I waited some days after the arrival of your Book and Letter thinking I might be able to say more of my sense of your goodness: but I can do no more now than a week ago. You "hope I shall not find too much to disapprove of": what I ought to protest against, is "a load to sink a navy--too much honor": how can I put aside your generosity, as if cold justice--however befitting myself,--would be in better agreement with your nature? Let it remain as an a.s.surance to younger poets that, after fifty years' work unattended by any conspicuous recognition, an over-payment may be made, if there be such another munificent appreciator as I have been privileged to find--in which case let them, even if more deserving, be equally grateful.

I have not observed anything in need of correction in the notes. The "little tablet" was a famous "Last Supper," mentioned by Varwn, (page.

232) and gone astray long ago from the Church of S. Spirito: it turned up, according to report, in some obscure corner, while I was in Florence, and was at once acquired by a stranger. I saw it,--genuine or no, a work of great beauty. (Page 156.) A "canon," in music, is a piece wherein the subject is repeated--in various keys--and being strictly obeyed in the repet.i.tion, becomes the "Canon"--the imperative _law_--to what follows. Fifty of such parts would be indeed a notable peal: to manage three is enough of an achievement for a good musician.

And now,--here is Christmas: all my best wishes go to you and Mrs.

Corson--those of my sister also. She was indeed suffering from grave indisposition in the summer, but is happily recovered. I could not venture, under the circ.u.mstances, to expose her convalescence to the accidents of foreign travel--hence our contenting ourselves with Wales rather than Italy. Shall you be again induced to visit us? Present or absent, you will remember me always, I trust, as

Yours most affectionately

Robert Browning.

The year of 1887 was an eventful one in that the "Parleyings" were published in the early spring; that Browning removed from Warwick Crescent to 29 DeVere Gardens; and that the marriage of his son to Miss Coddington of New York was celebrated on October 4 of that year, an event that gave the poet added happiness. To a stranger who had asked permission to call upon him Browning wrote about this time:

"... My son returns the day after to-morrow with his wife, from their honeymoon at Venice, to stay with me till to-morrow week only, when they leave for Liverpool and America--there to pa.s.s the winter. During their short stay, I am bound to consult their convenience, and they will be engaged in visiting, or being visited by friends, so as to preclude me from any chance of an hour at my own disposal. If you please--or, rather, if circ.u.mstances permit you to give me the pleasure of seeing you at twelve on Sat.u.r.day morning, the first day when I shall be at liberty, I shall be happy to receive you."

[Ill.u.s.trations: Ma.n.u.script Letter]

The stranger did so arrange that his visit should extend itself over the magic date of "November 5th," and on that day he stood at the portal to DeVere Gardens house.

"I was taken up to the poet's study," he writes. "There had been that day a memorial meeting for Matthew Arnold, to which Browning had been, and he spoke with reminiscent sadness of Arnold's life.

"'I have been thinking all the way home of his hardships,' said Mr.

Browning. 'He once told me, when I asked why he had not recently written any poetry, that he could not afford to, but that when he had saved enough, he intended to give up all other work, and devote himself to poetry. I wonder if he has turned to it now?' Browning added musingly."

One interesting incident related by this caller is that, having just been reading and being greatly impressed by Mr. Nettleship's a.n.a.lysis and interpretation of "Childe Roland," he asked the author if he accepted it.

"Oh, no," replied Mr. Browning; "not at all. Understand, I don't repudiate it, either; I only mean that I was conscious of no allegorical intention in writing it. 'Twas like this; one year in Florence I had been rather lazy; I resolved that I would write something every day. Well, the first day I wrote about some roses, suggested by a magnificent basket that some one had sent my wife. The next day 'Childe Roland' came upon me as a kind of dream. I had to write it, then and there, and I finished it the same day, I believe. But it was simply that I had to do it. I did not know then what I meant beyond that, and I'm sure I don't know now. But I am very fond of it."

