Part 9

It was in the autumn of 1839 that Margaret began her famous Boston conversations, with a class of twenty-five. These classes were renewed in November of each year until 1844.

In 1841, she translated the ‘Letters of Gunderode and Bettine,’ but their publication does not appear to have been completed. In 1843, a trip to Lake Superior furnished her with material for her _Summer on the Lakes_, originally published in The Dial. A general impression exists that Miss Fuller connected herself with the Brook Farm experiment. It is an error; she was a visitor, not a resident, at Brook Farm.

In 1844, Margaret went to New York, to live with the Greeleys at Turtle Bay, becoming a constant contributor to the New York Tribune. In this year she published WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, and the next, collected her _Papers on Art and Literature_ in a volume.

On the 1st of August, 1846, Margaret Fuller sailed for Europe, in the company of her friends Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Spring, of Eagleswood, New Jersey. She went first to England, visited the Lake country, meeting Wordsworth and renewing her acquaintance with Harriet Martineau, travelled in Scotland, making the ascent of Ben Lomond with but one companion, and without a guide, an imprudence which cost her a night of dangerous exposure; returned to London, where she met Joanna Baillie, the Carlyles, and Mazzini; and went thence to Paris. There she saw George Sand, Chopin, and Rachel. She proceeded to Lyons, to Avignon, “where she waded through the snow to visit the tomb of Laura,” and to Marseilles, whence she sailed for Genoa, going next to Naples and to Rome. It was during this first stay in Rome, in the spring of 1847, that she became acquainted with the Marquis Ossoli, an officer of the Civic Guard. She continued her travels, visiting Florence, Ravenna, Venice, Milan, the Italian Lakes, and Switzerland. She returned to Rome in October, 1847. In December she was married to Ossoli; but for reasons involving the security of his paternal inheritance, it was agreed that the marriage should be a secret. In the following May, Margaret left Rome for the summer, passing a month at Aquila, and the rest of the time, until November, at Rieti, where it was possible for her husband to visit her occasionally. In September, 1848, their son, “Angiolino,” was born. In November, Margaret found it necessary to go to Rome, “to be near her husband, and also in order to be able to carry on the literary work upon which depended not only her own support, but also that of her child.” The little Angelo was left in the care of his Italian nurse. His mother at first anticipated an absence of a month only. She indeed returned to Rieti for a week in December, but “circumstances were too strong for her, and she was forced to remain three months in Rome without seeing him,” lying awake at night, studying to end this cruel separation. She was again in Rieti in March, and in April returned to Rome. And now began the siege of Rome by the French, and the mother, shut up in the city, saw her child no more until the summer.

Margaret took charge of one of the hospitals during the siege. To the writer, this period appears the noblest of her life. The formation of the strongest human ties had immeasurably deepened and softened her nature. She moved among the wounded and dying soldiers like the “Court Lady” of Mrs. Browning’s poem. She learned all the horror of wounds and death. She insisted on going with Ossoli to his post on the night when an attack was expected in that quarter; and meeting at the Angelus, they passed together to the supposed danger as to a religious service. During the days of suspense, Margaret made her secret known to her friends in Rome. As soon as the siege was ended, the father and mother hastened to Rieti, to find their child neglected and almost dying. They nursed him back to life and health, and the three passed together one happy winter in Florence, clouded only by pecuniary anxieties--for Ossoli had, by his patriotism, lost all. Margaret’s literary work at this time was a _History of the Revolution in Italy_, which perished with her.

Margaret, Ossoli, and the little Angelo sailed for America on May 17, 1850, in the barque Elizabeth, Captain Hasty. On the voyage the captain died of small-pox; Angelo took the disease, but recovered. On the morning of July 19th, the Elizabeth was wrecked in a sudden storm, striking on Fire Island beach. The sea never gave back Margaret and Ossoli. The baby Angelo was washed ashore, and lies buried at Mt. Auburn.

Margaret’s works, collected after her death, are in four volumes: WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY; _Art, Literature, and the Drama_; _Abroad and at Home_, and _Life Without and Life Within_.

A remarkable estimate of Margaret, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, published, among other extracts from his papers, by his son, has lately attracted much attention. The testimony of Hawthorne as to Margaret’s Italian life, of which he had no personal knowledge, has little value. But the conclusions of so keen a mind as to her character cannot be so easily dismissed; and this passage has been included among our extracts, that both sides of the shield may be seen. Certain of Hawthorne’s expressions go far to confirm the popular belief that Margaret’s character, as he saw it, furnished him with the hint or starting-point for his creation of Zenobia in ‘The Blithedale Romance.’

