Mrs. Stowe has just arrived, and called here yesterday and this morning, when Robert took her to see the Salvators at the end of our street. I like her better than I thought I should — that is, I find more refinement in her voice and manner — no rampant Americanisms. Very simple and gentle, with a sweet voice; undesirous of shining or poser-ing, so it seems to me. Never did lioness roar more softly (that is quite certain); and the temptations of a sudden enormous popularity should be estimated, in doing her full justice. She is nice-looking, too; and there’s something strong and copious and characteristic in her dusky wavy hair. For the rest, the brow has not very large capacity; and the mouth wants something both in frankness and sensitiveness, I should say. But what can one see in a morning visit? I must wait for another opportunity. She spends to-morrow evening with us, and talks of remaining in Florence till the end of next week — so I shall see and hear more. Her books are not so much to me, I confess, as the fact is, that she above all women (yes, and men of the age) has moved the world — and for good.
I hear that Mrs. Gaskell is coming, whom I am sure to like and love. I know that by her letters, though I was stupid or idle enough to let our correspondence go by; and by her books, which I earnestly admire. How anxious I am to see the life of Charlotte Brontë! But we shall have to wait for it here.
Dearest friend, you don’t mention Madme de Goethe, but I do hope you will have her with you before long. The good to you will be immense, and after friendship (and reason) the sun and moon and earth of Italy will work for you in their places. May God grant to us all that you may be soon strong enough to throw every burden behind you! The griefs that are incurable are those which have our own sins festering in them....
On April 6 we had tea out of doors, on the terrace of our friend Miss Blagden in her villa up [at] Bellosguardo (not exactly Aurora Leigh’s, mind). You seemed to be lifted up above the world in a divine ecstasy. Oh, what a vision!
Have you read Victor Hugo’s ‘Contemplations’? We are doing so at last. As for me, my eyes and my heart melted over them — some of the personal poems are overcoming in their pathos; and nothing more exquisite in poetry can express deeper pain....
Robert comes back. He says that Mrs. Stowe was very simple and pleasant. He likes her. So shall I, I think. She has the grace, too, to admire our Florence.
Your ever affectionate
Ba.
I dare say the illustrations will be beautiful. But you are at work on a new book, are you not?
The mention of the ‘Contemplations’ of Victor Hugo in the preceding letter supplies a clue to the date of the following draft of an appeal to the Emperor Napoleon on behalf of the poet, which has been found among Mrs. Browning’s papers. An endorsement on the letter says that it was not sent, but it is none the less worthy of being printed.
To the Emperor Napoleon
[April 1857.]
Sire, — I am only a woman, and have no claim on your Majesty’s attention except that of the weakest on the strongest. Probably my very name as the wife of an English poet, and as named itself a little among English poets, is unknown to your Majesty. I never approached my own sovereign with a petition, nor am skilled in the way of addressing kings. Yet having, through a studious and thoughtful life, grown used to great men (among the dead, at least), I cannot feel entirely at a loss in speaking to the Emperor Napoleon.
And I beseech you to have patience with me while I supplicate you. It is not for myself nor for mine.
I have been reading with wet eyes and a swelling heart (as many who love and some who hate your Majesty have lately done) a book called the ‘Contemplations’ of a man who has sinned deeply against you in certain of his political writings, and who expiates rash phrases and unjustifiable statements in exile in Jersey. I have no personal knowledge of this man; I never saw his face; and certainly I do not come now to make his apology. It is, indeed, precisely because he cannot be excused that, I think, he might worthily be forgiven. For this man, whatever else he is not, is a great poet of France, and the Emperor, who is the guardian of her other glories, should remember him and not leave him out. Ah, sire, what was written on ‘Napoleon le Petit’ does not touch your Majesty; but what touches you is, that no historian of the age should have to write hereafter, ‘While Napoleon III. reigned, Victor Hugo lived in exile.’ What touches you is, that when your people count gratefully the men of commerce, arms, and science secured by you to France, no voice shall murmur, ‘But where is our poet?’ What touches you is, that, however statesmen and politicians may justify his exclusion, it may draw no sigh from men of sentiment and impulse, yes, and from women like myself. What touches you is, that when your own beloved young prince shall come to read these poems (and when you wish him a princely nature, you wish, sire, that such things should move him), he may exult to recall that his imperial father was great enough to overcome this great poet with magnanimity.
