In the course of 1860 his parents took him abroad with his brother and sisters, to Mentone, where Admiral Swinburne had rented a villa, the Maison Laurenti, for the winter. Algernon so violently detested this place that it became a joke in the family circle. Early in 1861, he left his relations at Mentone, and made a short tour, his first experience of Italy. He passed through Genoa, Turin, and Milan, and reached Venice. He wrote home his impressions in a paraphrase of Alfred de Musset, beginning:
In red Venice here
Not one horse a-stir,
Not one fisher afloat,
Not one boat.
Swinburne’s whimsical dislike of “the weary Mediterranean, drear to see,”
“one dead flat sapphire, void of wrath,” was often reiterated, but he had no great knowledge of its moods. In one of his letters he speaks of “The Riviera, que diable! it’s the dullest bit of earth in Europe I should think, but you can’t die there if you try, and the climate is divine for invalids, though I, who am never unwell but by my own doing for a day or two, can’t breathe it, it’s so ultra-stimulating and soothing at once to the nerves.”
On his return to London he resumed relations with the old artistic friends who have already been mentioned. Amongst these Rossetti was the most prominent, and he took, almost immediately, the position which Nichol had held at Oxford, as the somewhat elder guardian-friend whose strong will guided and supported the childlike nature of Swinburne. In his Record of Friendship, written (but not published) at the time of Rossetti’s death, we are told by the younger poet that it was at the end of the year 1860 that the acquaintance which began at Oxford ripened into an affectionate intimacy, “shaped and coloured, on his side, by the cordial kindness and exuberant generosity which to the last, I am told, distinguished [Rossetti’s] recognition of younger men’s efforts or attempts: on mine, I can confidently say, by gratitude as loyal and admiration as fervent as ever strove and ever failed to express all the sweet and sudden passion of youth towards greatness in its elder.” Rossetti adopted, with a full and almost boisterous appreciation of the qualities of Swinburne, and a tender indulgence to his frailties, a tone of authority in dealing with “my little Northumbrian friend,” as he used to call him, which was eminently wholesome. The attitude was that of a strong elder brother to a delicate younger one, and it combined, with great forbearance and a generous and ever vociferous facility in praising, a certain firmness, almost a discipline. There can be no question for the biographer who examines the whole life of Swinburne, that D. G. Rossetti exercised over him a more restraining and yet stimulating influence than any one else; nor, on the other hand, can it be overlooked that Swinburne, whose general culture, literary enthusiasm and knowledge of poetry far exceeded Rossetti’s, was of immense service to his friend in the guidance of his imagination. As an example of what Swinburne could do in this direction, I may print here, for the first time, a note which I find in Mr. Wise’s collection of his MSS. It is dated 1886:
Entre nous (bien entendu) it was I — my love of the uncompleted poem must excuse the egotism of the revelation — who suggested as the final solution or catastrophe of “The Bride’s Prelude,” that the brothers should kill Urscelyn the moment he has made an honest woman of poor Aloyse, and so leave her to live in peace and honour with her restored child. D. G. R. told me that what had hindered him from continuing the poem was that he could not think of a satisfactory close to the story (in my constant opinion, his finest and most pathetic invention), and when I, modestly, and with very real and sincere diffidence, suggested this, he jumped at it (so to speak) in a manner most flattering to my young self-esteem (all this, of course, was in the old days of Chatham Place) and said he would finish on those lines.
This must have been in 1861. Sometimes the master would not be so docile under the hand of the pupil. Swinburne gently mourned, not more harshly than a turtle-dove might do, over the obstinacy of his adored Gabriel, in sticking to
... a French couplet showing his ignorance of the rules of French verse — veut and cheveux being no more admissible as rhymes than God and rot. (Read — if anything —
rien ne veux
Qu’une rose à mes cheveux.)
