For everything, your love, and thoughts, and regrets, too. Do not we, too, regret that Italy is closed to us; but the comfort out of the vexation is that you will, will you not, cross to London from Paris, and so we shall see you for all the multiplied hindrances. Now how do you suppose it is faring with us? We are alone. Our hostess was summoned to America last week, to her extreme regret, and after a hot business of telegraphing and being telegraphed to, left last Wednesday. She had taken this comfortable villa till the middle of December, and would not hear of our quitting it, and, all things considered, we had little inclination to do so, for you were from home, and what would be the good of lingering out this month elsewhere, the air and influences happening to suit us extremely. So our plan is to stay out Sept. here, and be content with at most two months' absence, instead of the four we utterly enjoyed last year.

Mrs. Moore was altogether as kind and considerate as possible, and has made every possible provision for our comfort after her departure. We are quite alone. Friends are in the place, but we only get glimpses of them. The place is emptying fast, the pensions shut up, the walks on the mountain-side are wholly our own. Two days ago the snow fell thickly, and what a sight were the mountains next morning in a glowing sun! These changes I expect will diversify the whole month, and inside this warm, pleasant room Sarianna and I read, and don't require "the devil to find some missing ill for idle hands to do." You have much more to enjoy with all that good music thrown in, and I am glad for you. We get books and papers enough, and I am correcting proofs of the poem I was too negligent about in London. Many distractions stood in the way of that. After all, we have attained the main object of our journey, the complete re-establishment of Sarianna's health, who walks twice a day, just as of old. I am cheered, too, by letters from Robert, the last of which comes just now.

He was anxious that his statue of "Dryope" should be seen at the Brussels exhibition, a triennial one, and important from the concurrence of the best foreign artists; but the "Grosvenor," where it was shown, did not close till the first week in August, while the Brussels Gallery was closed to (entrance of) works on the 25th of July. Robert sent his photographs with a pet.i.tion for a "delai," only exceptionally granted; the committee conceded it unanimously, and have given it a place where it stands by itself, and is capitally seen. He went to see it, and so did the King and Queen, to whom he would have been presented, had he not been in morning dress. (The father of Robert to the mother of Edith.) You know very well how interested and delighted I shall be to read your German translations if you send them; do!

Again, from this invigorating mountain village Browning writes to his Venetian friend and hostess in Casa Alvisi:

VILLA BERRY, ST. MORITZ, ENGADINE, S.

Sept. 23, '84.

For first thing, dearest friend, I am glad to know that my letter with the poems reached you before your departure. I had some fear that you might miss it. It is like your goodness to care so much about what amounts to so little. I did what I could to be of use by amending; I could have done more to the purpose if the poems were original; but I know your translations were faithful, as they should be. When you write out of your own dear head let me see, and try hard to improve it, never so little. I well remember the whole book of verses you let me read at Venice; I could not well have helped you there. And now for a sorrow after the gladness; we do not pa.s.s through Paris this time, but take the direct and more convenient route by Amiens and Calais.

Last year we wanted, or needed, to see Pen, who was at his Paris studio; but now he is still in Dinard. I do not know when he means to leave; if he finds you at Paris it will be a delight for him to see you....

Well, yes, the king's behavior has been admirable; what a chance the poor Pope has thrown away in not preceding him! If the "Prisoner of the Vatican" had quietly walked out of his confinement, with a Cross before him, and an attendant on each side, and pa.s.sed on to Naples and the hospitals "braving all danger in imitation of his Master," I verily believe there might have happened a revolution. Such events from much less causes being frequent enough. Where is the "wisdom of the serpent"?

Dearest friend, my sister writes, all love to Edith, all love to you, from your ever affectionate

ROBERT BROWNING.

On their return to London the letters to Mrs. Bronson again resume the story of this interesting life:

"... I have got rid of my last proof-sheets, and all of a sudden it occurs to me to ask--now that alteration is impossible, I suppose--whether I have offended in just dating the last poem from the place where I wrote it--the Giustiniani? The first poem was dated at the inn, and the last seemed to belong to the beloved place where it was penned, as I wanted to remember, or be remembered, rather. Have I done wrong? (I hear at this moment my sister actually singing in the next room,--so completely is she re-established in health.) By letters we find that the admirable weather at St. Moritz was continued up to the end of the last week; here the weather is fine, and finer than usual, but the sparkle is off the wine, the wonderful freshness of St.

Moritz does not incline one to dance rather than walk.

"I am in absolute peace and quietude, and so thoroughly prepared to enjoy your coming,--if that may be...."

The next letter speaks of American friends:

19, WARWICK CRESCENT, W.

Oct. 14, '84.

DEAREST FRIEND,--I waited a little before replying to your letter, wanting to be sure when I could say that Pen would be in Paris; he proposed to go there yesterday, and you will certainly have a visit from him as soon as he can manage to do what I know he desires very much.

Here are your verses which I try to be as severe about as possible, with no success, at all, worth speaking of! You will take my corrections (infinitesimal, this time) for what they are worth, and continue to send me what you write, will you not?

I was surprised two days ago by a note from Mr. Lowell, inviting me and my sister to meet the Storys at dinner to-morrow, they being his guests during a short stay in London; and yesterday afternoon they called on my sister, both the Storys and Mr. Lowell; the former are flourishing, and go in a few days to Rome. Where they have pa.s.sed the summer, we were not told. Last evening at a dinner given by Sidney Colvin, I met Mr. James, who showed great interest in hearing how you were, and how much nearer you were likely to be. On the other hand, there will be a sad visitor to Venice presently, Professor Huxley, in a deplorable state of health, from over-work. I hate to speak of what is only too present with me,--your own health,--I trust you have got rid of that cough, (all dreadful things go with a cough in my memory.)...

