CHAPTER XI

1860-1861

Early in 1860 the promised booklet, 'Poems before Congress,' was

published in England, and met with very much the reception the authoress

had anticipated. It contained only eight poems, all but one relating to

the Italian question. Published at a time when the events to which they

alluded were still matters of current controversy, they could not but be

regarded rather as pamphleteering than as poetry; and it could hardly be

expected that the ordinary Englishman, whose sympathy with Italy did not

abolish his mistrust (eminently justifiable, as later revelations have

shown it to be) of Louis Napoleon, should read with equanimity the

continual scorn of English policy and motives, or the continual

exaltation of the Emperor. Looking back now over a distance of nearly

forty years, and when the Second Empire, with all its merits and its

sins, has long gone to its account, we can, at least in part, put aside

the politics and enjoy the poetry. Though pieces like 'The Dance' and 'A

Court Lady' are not of much permanent value, there are many fine

passages, notably in 'Napoleon III. in Italy,' and 'Italy and the

World,' in which a true and noble enthusiasm is expressed in living and

burning words, worthy of a poet.

For attacks on her Italian politics Mrs. Browning was prepared, as the

foregoing letters show; but one incident caused her real and quite

unexpected annoyance. The reviewer in the 'Athenæum' (apparently Mr.

Chorley) by some unaccountable oversight took the 'Curse for a Nation'

to apply to England, instead of being (as it obviously is) a

denunciation of American slavery. Consequently he referred to this poem

in terms of strong censure, as improper and unpatriotic on the part of

an English writer; and a protest from Mrs. Browning only elicited a

somewhat grudging editorial note, in a tone which implied that the

interpretation which the reviewer had put upon the poem was one which it

would naturally bear. One can hardly be surprised at the annoyance which

this treatment caused to Mrs. Browning, though some of the phrases in

which she speaks of it bear signs of the excitement which characterised

so much of her thought in these years of mental strain and stress, and

bodily weakness and decay.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Jameson_

(Fragment) [Early in 1860.]

I remember well your kindness to it. Nothing was said then about the

'fit arguments for poetry,' and I recovered from it to write 'Aurora

Leigh,' of which, however, many people did say that it was built on an

unfit argument, and besides was a very indecent, corrupting book (have I

not heard of ladies of sixty, who had 'never felt themselves pure since

reading it'?) But now, consider. Since you did not lose hope for me in

'Casa Guidi Windows,' because the line of politics was your own, why

need you despair of me in the 'Poems before Congress,' although I do

praise the devil in them? A mistake is not fatal to a critic? need it be

to a poet? Does Napoleon's being wicked (if he is so) make Italy less

interesting? or unfit for poetry historical subjects like 'The Dance' or

the 'Court Lady'? Meanwhile that thin-skinned people the Americans

exceed some of you in generosity, rendering thanks to reprovers of their

ill deeds, and understanding the pure love of the motive.[77] Let me

tell you rather for their sake than mine. I have extravagant praises and

_prices_ offered to me from 'over the western sun,' in consequence of

these very 'Poems before Congress.' The nation is generous in these

things and not 'thin-skinned.'

As to England, I shall be forgiven in time. The first part of a campaign

and the first part of a discussion are the least favourable to English

successes. After a while (by the time you have learnt to shoot cats with

the new rifles), you will put them away, and arrive at the happy second

thought which corrects the first thought. That second thought will not

be of _invasion_, prophesies a headless prophet. 'Time was when heads

were off a man would die.' A man--yes. But a woman! _We_ die hard, you

know.

Here, an end. I hope you will write to me some day, and ease me by

proving to me that I have ceased to be bitter to the palate of your

soul. Believe this--that, rather than be a serious sadness to you, I

would gladly sit on in the pillory under the aggressive mud of that mob

of 'Saturday Reviewers,' who take their mud and their morals from the

same place, and use voices hoarse with hooting down un-English

poetesses, to cheer on the English champion, Tom Sayers. For me, I

neither wish for the 'belt'[78] nor martyrdom; but if I were ambitious

of anything, it might be to be wronged where, for instance, Cavour is

wronged.

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

[Rome], Friday [end of March 1860].

My ever dearest Isa, I am scarcely in heart yet for writing letters, and

did not mean to write to-day. You heard of the unexpected event which

brought me the loss of a very dear friend, dear, dear Mrs. Jameson.[79]

It was, of course, a shock to me, as such things are meant to be....

And now I come to what makes me tax you with a dull letter, I feeling so

dully; and, dear, it is with dismay I have to tell you that the letter

you addressed under cover to Mr. Russell has _never reached us_. Till

your last communication (this moment received), I had hoped that the

contents of it might have been less important than O.-papers must be.

What is to be done, or thought? I beseech you to write and tell me if

_harm_ is likely to follow from this seizure. The other inclosure came

to me quite safely, because it came by the Government messenger. I think

you sent it through Corbet. But Mr. Russell's _post_ letters are as

liable to opening as mine are; his name is no security. Whenever you

send a 'Nazione' newspaper through him, it never reaches us, though we

receive our 'Monitore' through him regularly. Why? Because in his

position he is allowed to have newspapers for his own use. He takes in

for himself no 'Monitore,' so ours goes to his account, but he does take

in a 'Nazione,' therefore ours is seized, as being plainly for other

hands than his own licensed ones.

I am very much grieved about this loss of your letter and its contents.

First, there's my fear lest harm should come of this, and then there's

my own personal _mulcting_ of what would have been of such deep interest

to me. I am 'revelling'? See how little.

Robert wrote in a playful vein to Kate, and you must not and will not

care for that. He had understood from your letter that you and the

majority had all, like the 'Athenæum,' understood the 'Curse for a

Nation' to be directed against England. Robert was _furious_ about the

'Athenæum'; no other word describes him, and I thought that both I and

Mr. Chorley would perish together, seeing that even the accusation (such

a one!) made me infamous, it seemed.

The curious thing is, that it was at Robert's suggestion that that

particular poem was reprinted there (it never had appeared in England),

though 'Barkis was willing'; I had no manner of objection. I never have

to justice.

Mr. Chorley's review is objectionable to me because unjust. A reviewer

should read the book he gives judgment on, and he could not have read

from beginning to end the particular poem in question, and have

expounded its significance so. I wrote a letter on the subject to the

'Athenæum' to correct this mis-statement, which I cared for chiefly on

Robert's account.

In fact, _I_ cursed neither England nor America. I leave such things to

our Holy Father here; the poem only pointed out how the curse was

involved in the action of slave-holding.

I never saw Robert so enraged about a criticism. He is better now, let

me add.

In the matter of Savoy,[80] it has vexed and vexes me, I do confess to

you. It's a handle given to various kinds of dirty hands, it spoils the

beauty and glory of much, the uncontested admiration of which would have

done good to the world. At the same time, as long as Piedmont and Savoy

agree in the annexation to France, there is nothing to object to--not to

object to with a reasonable mind. And it seems to be understood (it is

stated in fact), that the cession is under condition of the assent of

the populations. The Vote is necessary to the honour of France. I do not

doubt that it will be consulted. Meantime there is too much haste, I

think. There is a haste somewhat indelicate in the introduction of

French garrisons into Savoy, previous to the popular conclusion being

known. There should have been mixed garrisons, French and Piedmontese,

till the vote was taken. Napoleon should have been more particular in

Savoy than he was even in central Italy, as to the advance of any

occasion of the current charge of 'pressure.'

Altogether the subject is an anxious one--would be, even if less

rancorous violence on the part of his enemies were wreaked upon it. The

English Tories are using it with the frenzy of despair, and no wonder!

Lamoricière's arrival is another proof of the internal coalition against

the Empire.

Now I must end, Robert says, or I shall lose the post. My true best

love, and Robert's--and Peni's.

Write to me, do, dearest Isa, and tell me if the MSS. sent were

_nuisibles_. The Excommunication just out is said to include the

Emperor.

Your ever loving

BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss Browning_

[Rome: about March 1860.]

Dearest Sarianna,--It is impossible to have a regret for dear Lady

Elgin. She has been imprisoned here under double chains too long. To be

out of the dark and the restraint is a blessing to that spirit, and must

be felt so by all who love her. Of course I shall write to Lady Augusta

Bruce....

No, I don't think there is much to be forgiven by my countrymen in my

book. What I reproach them for, none of them deny. They certainly took

no part in the war, nor will they if there is more war, and certainly

the existence of the rifle clubs is a fact.

Robert and I began to write on the Italian question together, and our

plan was (Robert's own suggestion!) to publish jointly. When I showed

him my ode on Napoleon he observed that I was gentle to England in

comparison to what he had been, but after Villafranca (the Palmerston

Ministry having come in) he destroyed his poem and left me alone, and I

determined to stand alone. What Robert had written no longer suited the

moment; but the poetical devil in me burnt on for an utterance. I have

spoken nothing but historical truths, as far as the outline is

concerned. But the spirit of the whole, is, of course, opposed to the

national feeling, or I should not in my preface suppose it to be

offended.

With every deference to you, dearest Sarianna, I cannot think that you

who live, as the English usually do, quite aside and apart from French

society, can judge of the interest in France for Italy. I see French

letters--letters of French men and women--giving a very contrary

impression. The French newspapers give a very contrary impression. And

the statistics of books and pamphlets published and circulated in France

on the Italian question this year are in most prodigious disaccord with

such a conclusion. Compare them with the same statistics in England, and

then judge.

Besides, the English, to do them justice, can be active and generous in

any cause in which they are really interested, and it is a fact that we

could not get up a subscription in England even for Garibaldi's muskets

lately, while France is always giving.

Not that there are not, and have not been, many English of generous

sympathies towards Italy. That I well know. But it is a small,

protesting minority. Lord John has done very well, as far as words can

go, but it has been simply in giving effect to the intentions of France,

who wanted much a respectable conservative Power like England to endorse

her bill of revolution with the retrograde European Governments.

I will spare what I think of the treatment in England of the Savoy

question. We are losing all moral prestige in the eyes of the world,

with our small jealousies and factional struggles for power.

Ah! dear Sarianna, I don't complain for myself of an unappreciating

public--_I have no reason_. But, just for _that_ reason, I complain

more about Robert, only he does not hear me complain. To _you_ I may

say, that the blindness, deafness, and stupidity of the English public

to Robert are amazing. Of course Milsand had 'heard his name'! Well, the

contrary would have been strange. Robert _is_. All England can't prevent

his existence, I suppose. But nobody there, except a small knot of

pre-Raffaelite men, pretends to do him justice. Mr. Forster has done the

best in the press. As a sort of lion, Robert has his range in society,

and, for the rest, you should see Chapman's returns; while in America

he's a power, a writer, a poet. He is read--he lives in the hearts of

the people. 'Browning readings' here in Boston; 'Browning evenings'

there. For the rest, the English hunt lions too, Sarianna, but their

favourite lions are chosen among 'lords' chiefly, or 'railroad kings.'

'It's worth _eating much dirt_,' said an Englishman of high family and

character here, 'to get to Lady ----'s soirée.' Americans will eat dirt

to get to _us_. There's the difference. English people will come and

stare at _me_ sometimes, but physicians, dentists, who serve me and

refuse their fees, artists who give me pictures, friends who give up

their carriages and make other practical sacrifices, are _not

English_--no--though English Woolner was generous about a bust. Let _me_

be just at least.

There is a beautiful photograph of Wilde's picture of Pen on horseback,

which shall go to you, the likeness better than in the picture.

I can scarcely allude to the loss of my loved friend Mrs. Jameson. It's

a blot more on the world to me. Best love to you and the dear Nonno from

Pen and myself. The editor of the 'Atlas' writes to thank me for the

justice and courage of my international politics. English clergyman

stops at the door to say to the servant, 'he does not know me, but

applauds my sentiments.' So there may be ten just persons who spare

Your affectionate sister.

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

[Rome]: Saturday [April 1860].

