Tell me what you think of the photographs which Robert sends, with his best love. I think the head perfect, and the other very poetical and picturesque. I wish I had mine to send Kate, tell her with my dear love, but I have not one, nor can get one. Perhaps I may have to sit again before leaving Rome, and then she shall be remembered. And Robert will give her his.
Pray don’t apologise for your Borden. He is very much to be liked. Mrs. Bruen is charmed. He has been three times to talk with me, and Robert has called on him twice. Robert is quite vexed at your ‘pretension’ about having friends not good enough for his acquaintance. Yes, really he was vexed. ‘Isa never understood him — not she!’
Is there not reason, we may murmur? But the truth is he is always ready (be pleased to know) to honour your drafts in acquaintanceship, and chooses to be considered ready.
[The remainder of this letter is wanting]
To Miss E.F. Haworth
Florence: June 16, 1860 [postmark].
My dearest Fanny, — I must use my opportunity of sending you these photographs, because I think you will care to have them. Peni is himself, not a likeness, but an identity. I, like a devil, or the Emperor Napoleon, am not as black as I seem; but Pen looks lovely enough to satisfy my vanity.
Your Indian poet’s letter was despatched to you from Rome, and ‘so Apollo saved me.’ Oh — if you knew how I hate giving opinions! I think a poet’s opinion of another poet should be paid by some triple fee. I, at least, always feel that after being ingenuous on these occasions and advising persons who can barely spell against publishing their epic poems, one is supposed to be secretly influenced by the fear of a rival or worse. Give me a triple fee.
Poor dearest Fanny, of course you are in the chain; being in England. You are moved to set down the Emperor as ‘the Beast’ 666, of course. If he crushes ‘Garibaldi you must give him up.’ Yes; but what an If. If you stab Miss Heaton with a golden bodkin, right through the heart, under circumstances of peculiar cruelty, I shall have to give up you. If I bake Penini in a pie and eat him, you’ll have to give up me.
The Emperor Napoleon is faithful and will be faithful to the Italian cause, and to the cause of the nationalities, as long as and wherever it is prudent, for the general interest; possible without dangerous complications. He has risked enough for it, to be trusted a little I think — his life and dynasty certainly. At this moment I hear from Rome of a great dinner given by Lamoricière to his staff, or by his staff to him (I don’t know which), only that the health of Henri Cinq was suggested and drunk at it. Gorgon telegraphed the news to Paris. What then? English newspapers (even such papers as the ‘Daily News’) have stated that Lamoricière was doing Napoleonic business at Rome. Perhaps this is of it.
Chapman junior is in Florence (doing business upon Lever I believe), and he maintains that I have done myself no mortal harm by the Congress poems, which incline to a second edition after all. Had it been otherwise I yet never should have repented speaking the word out of me which burnt in me. Printing that book did me real good. For the rest ‘Aurora Leigh’ is in the press for a fifth edition. Read the ‘Word for Truth by a Seaman,’ written by a naval officer of high reputation.
We left Rome on the 4th of June, and travelled by vettura through Orvieto and Chiusi. Beautiful scenery, interesting pictures and tombs, but a fatiguing journey. At least, Pen’s pony and I were both of us unusually fatigued, and scarcely, at the end of a week, am I myself yet. I am not as strong since my illness last summer. We stay here till the early part of July and then remove to Siena, to the villa we had last year; and there Pen keeps tryst with his Abbé and the Latin. He has made great progress this winter in Latin and much besides, and he isn’t going to be a ‘wretched little Papist,’ as some of our friends precipitately conclude from the fact of his having a priest for a tutor. Indeed Pen has to be restrained into politeness and tolerance towards ecclesiastical dignities. Think of his addressing his instructor (who complained of the weather at Rome one morning) thus — in choice Tuscan: ‘Of course it’s the excommunication. The prophet says that a curse begins with the curser’s own house; and so it is with the Holy Father’s curse.’ Wasn’t that clever of Pen? and impertinent, but our Abbé only tried at gravity; he sympathises secretly with the insorgimento d’ Italia, and besides is very fond of Pen. Poor Pen, ‘innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,’ how his mama has been wickedly cursing her native country (after Chorley)! It’s hard upon me, Fanny, that you won’t tell me of the spirits, you who can see. Here is even Robert, whose heart softens to the point of letting me have the ‘Spiritual Magazine’ from England. Do knock at Mrs. Milner Gibson’s doors till you get to see the ‘hands’ and the ‘heads’ and the ‘bodies’ and the ‘celestial garlands’ which she has the privilege of being familiar with. Touch the hands. Has Mr. Monckton Milnes seen anything so as to believe? Is it true that Lord Lyndhurst was lifted up in a chair? Does he believe? I hear through Mr. Trollope and Chapman that Edwin Landseer has received the faith, and did everything possible to persuade Dickens to investigate, which Dickens refused. Afraid of the truth, of course, having deeply committed himself to negatives. This is a moral lâcheté, hard for my feminine mind to conceive of. Dickens, too, who is so fond of ghost-stories, as long as they are impossible....
