Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  But the fusion is a wiser step now, and altogether — even if we could spare the Emperor’s fame. Do you remember the obloquy he suffered for Neufchâtel? and how it came out that, if he pressed his conditions, it was simply because he meant to fight for the independence of the State? and how at last the Swiss delegates went to Paris to offer their gratitude for the deliverance he had attained for the people? His loyalty will come out clean before the eyes of his enemies now as then. We agree absolutely. And Robert does not dissent, I think. Facts begin to be conclusive to him.

  You are an angel, dearest Isa, with the tact of a woman of the world. This in reference to the note you sent me, and your answer. You could not have done better — not at all.

  Our kind love to Kate — and mind you give our regards to Dr. Gresonowsky. Also to Mr. Jarves — poor Mr. Jarves — how sorry I am about the pictures!

  Robert will write another time, he says, ‘with kindest love.’

  To Miss Browning

  [Siena: September-October, 1859.]

  My dearest Sarianna, — We are on the verge of returning to Florence, for a short time — only to pack up, I believe, and go further south — to ‘meet the revolution,’ tell the dearest Nonno, with my love. The case is that though I am really convalescent and look well (Robert has even let me take to Penini a little, which is conclusive), it is considered dangerous for me to run the risk of even a Florence winter. You see I have been very ill. The physician thought there was pressure of the lungs on the heart, and, under those circumstances, that I must avoid irritation of the lungs by any cold. Say nothing which can reach my sisters and frighten them; and after all I care very little about doctors, except that I do know myself how hard renewals of the late attack would go with me. But I mean to take care, and use God’s opportunities of getting strong again. Also it seems to me that I have taken a leap within these ten days, and that the strength comes back in a fuller tide. After all, it is not a cruel punishment to us to have to go to Rome again this winter, though it will be an undesirable expense, and though we did wish to keep quiet this winter, the taste for constant wanderings having passed away as much for me as for Robert. We begin to see that by no possible means can one spend as much money to so small an end. And then we don’t work so well — don’t live to as much use, either for ourselves or others. Isa Blagden bids us observe that we pretend to live at Florence, and are not there much above two months in the year, what with going away for the summer and going away for the winter. It’s too true. It’s the drawback of Italy. To live in one place here is impossible for us almost, just as to live out of Italy at all is impossible for us. It isn’t caprice — that’s all I mean to say — on our part.

  Siena pleases us very much. The silence and repose have been heavenly things to me, and the country is very pretty, though no more than pretty — nothing marked or romantic, no mountains (did you fancy us on the mountains?) except so far off as to be like a cloud only, on clear days, and no water. Pretty, dimpled ground, covered with low vineyards; purple hills, not high, with the sunsets clothing them. But I like the place, and feel loth to return to Florence from this half-furnished villa and stone floors. The weather is still very hot, but no longer past bearing, and we are enjoying it, staying on from day to day. Robert proposed Palermo instead of Rome, but I shrink a little from the prospect of our being cut up into mincemeat by patriotic Sicilians, though the English fleet (which he reminds me of) might obtain for you and for England the most ‘satisfactory compensation’ of the pecuniary kind. At Rome I shall not be frightened, knowing my Italians. Then there will be more comfort, and, besides, no horrible sea-voyage. Some Americans have told us that the Mediterranean is twice as bad as the Atlantic. I always thought it twice as bad as anything, as people say elegantly. We shall not leave Florence till November. Robert must see W. Landor (his adopted son, Sarianna) settled in his new apartment, with Wilson for a duenna. It’s an excellent plan for him, and not a bad one for Wilson. He will pay a pound (English) a week for his three rooms, and she is to receive twenty-two pounds a year for the care she is to take of him, besides what is left of his rations. Forgive me if Robert has told you this already. Dear darling Robert amuses me by talking of his ‘gentleness and sweetness.’ A most courteous and refined gentleman he is, of course, and very affectionate to Robert (as he ought to be), but of self-restraint he has not a grain, and of suspiciousness many grains. Wilson will run certain risks, and I for one would rather not meet them. What do you say to dashing down a plate on the floor when you don’t like what’s on it? And the contadini at whose house he is lodging now have been already accused of opening desks. Still, upon that occasion (though there was talk of the probability of Landor’s throat being ‘cut in his sleep’), as on other occasions, Robert succeeded in soothing him, and the poor old lion is very quiet on the whole, roaring softly, to beguile the time, in Latin alcaics against his wife and Louis Napoleon. He laughs carnivorously when I tell him that one of these days he will have to write an ode in honour of the Emperor, to please me.