My dearest dear Isa, not well! That must be the first word 'by return of

post.' Dear, let me have a better letter, to say that you are well and

bright again, and brilliant Isa as customary.

And now, join me in admiration of the 'husband Browning!' Isn't he a

miracle, whoever else may be? The wife Browning, not to name most other

human beings, would have certainly put the 'Monitore' receipt into the

fire, or, at best, lost it. In fact, whisper it not in the streets of

Askelon, but _she_ had forgotten even the fact of its having been sent,

and was quietly concluding that Wilson had lost it in a fog and that we

should have patiently to pay twice. Not at all. Up rises the husband

Browning, superior to his mate, and with eyes all fire, holds up the

receipt like an heroic rifleman looking to a French invasion at the end

of a hundred years. Blessed be they who keep receipts. It is a beatitude

beyond my reach.

Only I do hope my Tuscan friends of the 'Monitore' are only careless and

forgetful in their business habits, and that they didn't think of

'annexing'--eh, Isa! No, I don't believe it was dishonesty, it might

have so very well been oblivion.

May the paper come to-day, that's all. We get the 'Galignani,' but can't

afford to miss our Italian news. Then, not only we ourselves, but half a

dozen Tuscan exiles here in Rome who are not allowed to read a freely

breathed word, come to us for that paper, friends of Ferdinando's living

in Rome. First he lent them the paper, then they got frightened for fear

of being convicted through some spy of reading such a thing[81], and

prayed to come to this house to read it. There have been six of them

sometimes in the evening. We keep a sort of café in Rome, observe, and

your 'Monitore' is necessary to us.

You have seen by this time Lamoricière's[82] address to the Papal array.

It's extraordinary, while the French are still here, that such a

publication should be permitted, obvious as the position taken must be

to all, and personally displeasing to the Emperor as the man is known to

be. Magnanimity is certainly a great feature of Napoleon's mind. And now

what next? The French are going, of course. You would suppose an attack

on Romagna imminent. And better so. Let us have it out at once.

I have the papers. I am much the better for some things in them. There's

to be the universal suffrage, the withdrawal of troops, whatever I

wanted. Cavour's despatch to the Swiss is also excellent. Those injured

martyrs wanted the bone in their teeth, that's all.

The wailing in England for Swiss and Savoyards, while other

nationalities are to be trodden under foot without intervention, except

what's called _aggression_, is highly irritating to me.

Dearest Isa, Robert tore me from my last sentence to you. I was going to

say that I cared less for the attacks of the press on my book than I

care for your sympathy. Thank you for feeling 'mad' for me. But be sane

again. Dear, it's not worth being mad for.

In the advertised 'Blackwood,' do you see an article called 'Poetic

Aberration'? It came into my head that it might be a stone thrown at me,

and Robert went to Monaldini's to glance at it. Sure enough it is a

stone. He says a violent attack. And let me do him justice. It was only

the misstatement in the 'Athenæum' which overset him, only the first

fire which made him wink. Now he turns a hero's face to all this

cannonading. He doesn't care a straw, he says, and what's more, he

doesn't, really. So I, who was only sorry for him, can't care. Observe,

Isa, if there had been less violence and more generosity, the poems

would obviously have been less deserved.

The English were not always so thin-skinned. Lord Byron and Moore

have....

[_The rest of the letter is lost_]

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

Rome: April 2, [1860].

Ever dearest Isa,--Here are the letters! I am sorry I wrote rashly

yesterday; but from an expression of yours I took for granted that the

packet went by the post; and I have been really very anxious about it.

No, Isa; I don't like the tone of these letters so well. I can

understand that what is said of Belgium and the Rhine provinces is in

the event of a certain coalition and eventual complication, but it

doesn't do, even in a thought and theory, to sacrifice a country like

Belgium. I respect France, and 'l'idée Napoléonienne'; yes, but

conscience and the populations more.

As to Napoleon's waiting for the bribe of Savoy before he would pass

beyond Villafranca, this is making him ignoble; and I do not believe it

in the least. Also it contradicts the letter-writer's previous letter,

in which he said that Savoy had been from the beginning the _sous

entendre_ of Venetia. No, I can see that an Italy in unity, a great

newly constituted nation, might be reasonably asked by her liberator to

shift her frontier from beyond the Alps, but for Victor Emmanuel to be

expected at Milan to put his hand into his pocket and pay, without

completion of facts, or consultation of peoples, this would be to 'faire

le marchand' indeed, and I could write no odes to a man who could act

so. I don't sell my soul to Napoleon, and applaud him _quand même_. But

absolutely I disbelieve in this version, Isa. If the war had not stopped

at Villafranca, it would have been European; _that_, if not clear at the

time, is clear now--clear from the official statement of Prussia. By

putting diplomacy in the place of the war, a great deal was absolutely

attained, besides a better standpoint for a renewal of the war, should

that be necessary. 'Hence those tears'--of Villafranca!

The letter-writer is very keen, and evidently hears a good deal, while

he selects after his own judgment. _I_ am glad to hear that 'L'Opinion

Nationale' represents the efficient power. That's comfortable. What's to

be done next in the south here rests with _us_, it seems. But what of

the occupation of Rome? And what is the meaning of Lamoricière being

here 'with the consent of the Emperor'? Lamoricière can mean no good

either to the French Government or to Italy; and the Emperor knows it

well.

My dearest Isa, let us make haste to say that of course I shall be glad

to let my book be used as is proposed. How will we get a copy to M.

Fauvety? I enclose an order to Chapman and Hall which M. Dall'

Ongaro[83] may enclose to his friend, who must enclose it on to England,

with a letter conveying his address in Paris. Then the book may be sent

by the _book post_. Wouldn't that do?

I shall give a copy to Dall' Ongaro (when I can get a supply), and one

for the Trollopes also, never forgetting dear Kate! (and I do expect

copies through the embassy) but I have not seen a word of the book yet.

I only know that, being Cæsar's wife, I am not merely 'suspected' (poor

wife!), but dishonored before the 'Athenæum' world as an unnatural

vixen, who, instead of staying at home and spinning wool, stays at

home[84] and curses her own land. 'It is my own, my native land!' If,

indeed, I had gone abroad and cursed other people's lands, there would

have been no objection. That poem, as addressed to America, has always

been considered rather an amiable and domestic trait on my part. But

England! Heavens and earth! What a crime! The very suspicion of it is

guilt.

The fact is, between you and me, Isa, certain of those quoted stanzas do

'_fit_' England 'as if they were made for her,' which they were _not_,

though....

According to your letters, Venetia seems pushed off into the future a

little, don't you think?

Still, they are interesting, very. Get Dall' Ongaro to remember me in

future. The details about Antonelli shall go to him. I am delighted at

the idea of being translated by him....

Write to me, my dearly loved Isa. You who are true! let me touch you!

Yours ever from the heart

BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

28 Via del Tritone:

Monday and Tuesday [April 1860].

Ever dearest Isa,--I send you under this enclosure an abstract of some

papers given to me by somebody who can't be named, with a sketch of

Antonelli. I wasn't allowed to copy; I was only to abstract. But

everything is in. The whole has been verified and may be absolutely

relied on, I hear. So long I have waited for them. Should I have

translated them into Italian, I wonder? Or can Dall' Ongaro get to the

bottom of them so? Dates of birth are not mentioned, I observe. From

another quarter I may get those. About has the character of romancing a

little.

Not a word do you say of your health. Do another time. Remember that

your previous letter left you in bed.

Dearest Isa, how it touched me, your putting away the 'Saturday Review'!

But dear, don't care more for me than I do for myself. That very

Review, lent to us, _we_ lent to the Storys. Dear, the abuse of the

press is the justification of the poems; so don't be reserved about

these attacks. I was a little, little vexed by a letter this morning

from my brother George; but _pazienza_, we must bear these things.

Robert called yesterday on Odo Russell, who observed to him that the

article in the 'Saturday Review' was infamous, and that the general tone

of the newspaper had grown to be so offensive, he should cease to take

it in. (Not on my account, observe.) 'But,' said Mr. Russell, 'it's

extraordinary, the sensation your wife's book has made. Every paper I

see has something to say about it,' added he; 'it is curious. The

offence has been less in the objections to England than in the praise of

Napoleon. Certainly Monckton Milnes said a good thing when he was asked

lately in Paris what, after all, you English wanted. "_We want_" he

answered, "_first, that the Austrians should beat you French thoroughly;

next, we want that the Italians should be free, and then we want them to

be very grateful to us for doing nothing towards it._" This, concluded

Russell, 'sums up the whole question.' Mark, he is very English, but he

can't help seeing what lies before him, having quick perceptions,

moreover. Then men have no courage. Milnes, for instance, keeps his

sarcasm for Paris, and in England supports his rifle club and all

Parliamentary decencies.

Mind you read 'Blackwood.' Though I was rather vexed by George's letter

(he is awfully vexed) I couldn't help laughing at my sister Henrietta,

who accepts the interpretation of the 'Athenæum' (having read the poems)

and exclaims, 'But, oh, Ba, such dreadful curses!'...

Mrs. Apthorp has arrived, but I have not seen her nor received the

paper. Pins were right, though I should have liked some smaller.

'Monitores' arrived up at the 12. Beyond, nothing. I hear that Mr.

Apthorp was struck with the 'brilliant conversation between you and

Miss Cobbe.' You made an impression too, on Mrs. Apthorp.

Oh, Isa, how I should like to be with you in our Florence to-day. Yes,

yes, I think of you. Here the day is gloomy, and with a sprinkling now

and then of rain. I trust you may have more sun. God bless the city and

the hills, and the people who dwell therein!

I have just sent a lyric to Thackeray for his magazine.[85] He begged me

for something long ago. Robert suggested that _now_ he probably wanted

nothing from such profane hands. So I told him that in that case he

might send me back my manuscripts. In the more favorable case it may be

still too late for this month. The poem is 'meek as maid,' though the

last thing I wrote--no touch of 'Deborah'--'_A Musical Instrument_.' How

good this 'Cornhill Magazine' is! Anthony Trollope is really superb.[86]

I only just got leave from Robert to send something: he is so averse to

the periodicals as mediums....

Lamoricière's arrival produces a painful sensation among the people

here; and the withdrawal of the French troops has become most unpopular.

I am anxious. If the Emperor has consented to his coming, it was pure

magnanimity, and very characteristic; but the _cost of this_ should be

paid by France and not Italy, we must feel besides. I am content about

Savoy.

Dearest Isa, you and your 'Saturday Reviewer' shall have Robert's

portrait. Are you sure he didn't ask for _mine_? How good you are to us

and Landor! God bless you, says

Your tenderly loving

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mr. Chorley_

28 Via del Tritone, Rome: April 13, [1860].

My dear Mr. Chorley,--It is always better to be frank than otherwise;

sometimes it is necessary to be frank--that is when one would fain keep

a friend, yet has a thing against him which burns in one. I shall put my

foot on this spark in a moment; but first I must throw it out of my

heart you see, and here it is.

Dearest Mr. Chorley, you have not been just to me in the matter of my

'Poems before Congress.' Why have you not been just to me? You are an

honest man and my friend. Those two things might go together. Your

opinions, critical or political, are free from stress of friendship. I

never expected from you favor or mercy _because_ you were my friend (it

would have been unworthy of us both) but I did expect justice from you,

_although_ you were my friend. That is reasonable.

And I consider that as a conscientious critic you were bound to read

through the whole of the 'rhyme' called 'A Curse for a Nation' before

ticketing it for the public, and I complain that after neglecting to do

so and making a mistake in consequence, you refused the poor amends of

printing my letter in full. A loose paragraph like this found to-day in

your 'Athenæum' about Mrs. Browning 'wishing to state' that the 'Curse'

was levelled at America _quoad_ negro-slavery, and the satisfaction of

her English readers in this correction of what was 'generally thought';

as if Mrs. Browning 'stated' it arbitrarily (perhaps from fright) and as

if the poem stated nothing distinctly, and as if the intention of it

_could_ be 'generally thought' what the 'Athenæum' critic took it to be,

except by following his lead or adopting his process of a general

skipping of half the said poem--this loose paragraph does not cover a

great fault, it seems to me. Well, I have spoken.

