For my part, I have always conceived otherwise of poetry. I believe that if anything written by me has been recognised even by you, the cause is that I have written not to please you or any critic, but the deepest truth out of my own heart and head. I don’t dream and make a poem of it. Art is not either all beauty or all use, it is essential truth which makes its way through beauty into use. Not that I say this for myself. Artistically, I may have failed in these poems — that is for the critic to consider; but in the choice of their argument I have not failed artistically, I think, or my whole artistic life and understanding of life have failed.
There, I cannot persuade you of this, but I believe it. I have tried to stand on the facts of things before I began to feel ‘dithyrambically.’ Thought out coldly, then felt upon warmly. I will not admit of ‘being heated out of fairness!’ I deny it, and stand upon my innocency.
And after all, ‘Casa Guidi Windows’ was a book that commended itself to you, Mr. Chorley.
[The rest of this letter is missing]
To John Forster
28 Via del Tritone, Rome: Monday [May 1860].
I have tried and taken pains to see the truth, and have spoken it as I have seemed to see it. If the issue of events shall prove me wrong about the E. Napoleon, the worse for him, I am bold to say, rather than for me, who have honored him only because I believed his intentions worthy of the honor of honest souls.
If he lives long enough, he will explain himself to all. So far, I cannot help persisting in certain of my views, because they have been held long enough to be justified by the past on many points. The intervention in Italy, while it overwhelmed with joy, did not dazzle me into doubts of the motive of it, but satisfied a patient expectation and fulfilled a logical inference. Thus it did not present itself to my mind as a caprice of power, to be followed perhaps by an onslaught on Belgium, and an invasion of England. These things were out of the beat; and are. There may follow Hungarian, Polish, or other questions — but there won’t follow an English question unless the English make it, which, I grieve to think, looks every day less impossible.
Dear Mr. F., have you read ‘La Foi des Traités,’ written, some of it, by L.N.’s own hand? Do you consider About’s ‘Carte de l’Europe’ (as the ‘Times’ does) ‘a dull jeu d’esprit’? The wit isn’t dull, and the serious intention, hid in those mummy wrappings, is not inauthentic. Official — certainly not; but Napoleonic — yes. I believe so. And I seem to myself to have strong reasons.
But you are sorry that Cavour loves popularity in England. I cried rather bitterly, ‘Better so!’ A complete injustice comes to nearly the same thing as a complete justice. Have we not watched for a year while every saddle of iniquity has been tried on the Napoleonic back, and nothing fitted? Wasn’t he to crush Piedmontese institutions like so many egg-shells? Was he ever going away with his army, and hadn’t he occupied houses in Genoa with an intention of bombarding the city? Didn’t he keep troops in the north after Villafranca on purpose to come down on us with a Grand Duke at best, or otherwise with a swamping Kingdom of Etruria and Plon-Plon to rule it? and wouldn’t he give back Bologna to the Pope bound by seven devils fiercer than the first, and prove Austria bettered by Solferino? Also, were not Cipriani, Farini, and other patriots, his ‘mere creatures’ in treacherous correspondence with the Tuileries; ‘doing his dirty work,’ ‘keeping things in suspense’ till destruction should arrange itself on falsehood? Have I not read and heard from the most intelligent English journals, and the best-informed English politicians (men with one foot and two ears in the Cabinet) these true things written and repeated, and watched while they died out into the Vast Inane and Immense Absurd from which they were born?
So I would rather have a rounded, complete injustice, as we can’t have the complete justice. After all, the thing done is only a nation saved. Hurry up the men who did it on the same cord! Ought not Cavour to be there?
And if the Savoy cession is a crime, he is criminal, he, who undeniably from the beginning contemplated it, not as the price of the war, but as the condition of a newly constituted Italy. And the condition implies more than is understood, more than the consenting parties dare to confess — can at present afford to confess — unless I am deceived by information, which has hitherto justified itself in the event. Be patient with me one moment — for if I differ from you, I seem to have access to another class of facts than you see. If Italy, for instance, expands itself to a nation of twenty-six millions, would you blame the Emperor who ‘did it all’ (Cavour’s own phrase) for providing an answer to his own people in some small foresight about the frontier, when in the course of fifty or a hundred years they may reproach his memory with the existence of an oppressive rival or enemy next door? Mr. Russell said to me last January ‘Everything that comes out proves the Emperor to have acted towards Italy like an Italian rather than a Frenchman.’ At which we applaud; that is, you, and Mr. R., and I, and the Italians generally applaud. But — let us be just — that would not be a satisfactory opinion in France of the Head of the State, would it, do you think? It was obviously his duty not to be negligent of certain eventualities in the case of his own country, to be a ‘Frenchman’ there.