I can scarcely imagine the summer’s passing without a struggle on the Continent of Italy. It can’t be, I think. At least we are prepared for it here.
We find Wilson well. Mr. Landor also. He had thrown a dinner out of the window only once, and a few things of the kind, but he lives in a chronic state of ingratitude to the whole world except Robert, who waits for his turn. I am glad to think that poor Mr. Landor is well; unsympathetical to me as he is in his morale. He has the most beautiful sea-foam of a beard you ever saw, all in a curl and white bubblement of beauty. He informed us the other morning that he had ‘quite given up thinking of a future state — he had had thoughts of it once, but that was very early in life.’ Mr. Kirkup (who is deafer than a post now) tries in vain to convert him to the spiritual doctrine. Landor laughs so loud in reply that Kirkup hears him.
Pray keep Mr. —— off till we have settled the independence and unity of Italy. It isn’t the hour for peace, and we don’t want a second Villafranca. By the way, I dare say nobody in England lays his face in the dust and acknowledges, in consequence of the official declaration of the Prussian Minister (to the effect that Prussia was to attack on the crossing of the Mincio, and that nothing but the unexpected conclusion of hostilities hindered the general war) — acknowledges that Napoleon stands fully justified in making that peace. I cannot expect so much justice in an Englishman. He would rather bury his past mistake in a present mistake than simply confess it.
Now no more. May God bless you! Do be happy, and do write to me. We talk of Paris and England for next year.
Your very affectionate
Ba.
Robert’s love and Pen’s.
To Miss Browning
[Florence: about June 1860.]
I didn’t write last time, dearest Sarianna, not only because of being over-busy or over-tired, but because I had not the heart that day. Peni had another touch of fever, and was forced to have a doctor and cataplasms to his feet. It was only a day’s anxiety, but I didn’t like writing just then. He had been in the sun or the wind or something. I was glad to get away from Rome. There were two cases of fever in our courtyard, and both the sun and the shade were suspectés. As far as Pen is concerned, the evil was averted, and I assure you he is looking in the full bloom of health, and we have been congratulated on all sides on his appearance and growth since we returned to Florence. Riding so much has agreed well with him; and the general results of the Roman campaign cannot be said to be otherwise than favourable. Set down as much for Robert. Everybody exclaims at his stoutness. In fact, never since I have known him has he condescended to put on such an air of robustness, there’s no other word for it. Shall we give the glory to Rome, or to nux, to which he is co
nstant. For two years and a half he has had recourse to no other remedy, and it has not yet failed to produce its effect. How do you unbelievers account for that? At the same time, I never would think of using it in any active or inflammatory malady, and where a sudden revolution or scosso is required from the remedial agent.
We find poor Mr. Landor tolerably amenable to Wilson, and well in health, though he can’t live more than three months, he says, and except when Robert keeps him soothed by quoting his own works to him, considers himself in a very wretched condition, which is a sort of satisfaction too. He is a man of great genius, and we owe him every attention on that ground. Otherwise I confess to you he is to me eminently unsympathetic....
If — — ‘turns Catholic,’ as you say, on the ground of the organisation of certain institutions, it will be a proof of very peculiar ignorance. This power of organisation is French, and not Catholic. You look for it in vain in Rome, for instance, except where the organisation comes from France. The sœurs de charité, who are of all Catholic nations, are organised entirely by the French. The institutions here are branch institutions. In Rome the tendency of everything is to confusion and ‘individuality’ with separate pockets. Lamoricière was in despair at it all, and even now people talk of his resigning, though he gave a dinner the other day to his staff, with the toast of ‘Henri Cinq.’