As to the extent of the 'general thought,' we cannot, of course judge

here, where it is so difficult to get access to periodicals. We have

seen, however, two virulent articles from enemies in 'Blackwood' and the

'Saturday Review,' the latter sparing none of its native mud through

three columns; _not_ to speak of a renewal of the charge in several

political articles with a most flattering persistency. Both these

writers (being enemies) keep clear of the 'general thought' suggested by

a friend, and accepted indeed by friendly and generous reviewers in the

'Atlas' and 'Daily News.' Therefore I feel perfectly unaggrieved by all

the enemies' hard words. They speak from their own point of view, and

have a right to speak.

In fact, in printing the poems, I did not expect to help my reputation

in England, but simply to deliver my soul, to get the relief to my

conscience and heart, which comes from a pent-up word spoken or a tear

shed. Whatever I may have ever written of the least worth has

represented a conviction in me, something in me felt as a truth. I never

wrote to please any of you, not even to please my own husband. Every

genuine artist in the world (whatever his degree) goes to heaven for

speaking the truth. It is one of the beatitudes of art, and attainable

without putting off the flesh.

To be plain, and not mystical, it is obvious that if I had expected

compliments and caresses from the English press to my 'Poems before

Congress,' the said poems would have been little deserved in England,

and a greater mistake on my part than any committed by the 'Athenæum,'

which is saying much.

There! I have done. The spark is under my shoe. If in 'losing my temper'

I have 'lost my music,' don't let it be said that I have lost my friend

by my own fault and choice also.

For I would not willingly lose him, though he should be unjust to me

thrice, instead of this once throughout our intercourse. Affectionately

yours, dear Mr. Chorley,

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

_To Mr. Chorley_

28 Via del Tritone, Rome: May 2, [1860].

My dear Mr. Chorley,--I make haste to answer your letter, and beg you to

do the like in putting out of your life the least touch of pain or

bitterness connected with me. It is true, true, true, that some of my

earliest gladness in literary sympathy and recognition came from you. I

was grateful to you then as a stranger, and I am not likely ever to

forget it as a friend. Believe this of me, as I feel it of _you_.

In the matter of reviews and of my last book, and before leaving the

subject for ever, I want you distinctly to understand that my complaint

related simply to the mistake in facts, and not to any mistake in

opinion. The quality of neither mercy nor justice should be strained in

the honest reviewer by the personal motive; and, because you felt a

regard for me, _that_ was no kind of reason why you should like my book.

In printing the poems, I well knew the storm of execration which would

follow. Your zephyr from the 'Athenæum' was the first of it, gentle

indeed in comparison with various gusts from other quarters. All fair it

was from your standpoint, to see me as a prophet without a head, or even

as a woman in a shrewish temper, and if my husband had not been

especially pained by my being held up at the end of a fork as the

unnatural she-monster who had 'cursed' her own country (following the

Holy Father), I should have left the '_mistake_' to right itself,

without troubling the 'Athenæum' office with the letter they would not

insert. In fact, Robert was a little vexed with me for not being vexed

enough. I was only vexed enough when the 'Athenæum' corrected its

misstatement in its own way. _That did_ extremely vex me, for it made me

look ungenerous, cowardly, mean--as if, in haste to escape from the dogs

in England, I threw them the good name of America. 'Mrs. Browning _now

states_.'

Well, dear Mr. Chorley, it was not your doing. So the thing that 'vexed

me enough' in you was a mistake of mine. Let us forgive one another our

mistakes; and there, an end. _I_ was wrong in taking for granted that

the letter which referred to your review was entrusted to you to dispose

of; and you were not right in being in too much haste to condemn a book

you disliked to give the due measure of attention to every page of it.

The insurgents being plainly insurgents, you shot one at least of them

without trial, as was done in Spain the other day. True, that even

favorable critics have fallen here and there into your very mistake; but

is not that mainly attributable to the suggestive power of the

'Athenæum,' do you not believe so yourself? 'Thais led the way!'

And now that we clasp hands again, my dear friend, let me say one word

as to the 'argument' of my last poems. Once, in a kind and generous

review of 'Aurora Leigh,' you complained a little of 'new lights.' Now I

appeal to you. Is it not rather _you_ than I, who deal in 'new lights,'

if the liberation of a people and the struggle of a nation for existence

have ceased in your mind to be the right arguments for poetry? Observe,

I may be wrong or right about Napoleon. He may be snake, scoundrel,

devil, in his motives. But the thing he did was done before the eyes of

all. His coming here was real, the stroke of his sword was indubitable,

the rising and struggle of the people was beyond controversy, and the

state of things at present is a fact. What if the father of poetry Homer

(to go back to the oldest lights) made a mistake about the cause of

Achilles' wrath. What if Achilles really wanted to get rid of Briseis

and the war together, and sulked in his tent in a great sham? Should we

conclude against the artistic propriety of the poet's argument

therefore?

You greatly surprise me by such objections. It is objected to 'new

lights,' as far as I know, that we are apt to be too metaphysical,

self-conscious, subjective, everything for which there are hard German

words. The reproaches made against myself have been often of this

nature, as you must be well aware. 'Beyond human sympathies' is a phrase

in use among critics of a certain school. But that, in any school, any

critic should consider the occasions of great tragic movements (such as

a war for the life of a nation) unfit occasions for poetry, improper

arguments, fills me with an astonishment which I can scarcely express

adequately, and, pardon me, I can only understand your objection by a

sad return on the English persistency in its mode of looking at the

Italian war. You have looked at it always too much as a mere table for

throwing dice--so much for France's ambition, so much for Piedmont's, so

much stuff for intrigue in an English Parliament for ousting Whigs, or

inning Conservatives. You have not realised to yourselves the dreadful

struggle for national life, you who, thank God, have your life as a

nation safe. A calm scholastic Italian friend of ours said to my husband

at the peace, '_It's sad to think how the madhouses will fill after

this._' You do not conceive clearly the agony of a whole people with

their house on fire, though Lord Brougham used that very figure to

recommend your international neutrality. No, if you conceived of it, if

you did not dispose of it lightly in your thoughts as of a Roccabella

conspiracy, full half vanity, and only half serious--a Mazzini

explosion, not a quarter justified, and taking place often on an affair

of _métier_--you, a thoughtful and feeling man, would cry aloud that if

poets represent the deepest things, the most tragic things in human

life, they need not go further for an argument. And _I_ say, my dear Mr.

Chorley, that if, while such things are done and suffered, the poet's

business is to rhyme the stars and walk apart, _I_ say that Mr. Carlyle

is right, and that the world requires more earnest workers than such

dreamers can be.

For my part, I have always conceived otherwise of poetry. I believe that

if anything written by me has been recognised even by _you_, the cause

is that I have written not to please you or any critic, but the deepest

truth out of my own heart and head. I don't dream and make a poem of it.

Art is not either all beauty or all use, it is essential truth which

makes its way through beauty into use. Not that I say this for myself.

Artistically, I may have failed in these poems--that is for the critic

to consider; but in the choice of their argument I have not failed

artistically, _I think_, or my whole artistic life and understanding of

life have failed.

There, I cannot persuade you of this, but I believe it. I have tried to

stand on the facts of things before I began to feel 'dithyrambically.'

Thought out coldly, then felt upon warmly. I will not admit of 'being

heated out of fairness!' I deny it, and stand upon my innocency.

And after all, 'Casa Guidi Windows' was a book that commended itself to

you, Mr. Chorley.

[_The rest of this letter is missing_]

* * * * *

_To John Forster_

28 Via del Tritone, Rome: Monday [May 1860].

I have tried and taken pains to see the truth, and have spoken it as I

have seemed to see it. If the issue of events shall prove me wrong about

the E. Napoleon, the worse for _him_, I am bold to say, rather than for

me, who have honored him only because I believed his intentions worthy

of the honor of honest souls.

If he lives long enough, he will explain himself to all. So far, I

cannot help persisting in certain of my views, because they have been

held long enough to be justified by the past on many points. The

intervention in Italy, while it overwhelmed with joy, did not dazzle me

into doubts of the motive of it, but satisfied a patient expectation and

fulfilled a logical inference. Thus it did not present itself to my mind

as a caprice of power, to be followed perhaps by an onslaught on

Belgium, and an invasion of England. These things were out of the beat;

and _are_. There may follow Hungarian, Polish, or other questions--but

there won't follow an English question unless the English _make_ it,

which, I grieve to think, looks every day less impossible.

Dear Mr. F., have you read 'La Foi des Traités,' written, some of it, by

L.N.'s own hand? Do you consider About's 'Carte de l'Europe' (as the

'Times' does) 'a dull _jeu d'esprit_'? The wit isn't dull, and the

serious intention, hid in those mummy wrappings, is not inauthentic.

Official--certainly not; but Napoleonic--yes. I believe so. And I seem

to myself to have strong reasons.

But you are sorry that Cavour loves popularity in England. I cried

rather bitterly, 'Better so!' A complete injustice comes to nearly the

same thing as a complete justice. Have we not watched for a year while

every saddle of iniquity has been tried on the Napoleonic back, and

nothing fitted? Wasn't he to crush Piedmontese institutions like so many

egg-shells? Was he ever going away with his army, and hadn't he occupied

houses in Genoa with an intention of bombarding the city? Didn't he keep

troops in the north after Villafranca on purpose to come down on us with

a Grand Duke at best, or otherwise with a swamping Kingdom of Etruria

and Plon-Plon to rule it? and wouldn't he give back Bologna to the Pope

bound by seven devils fiercer than the first, and prove Austria bettered

by Solferino? Also, were not Cipriani, Farini, and other patriots, his

'mere creatures' in treacherous correspondence with the Tuileries;

'doing his dirty work,' 'keeping things in suspense' till destruction

should arrange itself on falsehood? Have I not read and heard from the

most intelligent English journals, and the best-informed English

politicians (men with one foot and two ears in the Cabinet) these true

things written and repeated, and watched while they died out into the

Vast Inane and Immense Absurd from which they were born?

So I would rather have a rounded, complete injustice, as we can't have

the complete justice. After all, the thing done is only a nation saved.

Hurry up the men who did it on the same cord! Ought not Cavour to be

there?

And if the Savoy cession is a crime, he is criminal, he, who undeniably

from the beginning contemplated it, not as the price of the war, but as

the condition of a newly constituted Italy. And the condition implies

more than is understood, more than the consenting parties dare to

confess--can at present afford to confess--unless I am deceived by

information, which has hitherto justified itself in the event. Be

patient with me one moment--for if I differ from you, I seem to have

access to another class of facts than you see. If Italy, for instance,

expands itself to a nation of twenty-six millions, would you blame the

Emperor who 'did it all' (Cavour's own phrase) for providing an answer

to his own people in some small foresight about the frontier, when in

the course of fifty or a hundred years they may reproach his memory with

the existence of an oppressive rival or enemy next door? Mr. Russell

said to me last January 'Everything that comes out proves the Emperor to

have acted towards Italy like an Italian rather than a Frenchman.' At

which we applaud; that is, you, and Mr. R., and I, and the Italians

generally applaud. But--let us be just--_that_ would not be a

satisfactory opinion in France of the Head of the State, would it, do

you think? It was obviously his duty not to be negligent of certain

eventualities in the case of his own country, to be a 'Frenchman'

_there_.

Oh, Savoy has given me pain: and I would rather for the world's sake

that a great action had remained out of reach of the hypothetical

whispers of depreciators. I would rather not hear Robert say, for

instance: 'It was a great action; but he has taken eighteenpence for it,

which is a pity.' I don't think this judgment fair--and much worse

judgments are passed than that, which is very painful. But, after all,

this thing may have been a necessary duty on L.N.'s part, and I can

understand that it was so. For this loss of the Italians, _that_ is not

to be dwelt on; while for the Savoyards, none knew better than Cavour

(not even L.N.) the leaning of those populations towards France for

years back; it has been an inconvenient element of his government.

