Villa Alberti, Siena: August 21, [1860].

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 give 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,[90] 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, 'E troppo tardi.'

I am not, however, in furies all day, dearest Mrs. Martin. (I answer
satisfactorily your question whether I am 'ever calm.') The newspapers
from various parts of Italy thunder down on us here, not to speak of
'Galignanis' and 'Saturday Reviews.' See how calm-blooded I must be to
bear the 'Saturday Review.' (I consider it a curiosity in vice,
certainly.) Then we have books from the subscription library in
Florence, and sights of the 'Cornhill,' and political pamphlets by the
book-post; nay, even the 'Spiritual Magazine,' sent by Chapman and Hall,
in the last number of which that clever and brave William Howitt (who,
like a man, is foolish sometimes) suggests gravely in an article that I
have lately been 'biologised by infernal spirits,' in order to the
production of certain bad works in the service of 'Moloch,' meaning, of
course, L.N. Oh! and did anyone tell you how Harriet Martineau, in her
political letters to America, set me down with her air of serene
superiority? But such things never chafe me--never. They don't even
quicken my pulsation. And the place we are passing the summer in is very
calm--a great lonely villa, in the midst of purple hills and vineyards,
olive-trees and fig-trees like forest-trees; a deep soothing silence. A
mile off we have friends, and my dear friend Miss Blagden is in a villa
half a mile off. This for the summer. Also, we brought with us from
Florence and dropped in a villino not far, our friend Mr. Landor (Walter
Savage), who is under Robert's guardianship, having quarrelled with
everybody in and out of England. I call him our adopted son. (You did
not know I had a son of eighty-six and more.) Wilson lives with him, and
Robert receives from his family in England means for his support. But
really the office is hard, and I tell Robert that he must be prepared
for the consequences: an outbreak and a printed statement that he
(Robert), instigated by his wicked wife, had attempted to poison him
(Landor) slowly. Such an extraordinary union of great literary gifts and
incapacity of will has seldom surprised the world. Of course he does not
live with us, you know, either here or in Florence, but my husband
manages every detail of his life, and both the responsibility and
trouble are considerable. Still he is a great writer. We owe him some
gratitude therefore.

Penini has his pony here, and rides with his father. We have had the
coolest summer I ever remember in Italy. I _could_ have been very happy.
But God, who 'tempers the wind,' finds it necessary for the welfare of
some of us to temper the sunshine also....

As the very poorest proof of gratitude for your letter, Robert suggests
that I should enclose this photograph of Penini and myself taken at Rome
this last spring. You will like to have them, we fancy, but it is
Robert's gift. I was half inclined last year to send you a photograph
from Field Talfourd's picture of me,[91] but I shrank back, knowing that
dear Mr. Martin would cry out at the flattery of it, which he well might
do. But this photograph from nature can't be flattered, so I hazard it.
You see the locks are dark still, not white, and the sun, in spite, has
blackened the face to complete the harmony. Pen is very like, and very
sweet we think.

Do, when you write, speak of yourself--yourselves. I hope you like the
'Mill on the Floss.'

Our love to dearest Mr. Martin and you.

Let me be as ever,

Your affectionate and grateful
BA.