CHAPTER VII

Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Lisa Reigel and the Online

Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

[Transcriber's Notes: The letter "o" with a macron is indicated as [=o]

in this text. The oe ligature has been replaced with the letters "oe".

The original text had the word "Madame" written two ways: "Mad" followed

by superscripted "me" and "Ma" followed by superscripted "dme". All have

been rendered as Madme.]

[Illustration: _Robert Browning._

Rome 1854.

_From an Oil Painting by W. Fisher._]

THE LETTERS

OF

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

EDITED WITH BIOGRAPHICAL ADDITIONS

BY

FREDERIC G. KENYON

_WITH PORTRAITS_

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOLUME II.

_THIRD EDITION_

LONDON

SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE

1898

CONTENTS

OF

THE SECOND VOLUME

* * * * *

CHAPTER VII

1851-1852

'Casa Guidi Windows'--Venice--Milan--Paris--London--Winter in Paris--The

Coup d'Etat--Louis Napoleon--Miss Mitford's 'Recollections'--George

Sand--Miss Mulock--Summer in England, 1

CHAPTER VIII

1852-1855

Return to Florence--Spiritualism--Robert Lytton--Bagni di

Lucca--Florence--Rome--Florence--The Crimean War--Death of Miss

Mitford, 91

CHAPTER IX

1855-1859

Visit to England--Tennyson's 'Maud'--Winter in Paris--Mr. Ruskin--Last

Visit to England--'Aurora Leigh'--Death of Mr. Kenyon--Return to

Florence--Carnival--Death of Mr. Barrett--Bagni di Lucca--Illness of

Lytton--Paris--Havre--Paris--Florence--Rome, 205

CHAPTER X

1859-1860

The Franco-Austrian War--Napoleon and

Italy--Villafranca--Florence--Siena--Italian Politics and

England--Landor--Florence--Rome, 305

CHAPTER XI

1860-1861

'Poems before Congress'--Napoleon and Savoy--France, Italy, and

England--Florence--Death of Mrs. Surtees Cook--Garibaldi--Rome--The

'Cornhill Magazine' and Thackeray--Increasing Weakness--Death of Mrs.

Browning, 363

INDEX, 455

PORTRAIT OF ROBERT BROWNING, ROME 1854, _Frontispiece_

FACSIMILE OF LETTER TO THE EMPEROR NAPOLEON, _to face p. 262_

THE LETTERS

OF

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

* * * * *

CHAPTER VII

1851-1852

Since they first settled in Florence the Brownings had made no long or

distant expeditions from their new home. Their summer excursions to

Vallombrosa, Lucca, or Siena had been of the nature of short holidays,

and had not taken them beyond the limits of Tuscany. Now they had

planned a far wider series of travels, which, beginning with Rome,

Naples, Venice, and Milan, should then be extended across the Alps, and

comprehend Brussels, Paris, and ultimately London. This ambitious

programme had to be curtailed by the omission of the southern tour to

Rome and Naples, as well as the digression to Brussels, but the rest of

the scheme was carried out, and about the beginning of June they left

Casa Guidi for an absence which extended over seventeen months.

The holiday had been well earned, especially by Mrs. Browning, who,

since the preparation of the new edition of her poems in the previous

year, had been writing the second part of 'Casa Guidi Windows.' It is

probably to this poem that she refers in the letter to Miss Browning

printed at the end of the last chapter, Miss Browning having on more

than one occasion helped both her brother and her sister-in-law in the

task of passing their poems through the press. The book appeared in

June, just as they were starting on their travels, and probably for this

reason we hear less in the letters of its reception. It was hardly to be

expected that the English public would take a very keen interest in a

poem dealing almost entirely with Italian politics, and half of it with

the politics of three years ago. Either in 1849 or in 1859 the interest

would have been livelier; but Italy was passing now through the valley

of the shadow, and, save for the horrors of the Neapolitan prisons, was

not much before the public for the moment. The intrigues of Louis

Napoleon and the ostentatious aggression of the Pope in England were the

matters of most interest in foreign politics, and both were overshadowed

by the absorbing topic of the Great Exhibition.

Another reason why 'Casa Guidi Windows' has received less appreciation

than it deserves, both at the time of its publication and since, is that

it stands rather apart from all the recognised species of poetry, and is

hard to classify and criticise. Its political and contemporary character

cut it off from the imaginative and historical subjects which form in

general the matter of poetry, while its genuinely poetic emotion and

language separate it from the political pamphlet or the occasional

verse. It is a poetic treatment of a political subject raised to a high

level by the genuine enthusiasm and fire with which it is inspired, and

these give it a value which lasts far beyond the moment of the events

which gave it birth. The execution, too, shows an advance on most of

Mrs. Browning's previous work. The dangerous experiments in rhyming

which characterised many of the poems in the volumes of 1844 are

abandoned; the licences of language are less frequent; the verse runs

smoothly and is more uniformly under command. It would appear as if the

heat of inspiration which produced the 'Sonnets from the Portuguese'

had left a permanent and purifying effect upon her style. The poem has

been neglected by those who take little interest in Italy and its

history, and adversely criticised by those who do not sympathise with

its political and religious opinions; but with those who look only to

its poetry and to its warm-hearted championship of a great cause, it

will always hold a high place of its own among Mrs. Browning's writings.

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

Florence: May 1, [1851].

I am writing to you, dearest Miss Blagden, at last, you see; though you

must have excommunicated me before now as the most ungrateful of

correspondents and friends. Do forgive what you can--and your kindness

is so great that I believe you can, and shall go on to write as if you

did. We have been in the extremity of confusion and indecision. Remember

how the fairy princes used to do when they arrived at the meeting of

three roads, and had to consider what choice to make. How they used to

shake their heads and ponder, and end sometimes by drawing lots! Much in

the like perplexity have we been. Everything was ready for Rome--the day

fixed, the packing begun, the vettura bargained for. Suddenly, visions

of obstacles rose up. We were late in the season. We should be late for

the festas. May would be hot in Rome for Wiedeman. Then two journeys,

north and south, to Rome and Naples, besides Paris and England, pulled

fearfully at the purse-strings. Plainly we couldn't afford it. So

everything was stopped and changed. We gave up Rome and you, and are now

actually on the point of setting out for Venice; Venice is to console us

for Rome. We go to-morrow, indeed. The plan is to stay a fortnight at

Venice (or more or less, as the charm works), and then to strike across

to Milan; across the Splügen into Switzerland, and to linger there among

the hills and lakes for a part of the summer, so working out an

intention of economy; then down the Rhine; then by railroad to Brussels;

so to Paris, settling there; after which we pay our visit to England for

a few weeks. Early next spring we mean to go to Rome and return here,

either _for good_ (which is very possible) or for the purpose of

arranging our house affairs and packing up books and furniture. As it

is, we have our apartment for another year, and shall let it if we can.

It has been painted, cleaned, and improved in all ways, till my head and

Robert's ring again with the confusion of it all. Oh that we were gone,

since we are to go! When out of sight of Florence, we shall begin to

enjoy, I hope, the sight of other things, but as it is the impression is

only painful and dizzying. Our friends Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvy go with us as

far as Venice, and then leave us on a direct course for England, having

committed their children and nurses to the care of her sister at the

Baths of Lucca meantime. We take with us only Wilson.

Do write to me at Venice, Poste Restante, that I may know you are

thinking of me and excusing me kindly. If you knew how uncertain and

tormented we have been. I won't even ask Robert to add a line to this,

he is so overwhelmed with a flood of businesses; but he bids me speak to

you of him as affectionately and faithfully (because affectionately) as

I have reason to do. So kind it was in you to think of taking the

trouble of finding us an apartment! So really sensible we are to all

your warm-hearted goodness, with fullness of heart on our side too. And,

after all, we are not parting! Either we shall find you in Italy again,

or you will find us in Paris. I have a presentimental assurance of

finding one another again before long. Remember us and love us meantime.

As to your spiritual visitor--why, it would be hard to make out a system

of Romish doctrine from the most Romish version of the S.S.[1] The

differences between the Protestant version and the Papistical are not

certainly justifiable by the Greek original, on the side of the latter.

In fact, the Papistical version does not pretend to follow the Greek

text, but a Latin translation of the same--it's a translation from a

translation. Granting it, however, to be faithful, I must repeat that to

make out the Romish system from even _such_ a Romish version could not

be achieved. So little does Scripture (however represented) seem to me

to justify that system of ecclesiastical doctrine and discipline. I

answer your question because you bid me, but I am not a bit frightened

at the idea of your becoming a R.C., however you may try to frighten me.

You have too much intelligence and uprightness of intellect. We do hope

you have enjoyed Rome, and that dearest Miss Agassiz (give our kind love

to her) is better and looks better than we all thought her a little

while ago. I have a book coming out in England called 'Casa Guidi

Windows,' which will prevent everybody else (except you) from speaking

to me again. Do love me always, as I shall you. Forgive me, and _don't_

forget me. I shall try, after a space of calm, to behave better to you,

and more after my _heart_--for I am ever (as Robert is)

Your faithfully affectionate friend,

ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.

* * * * *

_To Miss Mitford_

Venice: June 4, [1851].