Oh, Savoy has given me pain: and I would rather for the world’s sake that a great action had remained out of reach of the hypothetical whispers of depreciators. I would rather not hear Robert say, for instance: ‘It was a great action; but he has taken eighteenpence for it, which is a pity.’ I don’t think this judgment fair — and much worse judgments are passed than that, which is very painful. But, after all, this thing may have been a necessary duty on L.N.’s part, and I can understand that it was so. For this loss of the Italians, that is not to be dwelt on; while for the Savoyards, none knew better than Cavour (not even L.N.) the leaning of those populations towards France for years back; it has been an inconvenient element of his government. Whether there are or are not natural frontiers, there are natural barriers, and the Alps hinder trade and make direct influence difficult; and what the popular vote would be nobody here doubted. Be sure that nobody did in Switzerland. The Swiss have been insincere, it seems to me — talking of terror when they thought chiefly of territory. But I feel tenderly for poor heroic Garibaldi, who has suffered, he and his minority. He is not a man of much brain; which makes the subject the more cruel to him. But I can’t write of Garibaldi this morning, so anxious we are after an unpleasant despatch yesterday. He is a hero, and has led a forlorn hope out to Sicily, to succeed for Italy, or to fail for himself. It’s ‘imprudence,’ if he fails: if otherwise, who shall praise him enough? it’s salvation and glory.
To Miss E.F. Haworth
[Rome], 28 Via del Tritone: May 18, 1860 [postmark].
My dearest Fanny, — It seems to me that you have drunk so much England, which cheers and inebriates, as to have forgotten your Italian friends. Here have I been waiting with my load of gratitude, till my shoulders ache under it, not knowing to what address to carry it! Sarianna sent me one address of your London lodgings, with the satisfactory addition that you were about to move immediately. You really might have written to me before, unkindest and falsest of Fannies! Or else (understand) you should not have sent me those graceful and suggestive drawings, for which only now I am able to thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. It was very kind of you to let me have them.
Then, pray how did you get my ‘Poems before Congress’? Was I not to send you an order? Here I send one at least, whether you scorn my gift or not; and by this sign you will inherit also an ‘Aurora Leigh.’
Yes, I expected nothing better from the ‘British public,’ which, strictly conforming itself to the higher civilisation of the age, gives sympathy only where it gives ‘the belt.’ As the favorite hero says in his last eloquent letter, ‘In all my actions, whether in private or public life, may I be worthy of having had the honor ... of a notice in the “Times,”’ he concludes ‘of the abuse of the “Saturday Review”’ &c., &c., say I.
For the
rest, being turned out of the old world, I fall on my feet in the new world, where people have been generous, and even publishers turned liberal. Think of my having an offer (on the ground of that book) from a periodical in New York of a hundred dollars for every single poem, though as short as a sonnet — that is, for its merely passing through their pages on the road to the publisher’s proper. Oh, I shall cry aloud and boast, since people choose to abuse me. Did you see how I was treated in ‘Blackwood’? In fact, you and all women, though you hated me, should be vexed on your own accounts. As for me, it’s only what I expected, and I have had that deep satisfaction of ‘speaking though I died for it,’ which we are all apt to aspire to now and then. Do you know I was half inclined to send my little book to Mr. Cobden, and then I drew back into my shell, with native snail-shyness.
We remain here till the end of May, when we remove back to Florence. Meanwhile I am in great anxiety about Sicily. Garibaldi’s hardy enterprise may be followed by difficult complications.
Let us talk away from politics, which set my heart beating uncomfortably, and don’t particularly amuse you....
Have you read the ‘Mill on the Floss,’ and what of it? The author is here, they say, with her elective affinity, and is seen on the Corso walking, or in the Vatican musing. Always together. They are said to visit nobody, and to be beheld only at unawares. Theodore Parker removed to Florence in an extremity of ill-health, and is dead there. I feel very sorry. There was something high and noble about the man — though he was not deep in proportion. Hatty Hosmer has arrived in America, and found her father alive and better, but threatened with another attack which must be final. Gibson came to us yesterday, and we agreed that we never found him so interesting. I grieve to hear that Mr. Page’s pictures (another Venus and a Moses) have been rejected at your Academy.
Robert deserves no reproaches, for he has been writing a good deal this winter — working at a long poem which I have not seen a line of, and producing short lyrics which I have seen, and may declare worthy of him. For me, if I have attained anything of force and freedom by living near the oak, the better for me. But I hope you don’t think that I mimic [him, or] lose my individuality. [Penini] sends his love with Robert’s. [He ri]des his pony and learns his Latin and looks as pretty as ever — to my way of [thinking]. If you don’t write directly, address to Florence.
We have another thick Indian letter for you, but Robert is afraid of sending it till you give us a safe address.
To Miss I. Blagden
[Rome: about May 1860.]
[The beginning of this letter is wanting]
When the English were raging about Savoy, I heard a word or two from Pantaleone which convinced me that the Imperial wickedness did not strike him as the sin against the Holy Ghost precisely. In fact, I doubt much that he (an intimate friend of Massimo d’ Azeglio) knew all about it before the war.