Whether there are or are not natural frontiers, there are natural

barriers, and the Alps hinder trade and make direct influence difficult;

and what the popular vote would be nobody here doubted. Be sure that

nobody did in Switzerland. The Swiss have been insincere, it seems to

me--talking of terror when they thought chiefly of territory. But I feel

tenderly for poor heroic Garibaldi, who has suffered, he and his

minority. He is not a man of much brain; which makes the subject the

more cruel to him. But I can't write of Garibaldi this morning, so

anxious we are after an unpleasant despatch yesterday. He is a hero, and

has led a forlorn hope out to Sicily, to succeed for Italy, or to fail

for himself. It's 'imprudence,' if he fails: if otherwise, who shall

praise him enough? it's salvation and glory.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

[Rome], 28 Via del Tritone: May 18, 1860 [postmark].

My dearest Fanny,--It seems to me that you have drunk so much England,

which cheers _and_ inebriates, as to have forgotten your Italian

friends. Here have I been waiting with my load of gratitude, till my

shoulders ache under it, not knowing to what address to carry it!

Sarianna sent me one address of your London lodgings, with the

satisfactory addition that you were about to move immediately. You

really _might_ have written to me before, unkindest and falsest of

Fannies! Or else (understand) you should not have sent me those graceful

and suggestive drawings, for which only now I am able to thank you.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. It was very kind of you to let me have

them.

Then, pray how did you get my 'Poems before Congress'? Was I not to send

you an order? Here I send one at least, whether you scorn my gift or

not; and by this sign you will inherit also an 'Aurora Leigh.'

Yes, I expected nothing better from the 'British public,' which,

strictly conforming itself to the higher civilisation of the age, gives

sympathy only where it gives 'the belt.'[87] As the favorite hero says

in his last eloquent letter, 'In all my actions, whether in private or

public life, may I be worthy of having had the honor ... _of a notice in

the_ "_Times_,"' he concludes 'of the abuse of the "Saturday Review"'

&c., &c., say _I_.

For the rest, being turned out of the old world, I fall on my feet in

the new world, where people have been generous, and even publishers

turned liberal. Think of my having an offer (on the ground of that book)

from a periodical in New York of a hundred dollars for every single

poem, though as short as a sonnet--that is, for its merely passing

through their pages on the road to the publisher's proper. Oh, I shall

cry aloud and boast, since people choose to abuse me. Did you see how I

was treated in 'Blackwood'? In fact, you and all women, though you hated

me, should be vexed on your own accounts. As for me, it's only what I

expected, and I have had that deep satisfaction of 'speaking though I

died for it,' which we are all apt to aspire to now and then. Do you

know I was half inclined to send my little book to Mr. Cobden, and then

I drew back into my shell, with native snail-shyness.

We remain here till the end of May, when we remove back to Florence.

Meanwhile I am in great anxiety about Sicily. Garibaldi's hardy

enterprise may be followed by difficult complications.

Let us talk away from politics, which set my heart beating

uncomfortably, and don't particularly amuse you....

Have you read the 'Mill on the Floss,' and what of it? The author is

here, they say, with her elective affinity, and is seen on the Corso

walking, or in the Vatican musing. Always together. They are said to

visit nobody, and to be beheld only at unawares. Theodore Parker removed

to Florence in an extremity of ill-health, and is dead there. I feel

very sorry. There was something high and noble about the man--though he

was not deep in proportion. Hatty Hosmer has arrived in America, and

found her father alive and better, but threatened with another attack

which must be final. Gibson came to us yesterday, and we agreed that we

never found him so interesting. I grieve to hear that Mr. Page's

pictures (another Venus and a Moses) have been rejected at your Academy.

Robert deserves no reproaches, for he has been writing a good deal this

winter--working at a long poem[88] which I have not seen a line of, and

producing short lyrics which I _have_ seen, and may declare worthy of

him. For me, if I have attained anything of force and freedom by living

near the oak, the better for me. But I hope you don't think that I mimic

[him, or] lose my individuality. [Penini] sends his love with Robert's.

[He ri]des his pony and learns his Latin and looks as pretty as ever--to

my way of [thinking]. If you don't write directly, address to Florence.

We have another thick Indian letter for you, but Robert is afraid of

sending it till you give us a safe address.

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

[Rome: about May 1860.]

[_The beginning of this letter is wanting_]

When the English were raging about Savoy, I heard a word or two from

Pantaleone which convinced me that the Imperial wickedness did not

strike him as the sin against the Holy Ghost precisely. In fact, I doubt

much that he (an intimate friend of Massimo d' Azeglio) knew all about

it before the war.

By the by, why does Azeglio write against Rome being the capital just

now? It seems to us all very ill-advised. Italy may hereafter select the

capital she pleases, but now her game ought to be to get Rome, as an

indispensable part of the play, as soon as possible. There are great

difficulties in the way--that's very sure. It's quite time, indeed, that

Mrs. Trollope's heart should warm a little towards the Emperor, for no

ruler has risked so much for a nation to which he did not belong (unless

he wished to conquer it) as Napoleon has for this nation. He has been

tortuous in certain respects--in the official presentation of the points

he was resolute on carrying--but from first to last there has been one

steady intention--the liberation of Italy without the confusion of a

general war. Moreover, his eyes are upon Venice, and have been since

Villafranca. What I _see_ in the very suggestion to England about

stopping Garibaldi from attacking the mainland was a preparation to the

English mind towards receiving the consequence of unity, namely, the

seizure of Venice. 'You must be prepared for that. You see where you are

going? You won't cry out when France joins her ally again!' Lord John

didn't see the necessity. No, of course he didn't. He never does see

except what he runs against. He protested to the last (by the Blue Book)

against G.'s attack; he was of opinion, to the last, that Italy would

be better in two kingdoms. But he _wouldn't intervene_. In which he was

perfectly right, of course, only that people should see where their road

goes even when they walk straight. And mark, if France had herself

prevented Garibaldi's landing, Lord John would simply have 'protested.'

_He said so._ France might have done it without the least inconvenience,

therefore, and she _did not_. She confined herself to observing that if

V.E. _might_ have Naples, he _must_ have Venice, and that there could be

no good in objecting to logical necessities of accepted situations. In

spite of which, every sort of weight was hung on the arms of France that

no aid should be given for Venetia. Certain things written to Austria,

and uttered through Lord Cowley, I can't forgive Lord John for; my heart

does not warm, except with rage. To think of writing only the other day

to an Austrian Court: '_All we can do for you_ is to use our strongest

influence with France that she should not help Italy against you in

Venetia. And in our opinion you will always be strong enough to baffle

Italy. Italy can't fight you alone.' The words I am not sure of, but the

idea is a transcript. And the threats uttered through Lord Cowley were

worse--morally hideous, I think.

Napoleon's position in France is hard enough of itself. Forty thousand

priests, with bishops of the colour of Mon. d'Orléans and company,

having, of course, a certain hold on the agricultural population which

forms so large a part of the basis of the imperial throne. Then add to

that the parties the 'Liberals' (so called) and others, who use this

question as a weapon simply. In the Senate and Legislative Body they

haven't forgotten how to talk, have they--these French? The passion and

confusion seem to have been extreme. After all, we shall get a working

majority, I do hope and trust, for all the intelligent supporters of the

Government are with us, and the Chamber will be dissolved at need. There

is talk of it already in Rome....

At last we see your advertisement. _Viva_ 'Agnes Tremorne'![89] We find

it in 'Orley Farm.' How admirably this last opens! We are both delighted

with it. What a pity it is that so powerful and idiomatic a writer

should be so incorrect grammatically and scholastically speaking! Robert

insists on my putting down such phrases as these: 'The Cleeve was

distant from Orley two miles, though it _could not be driven_ under

five.' '_One rises up the hill._' 'As good as _him_.' 'Possessing more

_acquirements_ than he would have _learned_ at Harrow.' _Learning

acquirements!_ Yes, they are faults, and should be put away by a

first-rate writer like Anthony Trollope. It's always worth while to be

correct. But do understand through the pedantry of these remarks that we

are full of admiration for the book. The movement is so excellent and

straightforward--walking like a man, and 'rising up-hill,' and not going

round and round, as Thackeray has taken to do lately. He's clever

always, but he goes round and round till I'm dizzy, for one, and don't

know where I am. I think somebody has tied him up to a post, leaving a

tether. Dearest Isa, the day before yesterday I had two letters from

Madame M---- to ask us to take rooms. He is coming directly to Rome. She

says he has much to tell me, and it's evident, of course, that an

Italian senator, native to the Roman States, wouldn't come here just now

without mission or permission. I am full of expectation, but will say no

more.

Dearest Isa, have I been long in writing indeed? You see, I let so many

letters accumulate which I hadn't the heart to reply to, that, on taking

up the account, I had over much to do in writing letters. Then I have

been working a little at some Italian lyrics. Three more are gone lately

to the 'Independent,' and another is ready to go. All this, with helping

Pen to prepare for the Abbé, has filled my hands, and they are soon

tired, my Isa, nowadays. When the sun goes down, I am down. At eight I

generally am in bed, or little after. And people will come in

occasionally in the day, and annul me. I had a visit from Lady Annabella

Noel lately, Lord Byron's granddaughter. Very quiet, and very intense, I

should say. She is going away, and I shall not see her more than that

once, I dare say; but she looked at me so with her still deep eyes, and

spoke so feelingly, that I kissed her when she went away. Another new

acquaintance is Lady Marion Alford, the Marquis of Northampton's

daughter, very eager about literature and art and Robert, for all which

reasons I should care for her; also Hatty calls her divine. I thought

there was the least touch of affectation of fussiness, but it may not be

so. She knelt down before Hatty the other day and gave her--placed on

her finger--the most splendid ring you can imagine, a ruby in the form

of a heart, surrounded and crowned with diamonds. Hatty is frankly

delighted, and says so with all sorts of fantastical exaggerations.

Tell me what you think of the photographs which Robert sends, with his

best love. I think the head perfect, and the other very poetical and

picturesque. I wish I had mine to send Kate, tell her with my dear love,

but I have not one, nor can get one. Perhaps I may have to sit again

before leaving Rome, and then she shall be remembered. And Robert will

give her his.

Pray don't apologise for your Borden. He is very much to be liked. Mrs.

Bruen is charmed. He has been three times to talk with me, and Robert

has called on him twice. Robert is quite vexed at your 'pretension'

about having friends not good enough for his acquaintance. Yes, really

he was vexed. 'Isa _never_ understood him--not she!'

Is there not reason, we may murmur? But the truth is he is always ready

(be pleased to know) to honour your drafts in acquaintanceship, and

chooses to be considered ready.

[_The remainder of this letter is wanting_]

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

Florence: June 16, 1860 [postmark].

My dearest Fanny,--I must use my opportunity of sending you these

photographs, because I think you will care to have them. Peni is

_himself_, not a likeness, but an identity. _I_, like a devil, or the

Emperor Napoleon, am not as black as I seem; but Pen looks lovely enough

to satisfy my vanity.

Your Indian poet's letter was despatched to you from Rome, and 'so

Apollo saved me.' Oh--if you knew how I hate giving opinions! I think a

poet's opinion of another poet should be paid by some triple fee. I, at

least, always feel that after being ingenuous on these occasions and

advising persons who can barely spell against publishing their epic

poems, one is supposed to be secretly influenced by the fear of a rival

or worse. Give me a triple fee.

Poor dearest Fanny, of course you are in the chain; being in England.

You are moved to set down the Emperor as 'the Beast' 666, of course. If

he crushes 'Garibaldi you must give him up.' Yes; but what an If. If you

stab Miss Heaton with a golden bodkin, right through the heart, under

circumstances of peculiar cruelty, I shall have to give up _you_. If I

bake Penini in a pie and eat him, you'll have to give up me.