My ever dearest Miss Mitford,--I must write to you from Venice, though

it can only be a few lines. So much I have to say and _feel_ in writing

to you, and thinking that you were not well when you wrote last to me, I

long to hear from you--and yet I can't tell you to-day where a letter

will find me. We are wanderers on the face of the world just now, and

with every desire of going straight from Venice to Milan to-morrow

(Friday) week, we shall more probably, at the Baths of Recoaro, be

lingering and lingering. Therefore will you write to the care of Miss

Browning, New Cross, Hatcham, near London? for so I shall not lose your

letter. I have been between heaven and earth since our arrival at

Venice. The heaven of it is ineffable. Never had I touched the skirts of

so celestial a place. The beauty of the architecture, the silver trails

of water up between all that gorgeous colour and carving, the enchanting

silence, the moonlight, the music, the gondolas--I mix it all up

together, and maintain that nothing is like it, nothing equal to it, not

a second Venice in the world. Do you know, when I came first I felt as

if I never could go away. But now comes the earth side. Robert, after

sharing the ecstasy, grows uncomfortable, and nervous, and unable to eat

or sleep; and poor Wilson, still worse, in a miserable condition of

continual sickness and headache. Alas for these mortal Venices--so

exquisite and so bilious! Therefore I am constrained away from my joys

by sympathy, and am forced to be glad that we are going off on Friday.

For myself, it does not affect me at all. I like these moist, soft,

relaxing climates; even the scirocco doesn't touch me much. And the baby

grows gloriously fatter in spite of everything.

No, indeed and indeed, we are not going to England for the sake of the

Exposition. How could you fancy such a thing, even once. In any case we

shall not reach London till late, and if by any arrangement I could see

my sister Arabel in France or on the coast of England, we would persuade

Robert's family to meet us there, and not see London at all. Ah, if you

knew how abhorrent the thought of England is to _me_! Well, we must not

talk of it. My eyes shut suddenly when my thoughts go that way.

Tell me exactly how you are. I heartily rejoice that you have decided

at last about the other house, so as to avoid the danger of another

autumn and winter in the damp. Do you write still for Mr. Chorley's

periodical, and how does it go on? Here in Italy the fame of it does not

penetrate. As for Venice, you can't get even a 'Times,' much less an

'Athenæum.' We comfort ourselves by taking a box at the opera (the whole

box on the ground tier, mind) for two shillings and eightpence English.

Also, every evening at half-past eight, Robert and I are sitting under

the moon in the great piazza of St. Mark, taking excellent coffee and

reading the French papers. Can you fancy me so?

You will receive a copy of my new poem, 'Casa Guidi Windows,' soon after

this note. I have asked Sarianna Browning to see that you receive it

safely. I don't give away copies (having none to give away, according to

booksellers' terms), but I can't let you receive my little book from

another hand than the writer's. Tell me how you like the poem--honestly,

truly--which numbers of people will be sure to dislike profoundly and

angrily, perhaps. We think of going to Recoaro because Mr. Chorley

praised it to us years ago. Tell him so if you write.

Here are a heap of words tossed down upon paper. I can't put the stops

even. Do write _about yourself_, not waiting for the book.

Your ever attached

E.B.B.

At Paris how near we shall be! How sure to meet. Have you been to the

Exposition yourself? Tell me. And what is the general feeling _now_?

* * * * *

_To John Kenyon_

Paris: July 7, [1851].

My dearest Mr. Kenyon,--I have waited day after day during this week

that we have been here, to be able to tell you that we have decided this

or that--but the indecision lasts, and I can't let you hear from others

of our being in Paris when you have a right more than anybody almost to

hear all about us. I wanted to write to you, indeed, from Venice, where

we stayed a month, and much the same reason made me leave it undone, as

we were making and unmaking plans the whole time, and we didn't know

till the last few hours, for instance, whether or not we should go to

Milan. Venice is quite exquisite; it wrapt me round with a spell at

first sight, and I longed to live and die there--never to go away. The

gondolas, and the glory they swim through, and the silence of the

population, drifted over one's head across the bridges, and the

fantastic architecture and the coffee-drinking and music in the Piazza

San Marco, everything fitted into my lazy, idle nature and weakness of

body, as if I had been born to the manner of it and to no other. Do you

know I expected in Venice a dreary sort of desolation? Whereas there was

nothing melancholy at all, only a soothing, lulling, rocking atmosphere

which if Armida had lived in a city rather than in a garden would have

suited her purpose. Indeed Taglioni seems to be resting her feet from

dancing, there, with a peculiar zest, inasmuch as she has bought three

or four of the most beautiful palaces. How could she do better? And one

or two ex-kings and queens (of the more vulgar royalties) have wrapt

themselves round with those shining waters to forget the purple--or

dream of it, as the case may be. Robert and I led a true Venetian life,

I assure you; we 'swam in gondolas' to the Lido and everywhere else, we

went to a festa at Chioggia in the steamer (frightening Wilson by being

kept out by the wind till two o'clock in the morning), we went to the

opera and the play (at a shilling each, or not as much!), and we took

coffee every evening on St. Mark's Piazza, to music and the stars.

Altogether it would have been perfect, only what's perfect in the world?

While I grew fat, Wilson grew thin, and Robert could not sleep at

nights. The air was too relaxing or soft or something for them both, and

poor Wilson declares that another month of Venice would have killed her

outright. Certainly she looked dreadfully ill and could eat nothing. So

I was forced to be glad to go away, out of pure humanity and sympathy,

though I keep saying softly to myself ever since, 'What is there on

earth like Venice?'

Then, we slept at Padua on St. Anthony's night (more's the pity for us:

they made us pay sixteen zwanzigers for it!), and Robert and I, leaving

Wiedeman at the inn, took a calèche and drove over to Arqua, which I had

set my heart on seeing for Petrarch's sake. Did you ever see it, _you_?

And didn't it move you, the sight of that little room where the great

soul exhaled itself? Even Robert's man's eyes had tears in them as we

stood there, and looked through the window at the green-peaked hills.

And, do you know, I believe in 'the cat.'

Through Brescia we passed by moonlight (such a flood of white moonlight)

and got into Milan in the morning. There we stayed two days, and I

climbed to the topmost pinnacle of the cathedral; wonder at me! Indeed I

was rather overtired, it must be confessed--three hundred and fifty

steps--but the sight was worth everything, enough to light up one's

memory for ever. How glorious that cathedral is! worthy almost of

standing face to face with the snow Alps; and itself a sort of snow

dream by an artist architect, taken asleep in a glacier! Then the Da

Vinci Christ did not disappoint us, which is saying much. It is divine.

And the Lombard school generally was delightful after Bologna and those

soulless Caracci! I have even given up Guido, and Guercino too, since

knowing more of them. Correggio, on the other hand, is sublime at Parma;

he is wonderful! besides having the sense to make his little Christs and

angels after the very likeness of my baby.

From Milan we moved to Como, steamed down to Menaggio (opposite to

Bellaggio), took a calèche to Porlezza, and a boat to Lugano, another

calèche to Bellinzona, left Wiedeman there, and, returning on our steps,

steamed down and up again the Lago Maggiore, went from Bellinzona to

Faido and slept, and crossed the Mount St. Gothard the next day,

catching the Lucerne steamer at Fluellen. The scenery everywhere was

most exquisite, but of the great _pass_ I shall say nothing--it was like

standing in the presence of God when He is terrible. The tears

overflowed my eyes. I think I never _saw_ the sublime before. Do you

know I sate out in the coupé a part of the way with Robert so as to

apprehend the whole sight better, with a thick shawl over my head, only

letting out the eyes to see. They told us there was more snow than is

customary at this time of year, and it well might be so, for the passage

through it, cut for the carriage, left the snow-walls nodding over us at

a great height on each side, and the cold was intense.

Do you know we might yield the palm, and that Lucerne is far finer than

any of our Italian lakes? Even Robert had to confess it at once. I

wanted to stay in Switzerland, but we found it wiser to hasten our steps

and come to Paris; so we came. Yes, and we travelled from Strasburg to

Paris in four-and-twenty hours, night and day, never stopping except for

a quarter of an hour's breakfast and half an hour's dinner. So afraid I

was of the fatigue for Wiedeman! But between the unfinished railroad and

the diligence, there's a complication of risks of losing places just

now, and we were forced to go the whole way in a breath or to hazard

being three or four days on the road. So we took the coupé and resigned

ourselves, and poor little babe slept at night and laughed in the day,

and came into Paris as fresh in spirit as if just alighted from the

morning star, screaming out with delight at the shops! Think of that

child! Upon the whole he has enjoyed our journey as much as any one of

us, observing and admiring; though Robert and Wilson will have it that

some of his admiration of the _scenery_ we passed through was pure

affectation and acted out to copy ours. He cried out, clasping his

hands, that the mountains were 'due'--meaning a great number. His love

of beautiful buildings, of churches especially, no one can doubt about.

When first he saw St. Mark's, he threw up his arms in wonder, and then,

clasping them round Wilson's neck (she was carrying him), he kissed her

in an ecstasy of joy. And that was after a long day's journey, when most

other children would have been tired and fretful. But the sense of the

beautiful is certainly very strong in him, little darling. He can't say

the word 'church' yet, but when he sees one he begins to chant. Oh, he's

a true Florentine in some things.

Well, now we are in Paris and have to forget the 'belle chiese;' we have

beautiful shops instead, false teeth grinning at the corners of the

streets, and disreputable prints, and fascinating hats and caps, and

brilliant restaurants, and M. le Président in a cocked hat and with a

train of cavalry, passing like a rocket along the boulevards to an

occasional yell from the Red. Oh yes, and don't mistake me! for I like

it all extremely, it's a splendid city--a city in the country, as Venice

is a city in the sea. And I'm as much amused as Wiedeman, who stands in

the street before the printshops (to Wilson's great discomfort) and

roars at the lions. And I admire the bright green trees and gardens

everywhere in the heart of the town. Surely it is a most beautiful city!