Lowell, in his stinging lines on Miranda, in ‘A Fable for Critics,’ speaks of her, “I-turn-the-crank-of-the-universe air,” and pronounces that “the whole of her being’s a capital I.” She is too often remembered thus, and only thus. Let us also picture her ministering in that “house of misery” where,--to quote lines written of another famous woman,--

“Slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.”

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[Sidenote: Her early training.]

[Sidenote: Premature development.]

[Sidenote: Spectral illusions.]

[Sidenote: Somnambulism.]

My father instructed me himself. The effect of this was so far good that, not passing through the hands of many ignorant and weak persons, as so many do at preparatory schools, I was put at once under discipline of considerable severity, and, at the same time, had a more than ordinarily high standard presented to me. My father was a man of business, even in literature; he had been a high scholar at college, and was warmly attached to all he had learned there, both from the pleasure he had derived in the exercise of his faculties and the associated memories of success and good repute. He was, beside, well read in French literature, and in English, a Queen Anne’s man. He hoped to make me the heir of all he knew, and of as much more as the income of his profession enabled him to give me means of acquiring. At the very beginning, he made one great mistake, more common, it is to be hoped, in the last generation, than the warning of physiologists will permit it to be with the next. He thought to gain time by bringing forward the intellect as early as possible. Thus, I had tasks given me, as many and various as the hours would allow, and on subjects beyond my age; with the additional disadvantage of reciting to him in the evening, after he returned from his office. As he was subject to many interruptions, I was often kept up till very late; and as he was a severe teacher, both from his habits of mind and his ambition for me, my feelings were kept on the stretch till the recitations were over. Thus, frequently I was sent to bed several hours too late, with nerves unnaturally stimulated. The consequence was a premature development of the brain, that made me a “youthful prodigy” by day, and by night a victim of spectral illusions, nightmare, and somnambulism, which, at the time, prevented the harmonious development of my bodily powers and checked my growth, while, later, they induced continual headache, weakness, and nervous affections of all kinds. As these again reacted on the brain, giving undue force to every thought and every feeling, there was finally produced a state of being both too active and too intense, which wasted my constitution.... No one understood this subject of health then. No one knew why this child, already kept up so late, was still unwilling to retire. My aunts cried out upon the “spoiled child, the most unreasonable child that ever was--if brother could but open his eyes to see it--who was never willing to go to bed.” They did not know that, so soon as the light was taken away, she seemed to see colossal faces advancing slowly towards her, the eyes dilating, and each feature swelling loathsomely as they come, till at last, when they were about to close upon her, she started up with a shriek which drove them away, but only to return when she lay down again.... No wonder the child arose and walked in her sleep, moaning all over the house, till once, when they heard her, and came and waked her, and she told what she had dreamed, her father sharply bid her “leave off thinking of such nonsense, or she would be crazy,” never knowing that he was himself the cause of all these horrors of the night.

[Sidenote: Latin at six.]

I was taught Latin and English grammar at the same time, and began to read Latin at six years old, after which, for some years, I read it daily.

[Sidenote: Influence of her father’s character.]

[My father] demanded accuracy and clearness in everything.... Trained to great dexterity in artificial methods, accurate, ready, with entire command of his resources, he had no belief in minds that listen, wait, and receive. He had no conception of the subtle and indirect motions of imagination and feeling. His influence on me was great, and opposed to the natural unfolding of my character, which was fervent, of strong grasp, and disposed to infatuation and self-forgetfulness.

[Sidenote: Her first taste of Shakespeare.]

Ever memorable is the day on which I first took a volume of Shakespeare in my hand to read. It was on a Sunday. This day was particularly set apart in our house.... This Sunday--I was only eight years old--I took from the book-shelf a volume lettered Shakespeare. It was not the first time I had looked at it, but before I had been deterred from attempting to read, by the broken appearance along the page, and preferred smooth narrative. But this time I held in my hand ‘Romeo and Juliet’ long enough to get my eye fastened to the page. It was a cold winter afternoon. I took the book to the parlor fire, and had there been seated an hour or two, when my father looked up and asked what I was reading so intently. “Shakespeare,” replied the child, merely raising her eye from the page. “‘Shakespeare’! That won’t do; that’s no book for Sunday; go put it away and take another.” I went as I was bid, but took no other. Returning to my seat, the unfinished story, the personages to whom I was but just introduced, thronged and burnt my brain. I could not bear it long; such a lure it was impossible to resist. I went and brought the book again. There were several guests present, and I had got half through the play before I again attracted attention. “What is that child about that she doesn’t hear a word that’s said to her?” quoth my aunt. “What are you reading?” said my father. “Shakespeare,” was again the reply, in a clear though somewhat impatient tone. “How?” said my father angrily; then, restraining himself before his guests, “Give me the book and go directly to bed.”

