"Phoebus! you know
That the infinite Soul has its infinite woe,
As I ought to know, having lived cheek by jowl,
Since the day I was born, with the Infinite Soul."
But people who knew her well soon lost this unfavorable impression, and
she was almost idolized by her real friends. Mr. Emerson thus records
his first impressions of her: "She had a face and frame that would
indicate fulness and tenacity of life. . . . She was then, as always,
carefully and becomingly dressed, and of lady-like self-possession. For
the rest, her appearance had nothing pre-possessing. Her extreme
plainness, a trick of incessantly opening and shutting her eyelids, the
nasal tone of her voice,--all repelled; and I said to myself, 'We shall
never get far.'" He adds: "I believe I fancied her too much interested
in personal history; and her talk was a comedy in which dramatic justice
was done to everybody's foibles. I remember she made me laugh more than
I liked." But, "soon her wit had effaced the impression of her personal
unattractiveness, and the eyes, which were so plain at first, swam with
fun and drolleries and the very tides of joy and superabundant life,"
and he saw "that her satire was only the pastime and necessity of her
talent;" and as he came to know her better, "her plane of character rose
constantly in my estimation, disclosing many moods and powers in
successive platforms or terraces, each above each." All superior women
were drawn to her at once, and even those noted only for beauty or
social talent vied in their devotion to her. A few years later, it was
for this circle that her famous conversation classes were held in
Boston; and so great was their popularity that she continued them for
six years. These conversations were entirely unique in character, and
attracted great attention in their day. The novelty of such a departure
in the Boston of forty years ago may be imagined, and the criticism
drawn upon a woman who should inaugurate such an innovation was in some
cases very severe. In regard to these same conversations, as in other
things, the impression she made was twofold. Mrs. Howe says: "Without
the fold of her admirers stood carping, unkind critics; within were
enthusiastic and grateful friends." But as to her great eloquence and
ability, there was but one opinion. Even critics admitted that no woman
had spoken like this before. And she addressed her fine audience of
Boston's most cultivated women with entire ease and freedom, and gave
many of them an impulse toward an intellectual career which nothing else
at that time could have done.
Here was the real beginning of what may be called the woman question in
this country. Before Margaret Fuller's day the agitation regarding
woman's career and work in the world was practically unknown here; and
all the ideas which have now become incorporated into the platform of
the woman's party found in her their first and perhaps their best
exponent. Very little that is new has since been urged upon this
question. Her powerful mind seemed to have grasped the whole subject,
and to have given it the best expression of which it was capable. She
embodied her ideas after a time in her book, "Woman in the Nineteenth
Century;" and although the literature of the subject is now voluminous,
that book is still read and referred to.
Finding it necessary to support herself and to care for her mother and
brothers after her father's death, she at first taught school, at one
time in Mr. Alcott's famous school in Boston and afterwards in
Providence, and then took a position upon the "New York Tribune," kindly
offered her by Mr. Greeley. She supported her brothers in college, and
aided her mother for some years, putting by her own ambitions with a
cheerful outward appearance, though oftentimes with a heavy heart. She
had many and very ambitious literary projects, few of which were ever
destined to be carried out. For a woman who occupied so much the minds
of the men of her day and of a succeeding generation, she really left
little upon which to base their admiration. What she was, rather than
what she did, seems to have made its impression upon her time. That her
vocation was to speak rather than to write, there seems little doubt.
She had the rare but much-prized gift of eloquence, and in these latter
days would no doubt have made a very large success as a speaker. Some
who listened to her think that she might have been the peer of Wendell
Phillips in oratory, had she bent her powers entirely in that direction.