Individuality is an excellent thing in its place, and an infamous thing out of it. In England we have some very successful efforts at organisation — the post office, which is nearly perfect, and society, in which the demarcation between class and class is much too perfect to be humane. In other respects we are apt to fail.
We do not fail, however, in organisation only with regard to these charitable institutions. We are very hard and unsympathetic in them. A distinguished woman has been here lately — a Miss Cobbe (a fellow-worker with Miss Carpenter) — who, having overworked herself, was forced by her physician to come here for three months and rest, under dire penalties. She went to Isa Blagden’s, and returned to England and her work just now. She is very acute, and so perfectly without Continental prejudices, that she didn’t pretend to much interest even in our Italian movement, having her heart in England and with the poor. But she was much struck, not merely with the order of foreign institutions, but with their superior tenderness and sympathy. The account she gave of the English workhouses and hospitals was very sad, very cruel, corresponding, in fact, to what I have heard from other quarters.
Ah, Sarianna, ‘charming old men’ who call the Tuscans angels, except that they lie (what an exception!), can be mistaken like others. That passes for ‘liberality,’ does it? We are not angels, and we don’t lie — there’s no more lying in Italy than in England, I begin to affirm. Also, M. Tassinari was in prison, not a week but a month — and well did he deserve it. We deal now in French coinage, and are to see no more pauls after the middle of next month. Robert thinks it will destroy the last vestige of our cheapness, but I am very favorable to a unification of international coinage. It agrees with my theories, you know.
We are all talking and dreaming Garibaldi just now in great anxiety. Scarcely since the world was a world has there been such a feat of arms. All modern heroes grow pale before him. It was necessary, however, for us all even here, and at Turin just as in Paris, to be ready to disavow him. The whole good of Central Italy was hazarded by it. If it had not been success it would have been an evil beyond failure. The enterprise was forlorner than a forlorn hope. The hero, if he had perished, would scarcely have been sure of his epitaph even.
And ‘intervention’ does mean quite a different thing at Naples and in Lombardy. In Lombardy there was the foreign tyrant. At Naples Italians deal with Italians; and the Austrian influence is indirect. So also at Rome. It is this which makes the difficulty of dealing with Southern Italy and the difference of treatment which you observe in certain French papers.
I am sure, though you don’t like photographs, you say, that you will find nothing lacking in what we send you and dearest Nonno of our Penini. It isn’t like him, it’s himself. As for me, I murmur, in the depths of my vanity, that like the Emperor Napoleon (and the devil) I’m not so black as I’m painted; but I forgive everything for Pen’s sake. Robert is not very favourably represented, I think. The beard on the upper lip had not been properly clipped, and makes the space seem too long for him. Another time I will mend that. I was very unusually tired after my journey, but am getting past it. Weather was hot; but within two days we have had some cooling rain.
Give my best love to M. Milsand, beside the photographs, and thank him for not being offended in his ‘patriotism’ by my Congress poems. If he approved of the preface as he says, I can’t see how he can have written anything about ‘intervention’ which I would not accept. Nothing could have ended the intervention of Austria, except the intervention of France; and it was on that account that we feel the latter to be a great and chivalrous action. Italy is grateful. And if France were in difficulty she might count on this delivered nation, as on herself. In spite of all the bad words hurled at me in every English newspaper and periodical nearly (and I assure you I have been put in the pillory among them) the poems are going into a second edition, Chapman says, and ‘Aurora Leigh’ into a fifth. Also Chapman junior, who has come out here to see after Lever, smoothes me down a little about Robert, and says that the sale is bettering itself, and that a new edition of the ‘Poems’ will soon be wanted. I just now see a pleasant notice of myself in ‘Bentley’s Magazine.’ Abuse of the ‘Congress Poems,’ of course. Then a side stroke at ‘Aurora Leigh,’ which was original, of course, because it’s my way to stand alone and attack people; but the principal merit of which otherwise was the suggestion of ‘Lucille’ (Lytton’s new poem)— ‘Lucille,’ says the critic, being superior in holiness and virtue and that sort of thing to ‘Aurora’! Of course.
They subscribed in England five thousand pounds for Tom Sayers. There’s the advance of civilisation. Napoleon has gone to Baden to arrange the world a little more comfortably, I hope.