  Little Pen has been in the utmost excitement lately about his pony, which Robert is actually going to buy for him. I am said to be the spoiler, but mark! I will confess to you that, considering how we run to and fro, it never would have entered into the extravagance of my love to set up a pony for Penini. When I heard of it first, I opened my eyes wide, only no amount of discretion on my part could enable me to take part against both Pen and Robert in a matter which pleases Pen. I hope they won’t combine to give me an Austrian daughter-in-law when Peni is sixteen. So I say ‘Yes,’ ‘Yes,’ ‘Certainly,’ and the pony is to be bought, and carried to Rome (fancy that!), and we are to hunt up some small Italian princes and princesses to ride with him at Rome (I object to Hatty Hosmer, who has been thrown thirty times). In fact, Pen has been very coaxing about the pony. He has beset Robert in private and then, as privately, entreated me, ‘if papa spoke to me about the pony, not to discourage him.’ So I discouraged nobody, but am rather triumphantly glad, upon the whole, that we have done such a very foolish, extravagant thing.

  Robert will have told you, I am sure, what a lovely picture Mr. Wilde, the American artist (staying with the Storys), has made of Penini on horseback, and presented to me. It is to be exhibited in the spring in London, but before then, either at Rome or Florence, we will have a photograph made from it to send you. By the way, Mr. Monroe failed us about the photograph from the bust. He said he had tried in vain once, but would try again. The child is no less pretty and graceful than he was, and he rides, as he does everything, with a grace which is striking. He gallops like the wind, and with an absolute fearlessness — he who is timid about sleeping in a room by himself, poor darling. He has had a very happy time here (besides the pony) having made friends with all the contadini, who adore him, and helped them to keep the sheep, catch the stray cows, drive the oxen in the grape-carts, and to bring in the vintage generally, besides reading and expounding revolutionary poems to them at evening. The worst of it was, while it lasted, that he ate so many grapes he could eat nothing else whatever. Still, he looks rosy and well, and there’s nothing to regret....

  Robert has let his moustache and beard grow together, and looks very picturesque. I thought I should not like the moustache, but I do. He is in very good looks altogether, though, in spite of remonstrances, he has given up walking before breakfast, and doesn’t walk at any time half enough. I was in fault chiefly, because he both sate up at night with me and kept by me when I was generally ill in the mornings. So I oughtn’t to grumble — but I do.... Love to dear M. Milsand. We are in increasing spirits on Italian affairs.

  Your very affectionate

  Ba.

  In October they returned to Florence, though only for about six weeks, before moving on to Rome for the winter.

  To Mrs. Jameson

  [Florence]: Casa Guidi: Friday [October 1859].

  Ever dearest Mona Nina, — Here we are at our Florence, very thankful for the advantages of our
Siena residence. God has been kind. When I think how I went away and how I came back, it seems to me wonderful. For the latter fortnight the tide of life seemed fairly to set in again, and now I am quite well, if not as strong — which, of course, could not be in the time. My doctor opened his eyes to see me yesterday so right in looks and ways. But we spend the winter in Rome, because the great guns of the revolution (and even the small daggers) will be safer to encounter than any sort of tramontana. To tell you the truth, dearest friend, there have been moments when I have ‘despaired of the republic’ — that is, doubted much whether I should ever be quite well again; I mean as tolerably well as it is my normal state to be. So severe the attack was altogether.

  As to political affairs, I will use the word of Penini’s music-master when asked the other day how they went on— ‘Divinamente,’ said he. Things are certainly going divinamente. I observe that, while politicians by profession, by the way, have various opinions, and hope and fear according to their temperaments, the people here are steadily sanguine, distrusting nobody if it isn’t a Mazzinian or a codino, and looking to the end with a profound interest, of course, but not any inquietude. ‘Divinamente’ things are going on.

