Now I have done with this subject. Upon the whole, it seems to me better really that you should not mix yourself up with it any more. Also I wish you joy of the dismissal of M. Pierart. There was no harm that he took away your headache, if he did not presume on that. You tell me not to bid you to beware of counting on us in Paris. And yet, dearest Fanny, I must. The future in this shifting world, what is it? As for me, whom you recognise as ‘so much myself,’ dear, I have a stout pen, and till its last blot, it will write, perhaps, with its ‘usual insolence’ (as a friend once said), but if you laid your hand on this heart, you would feel how it stops, and staggers, and fails. I have not been out yet, and am languid in spirits, I gather myself up by fits and starts, and then fall back. Do you know, I think with positive terror sometimes, less of the journey than of having to speak and look at people. If it were possible to persuade Robert, I should send him with Pen; but he wouldn’t go alone, and he must go this year. Oh, I daresay I shall feel more up to the friction of things when once I have been out; it’s stupid to give way. Also my sister Arabel talks of meeting me in France, though I might have managed that difficulty, but that Robert should see his father is absolutely necessary. Meanwhile we don’t talk of it, and by May or June I shall be feeling another woman probably....
So you are going to work hard in Germany: that is well. Only beware of the English periodicals. There’s a rage for new periodicals, and because the ‘Cornhill’ answers, other speculations crowd the market, overcrowd it: there will be failures presently.
I have written a long letter when I meant to write a short one. May God keep you, and love you, and make you happy! Your ever affectionate
Ba.
I am anxious about America, fearing a compromise in the North. All other dangers are comparatively null.
To Miss E.F. Haworth
126 Via Felice, Rome:
Saturday, [about January 1861].
Ah, dearest Fanny, I can’t rest without telling you that I am sorry at your receiving such an impression from my letter. May God save me from such a sin as arrogance! I have not generally a temptation to it, through knowing too well what I am myself. At the same time, I do not dispute my belief in what you have so often confessed, that you don’t hold your attainments and opinions sufficiently ‘irrespectively of persons.’ Believing which of you, I said, ‘under what new influence?’ and if I said anything with too much vivacity, forgive me with that sweetness of nature which is at least as characteristic of you as the intellectual impressionability. Really I would not wound you for the world — but I myself perhaps may have been over-excitable, irritable just then, who knows? and, in fact, I was considerably vexed at the moment that, from anything said by me, you would infer what was so injurious and unjust to a woman like Mrs. Stowe. I named her in this relation because she struck me as a remarkable example of the compatibility of freedom of thought with reverence of sentiment. You generally get one or the other; the one excluding the other. I never considered her a deep thinker, but singularly large and unshackled, considering the associations of her life, she certainly is. When I hinted at her stepping beyond Swedenborg in certain of her ideas, I referred to her belief that the process called ‘regeneration,’ may commence in certain cases beyond the grave, and in her leaning to universal salvation views, which you don’t get at through Swedenborg.
For the rest, I don’t think, if you will allow of my saying so, that you apprehend Swedenborg’s meaning very accurately always. If Swedenborg saw sin and danger in certain communications, for instance, why did he consider it privilege on his own part to live in the world of spirits as he did. True, he spoke of ‘danger,’ but it was to those who, themselves weak and unclean, did not hold ‘by the Lord.’ He distinctly said that in the first unfallen churches there was incessant communion, and that the ‘new church, as it grew, would approximate more and more to that earlier condition. There is a distinct prospect given in Swedenborg of an increasing aptitude in the bodies and souls of men towards communication with the Disembodied. I consider that he foresaw not only what we are seeing (if these manifestations be veritable) but greater and more frequent phenomena of the same class, — which does not in any way exclude considerable danger to some persons in the meanwhile. And do you think I doubt that? No indeed. Unsettled minds, especially when under affliction, will lose their balance at moments, — there is danger. It is not the occasion for passion and fanaticism of sentiment, but for calm and reasonable inquiry into facts. Let us establish the facts first, and then ‘try the spirits’ as the apostle directs; afterwards remains the difficulty of assuring oneself of the personalities. I don’t think you should complain of the subject being unsatisfactory to you, because you don’t get ‘a sublime communication,’ or a characteristic evidence of some spirit known to you. Much less would satisfy me. But it seemed to me that the consideration of the subject disturbed you, made you uncomfortable, and that you didn’t approach any conclusion, and with that impression and not because of ‘contempt,’ be sure, I advised you to let it rest. Why should we beat our heads against an obstacle which we can’t walk through? Then your liability to influence is against you here as much as your attraction towards such high speculations is in your favour. You have an ‘open mind,’ yes, but you leave all the doors open, and you let people come in every now and then, and lock them, and keep them locked as long as said people stand by. The teachings of Spiritualism are much like the teachings in the world. There are excellent things taught, and iniquitous things taught. Only the sublime communications are, as far as I know, decidedly absent. Swedenborg directs you to give no more weight to what is said by a spirit-man than by a man in the body, and there’s room for the instruction. ‘Heralds of Progress’ on one side, ‘Heralds of Light’ on the other, if a right thing is said, ‘judge ye.’ If infidels are here, there are devout, yes, and very orthodox Christians there.
