Morning rainbows usher in tempests, and certainly youth's romantic
visions had prefigured a stormy day of life for Margaret. But there
was yet to be a serene and glowing hour before the sun went down.
Angelo grew strong and lively once more; rest and peace restored her
elasticity of spirit, and extracts from various letters will show in
what tranquil blessedness, the autumn and winter glided by. After a
few weeks' residence at Rieti, the happy three journeyed on, by way
of Perugia, to Florence, where they arrived at the end of September.
Thence, Margaret writes:--
It was so pleasant at Perugia! The pure mountain air is such perfect
elixir, the walks are so beautiful on every side, and there is so much
to excite generous and consoling feelings! I think the works of the
Umbrian school are never well seen except in their home;--they suffer
by comparison with works more rich in coloring, more genial, more full
of common life. The depth and tenderness of their expression is lost
on an observer stimulated to a point out of their range. Now, I can
prize them. We went every morning to some church rich in pictures,
returning at noon for breakfast. After breakfast, we went into the
country, or to sit and read under the trees near San Pietro. Thus I
read Nicolo di' Lapi, a book unenlivened by a spark of genius, but
interesting, to me, as illustrative of Florence.
Our little boy gained strength rapidly there;--every day he was able
to go out with us more. He is now full of life and gayety. We hope he
will live, and grow into a stout man yet.
Our journey here was delightful;--it is the first time I have seen
Tuscany when the purple grape hangs garlanded from tree to tree. We
were in the early days of the vintage: the fields were animated by men
and women, some of the latter with such pretty little bare feet, and
shy, soft eyes, under the round straw hat. They were beginning to cut
the vines, but had not done enough to spoil any of the beauty.
Here, too, I feel better pleased than ever before. Florence seems so
cheerful and busy, after ruined Rome, I feel as if I could forget the
disasters of the day, for a while, in looking on the treasures she
inherits.
* * * * *
To-day we have been out in the country, and found a little chapel,
full of _contadine,_ their lovers waiting outside the door. They
looked charming in their black veils,--the straw hat hanging on the
arm,--with shy, glancing eyes, and cheeks pinched rosy by the cold;
for it is cold here as in New England. On foot, we have explored a
great part of the environs; and till now I had no conception of
their beauty. When here before, I took only the regular drives, as
prescribed for all lady and gentlemen travellers. This evening we
returned by a path that led to the banks of the Arno. The Duomo, with
the snowy mountains, were glorious in the rosy tint and haze,
just before sunset. What a difference it makes to come home to a
child!--how it fills up all the gaps of life, just in the way that is
most consoling, most refreshing! Formerly, I used to feel sad at that
hour; the day had not been nobly spent, I had not done my duty to
myself and others, and I felt so lonely! Now I never feel lonely; for,
even if my little boy dies, our souls will remain eternally united.
And I feel _infinite_ hope for him,--hope that he will serve God
and man more loyally than I have done; and, seeing how full he is
of life,--how much he can afford to throw away,--I feel the
inexhaustibleness of nature, and console myself for my own
incapacities.
* * * * *
_Florence, Oct. 14, 1849._--Weary in spirit, with the deep
disappointments of the last year, I wish to dwell little on these
things for the moment, but seek some consolation in the affections.
My little boy is quite well now, and I often am happy in seeing how
joyous and full of activity he seems. Ossoli, too, feels happier here.
The future is full of difficulties for us, but, having settled our
plans for the present, we shall set it aside while we may. "Sufficient
for the day is the evil thereof;" and if the good be not always
sufficient, in our case it is; so let us say grace to our dinner of
herbs.
* * * * *
_Florence, Nov. 7._--Dearest Mother,--Of all your endless acts and
words of love, never was any so dear to me as your last letter;--so
generous, so sweet, so holy! What on earth is so precious as a
mother's love; and who has a mother like mine!
I was thinking of you and my father, all that first day of October,
wishing to write, only there was much to disturb me that day, as the
police were threatening to send us away. It is only since I have had
my own child that I have known how much I always failed to do what I
might have done for the happiness of you both; only since I have
seen so much of men and their trials, that I have learned to prize my
father as he deserved; only since I have had a heart daily and hourly
testifying to me its love, that I have understood, too late, what it
was for you to be deprived of it. It seems to me as if I had never
sympathized with you as I ought, or tried to embellish and sustain
your life, as far as is possible, after such an irreparable wound.