And I like the restaurants more than is reasonable; dining _à la carte_,

and mixing up one's dinner with heaps of newspapers, and the 'solution'

by Emile de Girardin, who suggests that the next President should be a

tailor. Moreover, we find apartments very cheap in comparison to what we

feared, and we are in a comfortable quiet hotel, where it is possible,

and not ruinous, to wait and look about one.

As to England--oh England--how I dread to think of it. We talk of going

over for a short time, but have not decided when; yet it will be soon

perhaps--it may. If it were not for my precious Arabel, I would not go;

because Robert's family would come to him here, they say. But to give up

Arabel is impossible. Henrietta is in Somersetshire; it is uncertain

whether I shall see her, even in going, and she too might come to Paris

this winter. And you will come--you promised, I think?...

I feel here _near enough_ to England, that's the truth. I recoil from

the bitterness of being nearer. Still, it must be thought of.

Dearest cousin, dearest friend, in all this pleasant journey we have

borne you in mind, and gratefully! You must feel _that_ without being

told. I won't quite do like my Wiedeman, who every time he fires his gun

(if it's twenty times in five minutes) says, 'Papa, papa,' because

Robert gave him the gun, and the gratitude is as re-iterantly and loudly

explosive. But one's thoughts may say what they please and as often as

they please.

Arabel tells me that you are kind to the manner of my poem, though to

the matter obdurate. Miss Mitford, too, says that it won't receive the

sympathy proper to a home subject, because the English people don't care

anything for the Italians now; despising them for their want of

originality in _Art_! That's very good of the English people, really! I

fear much that dear Miss Mitford has suffered seriously from the effects

of the damp house last winter. What she says of herself makes me anxious

about her.

Give my true love to dear Miss Bayley, and say how I repent in ashes for

not having written to her. But she is large-hearted and will forgive me,

and I shall make amends and send her sheet upon sheet. Barry Cornwall's

letter to Robert, of course, delighted as well as honoured me. Does it

appear in the new edition of his 'songs' &c.?

Mind, if ever I go to England I shall have no heart to go out of a very

dark corner. I shall just see you and that's all. It's only Robert who

is a patriot now, of us two. England, what with the past and the

present, is a place of bitterness to me, bitter enough to turn all her

seas round to wormwood! Airs and hearts, all are against me in England;

yet don't let me be ungrateful. No love is forgotten or less prized,

certainly not yours. Only I'm a citizeness of the world now, you see,

and float loose.

God bless you, dearest Mr. Kenyon, prays

Your ever affectionate

BA.

Robert's best love as always. He writes by this post to Mr. Procter. How

beautifully Sarianna has corrected for the press my new poem!

Wonderfully well, really. There is only one error of consequence, which

I will ask you to correct in any copy you can--of 'rail' _in the last

line_, to 'vail;' the allusion being of course to the Jewish temple--but

as it is printed nobody can catch any meaning, I fear. They tell me that

the Puseyite organ, the 'Guardian,' has been strong in attack. So best.

* * * * *

After a few weeks in Paris the travellers crossed over to England, which

they had not seen for nearly five years. Their visit to London lasted

about two months, from the end of July to the end of September, during

which time they stayed in lodgings at 26 Devonshire Street.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

26 Devonshire Street: Wednesday, [about August 1851].

My ever dearest Mrs. Martin,--I am not ungrateful after all, but I

wanted to write a long letter to you (having much to say), and even now

it is hard in this confusion to write a short one. We have been

overwhelmed with kindnesses, crushed with gifts, like the Roman lady;

and literally to drink through a cup of tea from beginning to end

without an interruption from the door-bell, we have scarcely attained to

since we came. For my part I refuse all dinner invitations except when

our dear friend Mr. Kenyon 'imposes himself as an exception,' in his

own words. But even in keeping the resolution there are necessary

fatigues; and, do you know, I have not been well since our arrival in

England. My first step ashore was into a puddle and a fog, and I began

to cough before we reached London. The quality of the air does _not_

agree with me, that's evident. For nearly five years I have had no such

cough nor difficulty of breathing, and my friends, who at first sight

thought me looking well, must forbear all compliments for the future, I

think, I get so much paler every day. Next week we send Wilson to see

her mother near Sheffield and _the baby with her_, which is a great

stroke of fortitude in me; only what I can't bear is to see him crying

because she is gone away. So we resolve on letting them both go

together. When she returns, ten days or a fortnight after, we shall have

to think of going to Paris again; indeed Robert begins to be nervous

about me--which is nonsense, but natural enough perhaps.

In regard to Colwall, you are both, my very dear friends, the kindest

that you can be. Ah, but dearest, dearest Mrs. Martin, you can

_understand_, with the same kindness that you use to me in other things.

There is only one event in my life which never loses its bitterness;

which comes back on me like a retreating wave, going and coming again,

which was and _is my grief--I never had but one brother who loved and

comprehended me_. And so there is just one thought which would be

unbearable if I went into your neighbourhood; and you won't set it down,

I am sure, as unpardonable weakness, much less as affectation, if I

confess to you that I _never could bear it_. The past would be too

strong for me. As to Hope End, it is nothing. I have been happier in my

own home since, than I was there and then. But Torquay has made the

neighbourhood of Hope End impossible to me. I could not eat or sleep in

that air. You will forgive me for the weakness, I am certain. You know a

little, if not entirely, how we loved one another; how I was first with

_him_, and _he_ with me; while God knows that death and separation have

no power over such love.

After all, we shall see you in Paris if not in England. We pass this

winter in Paris, in the hope of my being able to bear the climate, for

indeed Italy is too far. And if the winter does not disagree with me too

much we mean to take a house and settle in Paris, so as to be close to

you all, and that will be a great joy to me. You will pass through Paris

this autumn (won't you?) on your way to Pau, and I shall see you. I do

long to see you and make you know my husband....

So far from regretting my marriage, it has made the happiness and honour

of my life; and every unkindness received from my own house makes me

press nearer to the tenderest and noblest of human hearts _proved_ by

the uninterrupted devotion of nearly five years. Husband, lover,

nurse--not one of these, has Robert been to me, but all three together.

I neither regret my marriage, therefore, nor the manner of it, because

the manner of it was a necessity of the act. I thought so at the time, I

think so now; and I believe that the world in general will decide (if

the world is to be really appealed to) that my opinion upon this subject

(after five years) is worth more.

Dearest Mrs. Martin, do write to me. I keep my thoughts as far as I can

from bitter things, and the affectionateness of my dearest sisters is

indeed much on the other side. Also, we are both giddy with the kind

attentions pressed on us from every side, from some of the best in

England. It's hard to think at all in such a confusion. We met Tennyson

(the Laureate) by a chance in Paris, who insisted that we should take

possession of his house and servants at Twickenham and use them as long

as we liked to stay in England. Nothing could be more warmly kind, and

we accepted the note in which he gave us the right of possession for the

sake of the generous autograph, though we never intended in our own

minds to act out the proposition. Since then, Mr. Arnould, the Chancery

barrister, has begged us to go and live in his town house (we don't want

houses, you see); Mrs. Fanny Kemble called on and left us tickets for

her Shakespeare reading (by the way, I was charmed with her 'Hamlet');

Mr. Forster, of the 'Examiner,' gave us a magnificent dinner at Thames

Ditton in sight of the swans; and we breakfast on Saturday with Mr.

Rogers. Then we have seen the Literary Guild actors at the Hanover

Square rooms, and we have passed an evening with Carlyle (one of the

great sights in England, to my mind). He is a very warm friend of

Robert's, so that on every account I was delighted to see him face to

face. I can't tell you what else we have done or not done. It's a great

dazzling heap of things new and strange. Barry Cornwall (Mr. Procter)

came to see us every day till business swept him out of town, and dear

Mrs. Jameson left her Madonna for us in despite of the printers. Such

kindness, on all sides. Ah, there's kindness in England after all. Yet I

grew cold to the heart as I set foot on the ground of it, and wished

myself away. Also, the sort of life is not perhaps the best for me and

the sort of climate is really the worst.

You heard of Mr. Kenyon's goodness to us; I told Arabel to tell you.

But I must end here. Another time I will talk of Paris, which I do hope

will suit us as a residence. I was quite well there, the three weeks we

stayed, and am far from well just now. You see, the weight of the

atmosphere, which seems to me like lead, combined with the excitement,

is too much at once. Oh, it won't be very bad, I dare say. I mean to try

to be quiet, and abjure for the future the night air.

I should not omit to tell you in this quantity of egotism that my

husband's father and sister have received me most affectionately. She is

highly accomplished, with a heart to suit the head.

Now do write. Let me hear all about you, and how dear Mr. Martin and

yourself are. Robert's cordial regards with those of

Your ever affectionate and ever grateful

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

26 Devonshire Street: Saturday, [about August 1851].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--Day by day, and hour by hour almost, I have

wanted to thank you again and again for your remedy (which I did not

use, by the bye, being much better), and to answer your inquiry about

me, which really I could not deliver over to Arabel to answer; but the

baby did not go to the country with Wilson, and I have been 'devoted'

since she went away; _une âme perdue_, with not an instant out of the

four-and-twenty hours to call my own. It appeared, at the last, that

Wilson would have a drawback to her enjoyments in having the child, and

I did not choose that: she had only a fortnight, you see, after five

years, to be with her family. So I took her place with him; it was

necessary, for he was in a state of deplorable grief when he missed her,

and has refused ever since to allow any human being except me to do a

single thing for him. I hold him in my arms at night, dress and wash him

in the morning, walk out with him, and am not allowed either to read or

write above three minutes at a time. He has learnt to say in English 'No

more,' and I am bound to be obedient. Perhaps I may make out five

minutes just to write this, for he is playing in the passage with a

child of the house, but even so much is doubtful. He has made very good

friends with a girl here, and Arabel has sent her maid ever so often to

tempt him away for half an hour, so as to give me breathing time, but he

won't be tempted: he has it in his head that the world is in a

conspiracy against him to take 'mama' away after having taken 'Lily,'

and he is bound to resist it.