The Emperor Napoleon is faithful and will be faithful to the Italian

cause, and to the cause of the nationalities, as long as and wherever it

is prudent, for the general interest; possible without dangerous

complications. He has risked enough for it, to be trusted a little I

think--his life and dynasty certainly. At this moment I hear from Rome

of a great dinner given by Lamoricière to his staff, or by his staff to

him (I don't know which), only that the health of _Henri Cinq_ was

suggested and drunk at it. Gorgon telegraphed the news to Paris. What

then? English newspapers (even such papers as the 'Daily News') have

stated that Lamoricière was doing Napoleonic business at Rome. Perhaps

this is of it.

Chapman junior is in Florence (doing business upon Lever I believe), and

he maintains that I have done myself no mortal harm by the Congress

poems, which incline to a second edition after all. Had it been

otherwise I yet never should have repented speaking the word out of me

which burnt in me. Printing that book did me real good. For the rest

'Aurora Leigh' is in the press for a _fifth_ edition. Read the 'Word for

Truth by a Seaman,' written by a naval officer of high reputation.

We left Rome on the 4th of June, and travelled by vettura through

Orvieto and Chiusi. Beautiful scenery, interesting pictures and tombs,

but a fatiguing journey. At least, Pen's pony and I were both of us

unusually fatigued, and scarcely, at the end of a week, am I myself yet.

I am not as strong since my illness last summer. We stay here till the

early part of July and then remove to Siena, to the villa we had last

year; and there Pen keeps tryst with his Abbé and the Latin. He has made

great progress this winter in Latin and much besides, and he isn't going

to be a 'wretched little Papist,' as some of our friends precipitately

conclude from the fact of his having a priest for a tutor. Indeed Pen

has to be restrained into politeness and tolerance towards

ecclesiastical dignities. Think of his addressing his instructor (who

complained of the weather at Rome one morning) thus--in choice Tuscan:

'Of course it's the excommunication. The prophet says that a curse

begins with the curser's own house; and so it is with the Holy Father's

curse.' Wasn't that clever of Pen? and impertinent, but our Abbé only

tried at gravity; he sympathises secretly with the insorgimento d'

Italia, and besides is very fond of Pen. Poor Pen, 'innocent of the

knowledge, dearest chuck,' how his mama has been wickedly cursing her

native country (after Chorley)! It's hard upon me, Fanny, that you

won't tell me of the spirits, you who can see. Here is even Robert,

whose heart softens to the point of letting me have the 'Spiritual

Magazine' from England. Do knock at Mrs. Milner Gibson's doors till you

get to see the 'hands' and the 'heads' and the 'bodies' and the

'celestial garlands' which she has the privilege of being familiar with.

_Touch_ the hands. Has Mr. Monckton Milnes seen anything so as to

believe? Is it true that Lord Lyndhurst was lifted up in a chair? Does

he believe? I hear through Mr. Trollope and Chapman that Edwin Landseer

has received the faith, and did everything possible to persuade Dickens

to investigate, which Dickens refused. Afraid of the truth, of course,

having deeply committed himself to negatives. This is a moral _lâcheté_,

hard for my feminine mind to conceive of. Dickens, too, who is so fond

of ghost-stories, as long as they are impossible....

I can scarcely imagine the summer's passing without a struggle on the

Continent of Italy. It can't be, I think. At least we are prepared for

it here.

We find Wilson well. Mr. Landor also. He had thrown a dinner out of the

window only once, and a few things of the kind, but he lives in a

chronic state of ingratitude to the whole world except Robert, who waits

for his turn. I am glad to think that poor Mr. Landor is well;

unsympathetical to me as he is in his _morale_. He has the most

beautiful sea-foam of a beard you ever saw, all in a curl and white

bubblement of beauty. He informed us the other morning that he had

'quite given up thinking of a future state--he had _had_ thoughts of it

once, but that was very early in life.' Mr. Kirkup (who is deafer than a

post now) tries in vain to convert him to the spiritual doctrine. Landor

laughs so loud in reply that Kirkup hears him.

Pray keep Mr. ---- off till we have settled the independence and unity

of Italy. It isn't the hour for peace, and we don't want a second

Villafranca. By the way, I dare say nobody in England lays his face in

the dust and acknowledges, in consequence of the official declaration

of the Prussian Minister (to the effect that Prussia was to attack on

the crossing of the Mincio, and that nothing but the unexpected

conclusion of hostilities hindered the general war)--acknowledges that

Napoleon stands fully justified in making that peace. I cannot expect so

much justice in an Englishman. He would rather bury his past mistake in

a present mistake than simply confess it.

Now no more. May God bless you! Do be happy, and do write to me. We talk

of Paris and England for next year.

Your very affectionate

BA.

Robert's love and Pen's.

* * * * *

_To Miss Browning_

[Florence: about June 1860.]

I didn't write last time, dearest Sarianna, not only because of being

over-busy or over-tired, but because I had not the heart that day. Peni

had another touch of fever, and was forced to have a doctor and

cataplasms to his feet. It was only a day's anxiety, but I didn't like

writing just then. He had been in the sun or the wind or something. I

was glad to get away from Rome. There were two cases of fever in our

courtyard, and both the sun and the shade were _suspectés_. As far as

Pen is concerned, the evil was averted, and I assure you he is looking

in the full bloom of health, and we have been congratulated on all sides

on his appearance and growth since we returned to Florence. Riding so

much has agreed well with him; and the general results of the Roman

campaign cannot be said to be otherwise than favourable. Set down as

much for Robert. Everybody exclaims at his stoutness. In fact, never

since I have known him has he condescended to put on such an air of

_robustness_, there's no other word for it. Shall we give the glory to

Rome, or to _nux_, to which he is constant. For two years and a half he

has had recourse to no other remedy, and it has not yet failed to

produce its effect. How do you unbelievers account for that? At the same

time, I never would think of using it in any active or inflammatory

malady, and where a sudden revolution or _scosso_ is required from the

remedial agent.

We find poor Mr. Landor tolerably amenable to Wilson, and well in

health, though he can't live more than three months, he says, and except

when Robert keeps him soothed by quoting his own works to him, considers

himself in a very wretched condition, which is a sort of satisfaction

too. He is a man of great genius, and we owe him every attention on that

ground. Otherwise I confess to you he is to me eminently

unsympathetic....

If ---- 'turns Catholic,' as you say, on the ground of the organisation

of certain institutions, it will be a proof of very peculiar ignorance.

This power of organisation is _French_, and not Catholic. You look for

it in vain in Rome, for instance, except where the organisation comes

from France. The _soeurs de charité_, who are of all Catholic nations,

are organised entirely by the French. The institutions here are branch

institutions. In Rome the tendency of everything is to confusion and

'individuality' with separate pockets. Lamoricière was in despair at it

all, and even now people talk of his resigning, though he gave a dinner

the other day to his staff, with the toast of '_Henri Cinq_.'

Individuality is an excellent thing in its place, and an infamous thing

out of it. In England we have some very successful efforts at

organisation--the post office, which is nearly perfect, and society, in

which the demarcation between class and class is much too perfect to be

humane. In other respects we are apt to fail.

We do not fail, however, in organisation only with regard to these

charitable institutions. We are very hard and unsympathetic in them. A

distinguished woman has been here lately--a Miss Cobbe (a fellow-worker

with Miss Carpenter)--who, having overworked herself, was forced by her

physician to come here for three months and rest, under dire penalties.

She went to Isa Blagden's, and returned to England and her work just

now. She is very acute, and so perfectly without Continental prejudices,

that she didn't pretend to much interest even in our Italian movement,

having her heart in England and with the poor. But she was much struck,

not merely with the order of foreign institutions, but with their

superior tenderness and sympathy. The account she gave of the English

workhouses and hospitals was very sad, very cruel, corresponding, in

fact, to what I have heard from other quarters.

Ah, Sarianna, 'charming old men' who call the Tuscans angels, except

that they lie (what an exception!), can be mistaken like others. _That_

passes for 'liberality,' does it? We are not angels, and we don't

lie--there's no more lying in Italy than in England, I begin to affirm.

Also, M. Tassinari was in prison, not a week but a month--and well did

he deserve it. We deal now in French coinage, and are to see no more

pauls after the middle of next month. Robert thinks it will destroy the

last vestige of our cheapness, but I am very favorable to a unification

of international coinage. It agrees with my theories, you know.

We are all talking and dreaming Garibaldi just now in great anxiety.

Scarcely since the world was a world has there been such a feat of arms.

All modern heroes grow pale before him. It was necessary, however, for

us all even here, and at Turin just as in Paris, to be ready to disavow

him. The whole good of Central Italy was hazarded by it. If it had not

been success it would have been an evil beyond failure. The enterprise

was forlorner than a forlorn hope. The hero, if he had perished, would

scarcely have been sure of his epitaph even.

And 'intervention' _does_ mean quite a different thing at Naples and in

Lombardy. In Lombardy there was the _foreign tyrant_. At Naples

Italians deal with Italians; and the Austrian influence is _indirect_.

So also at Rome. It is this which makes the difficulty of dealing with

Southern Italy and the difference of treatment which you observe in

certain French papers.

I am sure, though you don't like photographs, you say, that you will

find nothing lacking in what we send you and dearest Nonno of our

Penini. It isn't like him, it's himself. As for me, I murmur, in the

depths of my vanity, that like the Emperor Napoleon (and the devil) I'm

not so black as I'm painted; but I forgive everything for Pen's sake.

Robert is not very favourably represented, I think. The beard on the

upper lip had not been properly clipped, and makes the space seem too

long for him. Another time I will mend that. I was very unusually tired

after my journey, but am getting past it. Weather was hot; but within

two days we have had some cooling rain.

Give my best love to M. Milsand, beside the photographs, and thank him

for not being offended in his 'patriotism' by my Congress poems. If he

approved of the preface as he says, I can't see how he can have written

anything about 'intervention' which I would not accept. Nothing could

have ended the intervention of Austria, except the intervention of

France; and it was on that account that we feel the latter to be a great

and chivalrous action. Italy is grateful. And if France were in

difficulty she might count on this delivered nation, as on herself. In

spite of all the bad words hurled at me in every English newspaper and

periodical nearly (and I assure you I have been put in the pillory among

them) the poems are going into a second edition, Chapman says, and

'Aurora Leigh' into a fifth. Also Chapman junior, who has come out here

to see after Lever, smoothes me down a little about Robert, and says

that the sale is bettering itself, and that a new edition of the 'Poems'

will soon be wanted. I just now see a pleasant notice of myself in

'Bentley's Magazine.' Abuse of the 'Congress Poems,' of course. Then a

side stroke at 'Aurora Leigh,' which was original, of course, because

it's my way to stand alone and attack people; but the principal merit of

which otherwise was the suggestion of 'Lucille' (Lytton's new

poem)--'Lucille,' says the critic, being superior in holiness and virtue

and that sort of thing to 'Aurora'! Of course.

They subscribed in England five thousand pounds for Tom Sayers. There's

the advance of civilisation. Napoleon has gone to Baden to arrange the

world a little more comfortably, I hope.

Mr. Lewes and Miss Evans have been here, and are coming back to settle

into our congenial bosom. I admire her books so much, that certainly I

shall not refuse to receive her, though she is not a medium. Sarianna!

Your ever affectionate sister.

* * * * *

The programme of the previous year was repeated in 1860. Returning from

Rome to Florence at the beginning of June, the Brownings in July went to

Siena to avoid the extreme heat of the summer at Florence, staying as

before at the Villa Alberti. Their visit to Siena was, however, rather

shorter than the previous one, lasting only till September.

There is no doubt that Mrs. Browning, during all this time, was losing

ground in point of health; and she now received another severe blow in

the news of the serious illness of her sister Henrietta (Mrs. Surtees

Cook). The anxiety lasted for several months, and ended with the death

of Mrs. Cook in the following winter.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

Villa Alberti, Siena: August 21, [1860].