[Sidenote: Home of the Fullers.]

[Sidenote: Margaret in the garden.]

Our house, though comfortable, was very ugly, and in a neighborhood which I detested, every dwelling and its appurtenances having a _mesquin_ and huddled look. I liked nothing about us except the tall graceful elms before the house, and the dear little garden behind. Our back-door opened on a high flight of steps, by which I went down to a green plot, much injured in my ambitious eyes by the presence of the pump and tool-house. This opened into a little garden, full of choice flowers and fruit trees, which was my mother’s delight and was carefully kept. Here I felt at home. A gate opened thence into the fields, a wooden gate made of boards, in a high unpainted board wall, and embowered in the clematis creeper. This gate I used to open to see the sunset heaven; beyond this black frame I did not step, for I liked to look at the deep gold behind it. How exquisitely happy I was in its beauty, and how I loved the silvery wreaths of my protecting vine! I never would pluck one of its flowers at that time, I was so jealous of its beauty, but often since I carry off wreaths of it from the wild wood, and it stands in nature to my mind as the emblem of domestic love.

MARGARET FULLER: _Autobiographical Romance_ published in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli,’ by R. W. Emerson, W. H. Channing and J. F. Clarke. Boston: Roberts Bros., 1874.

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[Sidenote: Margaret at thirteen.]

My acquaintance with Margaret commenced in the year 1823, at Cambridge.... Margaret was then about thirteen,--a child in years, but so precocious in her mental and physical development, that she passed for eighteen or twenty. Agreeably to this estimate she had her place in society as a lady full-grown.

[Sidenote: Personal appearance.]

[Sidenote: A characteristic trait.]

When I recall her personal appearance, as it was then and for ten or twelve years subsequent to this, I have the idea of a blooming girl of a florid complexion and vigorous health, with a tendency to robustness, of which she was painfully conscious, and which, with little regard to hygienic principles, she endeavored to suppress or conceal, thereby preparing for herself much future suffering. With no pretensions to beauty then, or at any time, her face was one that attracted, that awakened a lively interest, that made one desirous of a nearer acquaintance. It was a face that fascinated, without satisfying. Never seen in repose, never allowing a steady perusal of its features, it baffled every attempt to judge the character by physiognomical induction. I said she had no pretentions to beauty. Yet she was not plain. She escaped the reproach of positive plainness, by her blonde and abundant hair, by her excellent teeth, by her sparkling, dancing, busy eyes, though usually half closed from near-sightedness, shot piercing glances at those with whom she conversed, and, most of all, by the very peculiar and graceful carriage of her head and neck, which all who knew her will remember as the most characteristic trait in her personal appearance.

[Sidenote: Conversation.]

In conversation she had already, at that early age, begun to distinguish herself, and made much the same impression in society that she did in after years, with the exception that as she advanced in life, she learned to control that tendency to sarcasm,--that disposition to “quiz,”--which was then somewhat excessive. It frightened shy young people from her presence, and made her, for a while, notoriously unpopular with the ladies of her circle.

REV. F. H. HEDGE: _Communication_ in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

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[Sidenote: Margaret at the Groton school.]

At first her unlikeness to her companions was uncomfortable both to her and to them. Her exuberant fancy demanded outlets which the restraints of boarding-school life would not allow. The unwonted excitement produced by contact with other young people vented itself in fantastic acts and freaks amusing but tormenting. The art of living with one’s kind had not formed a part of Margaret’s home education. Her nervous system had already, no doubt, been seriously disturbed by overwork.

Some plays were devised for the amusement of the pupils, and in these Margaret found herself entirely at home. In each of these the principal part was naturally assigned her, and the superiority in which she delighted was thus recognized. These very triumphs, however, in the end led to her first severe mortification, and in this wise:--

The use of rouge had been permitted to the girls on the occasion of the plays; but Margaret was not disposed, when these were over, to relinquish the privilege, and continued daily to tinge her cheeks with artificial red. This freak suggested to her fellow-pupils an intended pleasantry, which awakened her powers of resentment to the utmost. Margaret came to the dinner-table, one day, to find on the cheeks of pupils and preceptress the crimson spot with which she had persisted in adorning her own. Suppressed laughter, in which even the servants joined, made her aware of the intended caricature. Deeply wounded, and viewing the somewhat personal joke in the light of an inflicted disgrace, Margaret’s pride did not forsake her. She summoned to her aid the fortitude which some of her Romans [Margaret’s love of Roman history is here alluded to] had shown in trying moments, and ate her dinner quietly without comment. When the meal was over she hastened to her own room, locked the door, and fell on the floor in convulsions. Here teachers and schoolfellows sorrowfully found her, and did their utmost to soothe her wounded feelings, and to efface by affectionate caresses the painful impression made by their inconsiderate fun.

