“... Mrs. Bloomfield Moore passed through London some three weeks ago, and at once wrote to me about what pictures of Robert’s might be visible? She at once bought the huge ‘Delivery to the Secular Arm,’ for the Philadelphia Academy of Fine Arts, and the ‘Dinard Market Woman’ for herself, and this so spontaneously, and I did hear in a day or two that she was convinced I had not asked half enough for the pictures! She had inquired at the Gallery where the larger one was exhibited, and they estimated its value at so much. I told her their estimate was not mine, and that Robert was thoroughly remunerated — to say nothing of what he would think of all this graciousness; and since her departure I have had an extremely gratifying letter full of satisfaction at her purchases,...”
On the death of Lord Houghton, Mr. Browning had been prevailed upon to accept the office of Foreign Correspondent to the Royal Academy; he was much beloved by the Academicians, many of whom were among his familiar friends, and that his son was an artist endeared to him all art.
To Mrs. Bronson Browning once remarked: “Do you know, dear friend, if the thing were possible, I would renounce all personal ambition and would destroy every line I ever wrote, if by so doing I could see fame and honors heaped on my Robert’s head.” Mrs. Bronson’s comment on this was that in his son he saw the image of his wife, whom he adored,— “literally adored,” she added.
At the Academy banquets Browning was always an honored guest, and his nomination by the President to the post of Foreign Correspondent was promptly ratified by the Council.
On the removal to DeVere Gardens, Mr. Browning took great pleasure in the arrangement of his home. His father’s library of six thousand books was now unpacked, and, for the first time, he had space for them; many of the beautiful old carvings, chests, cabinets, bookcases, that he had brought from Florence, could in the new home be placed to advantage. The visitor, to-day, to Mr. Barrett Browning’s Florentine villa will see many of these rich and elaborate furnishings, and the younger Browning will point out an immense sofa (that resembles a catafalque), with amused recollection of having once seen his father and Ruskin sitting side by side on it, “their feet dangling.” From Venice the poet had brought home, first and last, many curious and beautiful things, — a silver lamp, old sconces from churches, and many things of which he speaks in his letters to Mrs. Bronson.
The initial poem in “Asolando,” entitled “Rosny,” was written at the opening of the year 1888, and it was soon followed by “Beatrice Signorini” and “Flute-Music.” In February he writes to George Murray Smith, his publisher, of his impulse to revise “Pauline,” which had lain untouched for fifty years, — an impulse to “correct the most obvious faults ... letting the thoughts, such as they are, remain exactly as at first.” It seems that the portrait, too, that is to accompany the volume does not quite please him, and he suggests slight changes. “Were Pen here,” he says, “he could manage it all in a moment.”
This confidence was not undeserved. Richly gifted in many directions, a true child of the gods, Robert Barrett Browning has an almost marvelous gift in portraiture. He seems to be the diviner, the seer, as well as the artist, when transferring to canvas a face that interests him. The portrait of Milsand, to which allusion has before been made, and that of his father, painted in his Oxford robes, with “the old yellow book in his hand,” which is in Balliol, are signal illustrations of his power in portraying almost the very mental processes of thought and feeling and kindling imagination, — all that goes to make up the creative life of art.
He is fairly a connoisseur in literature, as well as in his own specialties of painting and sculpture; and the poetry of the elder Browning has no more critically appreciative reader than his son. Some volume of his father’s is always at hand in his traveling; and he, like all Browning-lovers, can never open any volume of Robert Browning’s without finding revealed to him new vistas of thought, renewed aspiration and resolve for all noble living, and infinite suggestiveness of spiritual achievement.
CHAPTER XII. 1888-1889
“On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round.”
“O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!”
“Asolando” — Last Days in DeVere Gardens — Letters of Browning and Tennyson — Venetian Lingerings and Friends — Mrs. Bronson’s Choice Circle — Browning’s Letters to Mrs. Bronson — Asolo— “In Ruby, Emerald, Chrysopras” — Last Meeting of Browning and Story — In Palazzo Rezzonico — Last Meeting with Dr. Corson — Honored by Westminster Abbey — a Cross of Violets — Choral Music to Mrs. Browning’s Poem, “The Sleep”— “And With God be the Rest.”