Mr. Lewes and Miss Evans have been here, and are coming back to settle into our congenial bosom. I admire her books so much, that certainly I shall not refuse to receive her, though she is not a medium. Sarianna!
Your ever affectionate sister.
The programme of the previous year was repeated in 1860. Returning from Rome to Florence at the beginning of June, the Brownings in July went to Siena to avoid the extreme heat of the summer at Florence, staying as before at the Villa Alberti. Their visit to Siena was, however, rather shorter than the previous one, lasting only till September.
There is no doubt that Mrs. Browning, during all this time, was losing ground in point of health; and she now received another severe blow in the news of the serious illness of her sister Henrietta (Mrs. Surtees Cook). The anxiety lasted for several months, and ended with the death of Mrs. Cook in the following winter.
To Mrs. Martin
Villa Alberti, Siena: August 21, .
I thank you, my dearest friend, from my heart for your letter, and the ray of sunshine it brought with it. Do you know I was childish enough to kiss it as if it knew what it did. I wish I could kiss you. Yes, I have been very unhappy, not giving way on the whole, going about my work as usual, but with a sense of a black veil between me and whatever I did, sometimes feeling incapable of crawling down to sit on the cushion under my own fig-tree for an hour’s vision of this beautiful country — sometimes in ‘des transes mortelles’ of fear.
But we must not be atheists, as a friend said to me the other day. I hope I do not live quite as if I were. But it was a great shock from the beginning. Henrietta always seemed so strong that I never feared that way.
My first impulse was to rush to England, but this has been over-ruled by everybody, and I believe wisely. With my usual luck I should just have increased the sum of evil instead of bringing a single advantage to anyone. The best thing I can do for the others, is to keep quiet and try not to gi
ve cause for trouble on my account, to be patient and live on God’s daily bread from day to day. I had a crumb or two the day before yesterday through Storm, who thought there might be a little less pain — and here you have sent me almost a slice — may God be thanked! How good you were to mention the doctor! It is grievous to me to think of her suffering. Darling!
I knew how strong your sympathy and personal feeling would be, and, even on that account, I had not the heart and courage to write to you. But no, dearest friends, I did not receive the letter you speak of, though I heard of your grief a good while afterwards. And so sorry I was — we both were — so sorry for Fanny, so sorry for you! May God bless you all! How the spiritual world gets thronged to us with familiar faces, till at last, perhaps, the world here will seem the vague and strange world, even while we remain.
Still, it is beautiful out of this window; and of public affairs in Italy, I am stirred to think with the most vivid interest through all. The rapture is not as in the northern war last year, because (you don’t understand that in England) last year we fought the Austrian and now it is Italian against Italian, which tempers every triumph with a certain melancholy. Also the Italian question in the south was decided in the north, and remained only a question of time, abbreviated (many think rashly) by our hero Garibaldi. For the crisis, so quickened, involves very serious dangers and most solemn thoughts. The southern difficulty may be considered solved — so we think — but just now that very solution opens out, as we all fear a new Austrian invasion in the north, backed indirectly at least by Prussia and Germany, who will use the opportunity in carrying out the coalition against France. There seems no doubt of the mischief hatched at Toeplitz. I wish I had known that England’s influence was not used in drawing together those two powers. Prussia deserves to be — what shall I say? — docked of her Rhenish provinces? It would be a too slight punishment. She caused the Villafranca halt (according to her official confession by the mouth of Baron Schleinitz, last spring), and now this second time, would she interrupt the liberation of Italy? The aspect of affairs looks very grave. As to England, England wishes well to this country at this present time, but she will make no sacrifices (not even of her hatreds, least of all, perhaps, of her blind hatreds), for the sake of ten Italys. Tell dear Mr. Martin that after the speech for the Defences, I gave up Lord Palmerston for ever. He plays double. He is too shrewd to believe in the probability of invasions, &c., &c., but he wants a shield to guard his sword-arm. The statesmanship of England pines for new blood, for ideas of the epoch, and the Russell old-fogyism will not do any more at all. These old bottles won’t hold the new wine. People are positively calling on the Muse and William Pitt. It’s religion to hate France, and to set up a ‘Boney’ as a ‘raw head and bloody bones’ sort of scarecrow. But it won’t do. As the Revolutionists say, ‘È troppo tardi.’
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 225