I beg to say that when I speak of ‘old cerements’ being put off, I pre-suppose a living body in resurrection. Also, I don’t call marriage, for instance, an old cerement. We must distinguish. With regard to the common notion of a ‘hell,’ as you ask me, I don’t believe in it. I don’t believe in any such thing as arbitrary reward or punishment, but in consequences and logical results. That seems to me God’s way of working. The Scriptural phrases are simply symbolical, it seems to me, and Swedenborg helps you past the symbol. Then as to the Redemption and its mode — let us receive the thing simply. Dr. Adam Clarke, whose piety was never doubted, used to say, ‘Vicarious suffering is vicarious nonsense.’ Which does not hinder the fact that the suffering of the Lord was necessary, in order that we should not suffer, and that through His work and incarnation His worlds recovered the possibility of good. It comes to the same thing. The manner in which preachers analyse the Infinite, pass the Divine through a sieve, has ceased to be endurable to thinking men. You speak of Luther. We all speak of Luther. Did you ever read any of his theological treatises. He was a schoolman of the most scholastic sect; most offensive, most absurd, presenting my idea of ‘old cerements’ to the uttermost. We are entering on a Reformation far more interior than Luther’s; and the misfortune is, that if we don’t enter we must drop under the lintel. Do you hear of the storms in England about ‘Essays and Reviews’? I have seen the book simply by reviews in abstract and extract. I should agree with the writers in certain things, but certainly not in all. I have no sort of sympathy with what is called ‘rationalism,’ which is positivism in a form. The vulgar idea of miracles being put into solution, leaves you with the higher law and spiritual causation; which the rationalists deny, and which you and I hold faithfully. But whatever one holds, free discussion has become necessary. That it is full of danger; that, in consequence of it, many minds will fall into infidelity, doubt, and despair, is certain; but through this moral crisis men must pass, or the end will be worse still. That’s my belief, I have seen it coming for years back.
‘The hungry flock looks up and is not fed,’ except with chopped hay of
the schools. Go into any church in England, or out of England, and you hear men preaching ‘in pattens,’ walking gingerly, lest a speck of natural moisture touch a stocking; seeking what’s ‘sound,’ not what’s ‘true.’ Now if only on theology they must not think, there will be soon a close for theologians. Educated men disbelieve to a degree quite unsuspected. That, I know of knowledge.
No! Swedenborg does not hold the existence of devils in the ordinary meaning. Spiritual temptation comes, he says, through disembodied corrupt spirits, out of this or other earths. The word Satan, remember, he conceives to represent a company of such evil spirits.
Now in what spirit have I written all this? Gently, this time, I do hope. If you knew in what an agonised state of humiliation I am sometimes, you would not suspect me of ‘despising’ you? Oh no, indeed. But I am much in earnest, and can’t ‘prophesy smooth things,’ at moments of strong conviction. Who can?