Margaret recovered from this excitement, and took her place among her companions, but with an altered countenance and embittered heart. She had given up her gay freaks and amusing inventions, and devoted herself assiduously to her studies. But the offence which she had received rankled in her breast. As not one of her fellow-pupils had stood by her in her hour of need, she regarded them as all alike perfidious and ungrateful.... This morbid condition of mind led to a result still more unhappy. Masking her real resentment beneath a calm exterior, Margaret received the confidences of her schoolfellows and used their unguarded speech to promote discord among them.... This state of things probably became unbearable. Its cause was inquired into and soon found. A tribunal was held, and before the whole school assembled, Margaret was accused of calumny and falsehood, and, alas! convicted of the same. “At first she defended herself with self-possession and eloquence, but when she found that she could no more resist the truth, she suddenly threw herself down, dashing her head with all her force against the iron hearth, ... and was taken up senseless.”[7]

All present were, of course, greatly alarmed at this crisis, which was followed, on the part of Margaret, by days of hopeless and apathetic melancholy.... In the pain which she now felt, her former resentment against her schoolmates disappeared. She saw only her own offence, and saw it without hope of being able to pass beyond it.... A single friend was able to reach the seat of Margaret’s distemper, and to turn the currents of her life once more into a healthful channel. This lady, a teacher in the school, ... with the tact of true affection, drew the young girl from the contemplation of her own failure.

JULIA WARD HOWE: ‘Margaret Fuller.’ (Famous Women Series.) Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1883.

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[Sidenote: An “intolerable girl” at nineteen.]

She told me what danger she had been in from the training her father had given her, and the encouragement to pedantry and rudeness which she derived from the circumstances of her youth. She told me that she was at nineteen the most intolerable girl that ever took a seat in a drawing-room. Her admirable candor, the philosophical way in which she took herself in hand, her genuine heart, her practical insight, and, no doubt, the natural influence of her attachment to myself, endeared her to me, while her powers, and her confidence in the use of them, led me to expect great things from her.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’ Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1877.

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[Sidenote: Her home at this time.]

Margaret’s home at this time was in the mansion house formerly belonging to Judge Dana, a large, old-fashioned building, since taken down, standing about a quarter of a mile from the Cambridge Colleges, on the main road to Boston. The house stood back from the road, on rising ground which overlooked an extensive landscape. It was always a pleasure to Margaret to look at the outlines of the distant hills beyond the river, and to have before her this extent of horizon and sky. In the last year of her residence in Cambridge, her father moved to the old Brattle place, a still more ancient edifice, with large, old-fashioned garden and stately rows of linden trees. Here Margaret enjoyed the garden walks, which took the place of the extensive view.

REV. JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

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[Sidenote: Mr. Channing’s first impression.]

[Sidenote: Margaret too intense.]

[Sidenote: Imperiousness.]

[Sidenote: Sentimentality.]

I call to mind seeing, at the “Commencements” and “Exhibitions” of Harvard University, a girl, plain in appearance, but of dashing air, who was invariably the centre of a listening group, and kept their merry interest alive by sparkles of wit and incessant small talk.... About 1830 ... we often met in the social circles about Cambridge, and I began to observe her more nearly. At first her vivacity, decisive tone, downrightness and contempt of conventional standards, continued to repel. She appeared too _intense_ in expression, action, emphasis, to be pleasing, and wanting in that _retenue_ which we associate with delicate dignity. Occasionally, also, words flashed from her of such scathing satire, that prudence counselled the keeping at safe distance from a body so surcharged with electricity. Then again, there was an imperial--shall it be said imperious?--air, exacting deference to her judgments and loyalty to her behests, that prompted pride to retaliatory measures. She paid slight heed, moreover, to the trim palings of etiquette, but swept through the garden-beds and into the door-way of one’s confidence so cavalierly that a reserved person felt inclined to lock himself up in his sanctum. Finally, to the coolly-scanning eye, her friendship wore such a look of romantic exaggeration, that she seemed to walk enveloped in a shining fog of sentimentalism....

But soon I was charmed, unaware, with the sagacity of her sallies, the profound thoughts carelessly dropped by her on transient topics, the breadth and richness of culture manifested in her allusions or quotations, her easy comprehension of new views, her just discrimination, and, above all, her _truthfulness_. “Truth at all cost,” was plainly her ruling maxim. This it was that made her criticism so trenchant, her contempt of pretence so quick and stern, her speech so naked in frankness, her gaze so searching, her whole attitude so alert.

WILLIAM HENRY CHANNING: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

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[Sidenote: Emerson’s first impression.]