  There is an expectation, indeed, of fighting, but only with the Pope’s troops (and we all know what a ‘soldato del papa’ means), or with such mongrel defenders as can be got up by the convicts of Modena or Tuscany to give us an occasion of triumph presently. The expected outburst in Sicily and the Neapolitan States will simply extend the movement. That’s our way of thinking and hoping. May God defend the right!

  Mr. Probyn, a Liberal M.P., has come out here to appreciate the situation, and said last night that, after visiting the north of Italy and speaking with the chiefs, he is full of hope. Not quite so is Cartwright, whom you know, and who came to us at Siena. But Mr. Cartwright exceeds Dr. Cumming in the view of Napoleon, who isn’t Antichrist to him, but is assuredly the devil. I like Mr. Cartwright, observe, but I don’t like his modes of political thinking, which are ‘after the strictest sect’ and the reddest-tape English. He and his family are gone to Rome, and find the whole city ‘to be hired.’ Family men in general are not likely to go there this winter, and we shall find the coast very clear. And you — dearest friend, you seem to have given up Italy altogether this winter. Unless you come to Rome, we shall not be the better for your crossing the Alps. The Eckleys have settled in Florence till next year. The Perkinses also. Isa Blagden is at her villa, which, if she lets, she may pay Miss Cushman a visit in Rome towards the spring, but scarcely earlier.

  After the dreary track of physical discomfort was passed, I enjoyed Siena much, and so did Robert, and the next time we have to spend a summer in Tuscany we shall certainly turn our faces that way. When able to drive, I drove about with Robert and enjoyed the lovely country; and once, on the last day, I ventured into the gallery and saw the divine Eve of Sodoma for the second time. But I never entered the cathedral — think of that! There were steps to be mounted. But I have the vision of it safe within me since nine years ago. The Storys, let me remember to tell you gratefully, were very kind and very delicate, offering all kindnesses I could receive, and no other....

  Did I tell you that Jessie Mario had written to me from Romagna? You know, in any case, that she and her husband were arrested subsequently and sent into Switzerland. The other day I had two printed letters from the newspaper ‘Evening Star,’ enclosed to me by herself or her brother, I suppose — one the production of her husband, and one of Brofferio the advocate. I thought both were written in a detestable spirit, attempting to throw an odium on the governments of central Italy, which they should all three have rather died in their own poor personal reputations than have wished to hazard under present circumstances. Mazzini and his party have only to keep still, if indeed they do not desire to swamp the great Italian cause. Every movement made by them is a gain to Austria — a clear gain. Every word spoken by them, even if it applaud us, goes against the cause! Whoever has a conscience among them, let him consider this and be still....

  To Miss E.F. Haworth

  Casa Guidi: November 2 .

  My dearest Fanny, — I this moment receive your letter, and hasten to answer it lest I should be too late for you in Paris. Dear Fanny, you seem in a chronic transitional state; it’s always crisis with you. I can’t advise; but I do rather wonder that you don’t go at once to England and see your friends till you can do your business.... You can get at pictures in England and at artistic society also if you please; and making a slancio into Germany or to Paris would not be impossible to you occasionally.

  Does this advice sound too disinterested on my part? Never think so. We only stand ourselves on one foot in Florence — forced to go away in the summer; forced to go away in the winter. Robert was so persuaded even last winter (before my illness) of my being better at Rome that he would have taken an apartment there and furnished it, except that I prevented him. Then we have calls from the north, and on most summers we must be in England and Paris. To stay on through the summer in Florence is impossible to us at least. Think of thermometers being a hundred and two in the shade this year! So I consider your case dispassionately, and conclude we are not worth your consideration in reference to prospects connected with any place. We are rolling stones gathering no moss. There’s no use for anyone to run after us; but we may roll anyone’s way. I say this, penetrated by your affectionate feeling for us. May God bless you and keep you, my dear friend.

