The Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Volume Ii Part 27

Florence: February 2, 1857 [postmark].

My dearest Mona Nina,--To begin (lest I forget before the ending), don't mind the sugar-tongs, if you have not actually bought them, inasmuch as, to my astonishment, Wilson has found a pair in Florence, marking the progress of civilisation in this South. In Paris last winter we sought in vain. There was nothing between one's fingers and real silver--too expensive for poets. But now we are supplied splendidly--and at the cost of five pauls, let me tell you.

Always delighted I am to have your letters, even when you don't tell me as touchingly as in this that mine are something to you. Do I not indeed love you and _sympathise_ with you fully and deeply? Yes, indeed. On one subject I am afraid to touch. But I _know_ why it is you feel so long, so unduly--so morbidly, in a sense. People in general, knowing themselves to be innocently made to suffer, would take comfort in righteous indignation and justified contempt: but to you the indignation and contempt would be the worst part of suffering; you can't bear it, and you are in a strait between the two. In fact, it relieves you rather to take part against yourself, and to conclude on the whole that there's something really bad in you calling on the pure Heavens for vengeance.

Yes, that's _you_. You sympathise tenderly with your executioner....

And as for the critics--yes, indeed, I agree with you that I have no reason to complain. More than that, I confess to you that I am entirely astonished at the amount of reception I have met with--I who expected to be put in the stocks and pelted with the eggs of the last twenty years'

'singing birds' as a disorderly woman and freethinking poet! People have been so kind that, in the first place, I really come to modify my opinions somewhat upon their conventionality, to see the progress made in freedom of thought. Think of quite decent women taking the part of the book in a sort of _effervescence_ which I hear of with astonishment.

In fact, there has been an enormous quant.i.ty of extravagance talked and written on the subject, and I _know it_--oh, I know it. I wish I deserved some things--some things; I wish it were all true. But I see too distinctly what I _ought_ to have written. Still, it is nearer the mark than my former efforts--fuller, stronger, more sustained--and one may be encouraged to push on to something worthier, for I don't feel as if I had done yet--no indeed. I have had from Leigh Hunt a very pleasant letter of twenty pages, and I think I told you of the two from John Ruskin. In America, also, there's great success, and the publisher is said to have shed tears over the proofs (perhaps in reference to the hundred pounds he had to pay for them), and the critics congratulate me on having worked myself clear of all my affectations, mannerisms, and other morbidities.

Even 'Blackwood' is not to be complained of, seeing that the writer evidently belongs to an elder school, and judges from his own point of view. He is wrong, though, even in cla.s.sical matters, as it seems to _me_.

I heard one of Thackeray's lectures, the one on George the Third, and thought it better than good--fine and touching. To what is it that people are objecting? At any rate, they crowd and pay.

Ah yes. You appreciate Robert; you know what is in his poetry. Certainly there is no pretension in _me_ towards that profound suggestiveness, and I thank you for knowing it and saying it.

There is a real _poem_ being lived between Mr. Kirkup and the 'spirits,'

so called.[53] If I were to _write_ it in a poem, I should beat 'Aurora'

over and over. And such a tragic face the old man has, with his bleak white beard. Even Robert is touched.

Best love from him and your

Ever attached BA.

_To Mrs. Martin_

Florence: February [1857].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--I needn't say how much, how very much, pleasure your letter gave me. That the poem should really have touched you, reached you, with whatever drawbacks, is a joy. And then that Mr. Martin should have read it with any sort of interest! It was more than I counted on, as you know. Thank you, dearest Mrs. Martin--thank both of you for so much sympathy.

In respect to certain objections, I am quite sure you do me the justice to believe that I do not willingly give cause for offence. Without going as far as Robert, who holds that I 'couldn't be coa.r.s.e if I tried,'

