I am glad you like Frederick Tennyson’s poems. They are full of atmospherical poetry, and very melodious. The poet is still better than the poems — so truthful, so direct, such a reliable Christian man. Robert and I quite love him. We very much appreciate, too, young Lytton, your old friend. He is noble in many ways, I think, and affectionate. Moreover, he has an incontestable faculty in poetry, and I expect great things from him as he ripens into life and experience. Meanwhile he has just privately printed a drama called ‘Clytemnestra,’ too ambitious because after Æschylus, but full of promise indeed. We are hoping that he will come down and see us in the course of our rustication at the Baths, and occupy our spare bedroom....
As to Mr. —— , his Hebrew was Chinese to you, do you say? But, dear, he is strong in veritable Chinese besides! And one evening he nearly assassinated me with the analysis, chapter by chapter, of a Japanese novel. Mr. Lytton, who happened to be a witness, swore that I grew paler and paler, and not with sympathy for the heroine. He is a miraculously vain man — which rather amused me — and, for the rest, is full of information — yes, and of kindness, I think. He gave me a little black profile of you which gives the air of your head, and is so far valuable to me. As to myself, indeed, he has rather flattered me than otherwise — I don’t complain, I assure you. How could I complain of a man who compares me to Isaiah, under any circumstances?...
God bless you! Robert’s love with that of
Your ever affectionate and faithful
Ba.
To Mr. Chorley
Casa Tolomei (Alia Villa), Bagni di Lucca:
August 10, .
My dear Mr. Chorley, — I can’t bear that you should intimate by half a word that you are ‘a creature to be eaten’ — viz. not to have your share in friendship and confidence. Now, if you fancy that we, for instance, don’t affectionately regard you, you are very wrong, and I am very right for feeling inclined to upbraid you. I take the pen from Robert — he would take it if I did not. We scramble a little for the pen which is to tell you this — which is to say it again and again, and be dull in the reiteration, rather than not instruct you properly, as we teach our child to do — D O G, dog; D O G, dog; D O G, dog. Says Robert, ‘What a slow business!’ Yet he’s a quick child; and you too must be quick and comprehending, or we shall take it to heart sadly. Often I think, and we say to one another, that we belied ourselves to you in England. If you knew how, at that time, Robert was vexed and worn! — why, he was not the same even to me! He seemed to himself to be slipping out of waistcoats and friends at once — so worn and teased he was! But then and now believe that he loved and loves you. Set him down as a friend — as somebody to ‘rest on’ after all; and don’t fancy that because we are away here in the wilderness (which blossoms as a rose, to one of us at least) we may not be full of affectionate thoughts and feelings towards you in your different sort of life in London. So sorry we are — I especially, for I think I understand the grief especially — about the household troubles which you hint at and Mr. Kenyon gave us a key to. I quite understand how a whole life may seem rumpled up and creased — torn for the moment; only you will live it smooth again, dear Mr. Chorley — take courage. You have time and strength and good aims, and human beings have been happy with much less. I understate your advantages on purpose, you see. I heard you talked of in Florence when Miss Cushman, in the quarter of an hour she gave us at Casa Guidi, told us of the oath she had in heaven to bring out your play and make it a triumph. How she praised the play, and you! Twice I have spoken with her — once on a balcony on the boulevard, when together we saw Louis Napoleon enter Paris in immediate face of the empire, and that once in Florence. I like the ‘manly soul’ in her face and manners. Manly, not masculine — an excellent distinction of Mrs. Jameson’s. By the way, we hear wonderful things of the portrait painted of Miss Cushman at Rome by Mr. Page the artist, called ‘the American Titian’ by the Americans....
There I stop, not to ‘fret’ you beyond measure. Besides, now that you Czars of the ‘Athenæum’ have set your Faradays on us, ukase and knout, what Pole, in the deepest of the brain, would dare to have a thought on the subject? Now that Professor Faraday has ‘condescended,’ as the ‘Literary Gazette’ affectingly puts it (and the condescension is sufficiently obvious in the letter— ‘how we stoop!’) — now that Professor Faraday has condescended to explain the whole question — which had offered some difficulty, it is admitted, to ‘hundreds of intelligent men, including five or six eminent men of science,’ in Paris, and, we may add, to thousands of unintelligent men elsewhere, including the eminent correspondent of the ‘Literary Gazette’ — let us all be silent for evermore. For my part, I won’t say that Lord Bacon would have explained any question to a child even without feeling it to be an act of condescension. I won’t hint under my breath that Lord Bacon reverenced every fact as a footstep of Deity, and stooped to pick up every rough, ungainly stone of a fact, though it were likely to tear and deform the smooth wallet of a theory. I, for my part, belong, you know, not to the ‘eminent men of science,’ nor even to the ‘intelligent men,’ but simply to the women, children (and poets?), and if we happen to see with our eyes a table lifted from the floor without the touch of a finger or foot, let no dog of us bark — much less a puppy-dog! The famous letter holds us gagged. What it does not hold is the facts; but, en revanche, the writer and his abettors know the secret of being invincible — which is, not to fight. My child proposed a donkey-race yesterday, the condition being that he should ride first. Somebody, told me once that when Miss Martineau has spoken eloquently on one side of a question, she drops her ear-trumpet to give the opportunity to her adversary. Most controversies, to do justice to the world, are conducted on the same plan and terms.