In the winter of 1887-1888 Mr. Browning wrote “Rosny,” which follows the “Prologue” in “Asolando,” and soon after the “Beatrice Signorini” and “Flute Music.” He also completely revised his poems for the new edition which his publishers were issuing in monthly volumes, the works completed in July. “Parleyings,” which had appeared in 1887, had, gloriously or perilously as may be, apparently taken all the provinces of learning, if not all the kingdoms of earth, for its own; for its themes ranged over Philosophy, Politics, Love, and Art, as well as Alchemy, and one knows not what; but its power and vigor reveal that there had been no fading of the divine fire. The poet made a few minor changes in “The Inn Album,” but with that exception he agreed with his friend and publisher, that no further alterations of any importance were required. Mr. Browning’s relations with his publishers were always harmonious and mutually gratifying. Such a relation is, to any author, certainly not the least among the factors of his happiness or of his power of work, and to Browning, George Murray Smith was his highly prized friend and counselor, as well as publisher, whose generous courtesies and admirable judgment had more than once even served him in ways quite outside those of literature.
In the late summer of 1888 Browning and his sister fared forth for Primiero, to join the Barrett Brownings, with whom the poet concurred in regarding this little hill-town as one of the most beautiful of places, his favorite Asolo always excepted. “Primiero is far more beautiful than Gressoney, far more than Saint-Pierre de Chartreuse,” he wrote to a friend: “with the magnificence of the mountains that, morning and evening, are literally transmuted to gold.” In letters or conversation, as well as in his verse, Browning’s love of color was always in evidence. “He dazzles us with scarlet, and crimson, and rubies, and the poppy’s ‘red effrontery,’” said an English critic; “with topaz, amethyst, and the glory of gold, and makes the sonnet ache with the luster of blue.” When, in the haunting imagery of memory pictures, after leaving Florence, he reverted to the gardens of Isa Blagden, on Bellosguardo, the vision before him was of “the herbs in red flower, and the butterflies on the wall under the olive trees.” For Browning was the poet of every thrill and intensity of life — the poet and prophet of the dawn, not of the dark; the herald who announced the force of the positive truth and ultimate greatness; never the interpreter of the mere negations of life. The splendor of color particularly appealed to him, thrilling every nerve; and when driving with Mrs. Bronson in Asolo he would beg that the coachman would hasten, if there were fear of missing the sunset pageant from the loggia of “La Mura.” In “Pippa Passes,” how he painted the splendor of sunrise pouring into her chamber, and in numberless other of his poems is this fascination of color for him revealed.
Portrait of Robert Browning in 1865.
Painted by George Frederick Watts, R.A.
In the possession of the National Portrait Gallery, London.
Under the date of August, 1888, the poet writes to Mrs. Bronson:
Dearest, — We have at last, only yesterday, fully determined on joining the couple at Primiero, and, when the heats abate, going on to Venice for a short stay. May the stay be with you as heretofore? I don’t feel as if I could go elsewhere, or do otherwise, although in case of any arrangements having been made that stand in the way, there is the obvious Hôtel Suisse.
I suppose at need there could be found a messenger to poor Guiseppina, whose misfortunes I commiserate. You know exactly how much and how little we want. But if I am to get any good out of my visit I must lead the quietest of lives....
We propose setting out next Monday, the 13th, — Basle, Milan, Padua, Treviso, Primiero, by the week’s end.
I have been nearly eleven weeks in town, with an exceptional four days’ visit to Oxford; and hard social work all the time, indeed, up to the latest, when, three weeks ago, I found it impossible to keep going. Don’t think that the kindness which sometimes oppresses me while in town, forgets me afterward; I have pouring invitations to the most attractive places in England, Ireland, Scotland, — but “c’est admirable, mais ce n’est pas la paix.” May I count on the “paix” where I so much enjoyed it? I hear with delight that Edith will be with you again, — that completes the otherwise incompleteness. Yes, the Rezzonico is what you Americans call a “big thing.”... But the interest I take in its acquisition is different altogether from what accompanied the earlier attempt. At most, I look on approvingly, as by all accounts I am warranted in doing, but there an end....