As it is, her genius has become almost wholly a tradition. There are
many to-day who cannot guess the secret of the continued interest the
world feels in her. That secret lies largely in the impression she made
upon many of the famous men of her time. They have transmitted her name
to posterity along with their own. Horace Greeley at first determined
not to like her personally, and avoided her even after she became a
member of his family; but he ended by growing as enthusiastic over her
as the rest. Even crabbed Carlyle, though much prejudiced against women
of her sort, bore testimony to his liking for her. He writes to
Emerson:--
"Margaret is an excellent soul; in real regard with both of us
here. Since she went I have been reading some of her papers in a
new book we have got; greatly superior to all I knew before,--in
fact, undeniable utterances of a truly heroic mind, altogether
unique, so far as I know, among the writing women of this
generation; rare enough too, God knows, among the writing men. She
is very narrow, but she is truly high. Honor to Margaret, and more
and more good speed to her!"
It was not until 1846 that Margaret's long desire to visit Europe was
gratified. It had been the dream of her life, and one cannot but be sad
at thought of its tragic ending. She spent some time in London, seeing
all the celebrities of the day there, and then crossed over to Paris.
Like London, Paris had then some brilliant men and women, whose peers
she has not seen since. Rachel was the queen of the tragic stage, George
Sand queen of the literary domain. De Balzac, Eugene Sue, Dumas _pere_,
and Beranger were all alive, and the centre of the Parisian literary
coterie. Liszt and Chopin held the musical world in the bondage of sweet
sounds. Into this little inner circle Margaret entered, and did not fail
to make her mark there. She was a second Madame de Stael in
conversation, and in her little circle was recognized as such.
From Paris she went to Italy, where the real romance of her life was
enacted and its tragic _denouement_ prepared for. Italy had been her
promised land from early youth. She had longed for its sunny clime, amid
the storms and winds of bleak New England; for its historic
associations, amid the poverty of a land without a past; for its
architectural splendors, amid the bareness and baldness of the New World
cities; for the grandeur of its ancient art, amid the poverty of the
America of that day; for its impassioned music, in a land almost devoid
of musical culture; and she had longed for the beautiful, sensuous, idle
life of its people, through all the strain of a strenuous and overworked
existence. Her vision had been fair, and at first she was much
disappointed. In artistic or architectural magnificence St. Peter's and
the Transfiguration could not disappoint a soul like Margaret's, but she
was deeply disappointed in the life of the Italian people and in the
general charm of the country.
She fell upon exciting times in Italy. There had grown up the fiercest
hatred of the Austrian rule, which had recently been aggravated by
foolish acts of repression and violence. The whole country was in a
ferment. Mazzini, whom Margaret had met in London, was here awaiting his
opportunity. Mrs. Howe says: "Up and down went the hopes and the hearts
of the Liberal party. Hither and thither ran the tides of popular
affection, suspicion, and resentment. The Pope was the idol of the
moment. The Grand Duke of Tuscany yielded to pressure whenever it became
severe. The minor princes, who had from their birth been incapable of an
idea, tried as well as they could to put on some semblance of concession
without really yielding anything." Margaret was soon in close relations
with leading Liberals, and shared all their hopes and fears and some of
their dangers.
At this time she first met the young Italian nobleman, Ossoli, who
became her husband. She became separated from her party one day at some
service at St. Peter's, and, wandering around trying to find them,
became tired and somewhat agitated. A young man of gentlemanly address
offered his services to her as guide; and after looking in vain for her
friends, she was obliged to accept his escort home, night having come on
and no carriages being in attendance. They became mutually attracted,
and the acquaintance continued, with that disregard of conventionality
for which American women are noted when abroad. Although much younger
than Margaret, he seemed to be greatly interested in her; and although
he had none of her intellectual tastes, she was equally interested in
him.
A very romantic attachment sprang up between them, which ended after a
few months in a secret marriage. Her reason for the secrecy lay in the
troubled times, and the fear of Ossoli's being deprived of his paternal
inheritance on account of marrying a Protestant. They had great hopes of
the coming revolution, and trusted to a more liberal government to give
him his rights despite the fact of his marrying outside the Church of
Rome. He was as poor as Margaret herself; and this was another reason
for living apart for a time. He was a captain in the Civic Guard, and at
this time much occupied with military duties. It was at this time that
the Roman Republic was proclaimed, with great pomp of rejoicing; and
Margaret chronicles the opening of the Constitutional Assembly, with
great display of processions and banners. In one procession walked a
Napoleonic prince side by side with Garibaldi, both having been chosen
as deputies. All this raised the hopes of the Liberals throughout Europe
to the highest point, and Margaret was almost transported with happy
excitement,--probably not understanding as well as the natives of Italy
how ill prepared that country was for liberty, and how soon the despotic
power would again close around the people. In point of fact, the
Republic lasted but a few days, and Margaret's brief time for rejoicing
was over, and her own personal troubles became very urgent and
oppressive.
