Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  A good happy new year we wish to Mr. and Mrs. Ruskin, as to yourself, and, dear Mr. Ruskin, to your mother I shall say that my child is developing in a way to make me very contented and thankful. Yes, I thank God for him more and more, and she can understand that, I know. His musical faculty is a decided thing, and he plays on the piano quite remarkably for his age (through his father’s instruction) while I am writing this. He is reading aloud to me an Italian translation of ‘Monte Cristo,’ and with a dramatic intelligence which would strike you, as it does perhaps, that I should select such a book for a child of nine years old to read at all. It’s rather young to be acclimated to French novels, is it not? But the difficulty of getting Italian books is great, and there’s a good deal in the early part of ‘Monte Cristo,’ the prison part, very attractive. His voice was full of sobs when poor Dantes was consigned to the Château d’If. “Do you mean to say, mama, that that boy is to stay there all his life?” He made me tell him ‘to make him happy,’ as he said.

  For the rest he reads French and German, and we shall have to begin Latin in another year I suppose. Do you advise that, you, Mr. Ruskin? He has not given up the drawing neither. Ah! but there is a weight beyond the post, whatever your goodness may bear, and I must leave a little space for Robert.

  May God bless you, my dear friend! Dare I say it? it came.

  Affectionately yours always,

  Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

  Robert Browning to Mr. Ruskin

  I am to say something, dear Ruskin; it shall be only the best of wishes for this and all other years; go on again like the noble and dear man you are to us all, and especially to us two out of them all. Whenever I chance on an extract, a report, it lights up the dull newspaper stuff wrapt round it and makes me glad at heart and clearer in head. We, for our part, have just sent off a corrected ‘Aurora Leigh,’ which is the better for a deal of pains, we hope, and my wife deserves. There will be a portrait from a photograph done at Havre without retouching — good, I think. Truest love to you and yours — your father and mother. Do help us by a word every now and then.

  Affectionately yours,

  R.B.

  To Miss I. Blagden

  [Rome]: 43 Bocca di Leone: January 7 .

  My dearest Isa, — Your letter seemed long in coming, as this will seem to you, I fear. I ought to have answered mine at once, and put off doing so from reason to reason, and from day to day. Very busy I have been, sending off seven of the nine books of ‘Aurora,’ having dizzied myself with the ‘ifs’ and ‘ands,’ and done some little good I hope at much cost....

  As to the Roman climate, we have had some beautiful weather, but Robert was calling his gods to witness (the goddess Tussis among them) that he never felt it so cold in Florence — never. Fountains frozen, Isa, and the tramontana tremendous. But it can’t last — that’s the comfort at Rome; and meantime we are housed exquisitely in our lion’s mouth; the new portiere and universal carpeting keeping it snugger than ever, and the sun over-streaming us through six windows. I have just been saying that whenever I come to Rome I shall choose to come here. The only fault is, the height and the smallness of the rooms; and, in spite of the last, we have managed to have and hold twenty people and upwards through a serata. Peni has had a bad cold, from over-staying the time on the Pincio one afternoon, and I have kept him in the house these ten days. Such things one may do by one’s lion-cubs; but the lions are harder to deal with, and Robert caught cold two or three days ago; in spite of which he chose to get up at six every morning as usual and go out to walk with Mr. Eckley. Only by miracle and nux is he much better to-day. I thought he was going to have a furious grippe, as last year and the year before. I must admit, however, that he is extremely well just now, to speak generally, and that this habit of regular exercise (with occasional homœopathy) has thrown him into a striking course of prosperity, as to looks, spirits and appetite. He eats ‘vulpinely’ he says — which means that a lark or two is no longer enough for dinner. At breakfast the loaf perishes by Gargantuan slices. He is plunged into gaieties of all sorts, caught from one hand to another like a ball, has gone out every night for a fortnight together, and sometimes two or three times deep in a one night’s engagements. So plenty of distraction, and no Men and Women. Men and women from without instead! I am shut up in the house of course, and go to bed when he goes out — and the worst is, that there’s a difficulty in getting books. Still, I get what I can, and stop up the chinks with Swedenborg; and in health am very well, for me, and in tranquillity excellently well. Not that there are not people more than enough who come to see me, but that there is nothing vexatious just now; life goes smoothly, I thank God, and I like Rome better than I did last time. The season is healthy too (for Rome). I have only heard of one English artist since we came, who arrived, sickened, died, and was buried, before anyone knew who he was. Besides ordinary cases of slight Roman fever among the English, Miss Sherwood (who with her father was at Florence) has had it slightly, and Mrs. Marshall who came to us from Tennyson. (A Miss Spring-Rice she was.) But the poor Hawthornes suffer seriously. Una is dissolved to a shadow of herself by reiterated attacks, and now Miss Shepherd is seized with gastric fever. Mr. Hawthorne is longing to get away — where, he knows not.