But here D. G. R., alas, thought that he knew best. Such diversions made the great painting-room at No. 14 Chatham Place, Blackfriars Bridge, with its magnificent view over the river, a very paradise to Swinburne in these earliest London days.
These were also the days of the reform of artistic ornament and furniture under the auspices of William Morris and his companions. Swinburne, as we have seen, was a frequent and a favourite guest at the Red House, and Mrs. Morris, for whom he had an admiration approaching to worship, never ceased to speak of him with high appreciation. He liked to be present when the artists were at work, and Morris described to Mr. Cockerell how Swinburne would read his poems aloud, covering up one eye with his hand as he did so. This curious trick I also recollect, without exactly understanding the object of it; Swinburne often seemed to have a difficulty in focussing his sight, which I have no doubt was astigmatic. His remarkable head was often recognisable in the works of the Pre-Raphaelites, and Philip Webb used to report that when the early Morris glass was exposed at Scarborough, George Campfield, one of the best workmen of the firm, shouted out, “Blest if they haven’t put in little Carroty-locks.” This was a reference to Swinburne, whose portrait he detected.
Late in the summer Algernon went back to Northumberland, where his grandfather’s long life was gradually closing. Half-way through his ninety-ninth year Sir John Swinburne died at Capheaton on the 26th of September 1860. After the funeral, his grandson moved over to stay with the Trevelyans at Wallington, where Lady Trevelyan received him with that indulgent sympathy which so much endeared her to her friends. Sir George O. Trevelyan tells me that he heard him, more than once, reciting his poems to the ladies in the Italian saloon at Wallington. “He sat in the middle of the room, with one foot curled up on the seat of his chair beneath him, declaiming verse with a very different intonation and emphasis from that with which our set of young Cantabs read Byron and Keats to each other in our own college rooms at Trinity.”
Unfortunately, these symposia were often more completely to the taste of the hostess than of the host. One day Sir Walter Trevelyan came into the drawing-room and found a French novel lying on the table. He asked how it got there, and was told that Algernon had brought it as a gift. It was nothing worse, I believe, than a volume of the Comédie Humaine, but he was a rash man who in those days recommended a French book to an English lady. Even if she made no objection, her male relations were sure to take umbrage. Sir Walter Trevelyan threw the book on the fire with a very rough remark, and Swinburne inarched with great dignity out of the house. The alienation was not permanent, and Swinburne was soon on the old affectionate terms, not merely with Lady Trevelyan, but with Sir Walter, He proceeded to the W. B. Scotts in Newcastle, where Scott completed in October an absurdly-drawn portrait, which he had begun in the previous January. Odd as is this work of art, it is an invaluable record of Algernon’s expression and colour at that time.
The extreme violence of the denunciation of W. B. Scott which Swinburne unfortunately allowed himself to publish on the appearance of Scott’s Autobiographical Notes in 1892 has led to a discrediting of the witness of that old friend’s recollections. But it must in fairness be recorded that there had been no cessation of friendly relations when Scott died, at an advanced age, in 1890, and that Swinburne greeted his departure in memorial verses which celebrated the dead man as “poet and painter and friend, thrice dear.” In these lines he did not exaggerate the merit of Scott’s art, which was not great, but he did warmest justice to his faith and fervour, and to the nobility of his aim. Unfortunately, the indiscretion of an editor presently revealed that Scott, who had no sense of humour, had recorded, with a certain bluntness, his jealousy of younger and more famous friends. Swinburne, whose pen was ever too near his fingers, dashed into tempestuous reprisals, but
these (we ought to note) he never reprinted, while retaining in publication his praise of his clumsy but faithful old acquaintance. This incident will be dealt with later, but it is necessary to say here, that in spite of what Swinburne afterwards wrote in his haste, W. B. Scott was an encouraging influence in the poet’s early life, while his records of the years with which we are now dealing, although loose, are true in their general bearing.
