C.

[The “garden” here spoken of is the enclosure of Park Square, Regent’s Park; I can remember being in it more than once in early childhood. Sangiovanni, a strange impetuous southern Italian, was now an artist-modeller in clay. Dr Maroncelli was a brother of the prisoner who was sent to the Spielberg along with Silvio Pellico, as recorded in Pellico’s book, once highly celebrated, Le Mie Prigioni. “My letter for the King of Naples” appears to have been a memorial or petition. Pistrucci (Filippo) had been run down in London streets, and remained lame (yet still active) up to the close of his life, which terminated towards 1857.]

[38 Charlotte Street, London.]

29th May 1832.

My dearly loved Frances,

I would that I had not received your letter this time, although I had looked forward to it and desired it so eagerly. Every word you wrote pierced like a dagger into my heart. My sweetest Gabriel, then, is so ill! My baby Christina suffers with her teeth and has wounded her forehead! Oh my poor children! If the distance were less great, I would come immediately to see my four treasures, and you, my beloved wife, who must be immensely afflicted, as I am myself. And William, you tell me nothing about him. You told me in your last letter that he had a return of those fevers from which he suffered here: and now, how is that going on?—how is he? As you do not speak about it, I will hope and trust that he has recovered. Be good enough, dear Frances, to write to me at once and tell me all about them; hide from me nothing, absolutely nothing. I wish to know the facts, be they better or be they worse.... I beg you, I beg you urgently, to return immediately if Gabriel’s condition permits. I wish to share with you the care of my bantlings. I would never have written you this but for this painful circumstance, but would have been content to remain a cheerless hermit for another month; but, now that I see that your presence instead of improving only aggravates the condition of your honoured mother to whom we owe every consideration, now that I see that our children, instead of benefiting by the country air, have rather derived harm from it (although I ought perhaps to attribute this to other causes), I should feel dreadfully anxious if you remained any longer away from me. Who knows but what the figs I sent may have done them harm! But this constant change of weather has more likely been the cause, first hot, then cold, now hot again. This belief is strengthened by your telling me that Maria and Christina have sore throats.... I should be the most frantic and inconsolable man in the world if I were to lose a son, that dearest little Gabriel, the very core of my heart, and lose him thus, far from my sight. My eyes are already full of tears whilst writing these words, and unless I dry them I cannot continue writing, as I do not see the paper. But take heart, my wife, it may turn out to be nothing serious.

Here, meanwhile, is one cause for rejoicing. I have already obtained the key of the garden for which you so often wished.... I have already been five times for a stroll in the garden, the first time alone, the second time with Polidori, the third with him and Sangiovanni, the fourth again with him and Doctor Maroncelli, one of those two who called on me one evening in company with Lablache. This walk is very convenient, and the children will find plenty of space to walk and run about here and there....

I have already written three scenes of that play for the young ladies, which I have given to the son of Maestro Negri....

Count Lucchesi has told me a thing which he had never mentioned to me before. When he went with my letter to the King of Naples, about which you heard, he found the Minister of Naples reading my last work, dedicated to Mr Lyell. The Minister said to him: “What a talented man this Rossetti is! You see what persons the government of Naples exiles!” It is well, dear Frances, that this diplomatist should not be ignorant of what I have written; and, if it is granted me to return to my country, before doing so I will send the work to the King of Naples, so that he will not be able to say later on that I had committed some old faults of which he was unaware. On Friday I dined with that painter whom I described to you by the name of Mr Charles....

I will close this letter begging you again to write to me at once, during the course of this week. Remember that until I hear from you again I shall be extremely agitated. Don’t conceal anything from me, I repeat. If you did so, you would force me to rush off to you like a madman, to ascertain with my own eyes the real state of things. Besides which it might cause me a somewhat serious ill; since for some six days I have felt distressing and strong symptoms of gout, which causes me much uneasiness. I needn’t ask you to look after the children, because I hold it unnecessary; I know you too well. I doubt whether there lives a better mother than you, and a wife more amiable and affectionate has yet to be born. And so your husband idolizes you, and his sincerest love increases with years, and he considers himself fortunate in possessing such a rare woman.

Goodbye, dearly loved Frances, I am going to bed for it is one o’clock. I bless one by one the infant pledges of our love, and invoke on them health and prosperity. Kiss them for me, speak about me to them, and—along with theirs—preserve your precious health, which is my greatest treasure.

Yesterday poor Pistrucci wrote me a letter which really is fit to make one weep. He says he is suffering horrible torments, and it has been discovered that his thigh was broken in three parts, so that he is crippled. Poor man!

Your most affectionate husband,

Gabriele Rossetti.