Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  You don’t say a word to me of Mrs. Beecher Stowe. How did her book impress you? No woman ever had such a success, such a fame; no man ever had, in a single book. For my part I rejoice greatly in it. It is an individual glory full of healthy influence and benediction to the world.

  [The remainder of this letter is missing]

  To Mrs. Jameson

  Casa Guidi, Florence: March 17, .

  Thank you — how to thank you enough — for the too kind present of the ‘Madonna,’ dearest Mona Nina. I will not wait to read it through — we have only looked through it, which is different; but there is enough seen so beautiful as to deserve the world’s thanks, to say nothing of ours, and there are personal reasons besides why we should thank you. Have you not quoted us, have you not sent us the book? Surely, good reasons.

  But now, be still better to me, and write and say how you are. I want to know that you are quite well; if you can tell me so, do. You have told me of a new book, which is excellent news, and I hear from another quarter that it will consist of your ‘Readings’ and ‘Remarks,’ a sort of book most likely to penetrate widely and be popular in a good sense. Would it not be well to bring out such a work volume by volume at intervals? Is it this you are contemplating?...

  Robert and I have had a very happy winter in Florence; let me, any way, answer for myself. I have been well, and we have been quiet and occupied; reading books, doing work, playing with Wiedeman; and with nothing from without to vex us much. At the end of it all, we go to Rome certainly; but we have taken on this apartment for another year, which Robert decided on to please me, and because it was reasonable on the whole. We have been meditating Socialism and mysticism of very various kinds, deep in Louis Blanc and Proudhon, deeper in the German spiritualists, added to which, I have by no means given up my French novels and my rapping spirits, of whom our American guests bring us relays of witnesses. So we don’t absolutely moulder here in the intellect, only Robert (and indeed I have too) has tender recollections of ‘that blaze of life in Paris,’ and we both mean to go back to it presently. No place like Paris for living in. Here, one sleeps, ‘perchance to dream,’ and praises the pillow.

  We had a letter from our friend M. Milsand yesterday; you see he does not forget us — no, indeed. In speaking of the state of things in France, which I had asked him to do, he says, he is not sanguine (he never is sanguine, I must tell you, about anything), though entirely dissentient from la presse Anglaise. He considers on the whole that the status is as good as can be desired, as a stable foundation for the development of future institutions. It is in that point of view that he regards the situation. So do I. As to the English press, I, who am not ‘Anglomane’ like our friend, I call it plainly either maniacal or immoral, let it choose the epithet. The invasion cry, for instance, I really can’t qualify it; I can’t comprehend it with motives all good and fair. I throw it over to you to analyse.

  With regard to the sudden death of French literature, you all exaggerate that like the rest. If you look into even the ‘Revue des Deux Mondes’ for the year 1852, you will see that a few books are still published. Pazienza. Things will turn up better than you suppose. Newspapers breathe heavily just now, that’s undeniable; but for book literature the government never has touched it with a finger. I ascertained that as a fact when I was in Paris.

  None of you in England understand what the crisis has been in France; and how critical measures have been necessary. Lamartine’s work on the revolution of ‘48 is one of the best apologies for Louis Napoleon; and, if you want another, take Louis Blanc’s work on the same.

  Isn’t it a shame that nobody comes from the north to the south, after a hundred oaths? I hear nothing of dear Mr. Kenyon. I hear nothing from you of your coming. You won’t come, any of you....

  I am much relieved by hearing that Mazzini is gone from Italy, whatever Lord Malmesbury may say of it. Every day I expected to be told that he was taken at Milan and shot. A noble man, though incompetent, I think, to his own aspiration; but a man who personally has my sympathies always. The state of things here is cruel, the people are one groan. God deliver us all, I must pray, and by almost any means.

  As to your Ministry, I don’t expect very much from it. Lord Aberdeen, ‘put on’ to Lord John, is using the drag uphill. They will do just as little as they can, be certain.

  Think of my submitting at last to the conjugal will and cod’s liver oil — yes, and think of its doing me good. The cough was nearly, if not quite, gone because of the climate, before I took the oil, but it does me good by making me gain in flesh. I am much less thin, and very well, and dearest Robert triumphant.

  To Mrs. Jameson

  Florence: April 12, .

  The comfort is, my ever loved friend, that here is spring — summer, as translated into Italy — if fine weather is to set you up again. I shall be very thankful to have better news of you; to hear of your being out of that room and loosened into some happy condition of liberty. It seems unnatural to think of you in one room. That seems fitter for me, doesn’t it? And the rooms in England are so low and small, that they put double bars on one’s captivity. May God bring you out with the chestnut trees and elms! It’s very sad meanwhile.

