but she dared not dream that the "mystic Shape" that drew her backward, and whose voice spoke "in mastery," had come to lead her,--not to Death, but Love.

CHAPTER V

1841-1846

"... If a man could feel, Not one day in the artist's ecstasy, But every day,--feast, fast, or working-day, The spiritual significance burn through The hieroglyphic of material shows, Henceforward he would paint the globe with wings."

"BELLS AND POMEGRANATES"--ARNOULD AND DOMETT--"A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON"-- MACREADY--SECOND VISIT TO ITALY--MISS BARRETT'S POETIC WORK-- "COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY"--"LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP"--"ROMANCES AND LYRICS"--BROWNING'S FIRST LETTER TO MISS BARRETT--THE POETS MEET-- LETTERS OF ROBERT BROWNING AND ELIZABETH BARRETT--"LOVES OF THE POETS"--VITA NUOVA.

The appearance of "Bells and Pomegranates" made a deep impression on Elizabeth Barrett, as the numbers, opening with "Pippa Pa.s.ses,"

successively appeared between 1841 and 1846. Of "Pippa" she said she could find it in her heart to covet the authorship, and she felt all the combinations of effect to be particularly "striking and n.o.ble." In a paper that Miss Barrett wrote in these days for the _Athenaeum_, critically surveying the poetic outlook of the time, she referred to Browning and Tennyson as "among those high and gifted spirits who would still work and wait." When this London journal reviewed (not too favorably) Browning's "Romances and Lyrics," Miss Barrett took greatly to heart the injustice that she felt was done him, and reverted to it in a number of personal letters, expressing her conviction that "it would be easier to find a more faultless writer than a poet of equal genius." An edition of Tennyson, in two volumes, came out, including the "Ulysses," "Morte d'Arthur,"

"Locksley Hall," and "OEnone," of which she says no one quite appeals to her as does "OEnone," and she expresses her belief that philosophic thinking, like music, is always involved in high ideality of any kind.

Wordsworth she insisted upon estimating from his best, not from his poorest work, and his "Ode" was to her so grand as to atone for a mult.i.tude of poetic sins. "I confess," she wrote to Boyd, "that he is not unfrequently heavy and dull, and that Coleridge has an intenser genius."

To her cousin, Kenyon, Miss Barrett sent the ma.n.u.script of her poem, "The Dead Pan," which he showed to Browning, who wrote of it to Kenyon with ardent admiration. This note was sent to Miss Barrett, who displayed it to Horne that he might see the opinion of the poet whom they both admired.

Still later, Horne published in his "New Spirit of the Age" sketches of several writers with their portraits; and those of Carlyle, Miss Martineau, Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Browning, Miss Barrett had framed for her own room. She asked Kenyon if that of Browning were a good one.

"Rather like," he replied. So here and there the Fates were invisibly at work, forging the subtle threads that were drawing the poets unconsciously nearer.

It was the suggestion of Browning's publisher, Moxon, that "Bells and Pomegranates" might be issued in pamphlet form, appearing at intervals, as this plastic method would be comparatively inexpensive, and would also permit the series to be stopped at any time if its success was not of a degree to warrant continuance. The poet found his t.i.tle, as he afterward explained in a letter to Miss Barrett, in Exodus, "... upon the hem of the robe thou shalt make pomegranates of blue and of purple, and of scarlet, and bells of gold between them round about." After "Pippa Pa.s.ses" there followed "King Victor and King Charles," a number of Lyrics, "The Return of the Druses," "A Blot in the 'Scutcheon," "Luria," and "A Soul's Tragedy." On each of the t.i.tle-pages the author was named as the writer of "Paracelsus," "Sordello" being ignored. Among the dedications of these several numbers those so honored included John Kenyon, Proctor, and Talfourd.

Browning offered "A Blot in the 'Scutcheon" to Macready (whose stage fortunes at this period were not brilliant), with the remark that "The luck of the third venture is proverbial." The actor consulted Forster, who pa.s.sed the play on to d.i.c.kens, to whom it deeply appealed. Under date of November 25, 1842, d.i.c.kens wrote of it to Forster in the most enthusiastic words, saying the reading of it had thrown him "into a perfect pa.s.sion of sorrow," and that it was "full of genius, natural, and great thoughts,...

and I swear it is a tragedy that must be played, and played by Macready,"

continued the novelist. "And tell Browning that I believe from my soul there is no man living (and not many dead) who could produce such a work."

Forster did not, however, administer this consolation to the young author, who was only to learn of d.i.c.kens's admiration thirty years later, when Forster's biography of him appeared. The story of the production of the play is told in a letter from Joseph Arnould to Alfred Domett (then in New Zealand), written under date of May, 1843, dated from Arnould's home in Victoria Square, Pimlico:

"As one must begin somewhere, suppose we take Browning.... In February his play, 'A Blot in the 'Scutcheon,' was announced as forthcoming at Drury Lane.... Meantime, judicious friends had a habit of asking when the play was coming out...."[5]

A long chapter of vexations is humorously described by Domett, who concludes his letter with this tribute to the play.