  As for me, I have been nearly as ill as possible — that’s the truth — suffering so much that the idea of the evil’s recurrence makes me feel nervous. All the Italians who came near me gave me up as a lost life; but God would not have it so this time, and my old vitality proved itself strong still. At present I am remarkably well; I had a return of threatening symptoms a fortnight ago, but they passed. I think I had been talking too much. Now I feel quite as free and well as usual about the chest, and ‘buoyant’ as to general spirits. Affairs in Italy seem going well, and Napoleon does not forget us, whatever his townsfolk of a certain class may do. The French newspapers remember us well, I am happy to see, also. But, my dear Fanny, who am I to give letters to Garibaldi? I don’t know him, nor does he know me. Have you acquaintance with Madame Swartz? She could help Mr. Spicer. But she has just gone to Rome. And we are going to Rome. Did not Sarianna tell you that? We go on my account to avoid the tramontana here. People say we are foolhardy on account of the state of the country; but you are aware we are no more frightened of revolutions than M. Charles is of the tiger. Prices at Rome will be more reasonable at any rate. Nobody pays high for a probability of being massacred. What I’m most afraid of after all is lest the ‘Holiness of our Lord’ should agree to reform at the last moment. It’s too late; it must be too late — it ought to be too late....

  Poor Mr. Landor is in perfect health and in rather good spirits, seeming reconciled to his fate of exile. In the summer he moaned over it sadly, ‘never could be happy except in England’; and I rather leant to sending him back, I confess. But Mr. Forster and other friends seemed to think that if he went back he could never be kept from the attack, all would come over again; and really that was probable. Still, I feared for him before he went to Siena. It does not do to shake hour-glasses at his age, and though he had been acclimated here by an eleven years’ residence, still — well; there was nothing for it but to keep him here. He sighs a little still that it ‘does not agree with him,’ and that Florence is a ‘very ugly town,’ and so on; but still he is evidently much stronger than when he went to Siena, can walk for an hour together (instead of failing at the end of the street), and looks quite vigorous with his snow-white beard and moustache, through which the carnivorous laugh runs and rings. He doesn’t know yet we are going away. He will miss Robert dreadfully. Robert’s goodness to him has really been apostolical. And think of the effect of a goodness which can quote at every turn of a phrase something from an author’s book! Isn’t it more bewitching than other go
odnesses? To certain authors, that is....

  Dearest Fanny, keep up your spirits, do. Write to me to say you are less sad. And love not less your

  Affectionate

  Ba.

  To Mr. Chorley

  Casa Guidi: November 25 .

  My dear Friend, — I thank you with all my heart for your most graceful and touching dedication, and do assure you that I feel it both as honour and as pleasure.

  And yet, do you know, Robert says that you might peradventure, by the dedication of your book to me, mean a covert lecture, or sarcasm, who knows? Even if you did, the kindness of the personal address would make up for it. Who wouldn’t bear both lecture and sarcasm from anyone who begins by speaking so? Therefore I am honoured and pleased and grateful all the same — yes, and will be.

  But, dear Mr. Chorley, you don’t silence me, notwithstanding. The spell of your dedication hasn’t fastened me up in an oak for ever. Your book is very clever; your characters very incisively given; princess and patriots admirably cut out (and up!); half truths everywhere, to which one says ‘How true!’ But one might as well (and better) say ‘How false!’ seeing that, dear Mr. Chorley, it does really take two halves to make a whole, and we know it. The whole truth is not here — not even suggested here — and let me add that the half truth on this occasion is cruel.

  One thing is ignored in the book. Under all the ridiculousness, under all the wickedness even of such men and women, lies a cause, a right inherent, a wrong committed. The cant presupposes a doctrine, and the pretension a real heroism. Your best people (in your book) seem to have no notion of this. Your heroine deserves to be a victim, not because she was rash and ignorant, but because she was selfish and foolish. The world wasn’t lost for her because she loved — either a cause or a man — but because she wanted change and excitement. If she had felt on the abstract question as I have known women to feel, even when they have acted like fools, I should pity her more. As it is, the lesson was necessary. If she had not married rashly an Italian birbante she would have married rashly an English blackguard, and I myself see small difference in the kinds. With you, however, to your mind, it is different; and in this view of yours seems to me to lie the main fault of your book. You evidently think that God made only the English. The English are a peculiar people. Their worst is better than the best of the exterior nations. Over the rest of the world He has cast out His shoe. Even supposing that a foreigner does, by extraordinary exception, some good thing, it’s only in reaction from having murdered somebody last year, or at least left his children to starve the year before. Truth, generosity, nobleness of will and mind, these things do not exist beyond the influence of the ‘Times’ newspaper and the ‘Saturday Review.’ (By the way, it would be extraordinary if it were so.’)