This interesting confession emboldened the visitor to ask if the poet considered 'James Lee's wife' quite guiltless in her husband's estrangement. "Well, I'm not sure," replied Mr. Browning; "I was always very fond of her, but I fancy she had not much tact, and did not quite know how to treat her husband. I think she worried him a little. But if you want to know any more," he continued, with a twinkle in his eye, "you had better ask the Browning Society,--you have heard of it, perhaps?"

When Robert Barrett Browning purchased the Palazzo Rezzonico, the acquirement was a delight to his father, not unmixed with a trace of consternation, for it is one of the grandest and most imposing palaces in Italy. Up to 1758 it was occupied by Cardinal Rezzonico himself, when, at that date, he became Pope under the t.i.tle of Clement XIII. This palace, built in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, commands an unparalleled situation on the Grand Ca.n.a.l, and the majestic structure of white marble, with its rich carvings, the baroque ornaments of its key-stones, its cla.s.sic cornices and tripart.i.te loggias, its columns and grand architectural lines, is remarked, even in Venice, the city of palaces, for its sumptuous magnificence. As Mr. Browning had before remarked to Mrs. Bronson, "Pen" was infatuated with Venice. It is equally true that much of the infatuation of the ethereal city for subsequent visitors was due in no small measure to the beautiful and reverent manner in which Robert Barrett Browning made this palace a very Valhalla of the wedded poets, Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Here the son gathered every exquisite treasure a.s.sociated with his mother, and when, three years later, his father breathed his last within this n.o.ble palace, the younger Browning added to the a.s.sociations of his mother those, also, of his father's books, art, and intimate possessions. With his characteristic courtesy and generous consideration Mr. Barrett Browning permitted visitors, for many years, through his entire ownership of the palace, to visit and enjoy the significant collections, treasures which his taste and his love had there gathered.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PORTRAIT OF ROBERT BARRETT BROWNING

("PENINI"), AS A CHILD.

Painted at Siena, by Hamilton Wild, 1859.]

On the facade of the palace two stately entrances open upon the broad flight of marble steps that lead down to the water, and on the architraves are carved river-G.o.ds. In the s.p.a.cious court was placed his own statue of "Dryope." Ascending one marble flight of the grand escalier, one entered a lofty apartment whose n.o.ble proportions and richness of effect were most impressive. The floor, of red marble, in its rich, Byzantine hue, harmonized with a richly painted ceiling, which was one celebrated in Venetian art. From this vast salon opened, through richly carved doors, a series of rooms, each made vital with the portraits, sketches, busts, and other memorials of the poets. There were Story's busts of Browning and of his wife; there was Robert Barrett Browning's bust of his father,--one of the most remarkable among portrait busts in contemporary art; the portraits of Robert and Elizabeth Browning painted by Gordigiani of Rome, about 1855; a lovely pastel of Mrs. Browning when she was a child, representing her as standing in a garden, holding up her ap.r.o.n filled with flowers; there was her little writing-desk, and other intimate personal mementoes about. The immense array of presentation copies from other authors to the poets made an interesting library of themselves, as did the various translations of their own poems into many languages. There was a portrait of Browning painted when a young man, with a troubadour cloak falling over his shoulders; and a most interesting portrait of Milsand, painted by Barrett Browning, as a gift to his father.

There was also a picture of himself as a lad, the "Penini" of Siena days, mounted on his pony, and painted by Hamilton Wild (a Boston artist), in that most picturesque of hill-towns, during one of those summers that the Brownings and the Storys had pa.s.sed in the haunts of Santa Caterina.

By Mrs. Browning's little writing tablet was placed the last ma.n.u.script she had ever written; and on a table lay a German translation of "Aurora Leigh," with an inscription of presentation to Browning.