A son had been born to her some months before, and had of necessity been
left in the hands of a nurse in the country, as the marriage had not yet
been made known. During all the pomp of processions and the ringing of
bells and firing of cannon, she had heard the voice of her infant crying
at Rieti. She had not seen him for three months, on account of the
troublous times. She lay awake whole nights contriving how she might end
the separation which seemed killing her; but circumstances were too
strong for her, and the object so dear to her heart could not be
compassed. The French were already in Italy. The siege of Rome soon
ended in the downfall of the Republic, and the government was placed in
the hands of a triumvirate. The city once invested, military hospitals
became a necessity. Margaret was named superintendent of the hospital of
the Fate Bene Fratelli. "Night and day," writes Mrs. Story, "Margaret
was occupied, and with the Princess Belgiojoso so ordered and disposed
the hospitals that their conduct was admirable. Of money they had very
little, and they were obliged to give their time and thoughts in its
place. I have walked through the wards with Margaret, and have seen how
comforting was her presence to the poor suffering men. For each one's
peculiar taste she had a care. To one she carried books; to another she
told the news of the day; and listened to another's oft-repeated tale of
wrongs, as the best sympathy she could give. They raised themselves on
their elbows to get a last glimpse of her as she went away." Ossoli was
stationed with his command on the walls of the Vatican, and in great
danger. He refused to leave his post even for food and rest. The
provisions which Margaret sent him he shared with his comrades.
Sometimes she could visit him at his post and talk about the little
Angelo, now always in her thoughts. As the wounded men were brought into
the hospital she was always expecting to see her husband; and as the
nurse had threatened to abandon the babe, and it was utterly impossible
for Margaret to get outside the lines now investing the city, the two
horrors were almost more than she could bear. It was only in trying to
help the helpless that she found any consolation in this dreadful time.
The night of the 20th of June, the French effected an entrance into the
city; and although the defence was gallantly continued until the 30th,
there was really no hope for the patriots.
At that time Garibaldi informed the Assembly that further resistance
would be useless. The French occupation then began, and the end of all
liberties. The gates once open, Margaret, with all her sorrow for Rome,
was happy in the thought of reaching her child. She did reach him just
in time to save his life. He had been forsaken by his nurse, and his
mother found him "worn to a skeleton, too weak to smile or lift his
wasted little hand." All that Margaret had endured seemed slight
compared to this. She could but compare the women of the Papal States to
wolves. The child, however, recovered with good nursing, and the family,
now united, enjoyed a little season of repose and happiness. The
marriage was announced, and Margaret's many friends in Rome extended
their help and sympathy. Life in Italy had now become so painful to
them that she resolved to return to the New World. Her husband was
willing to accompany her. They accordingly engaged passage upon a
merchant-vessel from Leghorn, the same vessel being engaged to bring
over the heavy marble of Powers's "Greek Slave." She seemed to have
great forebodings about this voyage, and was almost induced to give up
their passage on the vessel at the last moment; but she overcame her
fears, and they embarked. After a few days the captain died of
small-pox. The disease spread; and Margaret, as courageously as ever,
went about the ship nursing the sick. Soon the little Angelo was taken
with the dread disease; they nursed him safely through it, however, and
after many dangers and trials the vessel arrived off the Jersey coast in
thick weather. At night, the mate promised them a landing in New York in
the morning; but the vessel ran upon the sand-bars near Long Island, and
on Fire Island beach she struck at four o'clock on the morning of July
19. Margaret, with husband and child, was lost, after refusing to be
separated in the efforts at rescue. They went down together, and the
career of a great and noble woman ended thus tragically on that desolate
coast.
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