear on her account. Since then we have heard nothing. The funeral was
to take place in Herefordshire. We had just made up our minds to go on
no account to England this year. Ba felt the restraint on her too
horrible to bear. I will, or she will, no doubt, write and tell you of
herself; and you must write, dear Mrs. Martin, will you not?

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 v