Ah, sire, you are great enough! You can allow for the peculiarity of the poetical temperament, for the temptations of high gifts, for the fever in which poets are apt to rage and suffer beyond the measure of other men. You can consider that when they hate most causelessly there is a divine love in them somewhere; and that when they see most falsely they are loyal to some ideal light. Forgive this enemy, this accuser, this traducer. Disprove him by your generosity. Let no tear of an admirer of his poetry drop upon your purple. Make an exception of him, as God made an exception of him when He gave him genius, and call him back without condition to his country and his daughter’s grave.
I have written these words without the knowledge of any. Naturally I should have preferred, as a woman, to have addressed them through the mediation of the tender-hearted Empress Eugénie; but, a wife myself, I felt it would be harder for her Majesty to pardon an offence against the Emperor Napoleon, than it could be for the Emperor.
And I am driven by an irresistible impulse to your Majesty’s feet to ask this grace. It is a woman’s voice, sire, which dares to utter what many yearn for in silence. I have believed in Napoleon III. Passionately loving the democracy, I have understood from the beginning that it was to be served throughout Europe in you and by you. I have trusted you for doing greatly. I will trust you, besides, for pardoning nobly. You will be Napoleon in this also.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Shortly after this date, on April 17, Mrs. Browning’s father died. In the course of the previous summer an attempt made by a relative to bring about a reconciliation between him and his daughters was met with the answer that they had ‘disgraced his family;’ and, although he professed to have ‘forgiven’ them, he refused all intercourse, removed his family out of town when the Brownings came thither, and declined to give his daughter Henrietta’s address to Mr. Kenyon’s executor, who was instructed to pay her a small legacy. A further attempt at reconciliation was made by Mrs. Martin only a few months before his death, but had no better success. His pride stood in the way of his forgiveness to the end.
On receiving the news of his death, the following letter was written by Robert Browning to Mrs. Martin; but it was not until two months later that Mrs. Browning was able to bring herself to write to anyone outside her own family.
Robert Browning to Mrs. Martin
Florence: May 3, 1857.
My dear Mrs. Martin, — Truest thanks for your letter. We had the intelligence from George last Thursday week, having been only prepared for the illness by a note received from Arabel the day before. Ba was sadly affected at first; miserable to see and hear. After a few days tears came to her relief. She is now very weak and prostrated, but improving in strength of body and mind: I have no fear for the result. I suppose you know, at least, the very little that we know; and how unaware poor Mr. Barrett was of his imminent death: ‘he bade them,’ says Arabel, ‘make him comfortable for the night, but a moment before the last.’ And he had dismissed her and her aunt about an hour before, with a cheerful or careless word about ‘wishing them good night.’ So it is all over
now, all hope of better things, or a kind answer to entreaties such as I have seen Ba write in the bitterness of her heart. There must have been something in the organisation, or education, at least, that would account for and extenuate all this; but it has caused grief enough, I know; and now here is a new grief not likely to subside very soon. Not that Ba is other than reasonable and just to herself in the matter: she does not reproach herself at all; it is all mere grief, as I say, that this should have been so; and I sympathise with her there.
George wrote very affectionately to tell me; and dear, admirable Arabel sent a note the very next day to prove to Ba that there was nothing to fear on her account. Since then we have heard nothing. The funeral was to take place in Herefordshire. We had just made up our minds to go on no account to England this year. Ba felt the restraint on her too horrible to bear. I will, or she will, no doubt, write and tell you of herself; and you must write, dear Mrs. Martin, will you not?
Kindest regard to Mr. Martin and all.
Yours faithfully ever,
Robert Browning.
E.B. Browning to Mrs. Martin
Florence: July 1, .