... My book, which you kindly inquire about, is out of my hands and in print, but the publishing, the when and how, concerns the publisher. I do not expect to see the completed thing for another month.

Yes, I felt so lovingly to the Giustinian-Reconnati that I could not bear cutting the link allowed by the Place and Date that were appended to the Ms., and you permit, so all is well, if you remember me as ever affectionately yours,

ROBERT BROWNING.

Under date of October 23, 1884, Browning says in one letter:

"I saw Huxley's brother-in-law, Sir Robert Collier, last evening, at Dr. Granville's, and inquired about the stay in Venice. It will be a very short one as he has to return almost immediately for the marriage of his daughter Rachel; I can hardly think he will re-return, the ceremony at an end, yet he may; and in that case he shall be informed of your goodness to himward, in apostolically appropriate language. He is a thoroughly admirable person in all but his inconsiderateness in this waste of a precious life. I duly told the Storys how much you wanted to see them, and they probably have seen you by this time. Mrs.

Story meant to rest at Paris, and forego the Amiens route. She has been unwell, but I thought her appearance very satisfactory. I dined with them last week at Mr. Lowell's, and called there on Sunday. I met Henry James the other day, and surprised as well as inspirited him by the news that you were so near, and, as I believed, so soon to be nearer. Now write to me, tell me all you are about to do; how is dear Edith?...

O, no, Pen is none of mine to outward view, but wholly his mother's--in some respects, at least. At the same age there was small difference between Pen's face and that of the brother she lost,--to judge by a drawing I possess...."

To the Marchesa Peruzzi di' Medici who sent to him a translation she had made of the "Ricordo Autobiografici" of Giovanni Dupre, Browning thus writes:[16]

"It is not so very 'little' an affair, and in the fear that when my sister has finished it, I may have to begin my own reading, and end it so late as to lead you to suppose that either book or letter has gone wrong, on this account I write at once to thank you most heartily. My sister says the Autobiography is fascinating; I can well believe it, for I never knew such a work to be without interest, and this of Dupre must abound in precisely the matters that interest me most.... When I have thoroughly gone through the book I will write you again, if you permit me, as I know your old memories will be indulgent in the case.

We may be in Italy this autumn, and if you are within reach you will be certain to see the old friend who always rejoices when he hears of your well-being, and trusts it may continue.... Pen is very well; at Dinard just now, painting landscape in the open air. I have told him already of the book which he will take delight in reading. I am occupied this very day in sending his statue of 'Dryope' to Brussels, where the Exhibition will give it a chance of being judged by better knowledge than is found here."

The following letter indicates, in Browning's own charming way, the warm attachment that both he and his sister had for Mrs. Bronson:

19, WARWICK CRESCENT, W.

Feb. 15, '85.

DEAREST MRS. BRONSON,--This dull morning grew to near blackness itself, when, at breakfast, my sister said once again, "No news of her from Venice,"--and I once again calculated and found by this time it was a month and a full half since we heard from you. Why should this be? If I had simply and rationally written a line, instead of thinking a thought, I should have known, as your dear goodness will let me know, as soon as you receive this, how you are, how Edith is, now that the winter is over and gone with the incentives to that cough which was still vexatious when we had your last letter.

Do not let us mind high-days and holidays: be sure of this, that every day will be truly festal that brings us a word from you, for other clouds than the material ones make us melancholy just now; and how this turbid element about us contrasts with the golden hours near the beloved friends,--perhaps more vivid,--certainly more realized as valuable, than ever! I do not mean to write much because what I want to impress on your generosity is that just a half sheet, with mere intelligence about you, will be a true comfort and sustainment to me and to my sister,--the barest account of yourself, and what we appreciate with you; and, for our part, you shall hear, at least, that we are well, or ailing, stationary, or about to move.

In the early spring Browning again writes to Mrs. Bronson:

19, WARWICK CRESCENT, W.

April 8, '85.

DEAREST FRIEND,--This is not a letter, for I have this minute returned from a funeral, in pitiful weather, and am unable either in body or soul to write one, much as I hope to do, with something of my warm self in it. But I find Burne Jones's pretty and touching letter, and want this leaf to serve as an envelope to what may please you, who deserve so thoroughly that it should. I will write in a day or two. I heard from Pen this morning, who is at Dinard, being too ill to remain in Paris, but finds himself already better. He told me and re-told me how good you had been to him. How I trust all is going well with you,--certainly you need no a.s.surance of,--enough that I love you with all my heart. Bless you and your Edith. It is an Edith,--Proctor's (Barry Cornwall's) daughter, whom I have been following to her grave.

Some fifty years ago her father said to me while caressing her, "Ah, Browning, this is the Poetry." "I know it." "No, you know nothing about it." Well, if I was ignorant then, I am instructed now. So, dear Two Poems, long may I have you to read and to enjoy!

Yours affectionately Ever,

ROBERT BROWNING.

In the following autumn Mr. Barrett Browning, who had not seen Venice since his infancy, joined his father, and was "simply infatuated" with the dream city. It was for his sake that Browning had wished to purchase the Manzoni Palace, "to secure for him a perfect domicile, every facility for his painting and sculpture."

The autumn of 1886 brought to Browning a great sadness in the death of Milsand, and Miss Browning being out of health, and unequal to a continental journey, they both pa.s.sed a part of the autumn at Llangollen, where Sir Theodore and Lady Martin (Helen Faucit) were their near neighbors, with whom they had tea every Sunday, and renewed one of the most delightful friendships.

On the publication of Dr. Corson's "Introduction to the Poetry of Browning," he sent a copy to the poet who thus replied:

19. Warwick Crescent. W.

Dec. 28. '86.

My dear Dr Corson,