  My Peni has conquered his cold, and when the weather gets milder I shall let him out. Meanwhile he has taken to — what do you suppose? I go into his room at night and find him with a candle regularly settled on the table by him, and he reading, deeply rapt, an Italian translation of ‘Monte Cristo.’ Pretty well for a lion-cub, isn’t it? He is enchanted with this book, lent to him by our padrona; and exclaims every now and then, ‘Oh, magnificent, magnificent!’ And this morning, at breakfast, he gravely delivered himself to the following effect: ‘Dear mama, for the future I mean to read novels. I shall read all Dumas’s, to begin. And then I shall like to read papa’s favourite book, “Madame Bovary.”’ Heavens, what a lion-cub! Robert and I could only answer by a burst of laughter. It was so funny. That little dot of nine and a half full of such hereditary tendencies.

  And ‘Madame Bovary’ in a course of education!...

  May God bless you, my much-loved Isa, for this and other years beyond also! I shall love you all that way — says the genius of the ring.

  Your ever loving

  Ba.

  FOOTNOTES:

  Ferdinando Romagnoli. He died at Venice, in the Palazzo Rezzonico, January 1893. His widow (who, as the following letters show, continued to be called Wilson in the family) is still living with Mr. R.B. Browning.

  This refers to a note from Mrs. Browning to Miss Haworth, inquiring whether it was true that she was engaged to be married.

  The notorious medium, prototype of Mr. Browning’s ‘Sludge.’ He subsequently changed his name to Home.

  An attempted revision of the poem, subsequently abandoned, as explained in the preface addressed to M. Milsand in 1863.

  Mr. Browning and the boy had been suffering from sore throats.

  For the substance of this information I am indebted to Mr. Charles Aldrich, to whom the letter was presented by Mrs. Kinney, and through whose kindness it is here printed. The original now forms part of the Aldrich collection in the Historical Department of Iowa, U.S.A.

  The husband of Wilson, Mrs. Browning’s maid.

  An odd commentary on this ‘poem’ may be found in Mrs. Orr’s Life of Robert Browning, p. 219.

  See Aurora Leigh, p. 276:

  ‘I found a house at Florence on the hill Of Bellosguardo. ‘Tis a tower which keeps A post of double observation o’er That valley of Arno (holding as a hand The outspread city) straight toward Fiesole And Mount Morello and the setting sun, The Vallombrosan mountains opposite, Which sunrise fills as full as crystal cups Turned red to the brim because their wine is red. No sun could die nor yet be born unseen By dwellers at my villa: morn and eve Were magnified before us in the pure Illimitable space and pause of sky, Intense as angels’ garments blanched with God, Less blue than radian
t. From the outer wall Of the garden drops the mystic floating grey Of olive trees (with interruptions green From maize and vine), until ‘tis caught and torn Upon the abrupt black line of cypresses Which signs the way to Florence. Beautiful The city lies along the ample vale, Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza and street, The river trailing like a silver cord Through all, and curling loosely, both before And after, over the whole stretch of land Sown whitely up and down its opposite slopes With farms and villas.’

  Miss Blagden’s villa was the Villa Bricchieri, which is alluded to elsewhere in the letters.

  A line or two has been cut off the bottom of the sheet at this place.

  The Elements of Drawing.

  Orsini’s attempt on the life of the Emperor Napoleon on January 14, 1858.

