Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Only I do hope my Tuscan friends of the ‘Monitore’ are only careless and forgetful in their business habits, and that they didn’t think of ‘annexing’ — eh, Isa! No, I don’t believe it was dishonesty, it might have so very well been oblivion.

  May the paper come to-day, that’s all. We get the ‘Galignani,’ but can’t afford to miss our Italian news. Then, not only we ourselves, but half a dozen Tuscan exiles here in Rome who are not allowed to read a freely breathed word, come to us for that paper, friends of Ferdinando’s living in Rome. First he lent them the paper, then they got frightened for fear of being convicted through some spy of reading such a thing, and prayed to come to this house to read it. There have been six of them sometimes in the evening. We keep a sort of café in Rome, observe, and your ‘Monitore’ is necessary to us.

  You have seen by this time Lamoricière’s address to the Papal array. It’s extraordinary, while the French are still here, that such a publication should be permitted, obvious as the position taken must be to all, and personally displeasing to the Emperor as the man is known to be. Magnanimity is certainly a great feature of Napoleon’s mind. And now what next? The French are going, of course. You would suppose an attack on Romagna imminent. And better so. Let us have it out at once.

  I have the papers. I am much the better for some things in them. There’s to be the universal suffrage, the withdrawal of troops, whatever I wanted. Cavour’s despatch to the Swiss is also excellent. Those injured martyrs wanted the bone in their teeth, that’s all.

  The wailing in England for Swiss and Savoyards, while other nationalities are to be trodden under foot without intervention, except what’s called aggression, is highly irritating to me.

  Dearest Isa, Robert tore me from my last sentence to you. I was going to say that I cared less for the attacks of the press on my book than I care for your sympathy. Thank you for feeling ‘mad’ for me. But be sane again. Dear, it’s not worth being mad for.

  In the advertised ‘Blackwood,’ do you see an article called ‘Poetic Aberration’? It came into my head that it might be a stone thrown at me, and Robert went to Monaldini’s to glance at it. Sure enough it is a stone. He says a violent attack. And let me do him justice. It was only the misstatement in the ‘Athenæum’ which overset him, only the first fire which made him wink. Now he turns a hero’s face to all this cannonading. He doesn’t care a straw, he says, and what’s more, he doesn’t, really. So I, who was only sorry for him, can’t care. Observe, Isa, if there had been less violence and more generosity, the poems would obviously have been less deserved.

  The English were not always so thin-skinned. Lord Byron and Moore have....

  [The rest of the letter is lost]

  To Miss I. Blagden

  Rome: April 2, .

  Ever dearest Isa, — Here are the letters! I am sorry I wrote rashly yesterday; but from an expression of yours I took for granted that the packet went by the post; and I have been really very anxious about it.

  No, Isa; I don’t like the tone of these letters so well. I can understand that what is said of Belgium and the Rhine provinces is in the event of a certain coalition and eventual complication, but it doesn’t do, even in a thought and theory, to sacrifice a country like Belgium. I respect France, and ‘l’idée Napoléonienne’; yes, but conscience and the populations more.

  As to Napoleon’s waiting for the bribe of Savoy before he would pass beyond Villafranca, this is making him ignoble; and I do not believe it in the least. Also it contradicts the letter-writer’s previous letter, in which he said that Savoy had been from the beginning the sous entendre of Venetia. No, I can see that an Italy in unity, a great newly constituted nation, might be reasonably asked by her liberator to shift her frontier from beyond the Alps, but for Victor Emmanuel to be expected at Milan to put his hand into his pocket and pay, without completion of facts, or consultation of peoples, this would be to ‘faire le marchand’ indeed, and I could write no odes to a man who could act so. I don’t sell my soul to Napoleon, and applaud him quand même. But absolutely I disbelieve in this version, Isa. If the war had not stopped at Villafranca, it would have been European; that, if not clear at the time, is clear now — clear from the official statement of Prussia. By putting diplomacy in the place of the war, a great deal was absolutely attained, besides a better standpoint for a renewal of the war, should that be necessary. ‘Hence those tears’ — of Villafranca!

  The letter-writer is very keen, and evidently hears a good deal, while he selects after his own judgment. I am glad to hear that ‘L’Opinion Nationale’ represents the efficient power. That’s comfortable. What’s to be done next in the south here rests with us, it seems. But what of the occupation of Rome? And what is the meaning of Lamoricière being here ‘with the consent of the Emperor’? Lamoricière can mean no good either to the French Government or to Italy; and the Emperor knows it well.

