I hear from England that you have dedicated a book to me with too kind and most touching words. To thank you for such a proof of sympathy, to thank you from my heart, cannot surely be a wrong thing to do, it seems so natural and comes from so irresistible an impulse.
I read a book of yours once at Florence, which first made [me] know you pleasantly, and afterwards (that was at Florence, too) there came a piercing touch from a hand in the air — whether yours also, I cannot dare to guess — which has preoccupied me a good deal since. If I speak to you in mysteries, forgive me. Let it be clear at least, that I am very happy to be grateful to you for the honor you have done me in your dedication, and that my husband, moved more, as he always is, by honor paid to me than to himself, thanks you beside. I will not keep back his thanks, which are worth more than mine can be.
For the rest, we have, neither of us, seen the book yet, nor even read an exact copy of the words in question. Only the rumour of them appears to run that I am ‘not likely ever to see you.’ And why am I never to see you, pray? Unlikelier pleasures have been granted to me, and I will not indeed lose hold of the hope of this pleasure.
Allow it to
Your always obliged
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
To Miss Mitford
[Paris,] 138 Avenue des Champs-Elysées:
[January-February 1852].
My very dear friend, let me begin what I have to say by recognising you as the most generous and affectionate of friends. I never could mistake the least of your intentions; you were always, from first to last, kind and tenderly indulgent to me — always exaggerating what was good in me, always forgetting what was faulty and weak — keeping me by force of affection in a higher place than I could aspire to by force of vanity; loving me always, in fact. Now let me tell you the truth. It will prove how hard it is for the tenderest friends to help paining one another, since you have pained me. See what a deep wound I must have in me, to be pained by the touch of such a hand. Oh, I am morbid, I very well know. But the truth is that I have been miserably upset by your book, and that if I had had the least imagination of your intending to touch upon certain biographical details in relation to me, I would have conjured you by your love to me and by my love to you, to forbear it altogether. You cannot understand; no, you cannot understand with all your wide sympathy (perhaps, because you are not morbid, and I am), the sort of susceptibility I have upon one subject. I have lived heart to heart (for instance) with my husband these five years: I have never yet spoken out, in a whisper even, what is in me; never yet could find heart or breath; never yet could bear to hear a word of reference from his lips. And now those dreadful words are going the round of the newspapers, to be verified here, commented on there, gossiped about everywhere; and I, for my part, am frightened to look at a paper as a child in the dark — as unreasonably, you will say — but what then? what drives us mad is our unreason. I will tell you how it was. First of all, an English acquaintance here told us that she had been hearing a lecture at the Collège de France, and that the professor, M. Philaret Chasles, in the introduction to a series of lectures on English poetry, had expressed his intention of noticing Tennyson, Browning, &c., and E.B.B.— ‘from whose private life the veil had been raised in so interesting a manner lately by Miss Mitford.’ In the midst of my anxiety about this, up comes a writer of the ‘Revue des Deux Mondes’ to my husband, to say that he was preparing a review upon me and had been directed by the editor to make use of some biographical details extracted from your book into the ‘Athenæum,’ but that it had occurred to him doubtfully whether certain things might not be painful to me, and whether I might not prefer their being omitted in his paper. (All this time we had seen neither book nor ‘Athenæum.’) Robert answered for me that the omission of such and such things would be much preferred by me, and accordingly the article appears in the ‘Revue’ with the passage from your book garbled and curtailed as seemed best to the quoter. Then Robert set about procuring the ‘Athenæum’ in question. He tells me (and that I perfectly believe) that, for the facts to be given at all, they could not possibly be given with greater delicacy; oh, and I will add for myself, that for them to be related by anyone during my life, I would rather have you to relate them than another. But why should they be related during my life? There was no need, no need. To show my nervous susceptibility in the length and breadth of it to you, I could not (when it came to the point) bear to read the passage extracted in the ‘Athenæum,’ notwithstanding my natural anxiety to see exactly what was done. I could not bear to do it. I made Robert read it aloud — with omissions — so that I know all your kindness. I feel it deeply; through tears of pain I feel it; and if, as I dare say you will, you think me very very foolish, do not on that account think me ungrateful. Ungrateful I never can be to you, my much loved and kindest friend.
