French.  He has worked, and is working, only for Italy; and whatever has seemed otherwise has been forced from him in order to keep on terms with his colleagues, the kings and queens of Europe.  Everything that comes out proves it more and more.’  In fact, he has risked everything for the Italians except their cause.  I am delighted, among other things, at Cavour’s representation of Italy at the Congress.  Antonelli and his party are in desperation, gnashing their teeth at the Tuileries.  The position of the Emperor is most difficult, but his great brain will master it.  We are rather uneasy about the English Ministry—­its work in Congress; it might go out for me (falling to pieces on the pitiful Suez question or otherwise), but we do want it at Congress.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Jameson

28 Via del Tritone, Rome:  February 22 [1860].

Dearest, naughtiest Mona Nina,—­Where is the place of your soul, your body abiding at Brighton, that never, no, never, do I hear from you?  It seems hard.  Last summer I was near to slipping out of the world, and then, except for a rap, you might have called on me in vain (and said rap you wouldn’t have believed in).  Also, even this winter, even in this Rome, the city of refuge, I have had an attack, less long and sharp, indeed, but weakening, and, though I am well now, and have corrected the proofs of a very thin and wicked ‘brochure’ on Italian affairs (in verse, of course), yet still I am not too strong for cod-liver oil and the affectionateness of such friends as you (I speak as if I had a shoal of such friends—­povera mi!).  Write to me, therefore.  Especially as the English critics will worry me alive for my book and you will have to say, ‘Well done, critics!’ so write before you read it, to say, ’Ba, I love you.’  That makes up for everything.  Oh, I know you did write to me in the summer.  And then I wrote to you; and then there came a pause, which is hard on me, I repeat.

Geddie has come here, lamenting also.  Besides, we have been somewhat disappointed by your not coming to Italy.  Never will you come to Rome as Geddie expects, late in the spring, to take an apartment close to her, looking charmingly on the river.  I told her quite frankly that you would not be so unwise.  Rome is empty of foreigners this year, a few Americans standing for all.  Then, in the midst of the quiet, deeply does the passion work:  on one side, with the people, on the other in the despair and rage of the Papal Government.  The Pope can’t go out to breakfast, to drink chocolate and talk about ‘Divine things’ to the ‘Christian youth,’ but he stumbles upon the term ‘new ideas,’ and, falling precipitately into a fury, neither evangelical nor angelical, calls Napoleon a sicario (cut-throat), and Vittorio Emanuele an assassino.  The French head of police, who was present, whispered to acquaintances of ours, ‘Comme il enrage le saint pere!’ In fact,