Indeed, indeed, yes. I am very anxious about what passes in Paris. Do you know that Keller’s infamous discourse was corrected by Guizot’s own hand? Mr. Pentland (who was with the Prince of Wales) knows G. and this. He (P.) has just come from Paris. He knows the ‘sommités’ there, and considers that, though there is danger, yet on the whole the Emperor dominates the situation. Prince N.’s speech, in its general outline, was submitted to the E. and had his full sympathy, Persigny said to P. or in his presence. Let no one ever speak ill of Prince N. before me; I read all the seventeen columns in the ‘Moniteur,’ and most magnificent was the discourse. Rome is greatly excited, but hopeful. There may be delay, however.
Surely you don’t think the large head of Robert bad. Why, it is exquisite.... I can’t read over, and send this scratch that you may pardon me before you go (not to lose the post).
Sarianna says that Squires carries about his own table. In which case, I give him up. Don’t you write.
To Miss I. Blagden
126 Via Felice, [Rome: early in 1861].
Dearest dear Isa, — We don’t get the paper. Will you ask why? Here’s a special address enclosed.
I have just heard from what seems excellent authority (F.P. Zanetti has been here) that a French company is to be withdrawn from Rome to-day, and that all the troops will be immediately withdrawn from the R.S., except Rome and Cività Vecchia. The French generals, however, were not aware of this yesterday morning, though prepared for much, and thus I can’t help a certain scepticism. There is an impression in French quarters, that the delay arises from a fear of a ‘coup’ on the part of Austria, if she didn’t see France hereabouts. But Gorgon means to try to get away before the crisis, which isn’t in his tastes at all. De Noue has gone — went yesterday.
I heard yesterday of Sir John Bowring telling somebody that the time had resolved itself now into an affair of days. Still, there are people I suppose who hold fast their opinions of the antique form, like Mr. Massy Dawson, for instance, who called on me yesterday with moustaches and a bride, but otherwise unchanged. He still maintains that Napoleon will perish in defence of the Papacy, and that (from first to last) he has been thwarted in Italy. ‘I know that Sir John Bowring, Diomed Pantaleone, Mrs. Browning’ (bowing graciously to me in that complimentary frame of body which befits disputants with female creatures), ‘and other persons better informed than I am, think differently. And, in fact, if I looked only at facts and at the worldly circumstances of the case, I should agree with you all. But reading the “Apocalypse” as I do, I find myself before a fixed conclusion!’ Imagine this, dearest Isa mine, his bride sitting in a delicate dove-coloured silk on the sofa, as tame as any dove, and not venturing to coo even. I suppose she thought it quite satisfactory. What a woman with a brain could be made to suffer under certain casualties! He quoted simply St. John and Mr. Kinglake! Mr. Kinglake plainly running a little with St. John. ‘Wasn’t he (Kinglake) a member of Parliament, and a lawyer?’ And if his allegation wasn’t true, and if Napoleon did not propose to Francis Joseph to swap Lombardy for the Rhine provinces, why was there no contradiction on the part of the French Emperor?
Now do mark the necessity of Napoleon’s saying, ‘I didn’t really pick Mr. Jones’s pocket of his best foulard last Monday — no, though it hung out a tempting end. Pray don’t let the volunteers think so ill of me.’
That would have been ‘like’ our Emperor — wouldn’t it?
By the way, I had yesterday a crowd of people, and all at once, so that I was in a flutter of weakness, and didn’t get over it quickly. Mrs. Bruen brought Miss Sewell (Amy Herbert) and Lady Juliana Knox, whom Annunziata takes in as a homœopathic dose, ‘È molto curioso questo cognome, precisamente come la medicina — nux (tale quale).’ She (Lady Juliana) had just been presented to the Pope, just before his illness, and was much touched, when at the close of the reception of indiscriminately Catholics and Protestants, he prayed a simple prayer in French and gave them all his benediction, ending in a sad humble voice, ‘Priez pour le pape.’
It was touching — was it not? Poor old man! When you feel the human flesh through the ecclesiastical robe, you get into sympathy with him at once.