Thank you, thank you from my heart, my dearest friend — this poor heart, which has been so torn and mangled, — for your dear, tender sympathy, whether expressed in silence or in words. Of the past I cannot speak. You understand, yes, you understand. And when I say that you understand (and feel that you do), it is an expression of belief in the largeness of your power of understanding, seeing that few can understand — few can. There has been great bitterness — great bitterness, which is natural; and some recoil against myself, more, perhaps, than is quite rational. Now I am much better, calm, and not despondingly calm (as, off and on, I have been), able to read and talk, and keep from vexing my poor husband, who has been a good deal tried in all these things. Through these three months you and what you told me touched me with a thought of comfort — came the nearest to me of all. May God bless you and return it to you a hundredfold, dear dear friend!
I believe hope had died in me long ago of reconciliation in this world. Strange, that what I called ‘unkindness’ for so many years, in departing should have left to me such a sudden desolation! And yet, it is not strange, perhaps.
No, I cannot write any more. You will understand....
We shall be in Paris next summer. This year we remain quietly where we are. Presently we may creep to the seaside or into the mountains to avoid the great heats, but no further. My temptation is to lie on the sofa, and never stir nor speak, only I don’t give up, be certain. I drive out for two or three hours on most days, and I hear Peni’s lessons, and am good and obedient. If I could get into hard regular work of some kind, it would be excellent for me, I know; but the ‘flesh is weak.’ Oh, no, to have gone to England this summer would have helped nobody, and would have been very overcoming to me. I was not fit for it, indeed, and Robert was averse on his own account....
May God bless you both, dearest friends. My little Penini is bright and well. I have begun to teach him German. I do hope you won’t fatigue yourselves too much at Colwall. Enjoy the summer and the roses, and be well, be well. We shall meet next year....
Once more, goodbye.
Your ever affectionate and grateful
Ba.
Robert’s love as ever.
This is the first letter I have written to anyone out of my own family. I hate writing, and can’t help being stupid.
To Miss E.F. Haworth
Florence: [about July 1857].
I write soon, you see, dearest Fanny. I thank you for all, but I do beseech you, dear, not to say a word more to me of what is said of me. The truth is, I am made of paper, and it tears me. Do not, dear. Make no reference to things personal to myself. As far as I could read and understand, it was absurd, perfectly ungenuine. I shall say nothing to anybody. I have torn that sheet. Do not refer to the subject to Isa Blagden. And there — I have done.
No — I thank you; and I know it was your kindness entirely. Will you, if you love me, not touch on the subject (I mean on the personal thing to myself) in your next letters, not even by saying that you were sorry you did once touch on them. I know how foolish and morbid I must seem to you. So I am made, and I can’t help my idiosyncrasies.
Now don’t mistake me. Tell me all about the spirits, only not about what they say of me. I am very interested. The drawback is, that without any sort of doubt they personate falsely.
We are seething in the heat. The last three days have been a composition of Gehenna and Paradise. It is a perpetual steam bath. Yet Robert and I have not finished our plans for escaping. Mrs. Jameson is here still, recovering her health and spirits. The Villa hospitality goes on as usual, and the evening before last we had tea on the terrace by a divine sunset, with a favoring breath or two. Only even there we wished for Lazarus’s finger.
Certainly Florence will not be bearable many days longer. Write to me though, at Florence as usual....
It is said that Hume, who is back again in Paris and under the shadow of the Emperor’s wing, has been the means of an extraordinary manifestation, two spiritual figures, male and female, who were recognised by their friends. Five or six persons (including the medium) fainted away at this apparition. It happened in Paris, lately.
Yes, I mistrust the mediums less than I do the spirits who write. Tell me....
Write and tell me everything with exceptions such as I have set down. And forgive my poor brittle body, which shakes and breaks. May God love you, dear.
Yours in true affection,
Ba.
At the end of July, Florence had become unbearable, and the Brownings removed, for the third time, to the Bagni di Lucca, whither they were followed by some of their friends, notably Miss Blagden and Mr. Robert Lytton. Unfortunately, their holiday was marred by the dangerous illness of Lytton, which not only kept them in great anxiety for a considerable time, but also entailed much labour in nursing on Mr. Browning and Miss Blagden. Besides Mrs. Browning’s letters, a letter from her husband to his sister is given below, containing an account of the earlier stages of the illness.
