Chapter 16: letters between husband and wife.
By a happy fatality, the only Italian papers of Margaret Ossoli's that are preserved are the letters that passed between her and her husband, during their various separations, before and after the birth of their child. The originals are now, partially at least, in the possession of Miss Edith Fuller, in Cambridge; and a translation of the whole, made by Miss Elizabeth Hoar, is in my possession. I wish that they could all be published, for more loving and devoted letters never passed between husband and wife. Fragments of them appeared in the “Memoirs;” but I have avoided making use of any which are there printed, except in one or two cases where scattered portions alone have appeared. The preference has been given to those written about the time of her child's birth, because there is no period which tests more deeply the depth and the heroism of conjugal affection than those anxious weeks. At the birth of a first child, every mother knows, and her husband knows, that she is to meet much the same sort of peril with any soldier who marches up to a battery; except that this danger is to be met alone, [249] without trumpet-blast or the thrill of companionship in danger, and that it also involves the peril of a life unborn, and more precious than one's own. In the case of a mother past her first youth, the peril is doubled; and, where she is without skilled medical attendance or nursing, it is quadrupled. All these evils were combined in the case of Madame Ossoli; and she lived withal among ignorant and sordid mountaineers, whom she could not propitiate, for the want of money, in the only way that could reach them. This was the situation; the letters will speak for themselves. I have employed Miss Hoar's translation, with some modifications.While I am awaiting good news of yourself, and of a beautiful and good child, adieu, my love, and believe me your
[250]
Ossoli
Rome, 17th August, 1848.Mia Cara,--My state is the most deplorable that can be; I have had an extraordinary struggle. If your condition were not such as it is, I could decide more easily, but in the present moment I cannot leave you; I cannot remove myself to a distance from you, my dear love; ah! how cruel is my destiny in this emergency. It is true that my friends would not advise me to go, hoping for me always a better fortune. But then must I always hope, and be always in the presence of my unkind brothers, at a moment when I might remove myself from their hateful sight. The heart, duty, cannot resolve it.
In your dear last of the 7th, I understand well how much you would sacrifice yourself for me. I am deeply grateful to you for it, but I cannot yet decide.
From Madame Ossoli.
If it is possible to wait two or three weeks, the public state and mine also will be decided, and you can [251] make your decision with more tranquillity. Otherwise, it seems to me that I ought to say nothing, but leave it to your own judgment what to do. Only, if you go, come here first. I must see you once more.
It troubles me much that I can tell you nothing certain of myself, but I am still in the same waiting state. I have passed a very bad night, my head is this morning much disturbed. I have bled a good deal at the nose, and it is hard for me to write.
Do not ask permission of your uncle, if it is so difficult. We shall know how to arrange things without that. If you do not come I shall expect a letter from you on Sunday; also (if there are any) from the banker's, and also the last of those Milanese papers. Poor friends, shut up there. I wish so much for some certain intelligence of their fate.
Adieu, dear; our misfortunes are many and unlooked for. Not often does destiny demand a greater price for some happy moments. Never do I repent of our affection, and for you, if not for me, I hope that life has still some good in store. Adieu, may God give you counsel and help, since it is now not in the power of your affectionate ...
From Madame Ossoli.
My nights become more and more disturbed, and this morning I was obliged to be bled again; since then, I find myself relieved, but weak, and unable to say more than that I am always your affectionate--. [252]
Inclosed is another order on the banker, in case you come Saturday. I write it now, being uncertain that I can write many days longer. I embrace you!
I see by the papers that the Pope suspends the departure of the troops. He acts as I thought he would, [253] and I am now very glad that you did not actually enter the service yet. In a short time our affairs will be more settled, and you can decide more advantageously than now.
Try if you can hear any particulars from Milan; would it not be possible in the Caffe degli Belli Arti? I am much troubled by the fate of those dear friends; how much they must suffer now.
I still think so much of you. I hope that you are less tormented. If we were together, it would be a consolation. Now everything goes wrong, but it is impossible it should always be so. Adieu, love; it vexes me that so many days must pass before your comingso many, so many. I am glad that I have the little picture; I look at it often. God keep you.
There is a beautiful spot near, where we can go together, if I am able still to go out when you come. I shall expect you on Sunday morning, and will have your coffee ready again. Nothing more now, because writing is really difficult for your affectionate ...
On September 5, 1848, her child, Angelo Philip Eugene Ossoli, was born. Two days after, she writes, by an amanuensis, only signing the letter herself:-- [254]
Dictated by Madame Ossoli.
All this family with whom I am staying salute you. Giving you an embrace and a kiss, in the person of this dear child whom I have in my arms, I am your affectionate
From Madame Ossoli, in pencil. Her own writing.
[255]
From Ossoli.
From Madame Ossoli.
When you do not hear from me do not be anxious; [256] you know I must necessarily be very weak for some time yet; I am not always able to write, or to rise, and Ser Giovanni is not always here to write for me. It is a miracle that I am as well as I find myself; my circumstances were so difficult. Now that I find myself so content with my nurse, her child becomes ill; and if she is forced to leave me, the struggle begins againbut I hope not. If it is necessary to bear this too, I can only hope counsel from God.