  My dearest Isa, let us make haste to say that of course I shall be glad to let my book be used as is proposed. How will we get a copy to M. Fauvety? I enclose an order to Chapman and Hall which M. Dall’ Ongaro may enclose to his friend, who must enclose it on to England, with a letter conveying his address in Paris. Then the book may be sent by the book post. Wouldn’t that do?

  I shall give a copy to Dall’ Ongaro (when I can get a supply), and one for the Trollopes also, never forgetting dear Kate! (and I do expect copies through the embassy) but I have not seen a word of the book yet. I only know that, being Cæsar’s wife, I am not merely ‘suspected’ (poor wife!), but dishonored before the ‘Athenæum’ world as an unnatural vixen, who, instead of staying at home and spinning wool, stays at home and curses her own land. ‘It is my own, my native land!’ If, indeed, I had gone abroad and cursed other people’s lands, there would have been no objection. That poem, as addressed to America, has always been considered rather an amiable and domestic trait on my part. But England! Heavens and earth! What a crime! The very suspicion of it is guilt.

  The fact is, between you and me, Isa, certain of those quoted stanzas do ‘fit’ England ‘as if they were made for her,’ which they were not, though....

  According to your letters, Venetia seems pushed off into the future a little, don’t you think?

  Still, they are interesting, very. Get Dall’ Ongaro to remember me in future. The details about Antonelli shall go to him. I am delighted at the idea of being translated by him....

  Write to me, my dearly loved Isa. You who are true! let me touch you!

  Yours ever from the heart

  Ba.

  To Miss I. Blagden

  28 Via del Tritone:

  Monday and Tuesday [April 1860].

  Ever dearest Isa, — I send you under this enclosure an abstract of some papers given to me by somebody who can’t be named, with a sketch of Antonelli. I wasn’t allowed to copy; I was only to abstract. But everything is in. The whole has been verified and may be absolutely relied on, I hear. So long I have waited for them. Should I have translated them into Italian, I wonder? Or can Dall’ Ongaro get to the bottom of them so? Dates of birth are not mentioned, I observe. From another quarter I may get those. About has the character of romancing a little.

  Not a word do you say of your health. Do another time. Remember that your previous letter left you in bed.

  Dearest Isa, how it touched me, your putting away the ‘Saturday Review’! But dear, don’t care more for me than I do for myself. That very Review, lent to us, we lent to the Storys. Dear, the abuse of the press is the justification of the poems; so don’t be reserved about these attacks. I was a little, little vexed by a letter this morning from my brother George; but pazienza, we must bear these things. Robert called yesterday on Odo Russell, who observed to him that the article in the ‘Saturday Review’ was infamous, and that the general tone of the newspaper had grown to be so offensive, he should cease to take it in. (Not on my account, observe.) ‘But,’ said Mr. Russell, ‘it’s extraordinary, the sensation your wife’s book has mad
e. Every paper I see has something to say about it,’ added he; ‘it is curious. The offence has been less in the objections to England than in the praise of Napoleon. Certainly Monckton Milnes said a good thing when he was asked lately in Paris what, after all, you English wanted. “We want” he answered, “first, that the Austrians should beat you French thoroughly; next, we want that the Italians should be free, and then we want them to be very grateful to us for doing nothing towards it.” This, concluded Russell, ‘sums up the whole question.’ Mark, he is very English, but he can’t help seeing what lies before him, having quick perceptions, moreover. Then men have no courage. Milnes, for instance, keeps his sarcasm for Paris, and in England supports his rifle club and all Parliamentary decencies.

  Mind you read ‘Blackwood.’ Though I was rather vexed by George’s letter (he is awfully vexed) I couldn’t help laughing at my sister Henrietta, who accepts the interpretation of the ‘Athenæum’ (having read the poems) and exclaims, ‘But, oh, Ba, such dreadful curses!’...

  Mrs. Apthorp has arrived, but I have not seen her nor received the paper. Pins were right, though I should have liked some smaller. ‘Monitores’ arrived up at the 12. Beyond, nothing. I hear that Mr. Apthorp was struck with the ‘brilliant conversation between you and Miss Cobbe.’ You made an impression too, on Mrs. Apthorp.

  Oh, Isa, how I should like to be with you in our Florence to-day. Yes, yes, I think of you. Here the day is gloomy, and with a sprinkling now and then of rain. I trust you may have more sun. God bless the city and the hills, and the people who dwell therein!