  Comfort yourself, dear friend! Admire Louis Napoleon. He’s an extraordinary man beyond all doubt; and that he has achieved great good for France, I do not in the least doubt. I was only telling you that I had not finished my pedestal for him — wait a little. Because, you see, for my part, I don’t go over to the system of ‘mild despotisms,’ no, indeed. I am a democrat to the bone of me. It is simply as a democratical ruler, and by grace of the people, that I accept him, and he must justify himself by more deeds to his position before he glorifies himself before me. That’s what I mean to say. A mild despot in France, let him be the Archangel Gabriel, unless he hold the kingdom in perpetuity, what is the consequence? A successor like the Archangel Lucifer, perhaps. Then, for the press, where there is thought, there must be discussion or conspiracy. Are you aware of the amount of readers in France? Take away the ‘Times’ newspaper, and the blow falls on a handful of readers, on a section of what may be called the aristocracy. But everybody reads in France. Every fiacre driver who waits for you at a shop door, beguiles the time with a newspaper. It is on that account that the influence of the press is dangerous, you will say. Precisely so; but also, on that account too, it is necessary. No; I hold, myself, that he will give more breathing room to France, as circumstances admit of it. Else, there will be convulsion. You will see. We shall see. And Louis Napoleon, who is wise, foresees, I cannot doubt.

  Not read Mrs. Stowe’s book! But you must. Her book is quite a sign of the times and has otherwise and intrinsically considerable power. For myself, I rejoice in the success, both as a woman and a human being. Oh, and is it possible that you think a woman has no business with questions like the question of slavery? Then she had better use a pen no more. She had better subside into slavery and concubinage herself, I think, as in the times of old, shut herself up with the Penelopes in the ‘women’s apartment,’ and take no rank among thinkers and speakers. Certainly you are not in earnest in these things. A difficult question — yes! All virtue is difficult. England found it difficult. France found it difficult. But we did not make ourselves an arm-chair of our sins. As for America, I honor America in much; but I would not be an American for the world while she wears that shameful scar upon her brow. The address of the new President exasperates me. Observe, I am an abolitionist, not to the fanatical degree, because I hold that compensation should be given by the North to the South, as in England. The States should unite in buying off this national disgrace.

  The Americans are very kind and earnest, and I like them all the better for their warm feeling towards you. Is Longfellow agreeable in his personal relations? We knew his brother, I think I told you, in Paris. I suppose Mr. Field has been liberal to Thackeray, and yet Thackeray does not except him in certain observations on American publishers. We shall have an arra
ngement made of some sort, it appears. Mr. Forster wants me to add some new poems to my new edition, in order to secure the copyright under the new law. But as the law does not act backwards, I don’t see how new poems would save me. They would just sweep out the new poems — that’s all. One or two lyrics could not be made an object, and in those two thick volumes, nearly bursting with their present contents, there would not be room for many additions. No, I shall add nothing. I have revised the edition very carefully, and made everything better. It vexed me to see how much there was to do. Positively, even rhymes left unrhymed in ‘Lady Geraldine’s Courtship.’ You don’t write so carelessly, not you, and the reward is that you haven’t so much trouble in your new editions. I see your book advertised in a stray number of the ‘Athenæum’ lent to me by Mr. Tennyson — Frederick. He lent it to me because I wanted to see the article on the new poet, Alexander Smith, who appears so applauded everywhere. He has the poet’s stuff in him, one may see from the extracts. Do you know him? And Coventry Patmore — have you heard anything of his book, of which appears an advertisement?

  Ah, yes; how unfortunate that you should have parted with your copyrights! It’s a bad plan always, except in the case of novels which have their day, and no day after.

  The poem I am about will fill a volume when done. It is the novel or romance I have been hankering after so long, written in blank verse, in the autobiographical form; the heroine, an artist woman — not a painter, mind. It is intensely modern, crammed from the times (not the ‘Times’ newspaper) as far as my strength will allow. Perhaps you won’t like it, perhaps you will. Who knows? who dares hope?

  I am beginning to be anxious about ‘Colombe’s Birthday.’ I care much more about it than Robert does. He says that nobody will mistake it for his speculation, it’s Mr. Buckstone’s affair altogether. True; but I should like it to succeed, being Robert’s play notwithstanding. But the play is subtle and refined for pits and galleries. I am nervous about it. On the other hand, those theatrical people ought to know; and what in the world made them select it if it is not likely to answer their purpose? By the way, a dreadful rumour reaches us of its having been ‘prepared for the stage by the author.’ Don’t believe a word of it. Robert just said ‘yes’ when they wrote to ask him, and not a line of communication has passed since. He has prepared nothing at all, suggested nothing, modified nothing. He referred them to his new edition; and that was the whole.