After all, the place of nursery maid is more suitable to me than that of

poetess (or even poet's wife) in this obstreperous London. I was nearly

killed the first weeks, what with the climate, and what with the

kindness (and what with the want of kindness), and looked wretchedly,

whether Reynolds Peyton saw it or not, and coughed day and night, till

Robert took fright, and actually fixed a day for taking me forthwith

back to Paris. I had to give up a breakfast at Rogers', and shut myself

up in two rooms for a week, and refuse, like Wiedeman, to be tempted out

anywhere, but, after that, I grew better, and the wind changed, and now

the cough, though not gone, is quieted, and I look a different person,

and have ceased to grow thin. But a racketing life will never do for me,

nor an English atmosphere, I am much afraid. The lungs seem to labour in

this heavy air. Oh, it is so unlike the air of the Continent; I say

nothing of Florence, but even of Paris, where I do wish to be able to

live, on account of the nearness to this dear detestable England.

Now let me tell you of Wimpole Street. Henry has been very kind in

coming not infrequently; he has a kind, good heart. Occy, too, I have

seen three or four times, Alfred and Sette once. My dearest Arabel is,

of course, here once if not twice a day, and for hours at a time,

bringing me great joy always, and Henrietta's dear kindness in coming to

London on purpose to see me, for a week, has left a perfume in my life.

Both those beloved sisters have been, as ever, perfect to me. Arabel is

vexed just now, and so am I, my brothers having fixed with papa to go

out of town directly, and she caring more to stay where I am....

I have not written to papa since our arrival through my fear of

involving Arabel; but as soon as they go to the country I shall

_hopelessly_ write. He is very well and in good spirits, thank God.

We have spent two days at New Cross with my husband's father and sister,

and she has been here constantly. Most affectionate they are to me, and

the babe is taken into adoration by Mr. Browning.

But here he is upon me again! Indeed, I have had wonderful luck in

having been able to write all this; and now, God bless both of you, my

dearest friends. Oh, I do feel to my heart all your kindness in wishing

to have us with you, and, indeed, Robert _would_ like to see

Herefordshire, but--

[_The remainder of this letter is wanting_]

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

26 Devonshire Street: Wednesday, [September 1851].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I write in haste to you to tell you some things

which you should hear without delay.

After Robert's letter to George had been sent three times to Wales and

been returned twice, it reached him, and immediately upon its reaching

him (to do George justice) he wrote a kind reply to apprise us that he

would be at our door the same evening. So the night before last he came,

and we are all good friends, thank God. I tenderly love him and the

rest, and must for ever deplore that such poor barriers as a pedantic

pride can set up should have interposed between long and strong and holy

affections for years. But it is past, and I have been very happy in

being held in his arms again, and seen in his eyes that I was still

something more to him than a stone thrown away. So, if you have thought

severely of him, you and dear Mr. Martin, do not any longer. Preserve

your friendship for him, my dearest friends, and let all this foolish

mistaken past be well past and forgotten. I think him looking thin,

though it does not strike them so in Wimpole Street, certainly.

For the rest, the pleasantness is not on every side. It seemed to me

right, notwithstanding that dear Mr. Kenyon advised against it, to

apprise my father of my being in England. I could not leave England

without trying the possibility of his seeing me once, of his consenting

to kiss my child once. So I wrote, and Robert wrote. A manly, true,

straightforward letter his was, yet in some parts so touching to me and

so generous and conciliating everywhere, that I could scarcely believe

in the probability of its being read in vain. In reply he had a very

violent and unsparing letter, with all the letters I had written to papa

through these five years _sent back unopened, the seals unbroken_. What

went most to my heart was that some of the seals were black with

black-edged envelopes; so that he might have thought my child or husband

dead, yet never cared to solve the doubt by breaking the seal. He said

he regretted to have been forced to keep them by him until now, through

his ignorance of where he should send them. So there's the end. I

cannot, of course, write again. God takes it all into His own hands, and

I wait.

We go on Tuesday. If I do not see you (as I scarcely hope to do now), it

will be only a gladness delayed for a few months. We shall meet in Paris

if we live. May God bless you both, dearest friends! I think of you and

love you. Dear Mr. Martin, don't stay too late in England this year, for

the climate seems to me worse than ever. Not that I have much cough

now--I am much better--but the quality of the atmosphere is unmistakable

to my lungs and air passages, and I believe it will be wise, on this

account, to go away quickly.

Your ever affectionate and grateful

BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_[2]

London: September 24, 1851.

My dear Miss Haworth,--I do hope you have not set us quite on the

outside of your heart with the unfeeling and ungrateful. I say 'us' when

I ought to have said 'me,' for you have known Robert, and you have not

known _me_, and I am naturally less safe with you than he is--less safe

in your esteem. We should both have gone to inquire after your health if

he had not been attacked with influenza, and unfit for anything until

the days you mentioned as the probable term of your remaining in town

had passed. I waited till he should be better, and the malady lingered.

Now he is well, and I do hope you may be so too. May it be! Bear us in

mind and love, for we go away to-morrow to Paris--where, however, we

shall _expect_ you before long. Thank you, thank you, for the books. I

have been struck and charmed with some things in the

'Companion'--especially, may I say, with the 'Modern Pygmalion,' which

catches me on my weak side of the _love of wonder_. By the way, what am

I to say of Swedenborg and mesmerism? So much I could--the books have so

drawn and held me (as far as I was capable of being drawn or held, in

this chaos of London)--that I will not speak at all. The note-page is

too small--the haste I write in, too great.

God bless you, and good bye. Robert bids me give you his love (of the

earnestest), and I have leave from you (have I not?) to be always

affectionately yours,

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

The journey to Paris was effected at the end of September, and for about

nine months they pitched their tent at No. 138 Avenue des

Champs-Elysées. It was a fortunate time to be in Paris for those who had

no personal nervousness, and liked to be near the scene of great

events--a most anxious time for any who were alarmed at disturbances, or

took keenly to heart the horrors of street fighting. Fortunately for the

Brownings, they, whether by temperament or through their Italian

experiences, were not unduly disturbed at revolutions, while the horrors

of Louis Napoleon's _coup d'état_ were, no doubt, only partly known to

Mrs. Browning at the time, and were palliated to her by the view she

took of Napoleon's character. She had not, it is true, raised him as yet

to the pinnacle on which his intervention on behalf of Italy

subsequently caused her to place him, but (perhaps owing to what Mr.

Kenyon called her 'immoral sympathy with power') she was always disposed

to put a favourable construction on his actions, and the _coup d'état_

was finally whitewashed for her by the approbation which the

_plébiscite_ of December 20 gave to his assumption of supreme power. Her

views are, however, so fully set forth in her own letters that they need

not be detailed here. For her husband's opinion of the character of

Louis Napoleon, at least as it appeared to him when looking back after

the lapse of years, it is only necessary to refer to 'Prince

Hohenstiel-Schwangau.'

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysées:

October 21, [1851].

But didn't you, dearest friend, get 'Casa Guidi' and the portrait of

Madme de Goethe, left for you in the London house? I felt a _want_ of

leaving a word of adieu with these, and then the chaotic confusion in

which we left England stifled the better purpose out of me.

With such mixed feelings I went away. Leaving love behind is always

terrible, but it was not all love that I left, and there was relief in

the state of mind with which I threw myself on the sofa at Dieppe--yes,

indeed. Robert felt differently from me for once, as was natural, for it

had been pure joy to him with his family and his friends, and I do

believe he would have been capable of never leaving England again, had

such an arrangement been practicable for us on some accounts. Oh

England! I love and hate it at once. Or rather, where love of country

ought to be in the heart, there is the mark of the burning iron in mine,

and the depth of the scar shows the depth of the root of it. Well, I am

writing you an amusing letter to-day, I think. After all, I wasn't made

to live in England, or I should not cough there perpetually; while no

sooner do I get to Paris than the cough vanishes--it is all but gone

now. The lightness of the air here makes the place tenable--so far, at

least. We made many an effort to get an apartment near the Madeleine,

but we had to sacrifice sun or money, or breath, in going up to the top

of a house, and the sacrifice seemed too great upon consideration, and

we came off to the 'Avenue des Champs-Elysées,' on the sunshiny side of

the way, to a southern aspect, and pretty cheerful carpeted rooms--a

drawing room, a dressing and writing room for Robert, a small dining

room, two comfortable bedrooms and a third bedroom upstairs for the

_femme de service_, kitchen, &c., for two hundred francs a month. Not

too dear, we think. About the same that we paid, out of the season, in

London for the miserable accommodation we had there. But perhaps you

won't come near us now; we may be too much 'out of the way' for you. Is

it so indeed? Understand that close by us is a stand of _coupés_ and

_fiacres_, not to profane your ears with the mention of the continual

stream of omnibuses by means of which you may reach the other end of

Paris for six sous. And there might be a possibility of taking a small

apartment for you in this very house. See how I castle-build.