... So, dearest friend, “a rivederci!” Give my love to Edith and tell her I hope in her keeping her kindness for me, spite of the claims on it of all the others. And my sister, not one word of her? Somehow you must know her more thoroughly than poor, battered me, tugged at and torn to pieces, metaphorically, by so many sympathizers, real or pretended. She wants change, probably more than I do. And, but for her, I believe I should continue here, with the gardens for my place of healing. How she will enjoy the sight of you, if it may be! Tell me what is to be hoped, or feared, or despaired of, at Pen’s address, whatever it may be. And remember me as ever most affectionately yours,
Robert Browning.
The succeeding letter, written from Albergo Gille, Primiero, tells the story of a rather trying journey, what with the heat and his indisposition, but on finding himself bestowed at Primiero he is “absolutely well again,” and anticipating his Venice: “what a Venice it would be,” he says, “if I went elsewhere than to the beloved friend who calls me so kindly!” And he adds:
“My stay will be short, but sweet in every sense of the word if I find her in good health, and in all other respects just as I left her; ‘no change’ meaning what it does to me who remember her goodness so well. It will be delightful to meet Edith again, if only it may be that she arrives while we are yet with you, even before, perhaps.
“Can I tell you anything about my journey except that it was so agreeable an one? On the first evening as I stepped outside our carriage for a moment, I caught sight of a well-known face. ‘Dr. Butler, surely.’ You have heard of his marriage the other day to a learnedest of young ladies, who beat all the men last year at Greek. He insisted on introducing me to her; I had seen her once before without undergoing that formality and willingly I shook hands with a sprightly young person ... pretty, and grand-daughterly, she is, however, only twenty-six years his junior. Then, this happened; the little train from Montebelluna to Feltre was crowded — we could find no room except in a smoking carriage — wherein I observed a good-natured, elderly gentleman, an Italian, I took for granted. Presently he said, ‘Can I offer you an English paper?’ ‘What, are you English?’ ‘Oh, yes, and I know you, — who are going to see your son at Primiero.’ ‘Why, who can you be?’ ‘One who has seen you often.’ ‘Not surely, Mr. Malcolm?’ ‘Well, nobody else.’ So ensued an affectionate greeting, he having been the guardian angel of Pen in all his chafferings about the purchase of the palazzo. He gave me abundance of information, and satisfied me on many points. I had been anxious to write and thank him as he deserved, but this provided an earlier and more graceful way, for a beginning at least.
“Pen is at work on a pretty picture, a peasant girl whom he picked up in the neighborhood, and his literal treatment stands him in good stead; he is reproducing her cleverly, at any rate, he takes pains enough.”
Towards the end of September they joined in Venice the “beloved friend,” whose genius for friendship only made each sojourn with her more beautiful than the preceding, if that which was perfect could receive an added degree. “It was curious to see,” wrote Mrs. Bronson, “how on each of his arrivals in Venice he took up his life precisely as he had left it.” Browning and his sister frequently went on Sundays to the Waldensian chapel, where in this autumn there was a preacher of great eloquence. Every morning, after their early coffee, the poet was off for a brisk walk, and after returning he busied himself with his letters and newspapers, his mail always containing more or less letters from strangers and admirers, some of whom solicited autographs, which, so far as possible, he always granted. Mrs. Bronson has somewhere noted that when asked, viva voce, for an autograph, he would look puzzled, and say “I don’t like to always write the same verse, but I can only remember one,” and he would then proceed to copy “All that I know of a certain star,” which, however it “dartles red and blue,” he knew nothing of save that it had “opened its soul” to him. Arthur Rogers, delivering the Bohlen lectures for 1909, compared Browning with Isaiah, in his lecture on “Poetry and Prophecy,” and he instanced this “star” which “opened its soul” to the poet, as attesting that Browning, like Isaiah, could do no more than search depths of life.
