Extracts from Margaret's and Ossoli's letters will guide us more into
the heart of this home-tragedy, so sanctified with holy hope, sweet
love, and patient heroism. They shall be introduced by a passage from
a journal written many years before.
"My Child! O, Father, give me a bud on my tree of life, so scathed
by the lightning and bound by the frost! Surely a being born
wholly of my being, would not let me lie so still and cold in
lonely sadness. This is a new sorrow; for always, before, I have
wanted a superior or equal, but now it seems that only the feeling
of a parent for a child could exhaust the richness of one's soul.
All powerful Nature, how dost thou lead me into thy heart and
rebuke every factitious feeling, every thought of pride, which has
severed me from the Universe! How did I aspire to be a pure flame,
ever pointing upward on the altar! But these thoughts of
consecration, though true to the time, are false to the whole.
There needs no consecration to the wise heart for all is pervaded
by One Spirit, and the Soul of all existence is the Holy of
Holies. I thought ages would pass, before I had this parent
feeling, and then, that the desire would rise from my fulness of
being. But now it springs up in my poverty and sadness. I am well
aware that I ought not to be so happy. I do not deserve to be well
beloved in any way, far less as the mother by her child. I am too
rough and blurred an image of the Creator, to become a bestower of
life. Yet, if I refuse to be anything else than my highest self,
the true beauty will finally glow out in fulness."
At what cost, were bought the blessings so long pined for! Early in
the summer of 1848, Margaret left Rome for Aquila, a small, old town,
once a baronial residence, perched among the mountains of Abruzzi. She
thus sketches her retreat:--
"I am in the midst of a theatre of glorious, snow-crowned
mountains, whose pedestals are garlanded with the olive and
mulberry, and along whose sides run bridle-paths, fringed with
almond groves and vineyards. The valleys are yellow with saffron
flowers; the grain fields enamelled with the brilliant blue
corn-flower and red poppy. They are of intoxicating beauty, and
like nothing in America. The old genius of Europe has so mellowed
even the marbles here, that one cannot have the feeling of holy
virgin loneliness, as in the New World. The spirits of the dead
crowd me in most solitary places. Here and there, gleam churches
or shrines. The little town, much ruined, lies on the slope of a
hill, with the houses of the barons gone to decay, and unused
churches, over whose arched portals are faded frescoes, with the
open belfry, and stone wheel-windows, always so beautiful. Sweet
little paths lead away through the fields to convents,--one of
Passionists, another of Capuchins; and the draped figures of the
monks, pacing up and down the hills, look very peaceful. In the
churches still open, are pictures, not by great masters, but of
quiet, domestic style, which please me much, especially one of the
Virgin offering her breast to the child Jesus. There is often
sweet music in these churches; they are dressed with fresh
flowers, and the incense is not oppressive, so freely sweeps
through them the mountain breeze."
Here Margaret remained but a month, while Ossoli was kept fast by
his guard duties in Rome. "_Addio, tutto caro_," she writes; "I shall
receive you with the greatest joy, when you can come. If it were
only possible to be nearer to you! for, except the good air and the
security, this place does not please me." And again:--"How much I
long to be near you! You write nothing of yourself, and this makes me
anxious and sad. Dear and good! I pray for thee often, now that it
is all I can do for thee. We must hope that Destiny will at last
grow weary of persecuting. Ever thy affectionate." Meantime Ossoli
writes:--"Why do you not send me tidings of yourself, every post-day?
since the post leaves Aquila three times a week. I send you journals
or letters every time the post leaves Rome. You should do the same.
Take courage, and thus you will make me happier also; and you can
think how sad I must feel in not being near you, dearest, to care for
all your wants."