One of the earliest occupations of Algernon’s leisure after his arrival in town was his study of the writings of Charles J. Wells, a living but forgotten poet of sixty years of age, contemporary with Keats and Hazlitt, who had long abandoned the practice of literature and had accepted his own failure with resignation. D. G. Rossetti, probably in 1847, had met with the two books of Wells, his prose Stories after Nature (1822) and his huge drama in blank verse, Joseph and his Brethren (1824). These he had read with surprise, and the latter with “insane exultation.” In 1849 Rossetti had planned a journey to Quimper, where Wells lived, for the purpose of persuading him to republish Joseph in a second edition. Rossetti now, in 1860, passed Wells over to Swinburne, who accepted him with rapture. Joseph and his Brethren was already so rare that Swinburne was obliged to work on it at the British Museum, where he copied out half the poem. He recommended it ardently to Monckton Milnes (Oct. 15, 1860), adding, “I should be very glad if I had anything to do with helping it to a little of the credit it must gain in the end.” At this time he had finished an article analysing Joseph and his Brethren, in the course of which Rossetti had helped him with the choice of extracts. It is not possible to discover in what degree this lost article of 1860 coincided with the introduction Swinburne published with the edition which he persuaded his own publishers to issue in 1876. But it will be noted that certain passages in the latter arc spoken of as the opinion of “a reader of the age at which this book was written,” and are given in inverted commas. Swinburne being in 1860 of the same age as Wells was when he wrote Joseph, I think we may take for granted that these passages at least are part of the original essay. Swinburne’s almost fanatical admiration for Wells’ poetry, which survived the disconcerting indifference to it of the old dramatist himself, gradually became moderate, but it never entirely ceased. Joseph and his Brethren undoubtedly had an effect on his own dramatic manner.
Shortly after Swinburne’s arrival in London he had formed one new acquaintance, who has just been named, and who was destined to fill a large place in his life. This was Richard Monckton Milnes, then fifty years of age, and a foremost figure in the literary and political society of the day. As Milnes was not at that time acquainted either with the Swinburne family or with the poet-painters, it is thought likely that Lady Trevelyan had commended her young friend to a possible patron. On the 5th of May 1860, in reply to a formal summons, Swinburne called at Milnes’ town house, 16 Upper Brook Street.
The two were soon on terms of high facetious familiarity, and during the next few years, in particular, Milnes was infinitely serviceable to the young friend who so much amused and stimulated him. One of the first things Swinburne did was to introduce Milnes to the names and work of Rossetti, Morris, and Meredith. A letter (October 15th, 1860), gives an early touch or two:
I have done some more work to Chastelard, and rubbed up one or two other things: my friend George Meredith has asked me to send some to “Once a Week,” which valuable publication he props up occasionally with fragments of his own. Rossetti has just done a drawing of a female model and myself embracing — I need not say in the most fervent and abandoned style — meant for a frontispiece to his Italian translations. Everybody, who knows me already, salutes the likeness with a yell of recognition. When the book comes out, I shall have no refuge but the grave.
The Early Italian Poets, however, came out with no design of the kind described, although the drawing was not lost. But before Rossetti’s volume appeared, Swinburne himself had published his first book. This was The Queen Mother and Rosamond, containing two dramas, and published before Christmas 1860; the poet being now again in Northumberland. Swinburne’s odd luck with publishers affronted him at this outset of his career, for his volume had scarcely issued with the imprint of Basil Montagu Pickering, than it was mysteriously withdrawn to reappear with that of Edward Moxon. No particulars appear to be forthcoming, but in both hands the insuccess of the venture was conspicuous. Long afterwards, Swinburne told me that “of all stillborn books, The Queen Mother was the stillest,” for that, when he had given away a few copies, and a few more had been dispersed to the press, its circulation ceased. Not one single copy was sold, until long afterwards. Nobody read it, nobody saw it, nobody heard of it.
