[April 1857.]

Sire,--I am only a woman, and have no claim on your Majesty's attention
except that of the weakest on the strongest. Probably my very name as
the wife of an English poet, and as named itself a little among English
poets, is unknown to your Majesty. I never approached my own sovereign
with a petition, nor am skilled in the way of addressing kings. Yet
having, through a studious and thoughtful life, grown used to great men
(among the dead, at least), I cannot feel entirely at a loss in speaking
to the Emperor Napoleon.

And I beseech you to have patience with me while I supplicate you. It is
not for myself nor for mine.

I have been reading with wet eyes and a swelling heart (as many who love
and some who hate your Majesty have lately done) a book called the
'Contemplations' of a man who has sinned deeply against you in certain
of his political writings, and who expiates rash phrases and
unjustifiable statements in exile in Jersey. I have no personal
knowledge of this man; I never saw his face; and certainly I do not come
now to make his apology. It is, indeed, precisely because he cannot be
excused that, I think, he might worthily be forgiven. For this man,
whatever else he is not, is a great poet of France, and the Emperor, who
is the guardian of her other glories, should remember him and not leave
him out. Ah, sire, what was written on 'Napoleon le Petit' does not
touch your Majesty; but what touches you is, that no historian of the
age should have to write hereafter, 'While Napoleon III. reigned, Victor
Hugo lived in exile.' What touches you is, that when your people count
gratefully the men of commerce, arms, and science secured by you to
France, no voice shall murmur, 'But where is our poet?' What touches you
is, that, however statesmen and politicians may justify his exclusion,
it may draw no sigh from men of sentiment and impulse, yes, and from
women like myself. What touches you is, that when your own beloved young
prince shall come to read these poems (and when you wish him a princely
nature, you wish, sire, that such things should move him), he may exult
to recall that his imperial father was great enough to overcome this
great poet with magnanimity.

Ah, sire, you are great enough! You can allow for the peculiarity of the
poetical temperament, for the temptations of high gifts, for the fever
in which poets are apt to rage and suffer beyond the measure of other
men. You can consider that when they hate most causelessly there is a
divine love in them somewhere; and that when they see most falsely they
are loyal to some ideal light. Forgive this enemy, this accuser, this
traducer. Disprove him by your generosity. Let no tear of an admirer of
his poetry drop upon your purple. Make an exception of him, as God made
an exception of him when He gave him genius, and call him back _without
condition_ to his country and his daughter's grave.

I have written these words without the knowledge of any. Naturally I
should have preferred, as a woman, to have addressed them through the
mediation of the tender-hearted Empress Eugenie; but, a wife myself, I
felt it would be harder for her Majesty to pardon an offence against the
Emperor Napoleon, than it could be for the Emperor.

And I am driven by an irresistible impulse to your Majesty's feet to ask
this grace. It is a woman's voice, sire, which dares to utter what many
yearn for in silence. I have believed in Napoleon III. Passionately
loving the democracy, I have understood from the beginning that it was
to be served throughout Europe in you and by you. I have trusted you for
doing greatly. I will trust you, besides, for pardoning nobly. You will
be Napoleon in this also.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

[Illustration]

      * * * * *


Shortly after this date, on April 17, Mrs. Browning's father died. In
the course of the previous summer an attempt made by a relative to bring
about a reconciliation between him and his daughters was met with the
answer that they had 'disgraced his family;' and, although he professed
to have 'forgiven' them, he refused all intercourse, removed his family
out of town when the Brownings came thither, and declined to give his
daughter Henrietta's address to Mr. Kenyon's executor, who was
instructed to pay her a small legacy. A further attempt at
reconciliation was made by Mrs. Martin only a few months before his
death, but had no better success. His pride stood in the way of his
forgiveness to the end.

On receiving the news of his death, the following letter was written by
Robert Browning to Mrs. Martin; but it was not until two months later
that Mrs. Browning was able to bring herself to write to anyone outside
her own family.