  I have just sent a lyric to Thackeray for his magazine. He begged me for something long ago. Robert suggested that now he probably wanted nothing from such profane hands. So I told him that in that case he might send me back my manuscripts. In the more favorable case it may be still too late for this month. The poem is ‘meek as maid,’ though the last thing I wrote — no touch of ‘Deborah’— ‘A Musical Instrument.’ How good this ‘Cornhill Magazine’ is! Anthony Trollope is really superb. I only just got leave from Robert to send something: he is so averse to the periodicals as mediums....

  Lamoricière’s arrival produces a painful sensation among the people here; and the withdrawal of the French troops has become most unpopular. I am anxious. If the Emperor has consented to his coming, it was pure magnanimity, and very characteristic; but the cost of this should be paid by France and not Italy, we must feel besides. I am content about Savoy.

  Dearest Isa, you and your ‘Saturday Reviewer’ shall have Robert’s portrait. Are you sure he didn’t ask for mine? How good you are to us and Landor! God bless you, says

  Your tenderly loving

  Ba.

  To Mr. Chorley

  28 Via del Tritone, Rome: April 13, .

  My dear Mr. Chorley, — It is always better to be frank than otherwise; sometimes it is necessary to be frank — that is when one would fain keep a friend, yet has a thing against him which burns in one. I shall put my foot on this spark in a moment; but first I must throw it out of my heart you see, and here it is.

  Dearest Mr. Chorley, you have not been just to me in the matter of my ‘Poems before Congress.’ Why have you not been just to me? You are an honest man and my friend. Those two things might go together. Your opinions, critical or political, are free from stress of friendship. I never expected from you favor or mercy because you were my friend (it would have been unworthy of us both) but I did expect justice from you, although you were my friend. That is reasonable.

  And I consider that as a conscientious critic you were bound to read through the whole of the ‘rhyme’ called ‘A Curse for a Nation’ before ticketing it for the public, and I complain that after neglecting to do so and making a mistake in consequence, you refused the poor amends of printing my letter in full. A loose paragraph like this found to-day in your ‘Athenæum’ about Mrs. Browning ‘wishing to state’ that the ‘Curse’ was levelled at America quoad negro-slavery, and the satisfaction of her English readers in this correction of what was ‘generally thought’; as if Mrs. Browning ‘stated’ it arbitrarily (perhaps from fright) and as if the poem stated nothing distinctly, and as if the intention of it could be ‘generally thought’ what the ‘Athenæum’ critic took it to be, except by following his lead or adopting his process of a general skipping of half the said poem — this loose paragraph does not cover a great fault, it seems to me. Well, I have spoken.

  As to the extent of the ‘general thought,’ we cannot, of course judge here, where it is so difficult to get access to periodicals. We have seen, however, two virulent articles from enemies in ‘Blackwood’ and the ‘Saturday Review,’ the latter sparing none of its native mud through three columns; not to speak of a renewal of the charge in several political articles with a most flattering persistency. Both these writers (being enemies) keep clear of the ‘general thought’ suggested by a friend, and accepted indeed by friendly and generous reviewers in the ‘Atlas’ and ‘Daily News.’ Therefore I feel perfectly unaggrieved by all the enemies’ hard words. They speak from their own point of view, and have a right to speak.

  In fact, in printing the poems, I did not expect to help my reputation in England, but simply to deliver my soul, to get the relief to my conscience and heart, which comes from a pent-up word spoken or a tear shed. Whatever I may have ever written of the least worth has represented a conviction in me, something in me felt as a truth. I never wrote to please any of you, not even to please my own husband. Every genuine artist in the world (whatever his degree) goes to heaven for speaking the truth. It is one of the beatitudes of art, and attainable without putting off the flesh.

  To be plain, and not mystical, it is obvious that if I had expected compliments and caresses from the English press to my ‘Poems before Congress,’ the said poems would have been little deserved in England, and a greater mistake on my part than any committed by the ‘Athenæum,’ which is saying much.

  There! I have done. The spark is under my shoe. If in ‘losing my temper’ I have ‘lost my music,’ don’t let it be said that I have lost my friend by my own fault and choice also.

  For I would not willingly lose him, though he should be unjust to me thrice, instead of this once throughout our intercourse. Affectionately yours, dear Mr. Chorley,

  Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

  To Mr. Chorley

  28 Via del Tritone, Rome: May 2, .

  My dear Mr. Chorley, — I make haste to answer your letter, and beg you to do the like in putting out of your life the least touch of pain or bitterness connected with me. It is true, true, true, that some of my earliest gladness in literary sympathy and recognition came from you. I was grateful to you then as a stranger, and I am not likely ever to forget it as a friend. Believe this of me, as I feel it of you.