But if the Crystal Palace vanishes from the face of the earth, who shall

trust any more in castles? Will they really pull it down, do you think?

If it's a bubble, it's a glass bubble, and not meant, therefore, for

bursting in the air, it seems to me. And you do want a place in England

for sculpture, and also to show people how olives grow. What a beautiful

winter garden it would be! But they will pull it down, perhaps; and

then, the last we shall have seen of it will be in this description of

your letter, and _that's_ seeing it worthily, too.

We were from home last night; we went to Lady Elgin's reception, and met

a Madame Mohl, who was entertaining, and is to come to us this morning--

She came as I wrote those words. She knows _you_, among her other

advantages, and we have been talking of you, dear friend, and we are

going to her on Friday evening to see some of the French. I shall have

to go to prison very soon, I suppose, as usual, for the winter months,

for here is the twenty-first of October, though this is the first fire

we have had occasion for. It was colder this morning, but we have had

exquisite weather, really, ever since we left England.

The 'elf' is flourishing in all good fairyhood, with a scarlet rose leaf

on each cheek. Wilson says she never knew him to have such an

irreproachable appetite. He is charmed with Paris, and its magnificent

Punches, and roundabouts, and balloons--which last he says, looking up

after them gravely, 'go to God.' The child has curious ideas about

theology already. He is of opinion that God 'lives among the birds.' He

has taken to calling himself '_Peninni_,'[3] which sounds something like

a fairy's name, though he means it for 'Wiedeman.'

Robert is in good spirits, and inclined to like Paris increasingly. Do

you know I think you have an idea in England that you monopolise

comforts, and I, for one, can't admit it. These snug 'apartments'

exclude the draughty passages and staircases, which threaten your life

every time that you run to your bedroom for a pocket-handkerchief in

England. I much prefer the Continental houses to the English ones, both

for winter and summer, on this account.

So glad I am that you are nearly at the end of your work. To rest after

work, what more than rest that always is!

Write to us often--do! We are not in Italy, and you have no excuse for

even _seeming_ to forget us. We are full in sight still, remember.

Are you aware that Carlyle travelled with us to Paris? He left a deep

impression with me. It is difficult to conceive of a more interesting

human soul, I think. All the bitterness is love with the point reversed.

He seems to me to have a profound sensibility--so profound and turbulent

that it unsettles his general sympathies. Do you guess what I mean the

least in the world? or is it as dark as my writings are of course?

I hope on every account you will have no increase of domestic care. How

is Miss Procter? How kind everybody was to us in England, and how

affectionately we remember it! God bless you yourself! We love you for

the past and the present, besides the future in December.

Your attached

E.B.B.

* * * * *

_To Miss Mitford_

[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysées:

October 22, [1851].

The pause in writing has come from the confusion in living, my ever

dearest Miss Mitford, and no worse cause. It was a long while before we

could settle ourselves in a private apartment, and we had to stay at the

hotel and wander about like doves turned out of the dove-cote, and

seeking where to inhabit.... We have seen nothing in Paris, except the

shell of it, yet. No theatres--nothing but business. Yet two evenings

ago we hazarded going to a 'reception' at Lady Elgin's, in the Faubourg

St. Germain, and saw some French, but nobody of distinction. It is a

good house, I believe, and she has an earnest face which must mean

something. We were invited, and _are_ invited to go every Monday, and

that Monday in particular, between eight and twelve. You go in a morning

dress, and there is tea. Nothing can be more _sans façon_, and my

tremors (for, do you know, I was quite nervous on the occasion, and

charged Robert to keep close to me) were perfectly unjustified by the

event. You see it was an untried form of society--like trying a Turkish

bath. I expected to see Balzac's duchesses and _hommes de lettres_ on

all sides of me, but there was nothing very noticeable, I think, though

we found it agreeable enough. We go on Friday evening to a Madame

Mohl's, where we are to have some of the 'celebrities,' I believe, for

she seems to know everybody of all colours, from white to red. Then

Mazzini is to give us a letter to George Sand--come what will, we must

have a letter to George Sand--and Robert has one to Emile Lorquet of the

'National,' and Gavarni of the 'Charivari,' so that we shall manage to

thrust our heads into this atmosphere of Parisian journalism, and learn

by experience how it smells. I hear that George Sand is seldom at Paris

now. She has devoted herself to play-writing, and employs a houseful of

men, her son's friends and her own, in acting privately with her what

she writes--trying it on a home stage before she tries it at Paris. Her

son is a very ordinary young man of three-and-twenty, but she is fond of

him....

Never expect me to agree with you in that _cause célèbre_ of 'ladies and

gentlemen' against people of letters. I don't like the sort of veneer

which passes in society--yes, I like it, but I don't love it. I know

what the thing is worth as a matter of furniture-accomplishment, and

there an end. I should rather look at the scratched silent violin in the

corner, with the sense that music has come out of it or will come. I am

grateful to the man who has written a good book, and I recognise

reverently that the roots of it are in him. And, do you know, I was not

disappointed at all in what I saw of writers of books in London; no, not

at all. Carlyle, for instance, I liked infinitely more in his

personality than I expected to like him, and I saw a great deal of him,

for he travelled with us to Paris and spent several evenings with us, we

three together. He is one of the most interesting men I could imagine

even, deeply interesting to me; and you come to understand perfectly,

when you know him, that his bitterness is only melancholy, and his scorn

sensibility. Highly picturesque too he is in conversation. The talk of

writing men is very seldom as good.

And, do you know, I was much taken, in London, with a young authoress,

Geraldine Jewsbury. You have read her books. There's a French sort of

daring, half-audacious power in them, but she herself is quiet and

simple, and drew my heart out of me a good deal. I felt inclined to love

her in our half-hour's intercourse. And I liked Lady Eastlake too in

another way, the 'lady' of the 'Letters from the Baltic,' nay, I liked

her better than the 'lady'....

Do write to me and tell me of your house, whether you are settling down

in it comfortably[4]. In every new house there's a good deal of bird's

work in treading and shuffling down the loose sticks and straws, before

one can feel it is to be a nest. Robert laughs at me sometimes for

pushing about the chairs and tables in a sort of distracted way, but

it's the very instinct of making a sympathetical home, that works in me.

We were miserably off in London. I couldn't tuck myself in anyhow. And

we enjoy in proportion these luxurious armchairs, so good for the

Lollards.

People say that the troops which pass before our windows every few days

through the 'Arc de l'Étoile' to be reviewed will bring the President

back with them as 'emperor' some sunny morning not far off. As to

waiting till _May_, nobody expects it. There is a great inward

agitation, but the surface of things is smooth enough. Be constant, be

constant! Constancy is a rare virtue even where it is not an undeniable

piece of wisdom. Vive Napoleon II.!

As to the book, ah, you are always, and have always been, too good to

_me_, that's quite certain; and if you are not too good to my husband,

it is only because I am persuaded in my secret soul nobody _can_ be too

good to him.

He sends you his warm regards, and I send you a kiss of baby's, who is

finishing his Babylonish education, unfortunate child, by learning a

complement of French. I assure you he understands everything you can say

to him in English as well as Italian, so that he won't be utterly

denationalised.

God bless you. Say how you are and write soon.

Your ever affectionate

E.B.B.

* * * * *

_To Miss Mitford_

[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysées:

November 12, 1851.

I see your house, my beloved friend, and clap my hands for pleasure. It

will suit you admirably, I see, plainly from Paris, and how right you

are about the pretty garden, not to make it fine and modern; you have

the right instincts about such things, and are too strong for Mrs.

Loudon and the landscape gardeners. The only defect apparent to me at

this distance is the size of the sitting room.... If you were to see

what we call 'an apartment' in Paris! We have just a slip of a kitchen,

and no passage, no staircase to take up the space, which is altogether

_spent_ upon sitting and sleeping rooms. Talk of English comforts! It's

a national delusion. The comfort of the Continental way of life has only

to be tested to be recognised (with the exception of the locks of doors

and windows, which are _barbaric_ here, there's no other word for it).

The economy of a habitation is understood in Paris. You have the

advantages of a large house without the disadvantages, without the

coldness, without the dearness. And the beds, chairs, and sofas are

perfect things.

But the climate is not perfect, it seems, for we have had very cold

weather the last ten days, and I am a prisoner as usual. Our friends

swear to us that it is exceptional weather and that it will be warmer

presently, and I listen with a sort of 'doubtful doubt' worthy of a

metaphysician. It is some comfort to hear that it's below zero in London

meanwhile, and that Scotland stands eight feet deep in snow.

We have a letter for George Sand (directed _à Madame George Sand_) from

Mazzini, and we hear that she is to be in Paris within twelve days. Then

we must make a rush and present it, for her stay here is not likely to

be long, and I would not miss seeing her for a great deal, though I have

not read one of her late dramas, and only by faith understand that her

wonderful genius has conquered new kingdoms. Her last romance, 'Le

Château des Déserts,' is treated disdainfully in the 'Athenæum.' I have

not read _that_ even, but Mr. Chorley is apt to be cold towards French

writers and I don't expect his judgment as final therefore. Have you

seen M. de la Mare's correspondence with Mirabeau? And do you ever catch

sight of the 'Revue des Deux Mondes'? In the August number is an

excellent and most pleasant article on my husband, elaborately written

and so highly appreciatory as well nigh to satisfy _me_.[5] 'Set you

down this' that there has sprung up in France lately an ardent

admiration of the present English schools of poetry, or rather of the

poetry produced by the present English schools, which they consider _an

advance upon the poetry of the ages_. Think of _this_, you English

readers who are still wearing broad hems and bombazeens for the Byron

and Scott glorious days!