From Madame Ossoli.
The nurse's child is better, and I feel relieved. We must have courage, but it is a great care to be alone and ignorant with an infant in these first days of its life. When he is a month old, I shall feel more quiet. Then he will be stronger for the changes he will have to undergo. Now he is well, begins to sleep well, is very pretty for his age, and all the people around, without knowing what name I thought of giving him, call him Angiolino, because he is so lovely. He has your mouth, hands, feet. It seems to me that his eyes will be blue. For the rest, he is altogether a rogue (birbone), understands well, is very obstinate to have his will.
I shall have much to say when you come, and also we shall then have much to plan, because it will be too cold in this room for me to stay here late in the autumn. The forty days will terminate 15th October [257] and I wish to leave as soon as possible after that — the 20th or 25th, if I can. Adieu, love; always your M.
From Madame Ossoli.
He is so dear, it seems to me sometimes, among all the difficulties and disasters, that if he lives, if he is well, he will become such a treasure for us two, that it will compensate for everything. I wish very much that you should see him again, but you must have patience with his frequent cry; he is an obstinate fellow. Also, I hope that by the time you come my shoulder will be cured again, and I strong enough to go out a little with you. Now it is fine weather, and I go out on the balcony. Ser Giovanni is good to me, but his sisters are detestable, meddling in everything, and so avaricious, so interested; they would save me money in order that they may get it for themselves. Yet I try to keep the peace with them; there are bad people everywhere, and these, so interested and vulgar, are at least not treacherous like Giuditta. Adieu, love.
[It illustrates the kind of people among whom Madame Ossoli was at this time living, that this Ser Giovanni, who was her scribe in illness and [258] the one person who was “good” to her, was all the time amusing himself with the effort to seduce Angelo's nurse, who was, according to another letter, “the loveliest young woman in the village,” and whose beauty was to Madame Ossoli a source of constant anxiety, in view of the neighborhood of Garibaldi's half-brigand troops, and those from Naples who were worse. It was amid such solicitudes and vexations that an inexperienced and exhausted mother had to struggle for life in behalf of her baby and herself.]
From Madame Ossoli.
From Madame Ossoli.
It must be considered that your nephew will know this affair at last, by means of Catalane. But I do not know your relatives, nor if you can confide in one of them.
From Madame Ossoli.
From Ossoli.
Saluting you dearly, and giving you, with our dear love, a kiss, I am your
From Madame Ossoli.
From Ossoli.
From Madame Ossoli.
From Madame Ossoli, after being in Rome.
The baby salutes you with many kisses. He seemed to recollect me; when I took him, he rested his dear head so long on my shoulder. I took so much pleasure in sleeping with him last night. In the daytime it does not go on so well, it is smoky and cold. Farewell, my beloved, I will write a few lines on Sunday; all the details I will tell you when I come. Always thy
From Madame Ossoli.
At first all talked so loud, he looked at me all surprised, and cried a little. But when he was alone with me, he seemed to recollect me, and leaned and rubbed his forehead as in the first days.
[263]
From Madame Ossoli.
From the same.-both in Rome.
Casa Dies, Friday, 4th May, 2 P. M.Mio Caro,--I am going out at four, and return at six, and shall be here an hour. At half-past 7 I go to the hospitals, and hope to return at nine. If you come while I am gone out, wait for me, if possible, if not, come up and leave a word to say when you can come to-morrow morning. Do not fail to see me, I pray; it is terrible to pass so many uncertain hours without meeting. It is said that the Neapolitans do not advance, but all seems so uncertain. Always, always your M-. If ever you have need, send some one immediately, dearest; we can pay for this.
[264]
From the same.
From the same.--no date.
How hard it was for me, love, to miss you yesterday, and possibly also to-day, if you can come. I am going to Casa Dies; if possible, inquire there, the last floor, if I am still there or have gone to the hospitals. God keep you! How much I have suffered in seeing the wounded, and I cannot know if anything should happen to you — but I must hope. I have received the letter from Rieti; our Nino is perfectly well, thanks for this. It does me good that the Romans have at least done something, if only you can remain. In event of the death of both, I have left a paper with a certificate in regard to Angelino, and some lines praying the Storys to take care of him. If by any accident I die, you can revoke this paper if you will, from me, as being your wife. I have wished Nino to go to America, but you will do as seems best to you. We ought to have planned this better, but I hope that it will not be needed. Always, with benedictions, your
[265]
If you live, and I die, be always most devoted to Nino. If you ever love another, think first for him, I pray, pray, love.
This last imploring caution was never needed.
1 Of these two brief notes,--the first dictated to a scribe and taken down by him more or less accurately, and the second written in pencil by herself,--I give the Italian originals, kindly copied for me by Miss Edith Fuller, the niece of Madame Ossoli.
Tutti di questa famiglia dove io mi trovo ti salutano. Dandoti un abbraccio, ed un bagio in questo caro Pupo che ho nelle braccia sono.