I hear your book is considered one of your best productions, and I do not doubt that the opinion is just. Thank you for giving it to us, thank you.
I don’t like to send you a letter from Paris without a word about your hero— ‘handsome,’ I fancy not, nor the imperial type. I have not seen his face distinctly. What do you think about the constitution? Will it work, do you fancy, now-a-days in France? The initiative of the laws, put out of the power of the legislative assembly, seems to me a stupidity; and the senators, in their fine dresses, make me wink a little. Also, I hear that the ‘senatorial cardinals’ don’t please the peasants, who hate the priesthood as much as they hate the ‘Cossacks.’ On the other hand, Montalembert was certainly in bed the other day with vexation, because ‘nobody could do anything with Louis Napoleon — he was obstinate;’ ‘nous nous en lavons les mains,’ and that fact gives me hope that not too much indulgence is intended to the Church. There’s to be a ball at the Tuileries with ‘court dresses,’ which is ‘un peu fort’ for a republic. By the way, rumour (with apparent authority justifying it) says, that a black woman opened her mouth and prophesied to him at Ham, ‘he should be the head of the French nation, and be assassinated in a ball-room.’ I was assured that he believes the prophecy firmly, ‘being in all things too superstitious’ and fatalistical.
I was interrupted in this letter yesterday. Meantime comes out the decree against the Orleans property, which I disapprove of altogether. It’s the worst thing yet done, to my mind. Yet the Bourse stands fast, and the decree is likely enough to be popular with the ouvrier class. There are rumours of tremendously wild financial measures, only I believe in no rumours just now, and apparently the Bourse is as incredulous on this particular point. If I thought (as people say) that we are on the verge of a ‘law’ declaring the Roman Catholic religion the State religion, I should give him up at once; but this would be contrary to the traditions of the Empire, and I can’t suppose it to be probable on any account.
Observe, I am no Napoleonist. I am simply a democrat, and hold that the majority of a nation has the right of choice upon the question of its own government, even where it makes a mistake. Therefore the outcry of the English newspapers is most disgusting to me. For the rest, one can hardly do strict justice, at this time of transition, to the ultimate situation of the country; we must really wait a little, till the wind and rain shall have ceased to dash so in one’s eyes. The wits go on talking, though, all the same; and I heard a suggestion yesterday, that, for the effaced ‘Liberté, égalité, fraternité,’ should be written up, ‘Infanterie, cavallerie, artillerie.’ That’s the last ‘mot,’ I believe. The salons are very noisy. A lady was ordered to her country seat the other day for exclaiming, ‘Et il n’y a pas de Charlotte Corday.’
Forgive, with this dull letter, my other defects. Always I am frank to you, saying what is in my heart; and there is always there, dearest Miss Mitford, a fruitful and grateful affection to you from your
E.B.B.
To Miss Mitford
[Paris], 138 Avenue des Ch.-Elysées:
February 15, .
Thank you, thank you, my beloved friend. Yes; I do unde
rstand in my heart all your kindness. Yes, I do believe that on some points I am full of disease; and this has exposed me several times to shocks of pain in the ordinary intercourse of the world, which for bystanders were hard, I dare say, to make out. Once at the Baths of Lucca I was literally nearly struck down to the ground by a single word said in all kindness by a friend whom I had not seen for ten years. The blue sky reeled over me, and I caught at something, not to fall. Well, there is no use dwelling on this subject. I understand your affectionateness and tender consideration, I repeat, and thank you; and love you, which is better. Now, let us talk of reasonable things.