Let me think what I can tell you of the President. I have never seen his

face, though he has driven past me in the boulevards, and past these

windows constantly, but it is said that he is very like his

portraits--and, yes, rumour and the gazettes speak of his riding well.

Wilson and Wiedeman had an excellent view of him the other day as he

turned into a courtyard to pay some visit, and she tells me that his

carriage was half full of petitions and nosegays thrown through the

windows. What a fourth act of a play we are in just now! It is difficult

to guess at the catastrophe. Certainly he must be very sure of his hold

on the people to propose repealing the May edict,[6] and yet there are

persons who persist in declaring that nobody cares for him and that even

a revision of the constitution will not bring about his re-election. _I_

am of an opposite mind; though there is not much overt enthusiasm of the

population in behalf of his person. Still, this may arise from a quiet

resolve to keep him where he is, and an assurance that he can't be

ousted in spite of the people and army. It is significant, I think, that

Emile de Girardin should stretch out a hand (a little dirty, be it

observed in passing), and that Lamartine, after fasting nineteen days

and nights (a miraculous fast, without fear of the 'prefect'), should

murmur a 'credo' in favour of his honesty. As to honesty, 'I do believe

he's honest;' that is to say, he has acted out no dishonesty _as yet_,

and we have no right to interpret doubtful texts into dishonorable

allegations. But for ambition--for ambition! Answer from the depth of

your conscience, 'de profundis.' Is he or is he not an ambitious man?

Does he or does he not mean in his soul to be Napoleon the Second? Yes,

yes--I think, you think, we all think.

Robert's father and sister have been paying us a visit during the last

three weeks. They are very affectionate to me, and I love them for his

sake and their own, and am very sorry at the thought of losing them,

which we are on the point of doing. We hope, however, to establish them

in Paris if we can stay, and if no other obstacle should arise before

the spring, when they must leave Hatcham. Little Wiedeman _draws_; as

you may suppose, he is adored by his grandpapa; and then, Robert! they

are an affectionate family and not easy when removed one from another.

Sarianna is full of accomplishment and admirable sense, even-tempered

and excellent in all ways--devoted to her father as she was to her

mother: indeed, the relations of life seem reversed in their case, and

the father appears the child of the child....

Perhaps you have not seen Eugène Sue's 'Mystères de Paris'--and I am not

deep in the first volume yet. Fancy the wickedness and stupidity of

trying to revive the distinctions and hatreds of race between the Gauls

and Franks. The Gauls, please to understand, are the 'prolétaires,' and

the capitalists are the Frank invaders (call them Cosaques, says Sue)

out of the forests of Germany!...

I saw no Mr. Harness; and no Talfourd of any kind. The latter was a kind

of misadventure, as Lady Talfourd was on the point of calling on me when

Robert would not let her. We were going away just then. Mr. Horne I had

the satisfaction of seeing several times--you know how much regard I

feel for him. One evening he had the kindness to bring his wife miles

upon miles just to drink tea with us, and we were to have spent a day

with them somehow, half among the fields, but engagements came betwixt

us adversely. She is less pretty and more interesting than I

expected--looking very young, her black glossy hair hanging down her

back in ringlets; with deep earnest eyes, and a silent listening manner.

He was full of the 'Household Words,' and seems to write articles

together with Dickens--which must be highly unsatisfactory, as Dickens's

name and fame swallow up every sort of minor reputation in the shadow of

his path. I shouldn't like, for my part (and if I were a fish), to herd

with crocodiles. But I suppose the 'Household Words' _pay_--and that's a

consideration. 'Claudie' I have not read. We have only just subscribed

to a library, and we have been absorbed a good deal by our visitors....

Write and don't leave off loving me. I will tell you of everybody

noticeable whom I happen to see, and of George Sand among the first.

Love your ever affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysées:

December 10, [1851].

I receive your letter, dearest friend, and hasten to write a few brief

words to save the post.

We have suffered neither fear nor danger--and I would not have missed

the grand spectacle of the second of December[7] for anything in the

world--scarcely, I say, for the sight of the Alps.

On the only day in which there was much fighting (Thursday), Wiedeman

was taken out to walk as usual, under the precaution of keeping in the

immediate neighbourhood of this house. This will prove to you how little

we have feared for ourselves.

But the natural emotion of the situation one could not escape from, and

on Thursday night I sate up in my dressing gown till nearly one,

listening to the distant firing from the boulevards. Thursday was the

only day in which there was fighting of any serious kind. There has been

_no resistance_ on the part of the real people--nothing but sympathy for

the President, I _believe_, if you except the natural mortification and

disappointment of baffled parties. To judge from our own tradespeople:

'il a bien fait! c'est le vrai neveu de son oncle!' such phrases rung on

every tone expressed the prevailing sentiment.

For my own part I have not only more hope in the situation but more

faith in the French people than is ordinary among the English, who

really try to exceed one another in discoloration and distortion of the

circumstances. The government was in a deadlock--what was to be done?

Yes, all parties cried out, 'What was to be done?' and felt that we were

waist deep a fortnight ago in a state of crisis. In throwing back the

sovereignty from a 'representative assembly' which had virtually ceased

to represent, into the hands of the people, I think that Louis Napoleon

did well. The talk about 'military despotism' is absolute nonsense. The

French army is eminently civic, and nations who take their ideas from

the very opposite fact of a _standing army_ are far from understanding

how absolutely a French soldier and French citizen are the same thing.

The independence of the elections seems to be put out of reach of

injury; and intelligent men of adverse opinions to the government think

that the majority will be large in its favour. Such a majority would

certainly justify Louis Napoleon, or _should_--even with you in England.

I think you quite understate the amount of public virtue in France. The

difficulties of statesmanship here are enormous. I do not accuse even M.

Thiers of want of public virtue. What he has wanted, has been length and

breadth of view--purely an intellectual defect--and his petty, puny

_tracasseries_ destroyed the Republican Assembly just as it destroyed

the throne of Louis Philippe, in spite of his own intentions.

There is a conflict of ideas in France, which we have no notion of in

England, but we ought to understand that it does not involve the failing

of _principle_, in the elemental moral sense. Be just to France, dear

friend, you who are more than an Englishwoman--a Mrs. Jameson!

Everything is perfectly tranquil in Paris, I assure you--theatres full

and galleries open as usual. At the same time, timid and discouraged

persons say, 'Wait till after the elections,' and of course the public

emotion will be a good deal excited at that time. Therefore, judge for

yourself. For my own part I have not had the slightest cause for alarm

of any kind--and there is my child! Judge....

The weather is exquisite, and I am going out to walk directly. It is

scarcely possible to bear a fire, and some of our friends sit with the

window open. We are all well.

This should have gone to you yesterday, but we had visitors who talked

past post time. The delay, however, has allowed of my writing more than

I meant to have done in beginning this letter. Robert's best love.

Your ever affectionate

BA.

Robert says that according to the impression of the wisest there can be

no danger. Don't wait till after the elections. The time is most

interesting, and it is well worth your while to come and see for

yourself.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysées:

December 11, [1851].

To show how alive I am, dearest Mrs. Martin, I will tell you that I have

just come home from a long walk to the Tuileries. We took a carriage to

return, that's true. Then yesterday I was out, besides, and last

Saturday, _the 6th_, we drove down the boulevards to see the field of

action on the terrible Thursday (the only day on which there was any

fighting of consequence), counting the holes in the walls bored by the

cannon, and looking at the windows smashed in. Even then, though the

asphalte was black with crowds, the quiet was absolute, and most of the

shops reopened. On Sunday the theatres were as full as usual, and our

Champs-Elysées had quite its complement of promenaders. Wiedeman's

prophecy had not been carried out, any more than the prophecies of the

wiser may--the soldiers had not shot Punch.

And now I do beg you not to be down-hearted. See, if French blood runs

in your veins, that you don't take a pedantic view of this question like

an Englishwoman. Constitutional forms and essential principles of

liberty are so associated in England, that they are apt to be

confounded, and are, in fact, constantly confounded. For my part, I am

too good a democrat to be afraid of being thrown back upon the primitive

popular element, from impossible paper constitutions and unrepresenting

representative assemblies. The situation was in a deadlock, and all the

conflicting parties were full of dangerous hope of taking advantage of

it; and I don't see, for my part, what better could be done for the

French nation than to sweep the board clear and bid them begin again.

With no sort of prejudice in favour of Louis Napoleon (except, I confess

to you, some artistical admiration for the consummate ability and

courage shown in his _coup d'état_), with no particular faith in the

purity of his patriotism, I yet hold him justified _so far_, that is, I

hold that a pure patriot would be perfectly justifiable in taking the

same steps which up to this moment he has taken. He has broken,

certainly, the husk of an oath, but fidelity to the intention of it

seems to me reconcilable with the breach; and if he had not felt that he

had the great mass of the people to back him, he is at least too able a

man, be certain, if not too honest a man, to have dared what he has

dared. You will see the result of the elections. As to Paris, don't

believe that Paris suffers violence from Louis Napoleon. The result of

my own impressions is a conviction that _from the beginning_ he had the

sympathy of the whole population here with him, to speak generally, and

exclusively of particular parties. All our tradespeople, for instance,

milkman, breadman, wine merchant, and the rest, yes, even the shrewd old

washerwoman, and the concierge, and our little lively servant were in a

glow of sympathy and admiration. 'Mais, c'est le vrai neveu de son

oncle! il est admirable! enfin la patrie sera sauvée.' The bourgeoisie

has now accepted the situation, it is admitted on all hands. 'Scandalous

adhesion!' say some. 'Dreadful apathy!' say others. Don't _you_ say

either one or the other, or I think you will be unjust to Paris and

France.

