Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Not that the little prince here talked politics. But some of his suite did, and he listened. He is a gentle, refined boy, Robert says....

  May God bless you, dearest Isa. I am, your very loving

  Ba.

  To Miss Browning

  Rome: [about April 1859].

  Dearest Sarianna, — People are distracting the ‘Athenæums,’ Robert complains, as they distract other things, but in time you will recover them, I hope. Mr. Leighton has made a beautiful pencil-drawing, highly finished to the last degree, of him; very like, though not on the poetical side, which is beyond Leighton. Of this you shall have a photograph soon; and in behalf of it, I pardon a drawing of me which I should otherwise rather complain of, I confess.

  We are all much saddened just now (in spite of war) by the state of Una Hawthorne, a lovely girl of fifteen, Mr. Hawthorne’s daughter, who, after a succession of attacks of Roman fever, has had another, complicated with gastric, which has fallen on the lungs, and she only lives from hour to hour. Homœopathic treatment persisted in, which never answers in these fevers. Ah — there has been much illness in Rome. Miss Cushman has had an attack, but you would not recognise other names. We are well, however, Pen like a rose, and Robert still expanding. Dissipations decidedly agree with Robert, there’s no denying that, though he’s horribly hypocritical, and ‘prefers an evening with me at home,’ which has grown to be a kind of dissipation also.

  We are in great heart about the war, as if it were a peace, without need of war. Arabel writes alarmed about our funded money, which we are not likely to lose perhaps, precisely because we are not alarmed. The subject never occurred to me, in fact. I was too absorbed in the general question — yes, and am.

  So it dawns upon you, Sarianna, that things at Rome and at Naples are not quite what they should be. A certain English reactionary party would gladly make the Pope a paratonnerre to save Austria, but this won’t do. The poor old innocent Pope would be paralytically harmless but for the Austrian, who for years has supported the corruptions here against France; and even the King of Naples would drop flat as a pricked bubble if Austria had not maintained that iniquity also. We who have lived in Italy all these years, know the full pestilent meaning of Austria everywhere. What is suffered in Lombardy exceeds what is suffered elsewhere. Now, God be thanked, here is light and hope of deliverance. Still you doubt whether the French are free enough themselves to give freedom! Well, I won’t argue the question about what ‘freedom’ is. We shall be perfectly satisfied here with French universal suffrage and the ballot, the very same democratical government which advanced Liberals are straining for in England. But, however that may be, the Italians are perfectly contented at being liberated by the French, and entirely disinclined to wait the chance of being more honorably assisted by their ‘free’ and virtuous friend on the other side of the hedge (or Channel), who is employed at present in buttoning up his own pockets lest peradventure he should lose a shilling: giving dinners though, and the smaller change, to ‘Neapolitan exiles,’ whom only this very cry of ‘war’ has freed.

  Robert and I have been of one mind lately in these things, which comforts me much. But the chief comfort is — the state of facts.

  Massimo d’ Azeglio came to see us, and talked nobly, with that noble head of his. I was far prouder of his coming than of another personal distinction you will guess at, though I don’t pretend to have been insensible even to that. ‘It is ‘48 over again,’ said he, ‘with matured actors.’ In fact, the unity throughout Italy is wonderful. What has been properly called ‘the crimes of the Holy Alliance’ will be abolished this time, if God defends the right, which He will, I think. I have faith and hope.

  But people are preparing to run, and perhaps we shall be forced to use the gendarmes against the brigands (with whom the country is beset, as in all cases of general disturbance) when we travel, but this is all the difference it will make with us. Tuscany is only restraining itself out of deference to France, and not to complicate her difficulties. War must be, if it is not already.

  Yes, I was ‘not insensible,’ democratical as I am, and un-English as I am said to be. Col. Bruce told me that ‘he knew it would be gratifying to the Queen that the Prince should make Robert’s acquaintance.’ ‘She wished him to know the most eminent men in Rome.’ It might be a weakness, but I was pleased.

  Pen’s and my love to the dearest Nonno and you.