Béranger lives close to us, and Robert has seen him in his white hat wandering along the asphalte. I had a notion somehow that he was very old; but he is only elderly, not much indeed above sixty (which is the prime of life now-a-days), and he lives quietly and keeps out of scrapes poetical and political, and if Robert and I had but a little less modesty we are assured that we should find access to him easy. But we can’t make up our minds to go to his door and introduce ourselves as vagrant minstrels, when he may probably not know our names. We never could follow the fashion of certain authors who send their books about without intimations of their being likely to be acceptable or not, of which practice poor Tennyson knows too much for his peace. If, indeed, a letter of introduction to Béranger were vouchsafed to us from any benign quarter, we should both be delighted, but we must wait patiently for the influence of the stars. Meanwhile, we have at last sent our letter (Mazzini’s) to George Sand, accompanied with a little note signed by both of us, though written by me, as seemed right, being the woman. We half despaired in doing this, for it is most difficult, it appears, to get at her, she having taken vows against seeing strangers in consequence of various annoyances and persecutions in and out of print, which it’s the mere instinct of a woman to avoid. I can understand it perfectly. Also, she is in Paris for only a few days, and under a new name, to escape from the plague of her notoriety. People said to us: ‘She will never see you; you have no chance, I am afraid.’ But we determined to try. At last I pricked Robert up to the leap, for he was really inclined to sit in his chair and be proud a little. ‘No,’ said I, ‘you shan’t be proud, and I won’t be proud, and we will see her. I won’t die, if I can help it, without seeing George Sand.’ So we gave our letter to a friend who was to give it to a friend, who was to place it in her hands, her abode being a mystery and the name she used unknown. The next day came by the post this answer:
Madame, — J’aurai l’honneur de vous recevoir dimanche prochain rue Racine 3. C’est le seul jour que je puisse passer chez moi, et encore je n’en suis pas absolument certaine. Mais j’y ferai tellement mon possible, que ma bonne étoile m’y aidera peut-être un peu.
Agréez mille remercîments de cœur, ainsi que Monsieur Browning, que j’espère voir avec vous, pour la sympathie que vous m’accordez.
George Sand.
Paris: 12 février, 52.
This is graceful and kind, is it not? And we are going to-morrow; I, rather at the risk of my life. But I shall roll myself up head and all in a thick shawl, and we shall go in a close carriage, and I hope I shall be able to tell you about the result before shutting up this letter.
One of her objects in coming to Paris this time was to get a commutation of the sentence upon her friend Dufraisse, who was ordered to Cayenne. She had an interview accordingly with the President. He shook hands with her and granted her request, and in the course of conversation pointed to a great heap of ‘Decrees’ on the table, being hatched ‘for the good of France.’ I have heard scarcely anything of him, except from his professed enemies; and it is really a good deal the simple recoil from manifest falsehoods and gross exaggerations which has thrown me on the ground of his defenders. For the rest, it remains to be proved, I think, whether he is a mere ambitious man, or better — whether his personality or his country stands highest with him as an object. I thought and still think that a Washington might have dissolved the Assembly as he did, and appealed to the people. Which is not saying, however, that he is a Washington. We must wait, I think, to judge the man. Only it is right to bear in mind one fact, that, admitting the lawfulness of the coup d’état, you must not object to the dictatorship. And, admitting the temporary necessity of the dictatorship, it is absolute folly to expect under it the liberty and ease of a regular government.
What has saved him with me from the beginning was his appeal to the people, and what makes his government respectable in my eyes is the answer of the people to that appeal. Being a democrat, I dare to be so consequently. There never was a more legitimate chief of a State than Louis Napoleon is now — elected by seven millions and a half; and I do maintain that, ape or demi-god, to insult him where he is, is to insult the people who placed him there. As to the stupid outcry in England about forced votes, voters pricked forward by bayonets — why, nothing can be more stupid. Nobody not blinded by passion could maintain such a thing for a moment. No Frenchman, however blinded by passion, has maintained it in my presence.
A very philosophically minded man (French) was talking of these things the other day — one of the most thoughtful, liberal men I ever knew of any country, and high and pure in his moral views — also (let me add) more anglomane in general than I am. He was talking of the English press. He said he ‘did it justice for good and noble intentions’ (more than I do!), ‘but marvelled at its extraordinary ignorance. Those writers did not know the A B C of France. Then, as to Louis Napoleon, whether he was right or wrong, they erred in supposing him not to be in earnest with his constitution and other remedies for France. The fact was, he not only was in earnest — he was even fanatical.’
There is, of course, much to deplore in the present state of affairs — much that is very melancholy. The constitution is not a model one, and no prospect of even comparative liberty of the Press has been offered. At the same time, I hope still. As tranquillity is established, there will be certain modifications; this, indeed, has been intimated, and I think the Press will by degrees attain to its emancipation. Meanwhile, the ‘Athenæum’ and other English papers say wrongly that there is a censure established on books. There is a censure on pamphlets and newspapers — on books, no. Cormenin is said to have been the adviser of the Orleans confiscation....