It will be sad for me to leave Italy, uncertain of return. Yet when
I think of you, beloved mother; of brothers and sisters, and many
friends, I wish to come. Ossoli is perfectly willing. He leaves in
Rome a sister, whom he dearly loves. His aunt is dying now. He will
go among strangers; but to him, as to all the young Italians, America
seems the land of liberty. He hopes, too, that a new revolution will
favor return, after a number of years, and that then he may find
really a home in Italy. All this is dark;--we can judge only for the
present moment. The decision will rest with me, and I shall wait
till the last moment, as I always do, that I may have all the reasons
before me.
I thought, to-day, ah, if she could only be with us now! But who knows
how long this interval of peace will last? I have learned to
prize such, as the halcyon prelude to the storm. It is now about a
fortnight, since the police gave us leave to stay, and we feel safe
in our little apartment. We have no servant except the nurse, with
occasional aid from the porter's wife, and now live comfortably so,
tormented by no one, helping ourselves. In the evenings, we have a
little fire now;--the baby sits on his stool between us. He makes me
think how I sat on mine, in the chaise, between you and father. He is
exceedingly fond of flowers;--he has been enchanted, this evening, by
this splendid Gardenia, and these many crimson flowers that were given
me at Villa Correggi, where a friend took us in his carriage. It was a
luxury, this ride, as we have entirely renounced the use of a carriage
for ourselves. How enchanted you would have been with that villa! It
seems now as if, with the certainty of a very limited income, we could
be so happy! But I suppose, if we had it, one of us would die, or the
baby. Do not you die, my beloved mother;--let us together have some
halcyon moments, again, with God, with nature, with sweet childhood,
with the remembrance of pure trust and good intent; away from perfidy
and care, and the blight of noble designs.
Ossoli wishes you were here, almost as much as I. When there is
anything really lovely and tranquil, he often says, "Would not '_La
Madre_' like that?" He wept when he heard your letter. I never saw
him weep at any other time, except when his father died, and when the
French entered Rome. He has, I think, even a more holy feeling about
a mother, from having lost his own, when very small. It has been a
life-long want with him. He often shows me a little scar on his face,
made by a jealous dog, when his mother was caressing him as an infant.
He prizes that blemish much.
* * * * *
_Florence, December_ 1, 1849.--I do not know what to write about the
baby, he changes so much,--has so many characters. He is like me in
that, for his father's character is simple and uniform, though not
monotonous, any more than are the flowers of spring flowers of the
valley. Angelino is now in the most perfect rosy health,--a very gay,
impetuous, ardent, but sweet-tempered child. He seems to me to have
nothing in common with his first babyhood, with its ecstatic smiles,
its exquisite sensitiveness, and a distinction in the gesture and
attitudes that struck everybody. His temperament is apparently changed
by taking the milk of these robust women. He is now come to quite a
knowing age,--fifteen months.
In the morning, as soon as dressed, he signs to come into our room;
then draws our curtain with his little dimpled hand, kisses me rather
violently, pats my face, laughs, crows, shows his teeth, blows like
the bellows, stretches himself, and says "_bravo_." Then, having shown
off all his accomplishments, he expects, as a reward, to be tied in
his chair, and have his playthings. These engage him busily, but still
he calls to us to sing and drum, to enliven the scene. Sometimes he
summons me to kiss his hand, and laughs very much at this. Enchanting
is that baby-laugh, all dimples and glitter,--so strangely arch and
innocent! Then I wash and dress him. That is his great time. He makes
it last as long as he can, insisting to dress and wash me the while,
kicking, throwing the water about, and full of all manner of tricks,
such as, I think, girls never dream of. Then comes his walk;--we have
beautiful walks here for him, protected by fine trees, always warm in
mid-winter. The bands are playing in the distance, and children of
all ages are moving about, and sitting with their nurses. His walk and
sleep give me about three hours in the middle of the day.
I feel so refreshed by his young life, and Ossoli diffuses such a
power and sweetness over every day, that I cannot endure to think yet
of our future. Too much have we suffered already, trying to command
it. I do not feel force to make any effort yet. I suppose that very
soon now I must do something, and hope I shall feel able when the time
comes. My constitution seems making an effort to rally, by dint of
much sleep. I had slept so little, for a year and a half, and, after
the birth of the child, I had such anxiety and anguish when separated
from him, that I was consumed as by nightly fever. The last two
months at Rome would have destroyed almost any woman. Then, when I
went to him, he was so ill, and I was constantly up with him at night,
carrying him about. Now, for two months, we have been tranquil. We
have resolved to enjoy being together as much as we can, in this brief
interval,--perhaps all we shall ever know of peace. It is very sad we
have no money, we could be so quietly happy a while. I rejoice in
all Ossoli did; but the results, in this our earthly state, are
disastrous, especially as my strength is now so impaired. This much I
hope, in life or death, to be no more separated from Angelino.