  Your affectionate

  Ba.

  In May, shortly after the outbreak of war, the Brownings returned to Florence, whither a division of French troops had been sent, under the command of Prince Napoleon. The Grand Duke had already retired before the storm, and a provisional government had been formed. It was here that they heard the news of Magenta (June 4) and Solferino (June 24), with their wholly unexpected sequel, the armistice and the meeting of the two Emperors at Villafranca. The latter blow staggered even Mrs. Browning for the moment, but though her frail health suffered from the shock, her faith in Louis Napoleon was proof against all attack. She could not have known the good military reasons he had for not risking a reversal of the successes which he had won more through his enemy’s defects than through the excellence of his own army or dispositions; but she found an explanation in the supposed intrigues of England and Germany, which frustrated his good intentions.

  To Miss Browning

  Florence: [about May 1859].

  My dearest Sarianna, — You will like to hear, if only by a scratch, that we are back in Tuscany with all safety, after a very pleasant journey through an almost absolute solitude. Florence is perfectly tranquil and at the same time most unusually animated, what with the French troops and the passionate gratitude of the people. We have two great flags on our terrace, the French flag and the Italian, and Peni keeps a moveable little flag between them, which (as he says) ‘he can take out in the carriage sometimes.’ Pen is enchanted with the state of things in general, and the French camp in particular, which he came home from only in the dusk last night, having ‘enjoyed himself so very much in seeing those dear French soldiers play at blindman’s buff.’ They won’t, however, remain long here, unless the Austrians threaten to come down on us, which, I trust, they will be too much absorbed to do. The melancholy point in all this is the dirt eaten and digested with a calm face by England and the English. Now that I have exhausted myself with indignation and protestation, Robert has taken up the same note, which is a comfort. I would rather hear my own heart in his voice. Certainly it must be still more bitter for him than for me, seeing that he has more national predilections than I have, and has struggled longer to see differently. Not only the prestige, but the very respectability of England is utterly lost here — and nothing less is expected than her ultimate and open siding with Austria in the war. If she does, we shall wash our hands like so many Pilates, which will save us but not England.

  We are intending to remain here as long as we can bear the heat, which is not just now too oppressive, though it threatens to be so. We must be somewhere near, to see after our property in the case of an Austrian approach, which is too probable, we some of us think; and I just hear that a body of the French will remain to meet the contingency. Our Italians are fighting as well as soldiers can.

  Tell M. Milsand, with my love, that if I belonged to his country, I should feel very proud at this time. As to the Emperor, he is sublime. He will appear so to all when he comes out of this war (as I believe) with clean and empty hands....

  Robert gives ten scudi a month (a little more than two guineas) to the war as long as it lasts, and Peni is to receive half a paul every day he is good at his lessons, that he also may give to the great cause. I must write a word to the dear nonno. May God bless both of you, says your

  Affectionate Sister,

  Ba.

  To Mr. Browning, Senior

  [Same date.]

  Yes, indeed, I missed the revolution in Tuscany, dearest Nonno, which was a loss — but perhaps, in compensation (who knows?), I shall be
in for an Austrian bombardment or brigandage, or something as good or bad. But, after all, you are not to be anxious about us because of a jest of mine. We have Tuscan troops on the frontier, and French troops in the city, and although the Duchess of Parma has graciously given leave, they say, to the Austrians to cross her dominions in order to get into Tuscany, we shall be well defended. We are all full of hope and calm, and never doubt of the result. If ever there was a holy cause it is this; if ever there was a war on which we may lawfully ask God’s blessing, it is this. The unanimity and constancy of the Italian people are beautiful to witness. The affliction of ten years has ripened these souls. Never was a contrast greater than what is to-day and what was in ‘48. No more distrust, nor division, nor vacillation, and a gratitude to the French nation which is quite pathetic.

  Peni is all in a glow about Italy, and wishes he was ‘great boy enough’ to fight. Meantime he does his lessons for the fighters — half a paul a day when he is good.