By the by, why does Azeglio write against Rome being the capital just now? It seems to us all very ill-advised. Italy may hereafter select the capital she pleases, but now her game ought to be to get Rome, as an indispensable part of the play, as soon as possible. There are great difficulties in the way — that’s very sure. It’s quite time, indeed, that Mrs. Trollope’s heart should warm a little towards the Emperor, for no ruler has risked so much for a nation to which he did not belong (unless he wished to conquer it) as Napoleon has for this nation. He has been tortuous in certain respects — in the official presentation of the points he was resolute on carrying — but from first to last there has been one steady intention — the liberation of Italy without the confusion of a general war. Moreover, his eyes are upon Venice, and have been since Villafranca. What I see in the very suggestion to England about stopping Garibaldi from attacking the mainland was a preparation to the English mind towards receiving the consequence of unity, namely, the seizure of Venice. ‘You must be prepared for that. You see where you are going? You won’t cry out when France joins her ally again!’ Lord John didn’t see the necessity. No, of course he didn’t. He never does see except what he runs against. He protested to the last (by the Blue Book) against G.’s attack; he was of opinion, to the last, that Italy would be better in two kingdoms. But he wouldn’t intervene. In which he was perfectly right, of course, only that people should see where their road goes even when they walk straight. And mark, if France had herself prevented Garibaldi’s landing, Lord John would simply have ‘protested.’ He said so. France might have done it without the least inconvenience, therefore, and she did not. She confined herself to observing that if V.E. might have Naples, he must have Venice, and that there could be no good in objecting to logical necessities of accepted situations. In spite of which, every sort of weight was hung on the arms of France that no aid should be given for Venetia. Certain things written to Austria, and uttered through Lord Cowley, I can’t forgive Lord John for; my heart does not warm, except with rage. To think of writing only the other day to an Austrian Court: ‘All we can do for you is to use our strongest influence with France that she should not help Italy against you in Venetia. And in our opinion you will always be strong enough to baffle Italy. Italy can’t fight you alone.’ The words I am not sure of, but the idea is a transcript. And the threats uttered through Lord Cowley were worse — morally hideous, I think.
Napoleon’s position in France is hard enough of itself. Forty thousand priests, with bishops of the colour of Mon. d’Orléans and company, having, of course, a certain hold on the agricultural population which forms so large a part of the basis of the imperial throne. Then add to that the parties the ‘Liberals’ (so called) and others, who use this question as a weapon simply. In the Senate and Legislative Body they haven’t forgotten how to talk, have they — these French? The passion and confusion seem to have been extreme. After all, we shall get a working majority, I do hope and trust, for all the intelligent supporters of the Government are with us, and the Chamber will be dissolved at need. There is talk of it already in Rome....
At last we see your advertisement. Viva ‘Agnes Tremorne’! We find it in ‘Orley Farm.’ How admirably this last opens! We are both delighted with it. What a pity it is that so powerful and idiomatic a writer should be so incorrect grammatically and scholastically speaking! Robert insists on my putting down such phrases as these: ‘The Cleeve was distant from Orley two miles, though it could not be driven under five.’ ‘One rises up the hill.’ ‘As good as him.’ ‘Possessing more acquirements than he would have learned at Harrow.’ Learning acquirements! Yes, they are faults, and should be put away by a first-rate writer like Anthony Trollope. It’s always worth while to be correct. But do understand through the pedantry of these remarks that we are full of admiration for the book. The movement is so excellent and straightforward — walking like a man, and ‘rising up-hill,’ and not going round and round, as Thackeray has taken to do lately. He’s clever always, but he goes round and round till I’m dizzy, for one, and don’t know where I am. I think somebody has tied him up to a post, leaving a tether. Dearest Isa, the day before yesterday I had two letters from Madame M —— to ask us to take rooms. He is coming directly to Rome. She says he has much to tell me, and it’s evident, of course, that an Italian senator, native to the Roman States, wouldn’t come here just now without mission or permission. I am full of expectation, but will say no more.
Dearest Isa, have I been long in writing indeed? You see, I let so many letters accumulate which I hadn’t the heart to reply to, that, on taking up the account, I had over much to do in writing letters. Then I have been working a little at some Italian lyrics. Three more are gone lately to the ‘Independent,’ and another is ready to go. All this, with helping Pen to prepare for the Abbé, has filled my hands, and they are soon tired, my Isa, nowadays. When the sun goes down, I am down. At eight I generally am in bed, or little after. And people will come in occasionally in the day, and annul me. I had a visit from Lady Annabella Noel lately, Lord Byron’s granddaughter. Very quiet, and very intense, I should say. Sh
e is going away, and I shall not see her more than that once, I dare say; but she looked at me so with her still deep eyes, and spoke so feelingly, that I kissed her when she went away. Another new acquaintance is Lady Marion Alford, the Marquis of Northampton’s daughter, very eager about literature and art and Robert, for all which reasons I should care for her; also Hatty calls her divine. I thought there was the least touch of affectation of fussiness, but it may not be so. She knelt down before Hatty the other day and gave her — placed on her finger — the most splendid ring you can imagine, a ruby in the form of a heart, surrounded and crowned with diamonds. Hatty is frankly delighted, and says so with all sorts of fantastical exaggerations.
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 224