The Palazzo Giustiniani-Recanti was a fitting haunt for a poet. Casa Alvisi, adjoining, in which Mrs. Bronson lived, looked out, as has been noted, on Santa Maria della Salute, which was on the opposite side of the Grand Canal; but the Giustiniani palace, dating to the fifteenth century, had its outlook through Gothic windows to the south, on a court and garden of romantic loveliness. The perfect tact of their hostess left the poet and his sister entirely free to come and go as they pleased, and at midday they took their déjeuner together, ordering by preference Italian dishes, as rissotto, macaroni, and fruits, especially figs and grapes. They enjoyed these tête-à-tête repasts, talking and laughing all the while, and then, about three every afternoon they joined Mrs. Bronson and her daughter for the gondola trip. The hostess records that the poet’s invariable response to the question as to where they should go would be: “Anywhere, all is beautiful, only let it be toward the Lido.” While both the poet and his sister were scrupulously prompt in returning all calls of ceremony, they were glad to evade formal visits so far as possible; and the absolute freedom with which their hostess surrounded them was grateful beyond words. “The thought deeply impressed me,” said Mrs. Bronson, “that one who had lifted so many souls above the mere necessity for living in a troublesome world deserved from those permitted to approach him their best efforts to brighten his personal life.... The little studies for his comfort, the small cares entailed upon me during the too brief days and weeks when his precious life was partly entrusted to my care, might seem to count for little in an existence far removed from that of an ordinary man; yet, as a fact, he was glad and grateful for the smallest attention. He was appreciative of all things. He never regarded gratitude as a burden, as less generous minds are apt to do,” continued Mrs. Bronson.
Mrs. Arthur Bronson
From a painting by Ellen Montalba, in Asolo
In the possession of Edittá, Contessa Rucellai (née Bronson),
Palazzo Rucellai, Florence.
One of his greatest enjoyments in Venice was to wander with Edith Bronson through the Venetian calli. “Edith is the best cicerone in the world,” he would remark; “she knows everything and teaches me all she knows. There never was such a guide.” The young girl indeed knew her Venice as a devotee knows his illuminated missal, and her lovely vivacity and sweetness must have invested her presence with the same charm that is felt to-day in the Contessa Rucellai, in her Florentine palace, for Miss Bronson, it may be said en passant, became the wife of one of the most eminent Italian nobles, the Rucellai holding peculiar claim to distinction even among the princely houses of Florence.
From these gondola excursions they always returned about five
, and sometimes the poet would join the group around Mrs. Bronson’s tea-table, conversing with equal facility in French, German, or Italian, and to their delight would say, “Edith, dear, you may give me a cup of tea.” But as a rule he considered this beverage as too unhygienic at that hour, and whenever with an “Excuse me, please,” he sought his own apartments, he was never questioned for his reasons. “It was enough that he wished it,” said his hostess. He and Miss Browning always appeared promptly for dinner, which was at half-past seven in Casa Alvisi. The poet was scrupulous about his evening dress; and Miss Browning, Mrs. Bronson relates, was habitually clad “in rich gowns of a somber tint, with quaint, antique jewels, and each day with a different French cap of daintiest make.”
The evenings seem to have been idyllic. Browning would often read aloud, and he loved to improvise on an old spinnet standing in a dim recess in one of the salons. The great Venetian families were usually in villeggiatura at the time when Browning was in Venice, so that he met comparatively few of them; it was this freedom from social obligations that contributed so much to the restful character of his sojourns, and enabled him to give himself up to that ineffable enchantment of Venice. He made a few friends, however, among Mrs. Bronson’s brilliant circle, and one of the notable figures among these was the old Russian noble and diplomat, Prince Gagarin, who, born in Rome, had been educated in his own country, and had represented Russia at the courts of Athens, Constantinople, and Turin. Mrs. Bronson has told the story of one evening when the poet and the old diplomat indulged in a mutual tournament of music; “first one would sing, and then the other,” Browning recalling folk-songs of Russia which he had caught up in his visit to that country fifty years before.
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 257