  Mr. del Bene thought him much improved in his music, and I hope he gets on in other things, and that when we bring him back to you (crowned with Italian laurels), you will think so too. Meanwhile think of us and love us, dearest Nonno. I always think of your kindness to me.

  Your ever affectionate Daughter,

  Ba.

  To Mr. Ruskin

  Casa Guidi: June 3, .

  My dear Mr. Ruskin, — We send to you every now and then somebody hungry for a touch from your hand; we who are famished for it ourselves. But this time we send you a man whom you will value perfectly for himself and be kind to from yourself, quite spontaneously. He is the American artist, Page, an earnest, simple, noble artist and man, who carries his Christianity down from his deep heart to the point of his brush. Draw him out to talk to you, and you will find it worth while. He has learnt much from Swedenborg, and used it in his views upon art. Much of it (if new) may sound to you wild and dreamy — but the dream will admit of logical inference and philosophical induction, and when you open your eyes, it is still there.

  He has not been successful in life — few are who are uncompromising in their manner of life. When I speak of life, I include art, which is life to him. I should like you to see what a wonder of light and colour and space and breathable air, he put into his Venus rising from the sea — refused on the ground of nudity at the Paris Exhibition this summer. The loss will be great to him, I fear.

  You will recognise in this name Page, the painter of Robert’s portrait which you praised for its Venetian colour, and criticised in other respects. In fact, Mr. Page believes that he has discovered Titian’s secret — and, what is more, he will tell it to you in love, and indeed to anybody else in charity. So I don’t say that to bribe you.

  Dear, dear Mr. Ruskin, we thank you and love you more than ever for your good word about our Italy. Oh, if you knew how hard it is and has been to receive the low, selfish, ignoble words with which this great cause has been pelted from England, not from her Derby government only, but from her parliament, her statesmen, her reformers, her leaders of the Liberal party, her free press — to receive such words full in our faces, nay, in the quick of our hearts, till we grow sick with loathing and hot with indignation — if you knew what it was and is, you would feel how glad and grateful we must be to have a right word from John Ruskin. Dear Mr. Ruskin, England has done terribly ill, ignobly ill, which is worse. That men of all parties should have spoken as they have, proves a state of public morals lamentable to admit. What — not even our poets with clean hands? Alfred Tennyson abetting Lord Derby? That to me was the heaviest blow of all.

  Meanwhile we shall have a free Italy at least, for everything goes well here. Massimo d’ Azeglio came to see us in Rome, and he said then, ‘It is ‘48 with matured actors.’ Indeed, there is a wonderful unanimity, calm, and resolution everywhere in Italy. All parties are broken up into the one great national party. The feeling of the people is magnificent. The painful experience of ten years has borne fruit in their souls. No more distrust, no more division, no more holding back, no more vacillation. And Louis Napoleon — well, I think he is doing me credit — and you, dear Mr. Ruskin — for you, too, held him in appreciation long ago. A great man.

  I beseech you to believe on my word (and we have our information from good and reliable sources), that the ‘Times’ newspaper built up its political ideas on the broadest foundation of lies. I use the bare word. You won’t expel it, in the manner of the Paris Exhibition, for its nudity — lies — not mistakes. For instance, while the very peasants here are giving their crazie, the very labourers their day’s work (once in a week or so) — while everyone gives, and every man almost (who can go) goes — the ‘Times’ says that Piedmont had derived neither paul nor soldier from Tuscany. Tell me what people get by lying so? Faustus sold himself to the Devil. Does Austria pay a higher price, I wonder?

  Such things I could tell you — things to moisten your eyes — to wring that burning eloquence of yours from your lips. But Robert waits to take this letter. Penini has adorned our terrace with two tricolour flags, the Italian tricolour and the French. May God bless you, dear friend. Speak again for Italy. If you could see with what eyes the Italian speaks of the ‘English.’ Our love to you, Mr. and Mrs. Ruskin — if we may — because we must. Write to us, do.

  Ever affectionately yours,

  R.B. and E.B.B.