The French people are very democratical in their tendencies, but they

must have a visible type of hero-worship, and they find it in the bearer

of that name Napoleon. That name is the only tradition dear to them, and

it is deeply dear. That a man bearing it, and appealing at the same time

to the whole people upon democratical principles, should be answered

from the heart of the people, should neither astonish, nor shame, nor

enrage anybody.

An editor of the 'National,' a friend of ours, feels this so much, that

he gnashes his teeth over the imprudence of the extreme Reds, who did

not set themselves to trample out the fires of Buonapartism while they

had some possibility of doing it. 'Ce peuple a la tête _dure_,' said he

vehemently.

As to military despotism, would France bear _that_, do you think? Is the

French army, besides, made after the fashion of standing armies, such as

we see in other countries? Are they not eminently _civic_, flesh of the

people's flesh? I fear no military despotism for France, oh, none. Every

soldier is a citizen, and every citizen is or has been a soldier.

Altogether, instead of despairing, I am full of hope. It seems to me

probable that the door is open to a wider and calmer political liberty

than France has yet enjoyed. Let us wait.

The American _forms_ of republicanism are most uncongenial to this

artistic people; but democratical institutions will deepen and broaden,

I think, even if we should soon all be talking of the 'Empire.'

As to the repressive measures, why, grant the righteousness of the

movement, and you must accept its conditions. Don't believe the

tremendous exaggerations you are likely to hear on all sides--don't, I

beseech you.

The President rode under our windows on December 2, through a shout

extending from the Carrousel to the Arc de l'Etoile. The troups poured

in as we stood and looked. No sight could be grander, and I would not

have missed it, not for the Alps, I say.

You say nothing specific. How I should like to know _why_ exactly you

are out of spirits, and whether dear Mr. Martin is sad too. Robert and I

have had some domestic _émeutes_, because he hates some imperial names;

yet he confessed to me last night that the excessive and contradictory

nonsense he had heard among Legitimists, Orleanists, and _English_,

against the movement inclined him almost to a revulsion of feeling.

I would have written to you to-day, even if I had not received your

letter. You will forgive that what I have written should have been

scratched in the utmost haste to save the post. I can't even read it

over. There's the effect of going out to walk the first thing in the

morning....

Your ever affectionate

BA--to both of you.

* * * * *

_To Miss Mitford_

[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysées:

Christmas Eve, [1851].

What can you have thought of me? That I was shot or deserved to be?

Forgive in the first instance, dearest friend, and believe that I won't

behave so any more, if in any way I can help it.

Tell me your thought now about L. Napoleon. He rode under our windows on

December 2 through an immense shout from the Carrousel to the Arc de

l'Etoile. There was the army and the sun of Austerlitz, and even I

thought it one of the grandest of sights; for he rode there in the name

of the people, after all....

But we know men most opposed to him, writers of the old 'Presse' and

'National,' and Orleanists, and Legitimists, and the fury of all such I

can scarcely express to you after the life. Emile de Girardin and his

friends had a sublime scheme of going over in a body to England, and

establishing a Socialist periodical, inscribing on their new habitation,

'Ici c'est la France.' He actually advertised for sale his beautiful

house close by in the Champs-Elysées, asked ten thousand pounds

(English) for it; and would have been 'rather disappointed,' as one of

his sympathising friends confessed to us, if the offer had been

accepted. I heard a good story the other day. A lady visitor was

groaning politically to Madame de Girardin over the desperateness of the

situation. 'Il n'y a que Celui, qui est en haut, qui peut nous en

tirer,' said she, casting up her eyes. 'Oui, c'est vrai,' replied

Madame, 'il le pourrait, lui,' glancing towards the second floor, where

Emile was at work upon feuilletons. Not that she mistakes him habitually

for her deity, by any manner of means, if scandal is to be listened to.

I hear that Lamennais is profoundly disgusted. He said to a friend of

ours, that the French people were 'putrefied to the heart.' Which means

that they have one tradition still dear to them (the name of Napoleon)

and that they put no faith in the Socialistic prophets. Wise or unwise

they may be accordingly; but an affection and an apprehension can't

reasonably be said to amount to a 'putrefaction,' I think. No, indeed.

Louis Napoleon is said to say (a bitter foe of his told me this) that

'there will be four phases of his life.' The first was all rashness and

imprudence, but 'it was necessary to make him known:' the second, 'the

struggle with and triumph over anarchy:' the third, 'the settlement of

France and the pacification of Europe:' the fourth, a _coup de pistolet.

Se non è vero, è ben trovato._ Nothing is more likely than the

catastrophe in any case; and the violence of the passions excited in the

minority makes me wonder at his surviving a day even. Do you know I

heard your idol of a Napoleon (the antique hero) called the other

evening through a black beard and gnashing teeth, 'le plus grand

scélérat du monde,' and his empire, 'le règne du Satan,' and his

marshals, 'les coquins.' After that, I won't tell you that 'le neveu' is

reproached with every iniquity possible to anybody's public and private

life. Perhaps he is not 'sans reproche' in respect to the latter, not

altogether; but one can't believe, and oughtn't, even infinitesimally,

the things which are talked on the subject....

Ah, I am so vexed about George Sand. She came, she has gone, and we

haven't met! There was a M. François who pretended to be her very very

particular friend, and who managed the business so particularly ill,

from some motive or some incapacity, that he did not give us an

opportunity of presenting our letter. He did not '_dare_' to present it

for us, he said. She is shy--she distrusts bookmaking strangers, and she

intended to be incognita while in Paris. He proposed that we should

leave it at the theatre, and Robert refused. Robert said he wouldn't

have our letter mixed up with the love letters of the actresses, or

perhaps given to the 'premier comique' to read aloud in the green room,

as a relief to the 'Chère adorable,' which had produced so much

laughter. Robert was a little proud and M. François very stupid; and I,

between the two, in a furious state of dissent from either. Robert tries

to smooth down my ruffled plumage now, by promising to look out for some

other opportunity, but the late one has gone. She is said to have

appeared in Paris in a bloom of recovered beauty and brilliancy of eyes,

and the success of her play, 'Le Mariage de Victorine,' was complete. A

strange, wild, wonderful woman, certainly. While she was here, she used

a bedroom which belongs to her son--a mere 'chambre de garçon'--and for

the rest, saw whatever friends she chose to see only at the 'café,'

where she breakfasted and dined. She has just finished a romance, we

hear, and took fifty-two nights to write it. She writes only at night.

People call her Madame Sand. There seems to be no other name for her in

society or letters.

Now listen. Alexandre Dumas _does_ write his own books, that's a fact.

You know I always maintained it, through the odour of Dumas in the

books, but people swore the contrary with great foolish oaths worth

nothing. Maquet prepares historical materials, gathers together notes,

and so on, but Dumas writes every word of his books with his own hand,

and with a facility amounting to inspiration, said my informant. He

called him a great savage negro child. If he has twenty sous and wants

bread, he buys a pretty cane instead. For the rest, 'bon enfant,' kind

and amiable. An inspired negro child! In debt at this moment, after all

the sums he has made, said my informant--himself a most credible witness

and highly cultivated man.

I heard of Eugène Sue, too, yesterday. Our child is invited to a

Christmas tree and party, and Robert says he is too young to go, but I

persist in sending him for half an hour with Wilson--oh, really I

must--though he will be by far the youngest of the thirty children

invited. The lady of the house, Miss Fitton, an English resident in

Paris, an elderly woman, shrewd and kind, said to Robert that she had a

great mind to have Eugène Sue, only he was so scampish. I think that was

the word, or something alarmingly equivalent. Now I should like to see

Eugène Sue with my little innocent child in his arms; the idea of the

combination pleases me somewhat. But I sha'n't see it in any case. We

had three cold days last week, which brought back my cough and took away

my voice. I am dumb for the present and can't go out any more....

At last I have caught sight of an advertisement of your book. A very

catching title, and if I mayn't compliment you upon it, I certainly do

your publisher. I dare say the book is charming, and the more of

yourself in it, the more charming.

Write, and say how you are always when you write. Say, too, how you

continue to like your new house. We heard a good deal of you from Mr.

Fields, though he came to us only once. With him came Mr. Longfellow,

the poet's brother, who is at present in Paris--I mean the brother, not

the poet. Robert's love, may I say?

Wiedeman has struck up two friendships: one, with the small daughter of

our concierge and one with a little Russian princess, a month younger

than himself. He calls them both 'boys,' having no idea yet of the less

sublime sex, but he likes the plebeian best. May God make you happy on

this and other seasons!

Love your affectionate and grateful

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysées:

January 17, [1852].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--If you think I have not written to you, you

must be (as you are) the most lenient of friends, not to give me up for

ever. I answered your first letter by return of post and at great

length. About a fortnight ago, Robert heard from Madame Mohl, who heard

from somebody at Pau that you were 'waiting anxiously to hear from me,'

upon which I wrote a second letter. And that, too, did not reach you? Is

it possible? But I am innocent, innocent, innocent. See how innocent.

Now, if M. le Président has stopped my letters, or if he ponders in his

imperial mind how to send me out of Paris, he is as ungrateful as a

king, because I have been taking his part all this time at a great cost

of domestic _émeutes_. So you would have known, if you had received my

letters. The _coup d'état_ was a grand thing, dramatically and

poetically speaking, and the appeal to the people justified it in my

eyes, considering the immense difficulty of the circumstances, the

impossibility of the old constitution and the impracticability of the

House of Assembly. Now that's all over. For the rest--the new

constitution--I can't say as much for it; it disappoints me immensely.