What I do venture however to say is that it’s not all over in Paris because of Faraday’s letter. Ask Lamartine. What I hear and what the ‘Literary Gazette’ hears from Paris is by no means the same thing. I hear Hebrew while the ‘Gazette’ hears Dutch — a miracle befitting the subject, or what was once considered to be the subject (I beg Professor Faraday’s pardon), before it was annihilated.
How pert women can be, can’t they, Mr. Chorley? particularly when they are safe among the mountains, shut in with a row of seven plane-trees joined at top. I won’t go on to offer myself as ‘spiritual correspondent to the “Athenæum,”’ though I have a modest conviction that it might increase your sale considerably. Ah, tread us down! put us out! You will have some trouble with us yet. The opposition Czar of St. Petersburg supports us, be it known, and Louis Napoleon comes to us for oracles. The King of Holland is going mad gently in our favour — quite absorbed, says an informant. But I won’t quote kings. It is giving oneself too great a disadvantage.
We stayed in Florence till it was oven-heat, and then we came here, where it was fire-heat for a short time, though with cool nights comparatively, by means of which we lived, comparatively too. Now it is cool by day and night. You know these beautiful hills, the green rushing river which keeps them apart, the chestnut woods, the sheep-walks and goat-walks, the villages on the peaks of the mountains like wild eagles; the fresh, unworn, uncivilised, world-before-the-flood look of everything? If you don’t know it, you ought to know it. Come and know it — do! We have a spare bedroom which opens its door of itself at the thought of you, and if you can trust yourself so far from home, try for our sakes. Come and look in our faces and learn us more by heart, and see whether we are not two friends. I am so very sorry for your increased anxiety about your sister. I scarcely know how to cheer you, or, rather, to attempt such a thing, but it did strike me that she was full of life when I saw her. It may be better with her than your fears, after all. If you would come to us, you would be here in two hours from Leghorn; and there’s a telegraph at Leghorn — at Florence. Think of it, do. The Storys are at the top of the hill; you know Mr. and Mrs. Story. She and I go backward and forward on donkeyback to tea-drinking and gossiping at one another’s houses, and our husbands
hold the reins. Also Robert and I make excursions, he walking as slowly as he can to keep up with my donkey. When the donkey trots we are more equal. The other day we were walking, and I, attracted by a picturesque sort of ladder-bridge of loose planks thrown across the river, ventured on it, without thinking of venturing. Robert held my hand. When we were in the middle the bridge swayed, rocked backwards and forwards, and it was difficult for either of us to keep footing. A gallant colonel who was following us went down upon his hands and knees and crept. In the meantime a peasant was assuring our admiring friends that the river was deep at that spot, and that four persons had been lost from the bridge. I was so sick with fright that I could scarcely stand when all was over, never having contemplated an heroic act. ‘Why, what a courageous creature you are!’ said our friends. So reputations are made, Mr. Chorley.
Yes, we are doing a little work, both of us. Robert is working at a volume of lyrics, of which I have seen but a few, and those seemed to me as fine as anything he has done. We neither of us show our work to one another till it is finished. An artist must, I fancy, either find or make a solitude to work in, if it is to be good work at all. This for the consolation of bachelors!
I am glad you like Mr. Powers’s paper. You would have ‘fretted’ me terribly if you had not, for I liked it myself, knowing it to be an earnest opinion and expressive of the man. I had a very interesting letter from him the other day. He is devout in his art, and the simplest of men otherwise....
Now, I will ask you to write to us. It is you who give us up, indeed. Will your sister accept our true regards and sympathies? I shall persist in hoping to see her a little stronger next spring — or summer, rather. May God bless you! I will set myself down, and Robert with me, as
Faithfully and affectionately yours,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
To Miss Mitford
Casa Tolomei, Alia Villa, Bagni di Lucca:
August 20 and 21, 1853.