  To Miss Browning

  Florence: [about June 1859.]

  My dearest Sarianna, — There is a breath of air giving one strength to hold one’s pen at this moment. How people can use swords in such weather it’s difficult to imagine. We have been melting to nothing, like the lump of sugar in one’s tea, or rather in one’s lemonade, for tea grows to be an abomination before the sun. The heat, which lingered unusually, has come in on us with a rush of flame for some days past, suggesting, however, the degree beyond itself, which is coming. We stay on at Florence because we can’t bear to go where the bulletin twice a day from the war comes less directly; and certainly we shall stay till we can’t breathe here any more. On which contingency our talk is to go somewhere for two months. Meanwhile we stay.

  You can’t conceive of the intense interest which is reigning here, you can’t realise it, scarcely. In Paris there is vivid interest, of course, but that is from less immediate motives, except with persons who have relations in the army. Here it is as if each one had a personal enemy in the street below struggling to get up to him. When we are anxious we are pale; when we are glad we have tears in our eyes. This ‘unnecessary’ and ‘inexcusable’ war (as it has been called in England) represents the only hope of a nation agonising between death and life. You talk about our living or dying, but we live or die. That’s the difference between you and us.

  We shall live, however. The hope is rising into triumph. Nobody any more will say that the Italians fight ill. Remember that Garibaldi has with him simply the volunteers from all parts of Italy, not the trained troops. He and they are heroic (as with such conviction and faith they were sure to be), and the trained troops not less so. ‘Worthy of fighting side by side with the French,’ says the Emperor; while the French are worthy of their fame. ‘The great military power’ crumbles before them, because souls are stronger than bodies always. There is no such page of glory in the whole history of France. Great motives and great deeds. The feeling of profound gratitude to Napoleon III., among this people here, is sublime from its unanimity and depth....

  All this excitement has made Florence quite unlike its quiet self, in spite of the flight of many residents and nearly all travellers. Even we have been stirred up to wander about more than our custom here. There’s something that forbids us to sit at home; we run in and out after the bulletins, and to hear and give opinions; and then, in the rebound, we have been caught and sent several times to the theatre (so unusual for us) to see the great actor, Salvini, who is about to leave Florence. We saw him in ‘Othello’ and in ‘Hamlet,’ and he was very great in both, Robert thought, as well as I. Only h
is houses pine, because, as he says, the ‘true tragedies spoil the false,’ and the Italians have given up the theatres for the cafés at this moment of crisis....

  In best love,

  Ba.

  After Villafranca the immediate anxiety for news from the seat of war naturally came to an end, and the Brownings were able to escape from the heat of Florence to Siena, where they remained about three months.

  To Miss Browning

  Siena: [July-August 1859].

  Dearest Sarianna, — This to certify that I am alive after all; yes, and getting stronger, and intending to be strong before long, though the sense left to me is of a peculiar frailty of being; no very marked opinion upon my hold of life. But life will last as long as God finds it useful for myself and others — which is enough, both for them and me.

  So well I was with all the advantages of Rome in me looking so well, that I was tired of hearing people say so. But, though it may sound absurd to you, it was the blow on the heart about the peace after all that excitement and exultation, that walking on the clouds for weeks and months, and then the sudden stroke and fall, and the impotent rage against all the nations of the earth — selfish, inhuman, wicked — who forced the hand of Napoleon, and truncated his great intentions. Many young men of Florence were confined to their beds by the emotion of the news. As for me, I was struck, couldn’t sleep, talked too much, and (the intense heat rendering one more susceptible, perhaps) at last this bad attack came on. Robert has been perfect to me. For more than a fortnight he gave up all his nights’ rest to me, and even now he teaches Pen. They are well, I thank God. We stay till the end of September. Our Italians have behaved magnificently, steadfast, confident, never forgetting (except in the case of individuals, of course) their gratitude to France nor their own sense of dignity. Things must end well with such a people. Few would have expected it of the Italians. I hear the French ambassador was present at the opening of the Chambers the other day at Florence, which was highly significant.