  Referring to the Conspiracy Bill introduced by Lord Palmerston after the Orsini conspiracy against Napoleon in January 1858, and to the outcry against it, as an act of subservience to France, which led to Palmerston’s fall. Count Walewski was the French Minister for Foreign Affairs, and his despatch, alluded to below, called the attention of the English Government to the shelter afforded by England to conspirators of the type of Orsini.

  A bust of the child, by Monroe.

  Miss Hosmer.

  The fourth edition, in which several alterations were made.

  CHAPTER X. 1859-60

  At this point in Mrs. Browning’s correspondence we reach the first allusion to the political crisis which had now become acute, and of which the letters that follow are full, almost to excess. On January 1 Napoleon had astounded Europe by his language to the Austrian ambassador at Paris, in which he spoke of the bad relations unfortunately subsisting between their States. On the 10th Victor Emmanuel declared that he must listen to the cry of pain which came up to him from all Italy. After this it was clear that there was nothing to do but to prepare for war. It was in vain that England pressed for a European Congress, with the view of arranging a general disarmament. Sardinia professed willingness to accept it, but Austria declined, and on April 23 sent an ultimatum to Victor Emmanuel, demanding unconditional disarmament, which was naturally refused. On the 29th Austria declared war, and her troops crossed the Ticino — an act which Napoleon had already announced would be considered as tantamount to a declaration of war with France.

  With regard to the tone of Mrs. Browning’s letters during this period of politics and war, there are a few considerations to be borne in mind. Her two deepest political convictions were here united in one — her faith in the honesty of Louis Napoleon, and her enthusiasm for Italian freedom and unity. There were many persons in England, and some in Italy itself, who held the latter of these faiths without the former; but for such she had no tolerance. Hence not only those who sympathised, as no doubt some Englishmen did sympathise, with Austria, but also those who, while wishing well to Italy, looked with suspicion upon Napoleon’s interference, incurred her uncompromising wrath; and not even the conference of Villafranca, not even the demand for Nice and Savoy, could lead her to question Napoleon’s sincerity, or to look with patience on the English policy and English public opinion of that day. The instinct of Italians has been truer. They have recognised the genuine sympathy and support which England extended to them on many occasions during the long struggle for Italian unity, and the friendship between the two countries to-day has its root in the events of forty and fifty years ago.

  That Robert Browning did not entirely share his wife’s views will be clear to all readers of ‘Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau;’ but there is not the smallest sign that this caused the least shadow of disagreement between them. Indeed for the moment the difference was practically annulled, since Robert Browning believed, what was very probably the case, that the Emperor’s friendship for Italy was genuine, so far as it went. But it may be believed that he was less surprised than she when Napoleon’s zeal for Italian independence stopped short at the frontiers of Venetia, and was transformed into an anxiety to get out of the war without further risk, and with an eye to material compensation in Savoy and Nice.

  It is also right to bear in mind the failing condition of Mrs. Browning’s health. The strain of anxiety unquestionably overtaxed her strength, and probably told upon her mental tone in a way that may account for much that seems exaggerated, and at times even hysterical, in her expressions regarding those who did not share her views. Her errors were noble and arose from a passionate nobility of character, to which much might be forgiven, if there were much to forgive.

  To Miss Browning

  Rome: [about February 1, 1859].

  I am sure Robert has been too long about writing this time, dearest Sarianna. It did not strike either of us till this morning that it was so long. We have all been well; and Robert is whirled round and round so, in this most dissipated of places (to which Paris is really grave and quiet), that he scarcely knows if he stands on his feet or his head....

  Since Christmas Day I have been out twice, once to see Mr. Page’s gorgeous picture (just gone to Paris), and once to run back again before the wind; but I am too susceptible. The weather has been glorious to everybody with some common sense in their lungs. And to-day it is possible even to me, they say, and I am preparing for an effort.

  Pen is quite well and rosy. Still we hear of illness, and I am very particular and nervous about him. All Mr. Hawthorne’s family have been ill one after another, and now he is struck himself with the fever.

  Let me remember to say how the professor’s letter seemed to say so much — too much.

  Particularly just now. I for one can receive no compliments about ‘English honesty’ &c., after the ignoble way we are behaving about Italy. I dare say dear M. Milsand (who doesn’t sympathise much with our Italy) thinks it ‘imprudent’ of the Emperor to make this move, but that it is generous and magnanimous he will admit. The only great-hearted politician in Europe — but chivalry always came from France. The emotion here is profound — and the terror, among the priests.