By the middle of July, Margaret could bear her loneliness no longer,
and, passing the mountains, advanced to Rieti, within the frontier of
the Papal States. Here Ossoli could sometimes visit her on a Sunday,
by travelling in the night from Rome. "Do not fail to come," writes
Margaret. "I shall have your coffee warm. You will arrive early, and
I can see the diligence pass the bridge from my window." But now
threatened a new trial, terrible under the circumstances, yet met with
the loving heroism that characterized all her conduct. The civic guard
was ordered to prepare for marching to Bologna. Under date of August
17th, Ossoli writes:--"_Mia Cara!_ How deplorable is my state! I have
suffered a most severe struggle. If your condition were other than it
is, I could resolve more easily; but, in the present moment, I cannot
leave you! Ah, how cruel is Destiny! I understand well how much you
would sacrifice yourself for me, and am deeply grateful; but I cannot
yet decide." Margaret is alone, without a single friend, and not only
among strangers, but surrounded by people so avaricious, cunning,
and unscrupulous, that she has to be constantly on the watch to avoid
being fleeced; she is very poor, and has no confidant, even in Rome,
to consult with; she is ill, and fears death in the near crisis; yet
thus, with true Roman greatness, she counsels her husband:--"It seems,
indeed, a marvel how all things go contrary to us! That, just at this
moment, you should be called upon to go away. But do what is for your
honor. If honor requires it, go. I will try to sustain myself. I
leave it to your judgment when to come,--if, indeed, you can ever come
again! At least, we have had some hours of peace together, if now
it is all over. Adieu, love; I embrace thee always, and pray for thy
welfare. Most affectionately, adieu."
* * * * *
From this trial, however, she was spared. Pio Nono hesitated to send
the civic guard to the north of Italy. Then Margaret writes:--"On our
own account, love, I shall be most grateful, if you are not obliged to
go. But how unworthy, in the Pope! He seems now a man without a heart.
And that traitor, Charles Albert! He will bear the curse of all future
ages. Can you learn particulars from Milan? I feel sad for our poor
friends there; how much they must suffer! * * * I shall be much more
tranquil to have you at my side, for it would be sad to die alone,
without the touch of one dear hand. Still, I repeat what I said in my
last; if duty prevents you from coming, I will endeavor to take
care of myself." Again, two days later, she says:--"I feel, love, a
profound sympathy with you, but am not able to give perfectly wise
counsel. It seems to me, indeed, the worst possible moment to take
up arms, except in the cause of duty, of honor; for, with the Pope
so cold, and his ministers so undecided, nothing can be well or
successfully done. If it is possible for you to wait for two or three
weeks, the public state will be determined,--as will also mine,--and
you can judge more calmly. Otherwise, it seems to me that I ought to
say nothing. Only, if you go, come here first. I must see you once
more. Adieu, dear. Our misfortunes are many and unlooked for. Not
often does destiny demand a greater price for some happy moments. Yet
never do I repent of our affection; and for thee, if not for me, I
hope that life has still some good in store. Once again, adieu! May
God give thee counsel and help, since they are not in the power of thy
affectionate Margherita."
On the 5th of September, Ossoli was "at her side," and together, with
glad and grateful hearts, they welcomed their boy; though the father
was compelled to return the next day to Rome. Even then, however, a
new chapter of sorrows was opening. By indiscreet treatment, Margaret
was thrown into violent fever, and became unable to nurse her child.
Her waiting maid, also, proved so treacherous, that she was forced to
dismiss her, and wished "never to set eyes on her more;" and the
family, with whom she was living, displayed most detestable meanness.
Thus helpless, ill, and solitary, she could not even now enjoy the
mother's privilege. Yet she writes cheerfully:--"My present nurse is a
very good one, and I feel relieved. We must have courage but it is a
great care, alone and ignorant, to guard an infant in its first days
of life. He is very pretty for his age; and, without knowing what name
I intended giving him, the people in the house call him _Angiolino_,
because he is so lovely." Again:--"He is so dear! It seems to me,
among all disasters and difficulties, that if he lives and is well, he
will become a treasure for us two, that will compensate us for
everything." And yet again:--"This ---- is faithless, like the rest.
Spite of all his promises, he will not bring the matter to inoculate
Nino, though, all about us, persons are dying with small-pox. I cannot
sleep by night, and I weep by day, I am so disgusted; but you are too
far off to help me. The baby is more beautiful every hour. He is worth
all the trouble he causes me,--poor child that I am,--alone here, and
abused by everybody."