It was strange that no critic of 1860 had the intelligence to perceive what an interesting thing The Queen Mother was. Partly, no doubt, the dulness of the first act discouraged perusal. But more was perhaps due to the fact that the models on which the apparatus of the drama was founded were quite unfamiliar to readers of that day. Briefly, those models were Chapman in his French tragedies, and, to a much less extent, Wells in Joseph and his Brethren. Swinburne approaches the style of Chapman exactly as the dramatists of the romantic revival, such as Byron, Coleridge, and Barry Cornwall, had approached that of Shakespeare, but with more success. He was seized with a strong desire to reform the idea of poetical drama, based on the Elizabethans, which had been illustrated by Beddoes, P. J. Bailey, and particularly by Dobell, in his Balder (1853), a poem that had violently attracted and then repelled Swinburne in his boyhood. He saw that these so-called dramas were really incoherent masses of dexterous or impressive verse in its essence lyrical. He wished to re-constitute a subtle and sententious kind of dramatic writing, overlaid with ingenious touches, which should revive the pleasure experienced in reading plays like Chabot and Bussy d’Ambois.
We may even conjecture that a certain fine tirade in The Revenge of Bussy d’Ambois actually started The Queen Mother, which also is a rapid tragical presentment of the Eve of St. Bartholomew. It is almost a good play, being altogether a delicate and artificial poem. The blank verse in which it is composed is already wonderful, — sinuous, varied and sweet, of a perfect originality, with no trace of the prevailing manner of Tennyson. There is too much elaboration in the language, even in its marvellously accomplished monosyllabic effects, too much of the affected Jacobean humour in its movement. The plot is turbid at first, and never becomes quite easy to follow, although with the third act there is a great increase of clarity, and the fifth act, unlike most fifth acts, is the best in the play. There are very fine passages, such as the scene where the Queen Mother, the King and Guise visit Admiral Coligny in his bed, and the dialogue between Charles and Dénise in the third act. The tirades of Catherine, without being turgid, are often in the grand style. Readers familiar with the later dramas of Swinburne may be startled by foreshadowings of the great scenes in Bothwell. On the whole, The Queen Mother, although nobody recognised it at the time, is as promising a first work as ever a young scholar, poet published.
Rosamond, a one-act play, is of a very different character. This is a study in sheer Pre-Raphaelitism, in which dim, melancholy figures, a little uncertain in their anatomy, are exhibited against a brilliant and minute background of pure colour. It is like a water-colour drawing by Rossetti translated into verse — beautiful wandering verse of this kind:
Maids will keep round me, girls with smooth worn hair
When mine is hard, no silk in it to feel,
Tall girls to dress me, laughing underbreath,
Too low for gold to tighten at the waist.
Eh, the hinge sharpens at the grate across?
Five minutes now to get the green walk through
And turn — the chestnut leaves will take his hair
If he turn quick; or I shall hear some bud
Fall, or some pebble’s chink along the fence,
Or stone his heel grinds, or torn lime-blossom
Flung at me from behind; not poppies now,
Nor marigol
ds, but rose and lime-flowèr.
There is much of the Oxford spirit about Rosamond, which is an undergraduate effort much revised. Indeed, we have already seen that this is probably the drama which Swinburne read to Stubbs, and tore up in a passion, and rewrote from memory, when he was staying at Navestock.
In spite, or perhaps because of his intense preoccupation with dramatic poetry, Swinburne was never much of a play-goer. He declared in after years that he had registered a solemn oath in Heaven that he would never again go to a Shakespearian representation on the stage after seeing Fechter in the part of Othello. This must have been in October 1861. He thought the actor handsome, and admired his gestures, but held his treatment of the smothering scene to be abominable. When he came to the part —
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul —
Yet she must die or she’ll betray more men,
“perhaps the most perfect bit in Shakespeare,” Fechter took up a mirror and looked into it, saying, as his own face was reflected —
It is the cause, it is the cause!
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 356