I thank you, my dearest friend, from my heart for your letter, and the

ray of sunshine it brought with it. Do you know I was childish enough

to kiss it as if it knew what it did. I wish I could kiss _you_. Yes, I

have been very unhappy, not giving way on the whole, going about my work

as usual, but with a sense of a black veil between me and whatever I

did, sometimes feeling incapable of crawling down to sit on the cushion

under my own fig-tree for an hour's vision of this beautiful

country--sometimes in 'des transes mortelles' of fear.

But we must not be atheists, as a friend said to me the other day. I

hope I do not live quite as if I were. But it was a great shock from the

beginning. Henrietta always seemed so strong that I never feared that

way.

My first impulse was to rush to England, but this has been over-ruled by

everybody, and I believe wisely. With my usual luck I should just have

increased the sum of evil instead of bringing a single advantage to

anyone. The best thing I can do for the others, is to keep quiet and try

not to give cause for trouble on my account, to be patient and live on

God's daily bread from day to day. I had a crumb or two the day before

yesterday through Storm, who thought there might be a little less

pain--and here you have sent me almost a slice--may God be thanked! How

good you were to mention the doctor! It is grievous to me to think of

her suffering. Darling!

I knew how strong your sympathy and personal feeling would be, and, even

on that account, I had not the heart and courage to write to you. But

no, dearest friends, I did not receive the letter you speak of, though I

heard of your grief a good while afterwards. And so sorry I was--we both

were--so sorry for Fanny, so sorry for you! May God bless you all! How

the spiritual world gets thronged to us with familiar faces, till at

last, perhaps, the world here will seem the vague and strange world,

even while we remain.

Still, it is beautiful out of this window; and of public affairs in

Italy, I am stirred to think with the most vivid interest through all.

The rapture is not as in the northern war last year, because (you don't

understand that in England) last year we fought the Austrian and now it

is Italian against Italian,[90] which tempers every triumph with a

certain melancholy. Also the Italian question in the south was decided

in the north, and remained only a question of time, abbreviated (many

think rashly) by our hero Garibaldi. For the crisis, so quickened,

involves very serious dangers and most solemn thoughts. The southern

difficulty may be considered solved--so we think--but just now that very

solution opens out, as we all fear a new Austrian invasion in the north,

backed indirectly at least by Prussia and Germany, who will use the

opportunity in carrying out the coalition against France. There seems no

doubt of the mischief hatched at Toeplitz. I wish I had known that

England's influence was not used in drawing together those two powers.

Prussia deserves to be--what shall I say?--docked of her Rhenish

provinces? It would be a too slight punishment. She caused the

Villafranca halt (according to her official confession by the mouth of

Baron Schleinitz, last spring), and now this second time, would she

interrupt the liberation of Italy? The aspect of affairs looks very

grave. As to England, England wishes well to this country at this

present time, but _she will make no sacrifices_ (not even of her

hatreds, least of all, perhaps, of her blind hatreds), for the sake of

ten Italys. Tell dear Mr. Martin that after the speech for the Defences,

I gave up Lord Palmerston for ever. He plays double. He is too shrewd to

believe in the probability of invasions, &c., &c., but he wants a shield

to guard his sword-arm. The statesmanship of England pines for new

blood, for ideas of the epoch, and the Russell old-fogyism will not do

any more at all. These old bottles won't hold the new wine. People are

positively calling on the Muse and William Pitt. It's religion to hate

France, and to set up a 'Boney' as a 'raw head and bloody bones' sort of

scarecrow. But it won't do. As the Revolutionists say, 'È troppo tardi.'

I am not, however, in furies all day, dearest Mrs. Martin. (I answer

satisfactorily your question whether I am 'ever calm.') The newspapers

from various parts of Italy thunder down on us here, not to speak of

'Galignanis' and 'Saturday Reviews.' See how calm-blooded I must be to

bear the 'Saturday Review.' (I consider it a curiosity in vice,

certainly.) Then we have books from the subscription library in

Florence, and sights of the 'Cornhill,' and political pamphlets by the

book-post; nay, even the 'Spiritual Magazine,' sent by Chapman and Hall,

in the last number of which that clever and brave William Howitt (who,

like a man, is foolish sometimes) suggests gravely in an article that I

have lately been 'biologised by infernal spirits,' in order to the

production of certain bad works in the service of 'Moloch,' meaning, of

course, L.N. Oh! and did anyone tell you how Harriet Martineau, in her

political letters to America, set me down with her air of serene

superiority? But such things never chafe me--never. They don't even

quicken my pulsation. And the place we are passing the summer in is very

calm--a great lonely villa, in the midst of purple hills and vineyards,

olive-trees and fig-trees like forest-trees; a deep soothing silence. A

mile off we have friends, and my dear friend Miss Blagden is in a villa

half a mile off. This for the summer. Also, we brought with us from

Florence and dropped in a villino not far, our friend Mr. Landor (Walter

Savage), who is under Robert's guardianship, having quarrelled with

everybody in and out of England. I call him our adopted son. (You did

not know I had a son of eighty-six and more.) Wilson lives with him, and

Robert receives from his family in England means for his support. But

really the office is hard, and I tell Robert that he must be prepared

for the consequences: an outbreak and a printed statement that he

(Robert), instigated by his wicked wife, had attempted to poison him

(Landor) slowly. Such an extraordinary union of great literary gifts and

incapacity of will has seldom surprised the world. Of course he does not

live with us, you know, either here or in Florence, but my husband

manages every detail of his life, and both the responsibility and

trouble are considerable. Still he is a great writer. We owe him some

gratitude therefore.

Penini has his pony here, and rides with his father. We have had the

coolest summer I ever remember in Italy. I _could_ have been very happy.

But God, who 'tempers the wind,' finds it necessary for the welfare of

some of us to temper the sunshine also....

As the very poorest proof of gratitude for your letter, Robert suggests

that I should enclose this photograph of Penini and myself taken at Rome

this last spring. You will like to have them, we fancy, but it is

Robert's gift. I was half inclined last year to send you a photograph

from Field Talfourd's picture of me,[91] but I shrank back, knowing that

dear Mr. Martin would cry out at the flattery of it, which he well might

do. But this photograph from nature can't be flattered, so I hazard it.

You see the locks are dark still, not white, and the sun, in spite, has

blackened the face to complete the harmony. Pen is very like, and very

sweet we think.

Do, when you write, speak of yourself--yourselves. I hope you like the

'Mill on the Floss.'

Our love to dearest Mr. Martin and you.

Let me be as ever,

Your affectionate and grateful

BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

Villa Alberti, Siena, Sardegna: August 25, [1860].

My dearest Fanny,--I received your letter with thanks upon thanks. It

seemed long since I heard or wrote. I have been very sad, very--with a

stone hung round my heart, and a black veil between me and all that I

do, think, or look at. One of my sisters is very ill in England--my

married sister--an internal tumour, accompanied with considerable

suffering, and doubtful enough as to its issue to keep us all (I can

answer at least for myself) in great misery. Robert says I exaggerate,

and I think and know that consciously or unconsciously he wants to save

me pain. She went to London, and the medical man called it an anxious

case. We all know what that must mean. For a little time I was in an

anguish of fear, and though come to believe now that no great change any

way is to be expected quickly, you would pity what I feel when the

letters are at hand. May God have mercy on us all! I wanted at first to

get to England, but everyone here and there was against it, and I

suppose it would have been a pure selfishness on my part to persist in

going, seeing that the fatigue and the cold in England alone would have

broken me up to a faggot (though of not so much use as to burn) so that

I should have complicated other people's difficulties, without much

mending my own. Still it would have been comfort to me (however selfish)

to have just held her hand. But no. Oh, I am resigned to its being

wiser. I am shaken, even at this distance. She has three children

younger than my Peni. Don't let me talk of it any more.

You see, Fanny, my 'destiny' has always been to be entirely useless to

the people I should like to help (except to my little Pen sometimes in

pushing him through his lessons, and even so the help seems doubtful,

scholastically speaking, to Robert!) and to have only power at the end

of my pen, and for the help of people I don't care for. At moments

lately, thanks from a stranger for this or that have sounded ghastly to

me who can't go to smooth a pillow for my own darling sister. Now, I

_won't_ talk of it any more. After all I try to be patient and wait

quietly, and there ought to be hope and faith meantime.

The pen-utilities themselves don't pass uncontested, as you observe.

Yes, I see the 'Spiritual Magazine,' and remarked how I was scourged in

the house of my friends. Robert shouted in triumph at it, and hoped I

was pleased, and as for myself, it really did make me smile a little,

which was an advantage, in the sad humour I was in at the time.

'Biologised by infernal spirits since "_Casa Guidi Windows_"' yet 'Casa

Guidi Windows' was not wholly vicious it seems to me, nor 'Aurora'

utterly corrupt. And Mr. Howitt is both a clever man, and an honest and

brave man, for all his sweeping opinions. Biologised and be-Harrised

_he_ is certainly. What an extraordinary admiration! I wonder at _that_

more than at any of the external spiritual phenomena. Dearest Fanny, you

were very, very good and generous to take my part with the editor--but

_laissez faire_. These things do one no harm--and, for me, they don't

even vex me. I had an anonymous letter from England the other day, from

somebody who recognised me, he said, in some prodigious way as a great

Age-teacher, all but divine, I believe, and now gave me up on account of

certain atrocities--first, for the poem 'Pan'[92] in the 'Cornhill'

(considered _immoral_!) and then for having had my 'brain so turned by

the private attentions and flatteries of the Emperor Napoleon when I was

in Paris, that I have devoted myself since to help him in the

gratification of his selfish ambitions.' Conceive of this, written with

an air of conviction, and on the best information. Now, of the two

imputations, I much prefer 'the inspiration from hell.' There's

something grandiose about that, to say nothing of the superior honesty

of the position.

What a 'mountainous me' I am 'piling up' in this letter, I who want

rather to write of _you_....

Italy ought not to draw you just now, Fanny. We are all looking for war,

and wondering where the safety is. A Piccolomini said yesterday that it

was as safe at Rome as in Florence, which only proved Florence unsafe.

Austria may come down on Central Italy any day; and sooner or later

there must be war. The Storys are alarmed enough to avoid going back to

Rome until the end of November, when things may be a little arranged.

The indignation here is great against 'questa canaglia di Germania.'

Toeplitz means mischief both against France and Italy--that is plain.

The Prince of Prussia gave his 'parole de gentilhomme' meaning the word

of a rascal. My poor Venice! But you will see presently, only the fear

is that our fire here may flash very far. In any case, it would not be

desirable for Englishmen to come southwards this year. Our plans for the

winter depend entirely on circumstances. If we can go to Rome in any

reasonable security, I suppose we shall go. But I have no heart for

plans just now.

Dear Isa Blagden is spending the summer in a rough _cabin_, a quarter of

an hour's walk from here, and Mr. Landor is hard by in the lane. This

(with the Storys a mile off) makes a sort of colonisation of the country

here. Otherwise it's a solitude, 'very _triste_,' say the English, not

even an English church, even in the city of Siena. We get books from

Florence, and newspapers from everywhere, or one couldn't get on quite

well. As it is I like it very much. I like the quiet! the lying at

length on a sofa, in an absolute silence, nobody speaking for hours

together (Robert rides a great deal), not a chance of morning visitors,

no voices under the windows. The repose would help me much, if it were

not that circumstances of pain and fear walk in upon me through windows

and doors, using one's own thoughts, till they tremble. Pen has had an

abbé to teach him Latin, and his pony to ride on, and he and Robert are

very well and strong, thank God.

Thank you for your words on spiritualism. I have not _yet_ seen the last

'Cornhill.' It pleases me that Thackeray has had the courage to maintain

the facts before the public; I think _much the better of him_ for doing

so. Owen's book I shall try to get. There is a weak reference to the

subject in the 'Saturday Review' (against it), and I see an article

advertised in 'Once a Week,' all proving that the public is awaking to a

consideration of the class of phenomena. _Investigation_ is all I

desire. The 'Spiritual Magazine' lingers so this month that I fear, and

Robert hopes, something may have happened to it.