Robert Browning to Miss Browning
Bagni di Lucca: August 18, .
Dearest, — We arrived here on the 30th last, and two or three days after were followed by Miss Blagden, Miss Bracken, and Lytton — all for our sake: they not otherwise wanting to come this way. Lytton arrived unwell, got worse soon, and last Friday week was laid up with a sort of nervous fever, caused by exposure to the sun, or something, acting on his nervous frame: since then he has been very ill in bed — doctor, anxiety &c. as you may suppose: they are exactly opposite us, at twelve or fifteen feet distance only. Through sentimentality and economy combined, Isa would have no nurse (an imbecile arrangement), and all has been done by her, with me to help: I have sate up four nights out of the last five, and sometimes been there nearly all day beside.... He is much better to-day, taken broth, and will, I hope, have no relapse, poor fellow: imagine what a pleasant holiday we all have! Otherwise the place is very beautiful, and cool exceedingly. We have done nothing notable yet, but all are very well, Peni particularly so: as for me, I bathe in the river, a rapid little mountain stream, every morning at 6-1/2, and find such good from the practice that I shall continue it, and whatever I can get as like it as possible, to the end of my days, I hope: the strength of all sorts therefrom accruing is wonderful: I thought the shower baths perfection, but this is far above it.... I was so rejoiced to hear from you, and think you so wise in staying another month. I sent the ‘Ath.’ to 151 R. de G. Kindest love to papa: we can’t get news from England, but the Americans have paid up the rest of the money for ‘Aurora:’ by the by, in this new book of Ruskin’s, the drawing book, he says ‘“Aurora Leigh” is the finest poem written in any language this century.’ There is a review of it, which I have not yet got, in the ‘Rivista di Firenze’ of this month. God bless you. I will write very soon again. Do you write at once. Ba will add a word. How fort
unate about the books! How is Milsand? Pray always remember my best love to him.
E.B. Browning to Miss Browning
[Same date.]
My dearest Sarianna, — Robert will have told you, I dare say, what a heavy time we have had here with poor Lytton. It was imprudent of him to come to Florence at the hottest of the year, and to expose himself perfectly unacclimated; and the chance by which he was removed here just in time to be nursed was happy for him and all of us. We have had great heat in the days even here, of course — no blotting out, even by mountains, of the Italian sun; but the cool nights extenuate very much — refresh and heal. Now I do hope the corner is turned of the illness. Isa Blagden has been devoted, sitting up night after night, and Robert has sate up four nights that she might not really die at her post. There is nothing infectious in the fever, so don’t be afraid. Robert is quite well, with good appetite and good spirits, and Peni is like a rose possessed by a fairy. They both bathe in the river, and profit (as I am so glad you do). Not that it’s a real river, though it has a name, the Lima. A mere mountain stream, which curls itself up into holes in the rocks to admit of bathing. Then, as far as they have been able on account of Lytton, they have had riding on donkeys and mountain ponies, Peni as bold as a lion.
[The last words of the letter, with the signature, have been cut off]
To Mrs. Jameson
La Villa, Bagni di Lucca: August 22, .
As you bid me write, my dear friend, about Lytton, I write, but I grieve to say we are still very uneasy about him. For sixteen days he has been prostrate with this gastric fever, and the disease is not baffled, though the pulse is not high nor the head at all affected. Dr. Trotman, however, is uncheerful about him — is what medical men call ‘cautious’ in giving an opinion, observing that, though at present he is not in danger, the delicacy of his constitution gives room for great apprehension in the case of the least turning towards relapse. Robert had been up with him during eight nights, and Isa Blagden eight nights. Nothing can exceed her devotion to him by night or day. We have persuaded her, however, at last to call in a nurse for the nights. I am afraid for Robert, and in fact a trained nurse can do certain things better than the most zealous and tender friend can pretend to do. You may suppose how saddened we all are. Dear Lytton! At intervals he talks and can hear reading, but this morning he is lower again. In fact, from the first he has been very apprehensive about himself — inclined to talk of divine things, of the state of his soul and God’s love, and to hold this life but slackly.
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 212