... We are enjoying the mountains here, riding the donkeys in the footsteps of the sheep, and eating strawberries and milk by basins full. The strawberries succeed one another, generation after generation, throughout the summer, through growing on different aspects of the hills. If a tree is felled in the forests strawberries spring up just as mushrooms might, and the peasants sell them for just nothing. Our little Penini is wild with happiness; he asks in his prayers that God would ‘mate him dood and tate him on a dontey,’ (make him good and take him on a donkey), so resuming all aspiration for spiritual and worldly prosperity. Then our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Story, help the mountains to please us a good deal. He is the son of Judge Story, the biographer of his father, and, for himself, sculptor and poet; and she a sympathetic, graceful woman, fresh and innocent in face and thought. We go backwards and forwards to tea and talk at one another’s houses. Last night they were our visitors, and your name came in among the Household Gods to make us as agreeable as might be. We were considering your expectations about Mr. Hawthorne. ‘All right,’ says Mr. Story, ‘except the rare half hours’ (of eloquence). He represents Mr. Hawthorne as not silent only by shyness, but by nature and inaptitude. He is a man, it seems, who talks wholly and exclusively with the pen, and who does not open out socially with his most intimate friends any more than with strangers. It isn’t his way to converse. That has been a characteristic of some men of genius before him, you know, but you will be nevertheless disappointed, very surely. Also, Mr. Story does not imagine that you will get anything from him on the subject of the ‘manifestations.’ You have read the ‘Blithedale Romance,’ and are aware of his opinion expressed there? He evidently recognised them as a sort of scurvy spirits, good to be slighted, because of their disreputableness. By the way, I heard read the other day a very interesting letter from Paris, from Mr. Appleton, Longfellow’s brother-in-law, who is said to be a man of considerable ability, and who is giving himself wholly just now to the investigation of this spirit-subject, termed by him the ‘sublimest conundrum ever given to the world for guessing.’ He appears still in doubt whether the intelligence is external, or whether the phenomena are not produced by an unconscious projection in the medium of a second personality, accompanied with clairvoyance, and attended by physical manifestations. This seems to me to double the difficulty; yet the idea is entertained as a doubtful sort of hypothesis by such men as Sir Edward Lytton and others. Imposture is absolutely out of the question, be certain, as an ultimate solution, and a greater proof of credulity can scarcely be given than a belief in imposture as things are at present. But I was going to tell you Mr. Appleton has a young American friend in Paris, who, ‘besides being a very sweet girl,’ says he, ‘is a strong medium.’ By Lamartine’s desire he took her to the poet’s house; ‘all the phenomena were reproduced, and everybody present convinced,’ Lamartine himself ‘in ecstasies.’ Among other spirits came Henry Clay, who said, ‘J’aime Lamartine.’ We shall have it in the next volume of biography. Louis Napoleon gets oracles from the ‘raps,’ and it is said that the Czar does the same, — your Emperor, certainly, — and the King of Holland is allowing the subject to absorb him. ‘Dying out! dying out!’ Our accounts from New York are very different, but unbelieving persons are apt to stop their ears and exclaim, ‘We hear nothing now.’ On one occasion the Hebrew Professor at New York was addressed in Hebrew to his astonishment.
Well, I don’t believe, with all my credulity, in poets being perfected at universities. What can be more absurd than this proposition of ‘finishing’ Alexander Smith at Oxford or Cambridge? We don’t know how to deal with literary genius in England, certainly. We are apt to treat poets (when we condescend to treat them at all) as over-masculine papas do babies; and Monckton Milnes was accused of only touching his in order to poke out its eyes, for instance. Why not put this new poet in a public library? There are such situations even among us, and something of the kind was done for Patmore. The very judgment Tennyson gave of him, in the very words, we had given here— ‘fancy, not imagination.’ Also, imagery in excess; thought in deficiency. Still, the new poet is a true poet, and the defects obvious in him may be summed up in youth simply. Let us wait and see. I have read him only in extracts, such as the reviews give, and such as a friend helped me to by good-natured MS. It is extraordinary to me that with his amount of development, as far as I understand it, he has met with so much rapid recognition. Tell me if you have read ‘Queechy,’ the American book — novel — by Elizabeth Wetherell? I think it very clever and characteristic. Mrs. Beecher Stowe scarcely exceeds it, after all the trumpets. We are about to have a visit from Mr. Lytton, Sir Edward’s only son — only child now. Did I tell you that he was a poet — yes, and of an unquestionable faculty? I expect much from him one day, when he shakes himself clear of the poetical influences of the age, which he will have strength to do presently. He thinks as well as sees, and that is good....