* * * * *

On returning to Rome for the winter, which they did about September, the

Brownings found quarters at 126 Via Felice. The following letter was

written shortly after the death of Mrs. Browning's sister.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

[Rome: autumn 1860.]

In one word, my dearest Fanny, I will thank you for what is said and not

said, for sympathy true and tender each way. It is a great privilege to

be able to talk and cry; but _I cannot_, you know. I have suffered very

much, and feel tired and beaten. Now, it's all being lived down; thrown

behind or pushed before, as such things must be if we _are_ to live: not

forgetting, not feeling any tie slackened, loving unchangeably, and

believing how mere a _line_ this is to overstep between the living and

the dead.

Do you know, the first thing from without which did me the least good

was a letter from America, from dear Mrs. Stowe. Since we parted here in

the spring, neither of us had written, and she had not the least idea of

my being unhappy for any reason. In fact, her thought was to

congratulate me on public affairs (knowing how keenly I felt about

them), but her letter dwelt at length upon spiritualism. She had heard,

she said, for the fifth time from her boy (the one who was drowned in

that awful manner through carrying out a college jest) without any

seeking on her part. She gave me a minute account of a late

manifestation, not seeming to have a doubt in respect to the verity and

identity of the spirit. In fact, secret things were told, reference to

private papers made, the evidence was considered most satisfying. And

she says that all of the communications descriptive of the _state_ of

that Spirit, though coming from very different mediums (some high

Calvinists and others low infidels) tallied exactly. She spoke very

calmly about it, with no dogmatism, but with the strongest disposition

to receive the facts of the subject with all their bearings, and at

whatever loss of orthodoxy or sacrifice of reputation for common sense.

I have a high appreciation of her power of forming opinions, let me add

to this. It is one of the most vital and growing minds I ever knew.

Besides the inventive, the critical and analytical faculties are strong

with her. How many women do you know who are _religious_, and yet

analyse point by point what they believe in? She lives in the midst of

the traditional churches, and is full of reverence by nature; and yet if

you knew how fearlessly that woman has torn up the old cerements and

taken note of what is a dead letter within, yet preserved her faith in

essential spiritual truth, you would feel more admiration for her than

even for writing 'Uncle Tom.' There are quantities of irreverent women

and men who profess infidelity. But this is a woman of another order,

observe, devout yet brave in the outlook for truth, and considering, not

whether a thing be _sound_, but whether it be true. Her views are

Swedenborgian on some points, beyond him where he departs from orthodoxy

on one or two points, adhering to the orthodox creed on certain others.

She used to come to me last winter and open out to me very freely, and I

was much interested in the character of her intellect. Dr. Manning

tried his converting power on her. 'It might have answered,' she said,

'if one side of her mind had not confuted what the other side was

receptive of.' In fact, she caught at all the beauty and truth and good

of the Roman Catholic symbolism, saw what was better in it than

Protestantism, and also, just as clearly, what was worse. She admired

Manning immensely, and was very keen and quick in all her admirations;

had no national any more than ecclesiastical prejudices; didn't take up

Anglo-Saxon outcries of superiority in morals and the rest, which makes

me so sick from American and English mouths. By the way (I must tell

Sarianna _that_ for M. Milsand!) a clever Englishwoman (married to a

Frenchman) told Robert the other day that she believed in 'a special

hell for the Anglo-Saxon race on account of its hypocrisy.'...

Meanwhile you will care for Roman news, and I have not much to tell you.

I am very much in my corner, and very quiet. Robert, who has been most

dear and tender and considerate to me through my trial, kept all the

people off, and even now, when the door is open a little, gloomy

lionesses with wounded paws don't draw the public, I thank God, and I am

not much teased, if at all. Sir John Bowring came with a letter of

introduction, and intimate relations with Napoleon to talk of, and he

has confirmed certain views of mine which I was glad to hear confirmed

by a disciple of Bentham and true liberal of distinguished intelligence.

He said that nothing could be more ludicrous and fanatical than the

volunteer movement in England rising out of the most incredible panic

which ever arose without a reason. I only hope that if the volunteers

ever have to act indeed, they may behave better than at Naples, where

they left the worst impression of English morals and discipline. They

embarked to return home dead drunk all of them, and the drunkenness was

not the worst. Sir John Bowring has been ill since he came, so perhaps

he may go before I see him again. Then Madame Swab [Schwabe], whom I

slightly knew in Paris, has been with me to-day, talking on Italian

affairs. There is room for anxiety about the Neapolitans; but don't

believe in exaggerations: we shall do better than our enemies desire.

There will be war probably....

Robert has taken to modelling under Mr. Story (at his studio) and is

making extraordinary progress, turning to account his studies on

anatomy. He has copied already two busts, the Young Augustus and the

Psyche, and is engaged on another, enchanted with his new trade, working

six hours a day. In the evening he generally goes out as a

bachelor--free from responsibility of crinoline--while I go early to

bed, too happy to have him a little amused. In Florence he never goes

anywhere, you know; even here this winter he has had too much gloom

about him by far. But he looks entirely well--as does Penini. I am weak

and languid. I struggle hard to live on. I wish to live just as long as

and no longer than to grow in the soul.

May God bless you, dearest Fanny. Write.

America is making me very anxious just know. If they compromise in the

north it is a moral death, but a merely physical dissolution of the

States would be followed by a resurrection 'in honor,' and I should not

fear. What are you painting?

Your affectionate as ever

BA.

Did you see Lacordaire received? Those are things I care to see in

Paris, wishing, however, to Guizot, the king of Prussia, and all prigs,

the contempt they deserve.

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

126 Via Felice, [Rome]:

Monday, [November December 1860].

Ever dearest Isa,--How you grieve me by this news of your being unwell.

Dear, I wondered at having no letter, and now with the letter and all

the proofs of your remembering me (newspaper and pens) comes the bad

word of your being ill....

I myself am not very well. I thought I was going to have a bad attack of

the oppression, but this morning it seems to have almost gone, and

without a blister! I had one night very bad. Probably a sudden call from

the tramontana brought it; even frost we had. Only, on the whole, and

considering accounts from other places, Rome has distinguished itself

for mildness this year; and I hope I shall keep from bad attacks, having

not much strength in body, nerve, or spirit to bear up resistingly

against them....

Sir John Bowring has been to see us. Yes, he speaks with great authority

and conviction, and it carries the more emphasis because he is not

without Antigallican prejudice, I observed. He told me that the panic in

England about invasion had reached, at one time, a point of phrenzy

which would be scarcely credible to anyone who had not witnessed it.

People were in terrors, expecting their houses to be burnt and sacked

directly. Placards of the most inflammatory character, calling

passionately on the riflemen to arm, arm, arm! He himself was hissed at

Edinburgh for venturing to say that the rifle-locks would be very rusty

if only used against invading Napoleons.

He told me that the Emperor's intentions towards Italy had been

undeviatingly ignored, and that whatever had seemed equivocal had been

misunderstood, or was the consequence of misunderstanding, or of the

press of some otherwise great difficulty. The Italian question was only

beginning to be understood in England. I said (in my sarcastic way) that

at first they had seemed to understand it upside down. To which he

replied that when, at the opening of the Revolution, he came over with

several English officers from India, they were _all prepared_ (in case

England didn't fight on the Hapsburg side) to enter the Austrian army as

volunteers to help them to keep down Italy.

But men like Mr. Trollope find it easy to ignore all this. It is we who

have done the most for Italy--we who did nothing! Yes, I admit so far.

We abstained from helping the Austrians with an open force.

That now we wish well to the Italian cause is true, I hope, but, at

best, it is a noble inconsistency; and that we should set up a claim to

a nation's gratitude on these grounds seems to me worse than absurd. The

more we are in earnest now, the more ashamed we should be for what has

been.

I have been sorry about Gaeta;[93] but there is somewhere a cause, and,

perhaps, not hard to find. That the Emperor is ready to do for Italy

_whatever will not sacrifice France_, I am convinced more than ever. And

even the Romans (who have benefited least) think so. One of the patriots

here, a watchmaker, was saying to Ferdinando the other day that he had

subscribed to Garibaldi's fund, and had given his name for Viterbo,[94]

but that there was one man in whom he believed most, and never ceased to

believe--Louis Napoleon. And this is the common feeling. Mr. Trollope

said that they only ventured to unbosom themselves to the English. Now

my belief is that the Italians seldom do this to the English, as far as

Napoleon is concerned. The Italians are _furbi assai_, and wish to

conciliate us, and are perfectly aware of our national jealousies. I

myself have observed the difference in an Italian when speaking to my

own husband before me and speaking to me alone.

Since we came here I have had a letter from Ruskin, written in a very

desponding state about his work, and life, and the world....

Life goes on heavily with me, but it goes on: it has rolled into the

ruts again and goes....

Write to me, my Isa, and love me.

I am your ever loving BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

[Rome: November-December 1860.]

... Now while I remember it let me tell you what I quite forgot

yesterday. If through Kate's dealing with American papers you get to

hear of a lyric of mine called 'De Profundis,'[95] you are to understand

that it was written by me nearly twenty years ago, _before I knew

Robert_; you will observe it is in my 'early manner,' as they say of

painters. It is a personal poem, of course, but was written even so, in

comparatively a state of retrospect, catching a grief in the rebound a

little. (You know I never _can_ speak or cry, so it isn't likely I

should write verses.) The poem (written, however, when I was very low)

lay unprinted all those years, till it turned up at Florence just when

poor Mrs. Howard's bereavement and Mr. Beecher's funeral sermon in the

'Independent' suggested the thought of it--on which, by an impulse, I

enclosed it to the editor, who wanted more verses from me. Now you see

it comes out just when people will suppose the motive to be an actual

occasion connected with myself. Don't let anyone think so, dear Isa. In

the first place, there would be great _exaggeration_; and in the

second, it's not my way to grind up my green griefs to make bread of.

But that poem exaggerates nothing--represents a condition from which the

writer had already partly emerged, after the greatest suffering; the

only time in which I have known what absolute _despair_ is.

Don't notice this when you write.

Write. Take the love of us three. Yes, I love you, dearest Isa, and

shall for ever.

BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

126 Via Felice, Rome:

Friday, [about December 1860].

I have not had courage to write, my dearest friend, but you will not

have been severe on me. I have suffered very much--from suspense as well

as from certainty. If I could open my heart to you it would please me

that your sympathy should see all; but I can't write, and I couldn't

speak of that. It is well for those who in their griefs _can_ speak and

write. I never could.

But to you after all it is not needful. You understand and have

understood.

My husband has been very good to me, and saved me all he could, so that

I have had solitude and quiet, and time to get into the ruts of the

world again where one has to wheel on till the road ends. In this

respect it has been an advantage being at Rome rather than Florence. Now

I can read, and have seen a few faces. One must live; and the only way

is to look away from oneself into the larger and higher circle of life

in which the merely personal grief or joy forgets itself.

For the rest even I ought to have comfort, I know. I believe that love

in its most human relations is an eternal thing. I do believe it, only

through inconsistency and much weakness I falter.

Also there are other beliefs with me with regard to the spiritual world

and the measuring of death, which ought, if I had ordinary logic, to

rescue me from what people in general suffer in circumstances like

these. Only I am weak and foolish; and when the tender past came back to

me day by day, I have dropped down before it as one inconsolable.

Dearest Mr. Martin--give him my grateful love for every kind thought,

and to yourself.

Now that page is turned.

I wish I knew that you were stronger, and at Pau. It is unfortunate that

just on this bitter winter you have been unable to get away from

England.

Here, though there was snow once, we have fared mildly as to climate.

And our rooms are very warm. Penini has his pony and rides, and studies

with his Abbé, and looks very rosy and well. I help him to prepare his

lessons, but that is all, except hearing him read a little German now

and then, and Robert sees to the music, and the getting up of the

arithmetic. For the first time I have had pain in looking into his face

lately--which you will understand.