(only that!) you will grant that I don't habitually dabble in the dirt; it's not the way of my mind or life. If, therefore, I move certain subjects in this work, it is because my conscience was first moved in me not to ignore them. What has given most offence in the book, more than the story of Marian--far more!--has been the reference to the condition of women in our cities, which a woman oughtn't to refer to, by any manner of means, says the conventional tradition. Now I have thought deeply otherwise. If a woman ignores these wrongs, then may women as a s.e.x continue to suffer them; there is no help for any of us--let us be dumb and die. I have spoken therefore, and in speaking have used plain words--words which look like blots, and which you yourself would put away--words which, if blurred or softened, would imperil perhaps the force and righteousness of the moral influence. Still, I certainly will, when the time comes, go over the poem carefully, and see where an offence can be got rid of without loss otherwise. The second edition was issued so early that Robert would not let me alter even a comma, would not let me look between the pages in order to the least alteration. He said (the truth) that my head was dizzy-blind with the book, and that, if I changed anything, it would be probably for the worse; like arranging a room in the dark. Oh no. Indeed he is not vexed that you should say what you do. On the contrary, he was _pleased_ because of the much more that you said. As to your friend with the susceptible 'morals'--well, I could not help smiling indeed. I am a.s.sured too, by a friend of my own, that the 'mamas of England' in a body refuse to let their daughters read it. Still, the daughters emanc.i.p.ate themselves and _do_, that is certain; for the number of _young_ women, not merely 'the strong-minded' as a sect, but pretty, affluent, happy women, surrounded by all the temptations of English respectability, that cover it with the most extravagant praises is surprising to me, who was not prepared for that particular kind of welcome. It's true that there's a quant.i.ty of hate to balance the love, only I think it chiefly seems to come from the less advanced part of society. (See how modest that sounds! But you will know what I mean.) I mean, from persons whose opinions are not in a state of growth, and who do not like to be disturbed from a settled position. Oh, that there are faults in the book, no human being knows so well as I; defects, weaknesses, great gaps of intelligence. Don't let me stop to recount them.

The review in 'Blackwood' proves to be by Mr. Aytoun; and coming from the camp of the enemy (artistically and socially) cannot be considered other than generous. It is not quite so by the 'North British,' where another poet (Patmore), who knows more, is somewhat depreciatory, I can't help feeling.

Now will you be sick of my literature; but you liked to hear, you said.

If you would see, besides, I would show you what George sent me the other day, a number of the 'National Magazine,' with the most hideous engraving, from a medallion, you could imagine--the head of a 'strong-minded' giantess on the neck of a bull, and my name underneath!

Penini said, 'It's not a bit like; it's too old, and _not half so pretty_'--which was comforting under the trying circ.u.mstance, if anything could comfort one in despair....

Your ever most affectionate BA.

_To Miss Browning_

[Florence: February 1857.]

My dearest Sarianna,--I am delighted, and so is Robert, that you should have found what pleases you in the clock. Here is Penini's letter, which takes up so much room that I must be sparing of mine--and, by the way, if you consider him improved in his writing, give the praise to Robert, who has been taking most patient pains with him indeed. You will see how the little curly head is turned with carnival doings. So gay a carnival never was in our experience--for until last year (when we were absent) all masks had been prohibited, and now everybody has eaten of the tree of good and evil till not an apple was left. Peni persecuted me to let him have a domino, with tears and embraces; he '_almost never_ in all his life had had a domino,' and he would like it so. Not a black domino--no; he hated black--but a blue domino, trimmed with pink! that was his taste. The pink tr.i.m.m.i.n.g I coaxed him out of; but for the rest I let him have his way, darling child; and certainly it answered, as far as the overflow of joy in his little heart went. Never was such delight.

Morning and evening there he was in the streets, running Wilson out of breath, and lost sight of every ten minutes. 'Now, Lily, I do _pray_ you not to call out "Penini! Penini!"' Not to be known was his immense ambition. Oh, of course he thought of nothing else. As to lessons, there was an absolute absence of wits. All Florence being turned out into the streets in one gigantic pantomime, one couldn't expect people to be wiser indoors than out. For my part, the universal madness reached me sitting by the fire (whence I had not stirred for three months); and you will open your eyes when I tell you that I went (in domino and masked) to the great opera ball. Yes, I did really. Robert, who had been invited two or three times to other people's boxes, had proposed to return this kindness by taking a box himself at the opera this night and entertaining two or three friends with _gallantina_ and champagne. Just as he and I were lamenting the impossibility of my going, on that very morning the wind changed, the air grew soft and mild, and he maintained that I might and should go. There was no time to get a domino of my own (Robert himself had a beautiful one made, and I am having it metamorphosed into a black silk gown for myself!), so I sent out and hired one, buying the mask. And very much amused I was. I like to see these characteristic things. (I shall never rest, Sarianna, till I risk my reputation at the Bal de l'Opera at Paris.) Do you think I was satisfied with staying in the box? No, indeed. Down I went, and Robert and I elbowed our way through the crowd to the remotest corner of the ball below. Somebody smote me on the shoulder and cried 'Bella mascherina!' and I answered as imprudently as one feels under a mask. At two o'clock in the morning, however, I had to give up and come away (being overcome by the heavy air), and ingloriously left Robert and our friends to follow at half-past four. Think of the refinement and gentleness--yes, I must call it _superiority_--of this people, when no excess, no quarrelling, no rudeness nor coa.r.s.eness can be observed in the course of such wild masked liberty. Not a touch of license anywhere.