Last winter, I made the most vehement efforts at least to redeem the
time, hoping thus good for the future. But, of at least two volumes
written at that time, no line seems of any worth. I had suffered much
constraint,--much that was uncongenial, harassing, even torturing,
before; but this kind of pain found me unprepared;--the position of a
mother separated from her only child is too frightfully unnatural.
* * * * *
The Christmas holidays interest me now, through my child, as they
never did for myself. I like to go out to watch the young generation
who will be his contemporaries. On Monday, we went to the _Caseine_.
After we had taken the drive, we sat down on a stone seat in the sunny
walk, to see the people pass;--the Grand Duke and his children;
the elegant Austrian officers, who will be driven out of Italy when
Angelino is a man; Princess Demidoff; Harry Lorrequer; an absurd brood
of fops; many lovely children; many little frisking dogs, with their
bells, &c. The sun shone brightly on the Arno; a barque moved gently
by; all seemed good to the baby. He laid himself back in my arms,
smiling, singing to himself, and dancing his feet. I hope he will
retain some trace in his mind of the perpetual exhilarating picture of
Italy. It cannot but be important in its influence while yet a child,
to walk in these stately gardens, full of sculpture, and hear the
untiring music of the fountains.
Christmas-eve we went to the Annunziata, for midnight mass. Though the
service is not splendid here as in Rome, we yet enjoyed it;--sitting
in one of the side chapels, at the foot of a monument, watching
the rich crowds steal gently by, every eye gleaming, every gesture
softened by the influence of the pealing choir, and the hundred silver
lamps swinging their full light, in honor of the abused Emanuel.
But far finest was it to pass through the Duomo. No one was there.
Only the altars were lit up, and the priests, who were singing, could
not be seen by the faint light. The vast solemnity of the interior
is thus really felt. The hour was worthy of Brunelleschi. I hope he
walked there so. The Duomo is more divine than St. Peter's, and worthy
of genius pure and unbroken. St. Peter's is, like Rome, a mixture of
sublimest heaven with corruptest earth. I adore the Duomo, though no
place can now be to me like St. Peter's, where has been passed the
splendidest part of my life. My feeling was always perfectly regal, on
entering the piazza of St. Peter's. No spot on earth is worthier the
sunlight;--on none does it fall so fondly.
* * * * *
You ask me, how I employ myself here. I have been much engaged in
writing out my impressions, which will be of worth so far as correct.
I am anxious only to do historical justice to facts and persons; but
there will not, so far as I am aware, be much thought, for I believe
I have scarce expressed what lies deepest in my mind. I take no pains,
but let the good genius guide my pen. I did long to lead a simple,
natural life, _at home_, learning of my child, and writing only when
imperatively urged by the need of utterance; but when we were forced
to give up the hope of subsisting on a narrow independence, without
tie to the public, we gave up the peculiar beauty of our lives, and I
strive no more. I only hope to make good terms with the publishers.
Then, I have been occupied somewhat in reading Louis Blanc's Ten
Years, Lamartine's Girondists, and other books of that class, which
throw light on recent transactions.
I go into society, too, somewhat, and see several delightful persons,
in an intimate way. The Americans meet twice a week, at the house of
Messrs. Mozier and Chapman, and I am often present, on account of
the friendly interest of those resident here. With our friends, the
Greenoughs, I have twice gone to the opera. Then I see the Brownings
often, and love and admire them both, more and more, as I know them
better. Mr. Browning enriches every hour I pass with him, and is
a most cordial, true, and noble man. One of my most highly prized
Italian friends, also, Marchioness Arconati Visconti, of Milan, is
passing the winter here, and I see her almost every day.
* * * * *
My love for Ossoli is most pure and tender, nor has any one, except my
mother or little children, loved me so genuinely as he does. To some,
I have been obliged to make myself known; others have loved me with a
mixture of fancy and enthusiasm, excited by my talent at embellishing
life. But Ossoli loves me from simple affinity;--he loves to be
with me, and to serve and soothe me. Life will probably be a severe
struggle, but I hope I shall be able to live through all that is
before us, and not neglect my child or his father. He has suffered
enough since we met;--it has ploughed furrows in his life. He has
done all he could, and cannot blame himself. Our outward destiny looks
dark, but we must brave it as we can. I trust we shall always feel
mutual tenderness, and Ossoli has a simple, childlike piety, that will
make it easier for him.