Miss Sewell will come and see me again, she promised, and then I shall talk with her more. I couldn’t get at her through the people yesterday. She is very nice, gentle-looking, cheerful, respectable sort of — single-womanish person (decidedly single) of the olden type; very small, slim, quiet, with the nearest approach to a poky bonnet possible in this sinful generation. I, in my confusion, did not glance at her petticoats, but, judging a priori, I should predicate a natural incompatibility with crinoline. But really I liked her, liked her. There were gentleness, humility, and conscience — three great gifts. Of course we can touch only on remote points; but I hope (for my own sake) we may touch on these, and another day I mean to try. She said one thing which I liked. Speaking of convents, she ‘considered that women must deteriorate by any separation from men.’ Now that’s not only true, but it is not on the surface of things as seen from her standpoint.
I had a visit a day ago from M. Carl Grün, a Prussian, with a letter of introduction from Dall’ Ongaro. I feel a real regard and liking for Dall’ Ongaro, and would welcome any friend of his. No — my Isa. I would prefer him as my translator to any ‘young lady of twenty.’ Heavens, never whisper it to the Marchesa, but I confide to you that my blood ran cold at that thought. I know what poets of twenty must in all probability be — Dall’ Ongaro is a poet, and has a remarkable command of language.
I have tried my hand at turning into literal Italian prose (only marking the lines) a lyric on Rome sent lately to America; and I may show it to you one of these days.
Now I must send off this. In tender love.
Your Ba.
To Miss I. Blagden
[Rome,] 126 Via Felice: March 20, .
... Let me answer your questions concerning Non Pio V.E. Se non vero, ben trovato. Very happy, and I hope true. Probably enough it may be true, though I never heard it but from you. There was a banner with ‘Viva Pio IX.’ on one side, and ‘Viva V.E. re d’Italia’ on the other — that’s true. And various devices we have had, miraculous rains of revolutionary placards among the rest. The French have taken to ‘protect’ our demonstrations here, half by way of keeping them under, perhaps — although the sympathy between the people and the troops (Gorgon apart) has been always undeniable. You know there was to be a gigantic demonstration to meet the declaration in the North. It was fixed to spread itself over three days. The French politely begged the ‘papalini’ to keep out of sight, and then they marched with the Roman demonstration for two days — twenty thousand Romans gathered together, I hear from those who were there, the greatest order observed — tricolors insinuated into the costume of all the women. After a certain time, French officer turns round and addresses the populace ‘Gioventù Romana, basta cosí. Adesso bisogna andare a casa, poichè mi farebbe grandissimo dispiacere d’ aprire ad alcuno la strada delle carceri.’ The last words said smiling — as words to the wise. ‘Grazie, grazie, gr
azie’ were replied on all sides, and the people dispersed in the best humour possible. Yesterday (San Giuseppe) we were to have had it repeated, but it rained hard, which was fortunate, perhaps; and I hear something of cannons being placed in evidence, and of Gorgon saying ‘de haute voix’ that he couldn’t allow it to go on. But everybody understands Gorgon. He has certainly, up to a point, Papal sympathies, and is as tender as he dares be to the Holy Father, and the irritation and wrath of the priestly party is naturally great. On the other hand, the whole body of French troops and their officers are as much vexed by Gorgon as Gorgon can vex me, and there’s fraternisation with the Romans to an extraordinary degree.
Penini came home three days ago in a state of ecstasy. ‘No — he never had been so happy in all his life. Oh mama, I am so happy!’ What had happened, I asked. Why, Pen, being on the Pincio, had fallen on the French troops, had pushed through, and heard ‘l’ordre du jour’ read, had made friends with ‘ever so many captains,’ had marched in the ranks round the Pincio and into the caserne, had talked a great deal about Chopin, Stephen Heller, &c., with musical officers, and most about politics, and had been good-naturedly brought back to our door because he was ‘too little to come alone through the crowd.’ What had they not told him? Such things about Italy. ‘They hoped,’ said Pen, ‘that I would not think they were like the Papalini. No indeed. They hoped I knew the French were different quite; and that, though they protected the Holy Father, they certainly didn’t mean to fight for him. What they wanted was V.E. King of Italy. Napoléon veut l’Italie libre. I was to understand that, and remember it.’ The attention, and the desire to conciliate Pen’s good opinion, had perfectly turned the child’s head. It will be ‘dearest Napoleon’ more than ever. Of course, he had invited the officers to ‘come in and see mama,’ only they were too discreet for this.
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 228