  In the matter of reviews and of my last book, and before leaving the subject for ever, I want you distinctly to understand that my complaint related simply to the mistake in facts, and not to any mistake in opinion. The quality of neither mercy nor justice should be strained in the honest reviewer by the personal motive; and, because you felt a regard for me, that was no kind of reason why you should like my book.

  In printing the poems, I well knew the storm of execration which would follow. Your zephyr from the ‘Athenæum’ was the first of it, gentle indeed in comparison with various gusts from other quarters. All fair it was from your standpoint, to see me as a prophet without a head, or even as a woman in a shrewish temper, and if my husband had not been especially pained by my being held up at the end of a fork as the unnatural she-monster who had ‘cursed’ her own country (following the Holy Father), I should have left the ‘mistake’ to right itself, without troubling the ‘Athenæum’ office with the letter they would not insert. In fact, Robert was a little vexed with me for not being vexed enough. I was only vexed enough when the ‘Athenæum’ corrected its misstatement in its own way. That did extremely vex me, for it made me look ungenerous, cowardly, mean — as if, in haste to
escape from the dogs in England, I threw them the good name of America. ‘Mrs. Browning now states.’

  Well, dear Mr. Chorley, it was not your doing. So the thing that ‘vexed me enough’ in you was a mistake of mine. Let us forgive one another our mistakes; and there, an end. I was wrong in taking for granted that the letter which referred to your review was entrusted to you to dispose of; and you were not right in being in too much haste to condemn a book you disliked to give the due measure of attention to every page of it. The insurgents being plainly insurgents, you shot one at least of them without trial, as was done in Spain the other day. True, that even favorable critics have fallen here and there into your very mistake; but is not that mainly attributable to the suggestive power of the ‘Athenæum,’ do you not believe so yourself? ‘Thais led the way!’

  And now that we clasp hands again, my dear friend, let me say one word as to the ‘argument’ of my last poems. Once, in a kind and generous review of ‘Aurora Leigh,’ you complained a little of ‘new lights.’ Now I appeal to you. Is it not rather you than I, who deal in ‘new lights,’ if the liberation of a people and the struggle of a nation for existence have ceased in your mind to be the right arguments for poetry? Observe, I may be wrong or right about Napoleon. He may be snake, scoundrel, devil, in his motives. But the thing he did was done before the eyes of all. His coming here was real, the stroke of his sword was indubitable, the rising and struggle of the people was beyond controversy, and the state of things at present is a fact. What if the father of poetry Homer (to go back to the oldest lights) made a mistake about the cause of Achilles’ wrath. What if Achilles really wanted to get rid of Briseis and the war together, and sulked in his tent in a great sham? Should we conclude against the artistic propriety of the poet’s argument therefore?

  You greatly surprise me by such objections. It is objected to ‘new lights,’ as far as I know, that we are apt to be too metaphysical, self-conscious, subjective, everything for which there are hard German words. The reproaches made against myself have been often of this nature, as you must be well aware. ‘Beyond human sympathies’ is a phrase in use among critics of a certain school. But that, in any school, any critic should consider the occasions of great tragic movements (such as a war for the life of a nation) unfit occasions for poetry, improper arguments, fills me with an astonishment which I can scarcely express adequately, and, pardon me, I can only understand your objection by a sad return on the English persistency in its mode of looking at the Italian war. You have looked at it always too much as a mere table for throwing dice — so much for France’s ambition, so much for Piedmont’s, so much stuff for intrigue in an English Parliament for ousting Whigs, or inning Conservatives. You have not realised to yourselves the dreadful struggle for national life, you who, thank God, have your life as a nation safe. A calm scholastic Italian friend of ours said to my husband at the peace, ‘It’s sad to think how the madhouses will fill after this.’ You do not conceive clearly the agony of a whole people with their house on fire, though Lord Brougham used that very figure to recommend your international neutrality. No, if you conceived of it, if you did not dispose of it lightly in your thoughts as of a Roccabella conspiracy, full half vanity, and only half serious — a Mazzini explosion, not a quarter justified, and taking place often on an affair of métier — you, a thoughtful and feeling man, would cry aloud that if poets represent the deepest things, the most tragic things in human life, they need not go further for an argument. And I say, my dear Mr. Chorley, that if, while such things are done and suffered, the poet’s business is to rhyme the stars and walk apart, I say that Mr. Carlyle is right, and that the world requires more earnest workers than such dreamers can be.