  Always I expected this from Napoleon, and, if he will carry out his desire, Peni and I are agreed to kneel down and kiss his feet. The pamphlet which proceeds from him is magnificent. I said it long ago — to Jessie White I said it, ‘You would destroy,’ said I, ‘the only man who has it in his heart and head to do anything for Italy.’

  Most happily Robert’s and my protestation went to America in time; just before the present contingency. Yes, Jessie should not have permitted our names to be used so. Being passive even was a fault — yes, and more than a fault. Robert is in great spirits and very well indeed....

  Ever your most affectionate,

  Ba.

  To Miss I. Blagden

  [Rome]: 43 Bocca di Leone: March 27, .

  My ever dearest Isa, — You don’t write, not you! I wrote last, remember, and though you may not have liked all the politics of the same, you might have responded to some of the love, you naughty Isa; so I think I shall get up a ‘cause célèbre’ for myself (it shall be my turn now), and I shall prove (or try) that nobody has loved me (or can) up to this date of the 26th of March, 1859. Dearest Isa, seriously speaking, you must write, for I am anxious to know that you are recovering your good looks and proper bodily presence as to weight. Just now I am scarcely of sane mind about Italy. It even puts down the spirit-subject. I pass through cold stages of anxiety, and white heats of rage. Robert accuses me of being ‘glad’ that the new ‘Times’ correspondent has been suddenly seized with Roman fever. It is I who have the true fever — in my brain and heart. I am chiefly frightened lest Austria yield on unimportant points to secure the vital ones; and Louis Napoleon, with Germany and England against him, is in a very hard position. God save us all!

  Massimo d’ Azeglio has done us the real honor of coming to see us, and seldom have I, for one, been more gratified. A noble chivalrous head, and that largeness of the political morale which I find nowhere among statesmen, except in the head of the French Government. Azeglio spoke bitterly of English policy, stigmatised it as
belonging to a past age, the rags of old traditions. He said that Louis Napoleon had made himself great simply by comprehending the march of civilisation (the true Christianity, said Azeglio) and by leading it. Exactly what I have always thought. Azeglio disbelieves in any aim of territorial aggrandisement on the part of France. He is full of hope for Italy. It is ‘48 over again, said he, but with matured actors. He finds a unity of determination among the Italians wherever he goes.

  Well, Azeglio is a man. Seldom have I seen a man whom I felt more sympathy towards. He has a large, clear, attractive ‘sphere,’ as we Swedenborgians say.

  The pamphlet Collegno never reached us. The Papal Government has snatched it on the way. Farini’s is very good. Thank you for all your kindness as to pamphlets (not letters, Isa! I distinguish in my gratitude). We lent Mr. Trollope’s to Odo Russell, the English plenipotentiary, and to Azeglio, so that it has produced fruit in our hands.

  Did I write since Robert dined with the Prince of Wales? Col. Bruce called here and told me that though the budding royalty was not to be exposed to the influences of mixed society, the society of the most eminent men in Rome was desired for him, and he (Col. Bruce) knew it would ‘gratify the Queen that the Prince should make the acquaintance of Mr. Browning.’ Afterwards came the invitation, or ‘command.’ I told Robert to set them all right on Italian affairs, and to eschew compliments, which, you know, is his weak point. (He said the other day to Mrs. Story: ‘I had a delightful evening yesterday at your house. I never spoke to you once,’ and encouraged an artist, who was ‘quite dissatisfied with his works,’ as he said humbly, by an encouraging— ‘But, my dear fellow, if you were satisfied, you would be so very easily satisfied!’ Happy! wasn’t it?) Well, so I exhorted my Robert to eschew compliments and keep to Italian politics, and we both laughed, as at a jest. But really he had an opportunity, the subject was permitted, admitted, encouraged, and Robert swears that he talked on it higher than his breath. But, oh, the English, the English! I am unpatriotic and disloyal to a crime, Isa, just now. Besides which, as a matter of principle, I never put my trust in princes, except in the parvenus.