I saw a man from Naples two days since, an Englishman of intelligence

and impartiality, who has resided there for months in the heart of the

politics. He told me that the exaggeration of evils was great. Evils

there were certainly; and no government succeeding Garibaldi's could

have satisfied a public trained to expect the impossible. Our poor

Garibaldi, hero as he is, and an honest hero, is in truth the weakest

and most malleable of men, and had become at last the mere mouthpiece of

the Mazzinians. If the Bourbons' fall had not been a little delayed,

north and south Italy would have broken in two. So I was assured by my

friend, who gave reasons and showed facts.

That the Neapolitans are not equal to the other Italians is too plain;

and if corrupt governments did not corrupt the government they would be

less hateful to all of us, of course. But a little time will give

smoothness to the affairs of Italy, and none of my old hopes are in the

meanwhile disturbed.

The design as to Rome seems to be to starve out the Pope by the

financial question; to let the rotten fruit fall at last as much by its

own fault as possible, and by the gentlest shake of the tree. I hear of

those who doubted most in the Emperor's designs beginning to confess

that he can't mean ill by Italy.

Possibly you and dear Mr. Martin think more just now of America than of

this country, which I can understand. The crisis has come earlier than

anyone expected. It is a crisis; and if the north accepts such a

compromise as has been proposed the nation perishes morally, which would

be sadder than the mere dissolution of States, however sad. It is the

difference between the death of the soul and of the body.

There might and ought to be a pecuniary compromise; but a compromise of

principle would be fatal.

I am anxious that before we go too far with the Minghetti project here

(separate administration of provinces) we should learn from America that

a certain degree of centralisation (not carried out too far) is

necessary to a strong and vital government. And Italy will want a strong

government for some years to come. There is much talk of war in the

spring, and if Austria will not cede Venetia war must be, even if she

should satisfy her other provinces, which she will probably fail to do.

This is a dull lecture, but you will pardon it and me.

I know all your goodness and sympathy. Do not think that _I_ think that

_any bond is broken_, or that anything is lost. We have been fed on the

hillside, and now there are twelve baskets full of fragments remaining.

May God bless you and love you both!

Your ever affectionate and grateful

BA.

* * * * *

_To Miss I. Blagden_

126 Via Felice, Rome: Tuesday, [January 1861].

Ever dearest Isa,--I wrote a long letter, which you have received, I do

hope, and am waiting for a long one from you to tell me that you are not

suffering any more. This is on business merely--that is, it is merely to

give you trouble, the customary way for me to do business in these

latter days. Will you, dear, without putting yourself to too much

inconvenience by overhaste, direct the 'Nazione' people to send the

journal, to which we must subscribe for three months, to _S.E. le

Général Comte de Noue, Comandante della piazza di Roma. No other name._

The General, who can do what he pleases, pleases to receive our paper

(our kind Abbé mediating) on condition that we do not talk of it, and so

at last I shall attain to getting out of this dark into the free upper

air. It is insufferable to be instructed by the 'Giornale di Roma' as to

how Cialdini writes to Turin that his Piedmontese are perfectly

demoralised, and that the besieged dance for triumph each time an

Italian cannon is fired into the vague. On the other hand, I hear

regularly every morning from the Romans that Gaeta is taken,[96] with

the most minute particulars, which altogether is exasperating. The last

rumour is of typhus fever in the fortress, but I have grown sceptical,

and believe nothing on either side now. One thing is clear, that it

wasn't only the French fleet which prevented our triumph....

Robert came home this morning between three and four. A great ball at

Mrs. Hooker's--magnificent, he says. All the princes in Rome (and even

cardinals) present. The rooms are splendid, and the preparations were in

the best taste. The Princess Ruspoli (a Buonaparte) appeared in the

tricolor. She is most beautiful, Robert says.

So you see our Americans can dance even while the Republic goes to

pieces. I think I would not do it. Not that I despair of America--God

forbid! If the North will be faithful to its conscience there will be

only an increase of greatness after a few years, even though it may rain

blood betwixt then and now. Mr. Story takes it all very quietly. He

would be content to let the South go, and accept the isolation of the

North as final. 'We should do better without the South,' said he. I

don't agree in this. I think that the unity of the State should be

asserted with a strong hand, and the South forced to pay taxes and

submit to law.

Mdme. Swab [Schwabe] told me that a friend of hers had travelled with

Klapka from Constantinople, and that K. had said, 'there would not be

war till next year,--diplomacy would take its course for the present

year.' Perhaps he did not speak sincerely. I can't understand how the

Austrian provinces will hold out in mere talk for twelve months more. Do

you mark the tone of the 'Opinion Nationale' on Austria, and about

Hungary being a natural ally of France, and also what is said in the

'Morning Chronicle,' which always more or less reflects the face of the

French Government? Then it seems to me that the Emperor's speech is not

eminently pacific, though he 'desires peace.' I hear from rather good

authority what I hope is possible, that Teliki accepted as a condition

of his liberation, not simply that he would not personally act against

Austria, but that he would use his endeavours to prevent any action on

the part of his compatriots. Men are base.

Mr. Prinsep[97] is here. Last autumn he made a walking tour into

Cornwall with Alfred Tennyson, to tread in the steps of King Arthur.

Tennyson was dreadfully afraid of being recognised and mobbed, and

desired to be called 'the other gentleman,' which straightway became

convertible now and then into 'the old gentleman,' much to his

vexation. But Mr. Prinsep is in the roses and lilies of youth, and

comparatively speaking, of course, the great Laureate was an ancient. He

is in considerable trouble, too by their building a fort in front of his

house on the southern coast of the Isle of Wight. I couldn't help saying

that he deserved it for having written 'Riflemen, arm!' It's a piece of

pure poetical justice, really.

Here I end.

Write to me, my Isa, and do me good with your tender, warm thoughts. Do

you think I have no comfort in feeling them stroke me softly through the

dark and distance?

May God love you, dearest Isa!

Always your loving

BA.

Robert's true love, and Pen's.

The weather is wonderfully warm. In fact, the winter has been very

mild--milder than usual for even Rome.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

126 Via Felice, Rome:

Tuesday, [about January 1861].

You really astonish me, dearest Fanny, so much by your letter, that I

must reply to it at once. I ask myself under what new influence

(strictly clerical) is she now, that she should write so? And has she

forgotten me, never read 'Aurora Leigh,' never heard of me or from me

that, before 'Spiritualism' came up in America, I have been called

orthodox by infidels, and heterodox by church-people; and gone on

predicting to such persons as came near enough to me in speculative

liberty of opinion to justify my speaking, that the present churches

were in course of dissolution, and would have to be followed by a

reconstruction of Christian essential verity into other than these

middle-age scholastic forms. Believing in Christ's divinity, which is

the life of Christianity, I believed this. Otherwise, if the end were

here--if we were to be covered over and tucked in with the Thirty-nine

Articles or the like, and good-night to us for a sound sleep in 'sound

doctrine'--I should fear for a revealed religion incapable of expansion

according to the needs of man. What comes from God has life in it, and

certainly from all the growth of living things, spiritual growth cannot

be excepted. But I shun religious controversy--it is useless. I never

'disturb anybody's mind,' as it is called--let those sleep who can. If I

had not known that _your_ mind was broken up rather broadly by truths

out of Swedenborg, I should not have mooted the subject, be sure. (Have

you given up Swedenborg? this by the way.) Having done so, I am anxious

to set you right about Mrs. Stowe. As the author of the most successful

book printed by man or woman, perhaps I a little under-rated her. The

book has genius, but did not strike _me_ as it did some other readers.

Her 'Sunny Memories,' I liked very little. When she came to us in

Florence some years ago, I did not think I should like her, nor did

Robert, but we were both of us surprised and charmed with her simplicity

and earnestness. At Rome last year she brought her inner nature more in

contact with mine, and I, who had looked for what one usually finds in

women, was startled into much admiration and sympathy by finding in her

a largeness and fearlessness of thought which, coming out of a clerical

and puritan _cul-de-sac_, and combined with the most devout and reverent

emotions, really is fine. So you think that since 'Uncle Tom' she has

turned infidel, because of her interest in Spiritualism. Her last words

to me when we parted, were, 'Those who love the Lord Jesus Christ never

see one another for the last time.' That's the attitude of the mind

which you stigmatise as corrupting.

With regard to 'Spiritualism,' so called, you might as well say

'_books_' are dangerous, without specifying the books. Surely you _know_

that every sort of doctrine is enjoined by these means, from Church of

Englandism to Free Love. A lady was with me this very morning, who was

converted from infidelity to Christianity solely by these means, and I

am told that thousands declare the same. As far as I am concerned, I

never heard or read a single communication which impressed me in the

least: what does impress me is the probability of there being

communications at all. I look at the movement. What _are_ these

intelligences, separated yet relating and communicating? What is their

state? what their aspiration? have we had part or shall we have part

with them? is this the corollary of man's life on the earth? or are they

unconscious echoes of his embodied soul? That anyone should admit a fact

(such as a man being lifted into the air, for instance), and not be

interested in it, is so foreign to the habits of my mind (which can't

insulate a fact from an inference, and rest there) that I have not a

word to say. Only I _see_ that if this class of facts, however

grotesque, be recognised among thinkers, our reigning philosophy will

modify itself; scientific men will conceive differently from Humboldt

(for instance) of the mystery of life; the materialism which stifles the

higher instincts of men will be dislodged, and the rationalism which

divides Oxford with Romanism (_nothing between_, we hear!) will receive

a blow.

_No truth can be dangerous._ What if Jesus Christ be taken for a medium,

do you say? Well, what then? As perfect man, He possessed, I conclude,

the full complement of a man's faculties. But if He walked on the sea as

a medium, if the virtue went out of Him as a mesmeriser, He also spoke

the words which never man spoke, was born for us, and died for us, and

rose from the dead as the Lord God our Saviour. But the whole theory of

spiritualism, all the phenomena, are strikingly _confirmatory_ of

revelation; nothing strikes me more than that. Hume's argument against

miracles (a strong argument) disappears before it, and Strauss's

conclusions from _a priori_ assertion of impossibility fall in pieces at

once.

Now I have done with this subject. Upon the whole, it seems to me better

really that you should not mix yourself up with it any more. Also I wish

you joy of the dismissal of M. Pierart. There was no harm that he took

away your headache, if he did not presume on that. You tell me not to

bid you to beware of counting on us in Paris. And yet, dearest Fanny, I

must. The future in this shifting world, what is it? As for me, whom you

recognise as 'so much myself,' dear, I have a stout pen, and till its

last blot, it will write, perhaps, with its 'usual insolence' (as a

friend once said), but if you laid your hand on this heart, you would

feel how it stops, and staggers, and fails. I have not been out yet, and

am languid in spirits, I gather myself up by fits and starts, and then

fall back. Do you know, I think with positive terror sometimes, less of

the journey than of having to speak and look at people. If it were

possible to persuade Robert, I should send him with Pen; but he wouldn't

go alone, and he must go this year. Oh, I daresay I shall feel more up

to the friction of things when once I have been out; it's stupid to give

way. Also my sister Arabel talks of meeting me in France, though I might

have managed that difficulty, but that Robert should see his father is

absolutely necessary. Meanwhile we don't talk of it, and by May or June

I shall be feeling another woman probably....

So you are going to work hard in Germany: that is well. Only beware of

the English periodicals. There's a rage for new periodicals, and because

the 'Cornhill' answers, other speculations crowd the market, overcrowd

it: there will be failures presently.

I have written a long letter when I meant to write a short one. May God

keep you, and love you, and make you happy! Your ever affectionate

BA.

I am anxious about America, fearing a compromise in the North. All other

dangers are comparatively null.

* * * * *

_To Miss E.F. Haworth_

126 Via Felice, Rome:

Saturday, [about January 1861].