Oh yes! I like Mr. Kingsley. I am glad he spoke kindly of us, because really I like him and admire him. Few people have struck me as much as he did last year in England. ‘Manly,’ do you say? But I am not very fond of praising men by calling them manly. I hate and detest a masculine man. Humanly bold, brave, true, direct, Mr. Kingsley is — a moral cordiality and an original intellect uniting in him. I did not see her and the children, but I hope we shall be in better fortune next time.
Since I began this letter the Storys and ourselves have had a grand donkey-excursion to a village called Benabbia, and the cross above it on the mountain-peak. We returned in the dark, and were in some danger of tumbling down various precipices; but the scenery was exquisite — past speaking of for beauty. Oh those jagged mountains, rolled together like pre-Adamite beasts, and setting their teeth against the sky! It was wonderful. You may as well guess at a lion by a lady’s lapdog as at Nature by what you see in England. All honour to England, lanes and meadowland, notwithstanding; to the great trees above all. Will you write to me sooner? Will you give me the details of yourself? Will you love me?
Your mos
t affectionate
Ba.
To Miss E.F. Haworth
Casa Tolomei, Alia Villa, Bagni di Lucca:
August 30, .
Dearest Fanny, — On your principle that ‘there’s too much to say,’ I ought not to think of writing to you these three months; you have pleased me and made me grateful to such an extremity by your most pretty and graceful illustrative outlines. The death-bed I admire particularly; the attitudes are very expressive, and the open window helps the sentiment. What am I to say for your kindness in holding a torch of this kind (perfumed for the ‘nobilities’) between the wind and my poems? Thank you, thank you. And when that’s said, I ought to stop short and beg you, dear Fanny, not to waste yourself in more labour of this kind, seeing that I am accursed and that nothing is to be done with my books and me, as far as my public is concerned. Why not get up a book of your own, a collection of ‘outlines’ illustrative of everybody’s poems, which would stand well on its own feet and make a circle for itself? Think of that rather. For my part, there’s nothing to be done with me, as I said; that is, there’s nothing to be done with my publishers, who just do as they like with my books, and don’t like to do much good for me with them, whatever they may do for themselves. I am misanthropical in respect to the booksellers. They manage one as they please, and not at all to please one. I have no more to say to the fate of my books than you have — and not much more to pocket. This third edition, for instance, which should have been out four or five months ago, they are keeping, I suppose, for the millennium, encouraged probably by the spiritual manifestations; and my personal manifestations meanwhile have as much weight with them as facts have with Faraday, or the theory of fair play with the London ‘Athenæum.’ I am sick of it all, indeed. I look down on it all as the epicurean gods do on the world without putting out a finger to save an empire; perhaps because they can’t. Long live the —— , who are kings of us. It’s the best thing possible, I conclude, in this best of possible social economies, though for ourselves individually it may not be a very good thing; not precisely what we should choose. Think of the separate book of outlines. Seriously, Robert and I recommend you to consider it. You might make a book for drawing-room tables which would be generally acceptable if not too expensive. And Mr. Spicer is bringing me more? How kind of you. And when is he coming? Scarcely could anyone come as a stranger whom I desire more to see, and I do hope he will bring me facts and fantasies too on the great subject which is interesting me so deeply. His book of ‘Sights and Sounds’ we have read, but the new book has not penetrated to us. ‘Sights and Sounds’ is very curious, and the authenticity of its facts has been confirmed to me by various testimonies, but the author is too clever for his position; I mean too full of flash and wit. There’s an air of levity, and of effective writing, without which the book would have been more impressive and convincing; don’t you think so? And here we get to the heart of most of the difficulties of the subject. Why do we make no quicker advances, do you say? Why are our communications chiefly trivial? Why, but because we ourselves are trivial, and don’t bring serious souls and concentrated attentions and holy aspirations to the spirits who are waiting for these things? Spirit comes to spirit by affinity, says Swedenborg; but our cousinship is not with the high and noble. We try experiments from curiosity, just as children play with the loadstone; our ducks swim, but they don’t get beyond that, and won’t, unless we do better. To prove what I say, consider what you say yourself, that you couldn’t manage to draw the same persons together again (these very persons being persuaded of the verity of the spiritual communications they were in reach of) on account of the difficulties of the London season. Difficulties of the London season! The inconsequence of human nature is more wonderful to me than the ingress of any spirits could be. This instance is scarcely credible....
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 199