Absolute government, _no_, while the taxes and acceptance of law lies,

as he leaves it, with the people; but there are stupidities undeniable,

I am afraid, and how such a constitution is to _work_, and how marshals

and cardinals are to help to work it, remains to be seen. I fear we have

not made a good change even from the 'constitution Marrast'[8] after

all. The English newspapers have made me so angry, that I scarcely know

whether I am as much ashamed, yet the shame is very great. As if the

people of France had not a right to vote as they pleased![9] We

understand nothing in England. As Cousin said, long ago, we are

'insular' of understanding. France may be mistaken in her speculations,

as she often is; and if any mistake has been lately committed, it will

be corrected by herself in a short time. Ignoble in her speculations she

never is....

I must tell you, my dearest friend, that for some days past I have been

very much upset, and am scarcely now fairly on my feet again, in

consequence of becoming suddenly aware of a painful indiscretion

committed by an affectionate and generous woman. I refer to Miss

Mitford's account of me in her new book.[10] We heard of it in a strange

way, through M. Philaret Chasles, of the Collège de France, beginning a

course of lectures on English literature, and announcing an extended

notice of E.B.B., 'the veil from whose private life had lately been

raised by Miss Mitford.' Somebody who happened to be present told us of

it, and while we were wondering and uncomfortable, up came a writer in

the 'Revue des Deux Mondes' to consult Robert upon a difficulty he was

in. He was engaged, he said, upon an article relating to me, and the

proprietors of the review had sent him a number of the 'Athenæum,' which

contained an extract from Miss M.'s book, desiring him to make use of

the biographical details. Now it struck him immediately, he said, on

reading the passage, that it was likely to give me great pain, and he

was so unwilling to be the means of giving me more pain that he came to

Robert to ask him how he should act. Do observe the delicacy and

sensibility of this man--a man, a foreigner, a Frenchman! I shall be

grateful to him as long as I live.[11]

Robert has seen the extract in the 'Athenæum.' It refers to the great

affliction of my life, with the most affectionate intentions and the

obtusest understanding. I know I am morbid, but this thing should not

have been done indeed. Now, I shall be liable to see recollections

dreadful to me, thrust into every vulgar notice of my books. I shall be

afraid to see my books reviewed anywhere. Oh! I have been so deeply

shaken by all this. _You_ will understand, I am certain, and I could not

help speaking of it to you, because I was certain.

I am answering your note, observe, by return of post. Do let me know if

you receive what I write this time. Robert will direct for me, having

faith in his superior legibleness, and I accept the insult implied in

the opinion.

God bless you. Do write. And never doubt my grateful affection for you,

whether posts go ill or well.

Robert is going out to inquire about 'My Novel.' His warm regards with

mine to dear Mr. Martin and yourself. This is a scratch rather than a

letter, but I would rather send it to you in haste than wait for another

post.

Your ever affectionate

BA.

* * * * *

The following letter marks the beginning of a new friendship, with Miss

Mulock, afterwards Mrs. Craik, the authoress of 'John Halifax,

Gentleman.' The subsequent letters are in very affectionate tones, but

it does not appear that the correspondence ever reached any very

extended dimensions.

* * * * *

_To Miss Mulock_

Paris, 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysées:

January 21, [1852].

I hear from England that you have dedicated a book to me with too kind

and most touching words. To thank you for such a proof of sympathy, to

thank you from my heart, cannot surely be a wrong thing to do, it seems

so natural and comes from so irresistible an impulse.

I read a book of yours once at Florence, which first made [me] know you

pleasantly, and afterwards (that was at Florence, too) there came a

piercing touch from a hand in the air--whether yours also, I cannot dare

to guess--which has preoccupied me a good deal since. If I speak to you

in mysteries, forgive me. Let it be clear at least, that I am very happy

to be grateful to you for the honor you have done me in your dedication,

and that my husband, moved more, as he always is, by honor paid to me

than to himself, thanks you beside. I will not keep back his thanks,

which are worth more than mine can be.

For the rest, we have, neither of us, seen the book yet, nor even read

an exact copy of the words in question. Only the rumour of them appears

to run that I am 'not likely ever to see you.' And why am I never to see

you, pray? Unlikelier pleasures have been granted to me, and I will not

indeed lose hold of the hope of this pleasure.

Allow it to

Your always obliged

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

_To Miss Mitford_

[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysées:

[January-February 1852].

My very dear friend, let me begin what I have to say by recognising you

as the most generous and affectionate of friends. I never could mistake

the least of your intentions; you were always, from first to last, kind

and tenderly indulgent to me--always exaggerating what was good in me,

always forgetting what was faulty and weak--keeping me by force of

affection in a higher place than I could aspire to by force of vanity;

loving me always, in fact. Now let me tell you the truth. It will prove

how hard it is for the tenderest friends to help paining one another,

since _you_ have pained _me_. See what a deep wound I must have in me,

to be pained by the touch of such a hand. Oh, I am morbid, I very well

know. But the truth is that I have been miserably upset by your book,

and that if I had had the least imagination of your intending to touch

upon certain biographical details in relation to me, I would have

conjured you by your love to me and by my love to you, to forbear it

altogether. You cannot understand; no, you cannot understand with all

your wide sympathy (perhaps, because you are not morbid, and I am), the

sort of susceptibility I have upon one subject. I have lived heart to

heart (for instance) with my husband these five years: I have never yet

spoken out, in a whisper even, what is in me; never yet could find heart

or breath; never yet could bear to hear a word of reference from his

lips. And now those dreadful words are going the round of the

newspapers, to be verified here, commented on there, gossiped about

everywhere; and I, for my part, am frightened to look at a paper as a

child in the dark--as unreasonably, you will say--but what then? what

drives us mad is our unreason. I will tell you how it was. First of all,

an English acquaintance here told us that she had been hearing a lecture

at the Collège de France, and that the professor, M. Philaret Chasles,

in the introduction to a series of lectures on English poetry, had

expressed his intention of noticing Tennyson, Browning, &c., and

E.B.B.--'from whose private life the veil had been raised in so

interesting a manner lately by Miss Mitford.' In the midst of my anxiety

about this, up comes a writer of the 'Revue des Deux Mondes' to my

husband, to say that he was preparing a review upon me and had been

directed by the editor to make use of some biographical details

extracted from your book into the 'Athenæum,' but that it had occurred

to him doubtfully whether certain things might not be painful to me, and

whether I might not prefer their being omitted in his paper. (All this

time we had seen neither book nor 'Athenæum.') Robert answered for me

that the omission of such and such things would be much preferred by me,

and accordingly the article appears in the 'Revue' with the passage from

your book garbled and curtailed as seemed best to the quoter. Then

Robert set about procuring the 'Athenæum' in question. He tells me (and

_that_ I perfectly believe) that, for the facts to be given at all, they

could not possibly be given with greater delicacy; oh, and I will add

for myself, that for them to be related by anyone during my life, I

would rather have _you_ to relate them than another. But why should they

be related during my life? There was no need, no need. To show my

nervous susceptibility in the length and breadth of it to you, I _could

not_ (when it came to the point) _bear to read_ the passage extracted in

the 'Athenæum,' notwithstanding my natural anxiety to see exactly what

was done. I could not bear to do it. I made Robert read it aloud--with

omissions--so that I know all your kindness. I feel it deeply; through

tears of pain I feel it; and if, as I dare say you will, you think me

very very foolish, do not on that account think me ungrateful.

Ungrateful I never can be to you, my much loved and kindest friend.

I hear your book is considered one of your best productions, and I do

not doubt that the opinion is just. Thank you for giving it to us, thank

you.

I don't like to send you a letter from Paris without a word about your

hero--'handsome,' I fancy not, nor the imperial type. I have not seen

his face distinctly. What do you think about the constitution? Will it

work, do you fancy, now-a-days in France? The initiative of the laws,

put out of the power of the legislative assembly, seems to me a

stupidity; and the senators, in their fine dresses, make me wink a

little. Also, I hear that the 'senatorial cardinals' don't please the

peasants, who hate the priesthood as much as they hate the 'Cossacks.'

On the other hand, Montalembert was certainly in bed the other day with

vexation, because 'nobody could do anything with Louis Napoleon--he was

obstinate;' 'nous nous en lavons les mains,' and that fact gives me hope

that not too much indulgence is intended to the Church. There's to be a

ball at the Tuileries with 'court dresses,' which is 'un peu fort' for

a republic. By the way, rumour (with apparent authority justifying it)

says, that a black woman opened her mouth and prophesied to him at Ham,

'he should be the head of the French nation, and be assassinated in a

ball-room.' I was assured that he believes the prophecy firmly, 'being

in all things too superstitious' and fatalistical.

I was interrupted in this letter yesterday. Meantime comes out the

decree against the Orleans property, which I disapprove of altogether.

It's the worst thing yet done, to my mind. Yet the Bourse stands fast,

and the decree is likely enough to be popular with the ouvrier class.

There are rumours of tremendously wild financial measures, only I

believe in no rumours just now, and apparently the Bourse is as

incredulous on this particular point. If I thought (as people say) that

we are on the verge of a 'law' declaring the Roman Catholic religion the

State religion, I should give him up at once; but this would be contrary

to the traditions of the Empire, and I can't suppose it to be probable

on any account.