From one of these salons, looking out on the Grand Ca.n.a.l, is an alcove, formerly used as the private chapel of the Rezzonico. It was all white and gold, with a Venetian window draped in the palest green plush, while on either side were placed tall vases encrusted with green. In this alcove Mr. Barrett Browning had caused to be inscribed, in golden letters, surrounded with traceries and arabesques in gold, a copy of the inscription that was composed by the poet, Tommaseo, and placed by the city of Florence on the wall of Casa Guidi, near the grand portal:

QUI SCRISSE E MORI ELISABETTA BARRETT BROWNING CHE IN CUORE DI DONNA CONCILIAVA SCIENZA DI DOTTO E SPIRITO DI POETA E FECE DEL SUO VERSO AUREO ANELLO FRA ITALIA E INGHILTERRA PONE QUESTO MEMORIA FIRENZE GRATA 1861.

On the first floor was the room in which the poet wrote when the guest of his son in the palace; a _sala_ empaneled with the most exquisite decorated alabaster, panels of which also formed the doors, and opening from this was his sleeping-room, also beautifully decorated.

In one splendid _sala_, with rich mural decorations, and floor of black Italian marble, were many choice works of art, rare souvenirs, pictures of special claim to interest, wonderful tapestries, and almost, indeed, an _embarras de richesse_ of beauty.

In 1906 Robert Barrett Browning sold the Rezzonico; and now, beside his _casa_ and studios in Asolo, he has one of the old Medici villas, near Florence,--"La Torre all' Antella," with a lofty tower, from which the view is one of the most commanding and fascinating in all Tuscany. The panorama includes all Florence, with her domes and campanile and towers; and the Fiesolean hills, with the old town picturesquely revealed among the trees and against the background of sky, and with numerous other villages and hamlets, and a mountain panorama of changing color always before the eye. Mr. Browning is one of the choicest of spirits, with all that culture and beauty of spiritual life that characterized his parents.

He is a great linguist, and is one of the most interesting of men. No one knew his father, in that wonderful inner way, as did his son. He was twelve years old at the time of his mother's death, and from that period he was the almost constant companion of his father, until Browning's death, twenty-eight years later. Robert Barrett Browning has also purchased the ma.s.sive Casa Guidi, thus fitly becoming the owner of the palace in which he was born, and that is forever enshrined in literary history and poetic romance. It is, also, one of those poetic sequences of life, that Casa Guidi and Palazzo Peruzzi, near each other, in the Via Maggiore in Florence, are respectively owned by Mr. Browning and the Marchesa Peruzzi di' Medici, under which stately t.i.tle Mr. Story's daughter Edith, the childhood friend and companion of "Penini," is now known.

After the return to London of Browning and his sister Sarianna, from St.

Moritz, his constant letters to Mrs. Bronson again take up the story of a poet's days.

In the early winter he thus writes to his cherished friend--the date being December 4, 1887:

"Now let us shut the gondola gla.s.ses (I forget the technical word) and Talk, dear Friend! Here are your dear labors of love,--the letters and enclosures, and here is my first day of leisure this long fortnight, for, would you believe it? I have been silly enough to sit every morning for three hours to one painter, who took an additional two hours yesterday, in order to get done; before which exercise of patience I had to sit to another gentleman, who will summon me again in due time,--all this since my return from Venice and the _youthful five_! However, when, two days ago, there was yet another application to sit, the bear within the 'lion' came out, and I declined, as little gruffly as I was able. And so the end is I can talk and enjoy myself--even at a distance--with a friend as suddenly dear as all hands from the clouds must needs be. I will not try and thank you for what you know I so gratefully have accepted,--and shall keep forever, I trust.

"Well, here is the Duke's letter; he is a man of few words, and less protestation; but feels, as he should, your kindness, and will gladly acknowledge it, should you come to England, and it seems that you may.

But what will Venice be without you next year, if we return there as we hope to do?

"... Mrs. Bloomfield Moore pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ce 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," ent.i.tled "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 G.o.ds, 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 ill.u.s.trations 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 n.o.ble living, and infinite suggestiveness of spiritual achievement.

CHAPTER XII

1888-1889