And perfect social equality! Ferdinando side by side in the same ballroom with the Grand Duke, and no cla.s.s's delicacy offended against!

For the Grand Duke went down into the ballroom for a short time. The boxes, however, were dear. We were on a third tier, yet paid 2_l._ 5_s._ English, besides entrance money. I think that, generally speaking, theatrical amus.e.m.e.nts are cheaper in Paris, in spite of apparent cheapnesses here. The pit here and stalls are cheap. But 'women in society' can't go there, it is said; and you must take a whole box, if you want two seats in a box--which seems to me monstrous. People combine generally....

Ever affectionate BA.

I meant to write only a word--and see! May it not be overweight!

_To Mrs. Jameson_

Florence: April 9 [1857].

Dearest Madonna,--I must not wait, lest I miss you in your transit to Naples; thank you for your dear letter, then. The weather has burst suddenly into summer (though it rains a little this morning), and I have been let out of prison to drive in the Cascine and to Bellosguardo.

Beautiful, beautiful Florence. How beautiful at this time of year! The trees stand in their 'green mist' as if in a trance of joy. Oh, I do hope nothing will drive us out of our Paradise this summer, for I seem to hate the North more 'unnaturally' than ever.

Mrs. Stowe has just arrived, and called here yesterday and this morning, when Robert took her to see the Salvators at the end of our street. I like her better than I thought I should--that is, I find more refinement in her voice and manner--no rampant Americanisms. Very simple and gentle, with a sweet voice; undesirous of shining or _poser_-ing, so it seems to me. Never did lioness roar more softly (that is quite certain); and the temptations of a sudden enormous popularity should be estimated, in doing her full justice. She is nice-looking, too; and there's something strong and copious and characteristic in her dusky wavy hair.

For the rest, the brow has not very large capacity; and the mouth wants something both in frankness and sensitiveness, I should say. But what can one see in a morning visit? I must wait for another opportunity.

She spends to-morrow evening with us, and talks of remaining in Florence till the end of next week--so I shall see and hear more. Her books are not so much to me, I confess, as the fact is, that she above all women (yes, and men of the age) has moved the world--and _for good_.

I hear that Mrs. Gaskell is coming, whom I am sure to like and love. I know _that_ by her letters, though I was stupid or idle enough to let our correspondence go by; and by her books, which I earnestly admire.

How anxious I am to see the life of Charlotte Bronte! But we shall have to wait for it here.

Dearest friend, you don't mention Madme de Goethe, but I do hope you will have her with you before long. The good to you will be immense, and after friendship (and reason) the sun and moon and earth of Italy will work for you in their places. May G.o.d grant to us all that you may be soon strong enough to throw every burden behind you! The griefs that are incurable are those which have our own sins festering in them....

On April 6 we had tea out of doors, on the terrace of our friend Miss Blagden in her villa up [at] Bellosguardo (not exactly Aurora Leigh's,[54] mind). You seemed to be lifted up above the world in a divine ecstasy. Oh, what a vision!

Have you read Victor Hugo's 'Contemplations'? We are doing so at last.

As for _me_, my eyes and my heart melted over them--some of the personal poems are overcoming in their pathos; and nothing more exquisite in poetry can express deeper pain....

Robert comes back. He says that Mrs. Stowe was very simple and pleasant.

He likes her. So shall I, I think. She has the grace, too, to admire our Florence.

Your ever affectionate BA.

I dare say the ill.u.s.trations will be beautiful. But you are at work on a new book, are you not?

The mention of the 'Contemplations' of Victor Hugo in the preceding letter supplies a clue to the date of the following draft of an appeal to the Emperor Napoleon on behalf of the poet, which has been found among Mrs. Browning's papers. An endors.e.m.e.nt on the letter says that it was not sent, but it is none the less worthy of being printed.