      * * * * *


_Robert Browning to Mrs. Martin_

Florence: May 3, 1857.

My dear Mrs. Martin,--Truest thanks for your letter. We had the
intelligence from George last Thursday week, having been only prepared
for the illness by a note received from Arabel the day before. Ba was
sadly affected at first; miserable to see and hear. After a few days
tears came to her relief. She is now very weak and prostrated, but
improving in strength of body and mind: I have no fear for the result. I
suppose you know, at least, the very little that we know; and how
unaware poor Mr. Barrett was of his imminent death: 'he bade them,' says
Arabel, 'make him comfortable for the night, but a moment before the
last.' And he had dismissed her and her aunt about an hour before, with
a cheerful or careless word about 'wishing them good night.' So it is
all over now, all hope of better things, or a kind answer to entreaties
such as I have seen Ba write in the bitterness of her heart. There must
have been something in the organisation, or education, at least, that
would account for and extenuate all this; but it has caused grief
enough, I know; and now here is a new grief not likely to subside very
soon. Not that Ba is other than reasonable and just to herself in the
matter: she does not reproach herself at all; it is all mere grief, as I
say, that this should have been _so_; and I sympathise with her there.

George wrote very affectionately to tell me; and dear, admirable Arabel
sent a note the very next day to prove to Ba that there was nothing to
fear on her account. Since then we have heard nothing. The funeral was
to take place in Herefordshire. We had just made up our minds to go on
no account to England this year. Ba felt the restraint on her too
horrible to bear. I will, or she will, no doubt, write and tell you of
herself; and you must write, dear Mrs. Martin, will you not?

Kindest regard to Mr. Martin and all.

Yours faithfully ever,
ROBERT BROWNING.

      * * * * *


_E.B. Browning to Mrs. Martin_

Florence: July 1, [1857].

Thank you, thank you from my heart, my dearest friend--this poor heart,
which has been so torn and mangled,--for your dear, tender sympathy,
whether expressed in silence or in words. Of the past I cannot speak.
You understand, yes, you understand. And when I say that you understand
(and feel that you do), it is an expression of belief in the largeness
of your power of understanding, seeing that few _can_ understand--few
can. There has been great bitterness--great bitterness, which is
natural; and some recoil against myself, more, perhaps, than is quite
rational. Now I am much better, calm, and not despondingly calm (as,
off and on, I have been), able to read and talk, and keep from vexing my
poor husband, who has been a good deal tried in all these things.
Through these three months you and what you told me touched me with a
thought of comfort--came the nearest to me of all. May God bless you and
return it to you a hundredfold, dear dear friend!

I believe _hope_ had died in me long ago of reconciliation in this
world. Strange, that what I called 'unkindness' for so many years, in
departing should have left to me such a sudden desolation! And yet, it
is not strange, perhaps.

No, I cannot write any more. You will understand....

We shall be in Paris next summer. This year we remain quietly where we
are. Presently we may creep to the seaside or into the mountains to
avoid the great heats, but no further. My temptation is to lie on the
sofa, and never stir nor speak, only I don't give up, be certain. I
drive out for two or three hours on most days, and I hear Peni's
lessons, and am good and obedient. If I could get into hard regular work
of some kind, it would be excellent for me, I know; but the 'flesh is
weak.' Oh, no, to have gone to England this summer would have _helped
nobody_, and would have been very overcoming to _me_. I was not fit for
it, indeed, and Robert was averse on his own account....

May God bless you both, dearest friends. My little Penini is bright and
well. I have begun to teach him German. I do hope you won't fatigue
yourselves too much at Colwall. Enjoy the summer and the roses, and be
well, be well. We shall meet next year....

Once more, goodbye.

Your ever affectionate and grateful
BA.

Robert's love as ever.

This is the first letter I have written to anyone out of my own family.
I hate writing, and can't help being stupid.