To John Kenyon
[Paris], 138 Avenue des Ch.-Elysées:
February 15, 1852.
My dearest Mr. Kenyon, — Robert sends you his Shelley, having a very few copies allowed to him to dispose of. I think you have Shelley’s other letters, of which this volume is the supplement, and you will not be sorry to have Robert’s preface thrown in, though he makes very light of it himself.
You never write a word to us, and so I don’t mean to send you a letter to-day — only as few lines as I can drop in a sulky fit, repenting as I go on. As to politics, you know you have all put me in the corner because I stand up for universal suffrage, and am weak enough to fancy that seven millions and a half of Frenchmen have some right to an opinion on their own affairs. It’s really fatal in this world to be consequent — it leads one into damnable errors. So I shall not say much more at present. You must bear with me — dear Miss Bayley and all of you — and believe of me, if I am ever so wrong, that I do at least pray from my soul, ‘May the right prevail!’ — loving right, truth, justice, and the people through whatever mistakes. As it was in the beginning, from ‘Casa Guidi Windows,’ so it is now from the Avenue des Champs-Elysées. I am most humanly liable, of course, to make mistakes, and am by temperament perhaps over hopeful and sanguine. But I do see with my own eyes and feel with my own spirit, and not with other people’s eyes and spirits, though they should happen to be the dearest — and that’s the very best of me, be certain, so don’t quarrel with it too much.
As to the worst of the President, let him have vulture’s beak, hyena’s teeth, and the rattle of the great serpent, it’s nothing to the question. Let him be Caligula’s horse raised to the consulship �
� what then? I am not a Buonapartist; I am simply a ‘democrat,’ as you say. I simply hold to the fact that, such as he is, the people chose him, and to the opinion that they have a right to choose whom they please. When your English Press denies the fact of the choice (a fact which the most passionate of party-men does not think of denying here), I seem to have a right to another opinion which might strike you as unpatriotic if I uttered it in this place. Hic tacet, then, rather jacet.
For the rest, for heaven’s sake and the truth’s, do let us try to take breath a little and be patient. Let us wait till the dust of the struggle clears away before we take measures of the circus. We can’t have the liberty of a regular government under a dictatorship. And if the ‘constitution’ which is coming is not model, it may wear itself into shape by being worked calmly. These new boots will be easier to the feet after half an hour’s walking. Not that I like the pinching meanwhile. Not that stringencies upon the Press please me — no, nor arrests and imprisonments. I like these things, God knows, as little as the loudest curser of you all, but I don’t think it necessary and lawful to exaggerate and over-colour, nor to paint the cheeks of sorrows into horrors, nor to talk, like the ‘Quarterly Review’ (betwixt excuses for the King of Naples), of two thousand four hundred persons being cut to mincemeat in the streets of Paris, nor to call boldness hypocrisy (because hypocrisy is the worse word), and the appeal to the sovereignty of the people usurpation, and universal suffrage the pricking of bayonets. Above all, I would avoid insulting the whole French nation, who have judged their own position and acted accordingly. If Louis Napoleon disappoints their expectation, he won’t sit long where he is. Of that I feel satisfactory assurance; and, considering the national habits of insurrection, I really think that others may.
Meanwhile it is just to tell you that the two deepest-minded persons whom we have known in Paris — one an ultra-Republican of European reputation (I don’t like mentioning names), and the other a Constitutionalist of the purest and noblest moral nature — are both inclined to take favorable views of the President’s personal character and intentions. For my part, I don’t pretend to an opinion. He may be, as they say, ‘bon enfant,’ ‘homme de conscience,’ and ‘so much in earnest as to be fanatical,’ or he may be a wretch and a reptile, as you say in England. That’s nothing to the question as I see it. I don’t take it up by that handle at all. Caligula’s horse or the people’s ‘Messiah,’ as I heard him called the other day — what then? You are wonderfully intolerant, you in England, of equine consulships, you who bear with quite sufficient equanimity a great rampancy of beasts all over the world — Mr. Forster not blowing the trumpet of war, and Mrs. Alfred Tennyson not loading the rifles.
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 191