  We see a great deal of Mr. Tennyson. Robert is very fond of him, and so am I. He too writes poems, and prints them, though not for the public. They are better and stronger than Charles Tennyson’s, and he has the poetical temperament in everything. Did I tell you that he had married an Italian, and had children from twelve years old downwards? He is intensely English nevertheless, as expatriated Englishmen generally are. I always tell Robert that his patriotism grows and deepens in exact proportion as he goes away from England. As for me, it is not so with me. I am very cosmopolitan, and am considerably tired of the self-deification of the English nation at the expense of all others. We have some noble advantages over the rest of the world, but it is not all advantage. The shameful details of bribery, for instance, prove what I have continually maintained, the non-representativeness of our ‘representative system;’ and, socially speaking, we are much behindhand with most foreign peoples. Let us be proud in the right place, I say, and not in the wrong. ‘We see too a good deal of young Lytton, Sir Edward’s only son, an interesting young man, with various sorts of good, and aspiration to good, in him. You see we are not at Rome yet. Do write to me. Speak of yourself particularly. God bless you, dearest friend. Believe that I think of you and love you most faithfully.

  Ba.

  To Mrs. Martin

  Florence: April 21, 1853.

  My dearest Mrs. Martin, — I am in consternation and vexation on receiving your letter. What you must have thought of me all this time! Of course I never saw the letters which went to Rome. Letters sent to Poste restante, Rome, are generally lost, even if you are a Roman: and we are no Romans, alas! nor likely to become such, it seems to me. There’s a fatality about Rome to us. I waited for you to write, and then waited on foolishly for the settlement of our own plans, after I had ascertained that you were not in Devonshire, but in France as usual. Now, I can’t help writing, though I have written a letter already which must have crossed yours — a long letter — so that you will have more than enough of me this time.

  It’s comfort and pleasure after all to have a good account of you both, my very dear friends, even though one knows by it that you have been sending one ‘al diavolo’ for weeks or months. Forgive me, do. I feel guilty somehow to the extreme degree, that four letters should have been written to me, even though I received none of them, because I ought to have written at least one letter in that time.

  Your politics would be my politics on most points; we should run together more than halfway, if we could stand side by side, in spite of all your vindictiveness to N. III. My hero — say you? Well, I have more belief in him than you have. And what is curious, and would be unaccountable, I suppose, to English politicians in general, the Italian democrats of the lower classes, the popular clubs in Florence, are clinging to him as their one hope. Ah, here’s oppression! here’s a people trodden down! You should come here and see. It is enough to turn the depths of the heart bitter. The will of the people forced, their instinctive affections despised, their liberty of thought spied into, their national life ignored altogether. Robert keeps saying, ‘How long, O Lord, how long?’ Such things cannot last, surely. Oh, this brutal Austria!

  I myself expect help from Louis Napoleon, though scarcely in the way that the clubs are said to do. When I talk of a club, of course I mean a secret combination of men — young men who meet to read forbidden newspapers and talk forbidden subjects. He won’t help the Mazzinians, but he will do something for Italy, you will see. The Cardinals feel it, and that’s why they won’t let the Pope go to Paris. We shall see. I seem to catch sight of the grey of dawn even in the French Government papers, and am full of hope.

  As to Mazzini, he is a noble man and an unwise man. Unfortunately the epithets are compatible. Kossuth is neither very noble nor very wise. I have heard and felt a great deal of harm of him. The truth is not in him. And when a patriot lies like a Jesuit, what are we to say?

  For England — do you approve of the fleet staying on at Malta? We are prepared to do nothing which costs us a halfpenny for a less gain than three farthings — always excepting the glorious national defences, which have their end too, though not the one generally attributed....

  God bless you, my dear, dear friends! Care in your thoughts for us all!

  Your ever affectionate

  Ba.

  To John Kenyon

  Casa Guidi: May 16 .

  My dearest Mr. Kenyon, — You are to be thanked and loved as ever, and what can we say more? This: Do be good to us by a supererogatory virtue and write to us. You can’t know how pleasant it is to be en rapport with you, though by holding such a fringe of a garment as a scrap of letter is. We don’t see you, we don’t hear you! ‘Rap’ to us with the end of your pen, like the benign spirit you are, and let me (who am credulous) believe that you care for us and think kindly of us in the midst of your brilliant London gossipry, and that you don’t disdain the talk of us, dark ultramontanists as we are. You are good to us in so many ways, that it’s a reason for being good in another way besides. At least, to reason so is one of the foolishnesses of my gratitude.