all forgiveness. There has been much of my behavior that the world would not forgive; I know this. In response to the news of my marriage & child my own Mother has been all sweetness in her letter, but she hints that others will not feel so. Silence from my brothers, confused hauteur from the Greeleys, stern questions from Mr E, & a warm but worried response even from my old friend Caroline — all this has alerted me to the trouble that awaits me, the scornful words & suspicious interpretations. If this is how my friends greet my news, how will the harsher Wide World! It is “worse” than they imagine — & not worse at all as I know myself in this regard, at any rate, guiltless, standing on the axis of the Divinity as pure & true as the day I was born.
What is “worse”? I must write of Paris in the winter of 1846–47, & of the great man I met there, the Polish patriot & poet Adam Mickiewicz. I wrote about him in my columns & you no doubt have heard of him but that is not to knowthe dynamic, thrilling presence of the man, his humor & liveliness, his great soul. I am using the word great often it seems, but as it is one of the only words I can find to fit him it must be his great - coat .
We — the Springs & I — did not meet him until our third month in the city. We spent a full December & January in the heart of Paris life, staying as we were at the Hotel Rougemont, just off the happily named Boulevard des Italiennes. My French tutor was a necessity as I endeavored to catch the nuances of the political landscape in the cafés & on the street-corners & in the salons. Paris enlivened my pen as London had not & I wrote at least six dispatches in that brief time. At last through a letter of introduction to Madame Sand we were invited to meet that extraordinary lady. She had returned from her country home where hunger & rioting for bread had taken hold of the local peasants during a desperate winter — I learned that Mme Sand had given much money & had fed many with her own hands.
18 June
Continuing: On our second visit to Mme Sand’s elegant apartment (the color yellow predominated, a fashionable touch), I met the Poet. He is at most times accompanied by an entourage of his admirers & protectors. (I have seen these grown men kiss the Poet’s right shoulder as the great man speaks, in homely homage to his sanctity.) I had heard that Mickiewicz no longer writes poems, saving allhis inventive powers for the cause of liberty, in Poland & throughout Europe. He has been inspired by the doctrine of Messianism & dreams of the coming of a new golden age, ushered in by Giants who stand tall above the ordinary run of men & women — Poland is a natural breeding-ground for such giants — ah! It can easily sound foolish but as he spoke, it sounded as sincere & simple as a child’s prayer, & every bit as truthful. You know that I have long harbored such hopes myself, but here from the Poet I felt as if my hopes had found their proper words at last. I told him of my own faith in the “resurgence,” “Risorgimento,” & we quickly agreed on the divine inspiration that has brought Mazzini to Italy’s cause. It was as if our full apprehension of one another took place in a flash of light, as if no others in the room — including his good friends — were even present. We all spoke in English, out of courtesy to the Springs, but our conversations subsequent to that one were a mixture of French & some German, as well as English, & I learned a few words of Polish — a beautiful language, even when shouted, as there are those shhh & jhhhh sounds, so everything sounds like a whisper, a secret —
I remember that in that first encounter he took my face between his hands — he is very tall, he stooped over the sopha where I sat, & his hands were so large I felt as if I had been taken into the paws of an enormous gentle Polish bear — a silver bear, as his mane is liberally streak’d with silver — & He said that I was the
What is “worse”? I must write of Paris in the winter of 1846–47, & of the great man I met there, the Polish patriot & poet Adam Mickiewicz. I wrote about him in my columns & you no doubt have heard of him but that is not to knowthe dynamic, thrilling presence of the man, his humor & liveliness, his great soul. I am using the word great often it seems, but as it is one of the only words I can find to fit him it must be his great - coat .
We — the Springs & I — did not meet him until our third month in the city. We spent a full December & January in the heart of Paris life, staying as we were at the Hotel Rougemont, just off the happily named Boulevard des Italiennes. My French tutor was a necessity as I endeavored to catch the nuances of the political landscape in the cafés & on the street-corners & in the salons. Paris enlivened my pen as London had not & I wrote at least six dispatches in that brief time. At last through a letter of introduction to Madame Sand we were invited to meet that extraordinary lady. She had returned from her country home where hunger & rioting for bread had taken hold of the local peasants during a desperate winter — I learned that Mme Sand had given much money & had fed many with her own hands.
18 June
Continuing: On our second visit to Mme Sand’s elegant apartment (the color yellow predominated, a fashionable touch), I met the Poet. He is at most times accompanied by an entourage of his admirers & protectors. (I have seen these grown men kiss the Poet’s right shoulder as the great man speaks, in homely homage to his sanctity.) I had heard that Mickiewicz no longer writes poems, saving allhis inventive powers for the cause of liberty, in Poland & throughout Europe. He has been inspired by the doctrine of Messianism & dreams of the coming of a new golden age, ushered in by Giants who stand tall above the ordinary run of men & women — Poland is a natural breeding-ground for such giants — ah! It can easily sound foolish but as he spoke, it sounded as sincere & simple as a child’s prayer, & every bit as truthful. You know that I have long harbored such hopes myself, but here from the Poet I felt as if my hopes had found their proper words at last. I told him of my own faith in the “resurgence,” “Risorgimento,” & we quickly agreed on the divine inspiration that has brought Mazzini to Italy’s cause. It was as if our full apprehension of one another took place in a flash of light, as if no others in the room — including his good friends — were even present. We all spoke in English, out of courtesy to the Springs, but our conversations subsequent to that one were a mixture of French & some German, as well as English, & I learned a few words of Polish — a beautiful language, even when shouted, as there are those shhh & jhhhh sounds, so everything sounds like a whisper, a secret —
I remember that in that first encounter he took my face between his hands — he is very tall, he stooped over the sopha where I sat, & his hands were so large I felt as if I had been taken into the paws of an enormous gentle Polish bear — a silver bear, as his mane is liberally streak’d with silver — & He said that I was the
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