"... With some of the finest situations and grandest pa.s.sages you can conceive, it does undoubtedly want a sustained interest to the end of the third act; in fact the whole of that act on the stage is a falling off from the second, which I need not tell you is, for purposes of performance, the most unpardonable fault. Still, it will no doubt--nay, it must--have done this, viz., produced a higher opinion than ever of Browning's genius and the great things he is yet to do, in the minds not only of a clique, but of the general world of readers. This man will go far yet...."

While this vexation cancelled the friendly relations that had existed between Browning and Macready, it fostered the friendship between the poet and Helen Faucit (later Lady Martin), who remembered Browning's att.i.tude "as full of generous sympathy" for the actors of the cast; while he recalled Miss Faucit's "perfect behavior as a woman, and her admirable playing, as the one gratifying factor" in the affair. But Browning was too n.o.ble by nature for any lasting resentment, and meeting Macready soon after the death of both his own wife, in Italy, and of Mrs. Macready, he could only grasp his old friend's hand and exclaim with emotion, "Oh, Macready!"

In the autumn of 1844 Browning set forth for Italy on his second visit.

Two years before his friend Domett had left England for New Zealand, commemorated by the poet in the lines,--

"How, forsooth, was I to know it If Waring meant to glide away Like a ghost at break of day."

Browning landed at Naples, and there, according to Mrs. Orr, he became acquainted with a young Neapolitan, Signor Scotti, who took the bargaining of their tour upon himself, after they had agreed to travel together, "and now as I write," said Mr. Browning in a letter from his Naples hotel to his sister Sarianna, "I hear him disputing our bill. He does not see why we should pay for six wax candles when we have used only two." The pair wandered over the enchanting sh.o.r.es of all the Naples region, lingered in Sorrento, drove over the picturesque road to Amalfi, and listened to the song of the sirens along the sh.o.r.e. Their arrival in Rome was Browning's first sight of the Eternal City. Here Mr. Browning found an old friend, the Contessa Carducci, with whom the two pa.s.sed most of their evenings. He made his poetic pilgrimage to the graves of Sh.e.l.ley and Keats, as do all later pilgrims, and he visited the grotto of Egeria in memory of Byron. He loitered in the old _chiesa_ near Santa Maria Maggiore, where the sixteenth century Bishop "ordered his tomb," and he visited Trelawney in Leghorn. There exists little record of this trip save in the poem "The Englishman in Italy," and his return to England through Germany is alike unrecorded.

Six years had pa.s.sed since the publication of "The Seraphim and Other Poems," and on Mr. Browning's arrival at home again, he found two new volumes of Miss Barrett's, ent.i.tled simply "Poems," in which were "A Drama of Exile," "Bertha in the Lane," "Catarina to Camoens," "A Vision of Poets," nearly all of the sonnets that she ever wrote save that immortal sequence, "Sonnets from the Portuguese," and "Lady Geraldine's Courtship."

These volumes absolutely established her poetic rank with that of Tennyson and Browning. She "heard the nations praising her far off." While she had many expressions of grateful gladness for all this chorus of praise with hardly a dissenting voice, the verdict did not affect her own high standards. "I have written these poems as well as I could," she says, "and I hope to write others better. I have not reached my own ideal ... but I love poetry more than I love my own successes in it."

Her love of absolute truth, and the absence of any petty self-love in her character, stand out in any study of her life. "Why, if you had told me that my books were without any value in your eyes, do you imagine that I should not have valued you, reverenced you ever after for your truth, so sacred a thing in friendship?" she writes to a friend.

The reviews are eminently appreciative and satisfying. _Blackwood's_ gave a long critique in a special article, frankly pointing out faults, but a.s.serting that her merits far outweighed her defects, and that her genius "was profound, unsullied, and without a flaw." The long poem, "A Drama of Exile" was p.r.o.nounced the least successful of all, and the prime favorite was "Lady Geraldine's Courtship." Of this poem of ninety-two stanzas, with eleven more in its "Conclusion," thirty-five of the stanzas, or one hundred and forty-four lines, were written in one day.

Though lack of health largely restricted Miss Barrett to her room, her sympathies and interests were world-wide. She read the reviews of the biography of Dr. Arnold, a work she desired to read, entire, and records that "Dr. Arnold must have been a man in the largest and n.o.blest sense."

She rejoices in the refutation of Puseyism that is offered in the _Edinburgh Review_; she reads "an admirable paper by Macaulay" in the same number; she comments on the news that Newman has united himself with the Catholic Church; and in one letter she writes that Mr. Horne has not returned to England and adds: "Mr. Browning is not in England, either, so that whatever you send for him must await his return from the east, or west, or south, wherever he is; d.i.c.kens is in Italy; even Miss Mitford talks of going to France, and the 'New Spirit of the Age' is a wandering spirit."

In her "Lady Geraldine's Courtship" had occurred the lines:

"Or from Browning some 'Pomegranate,' which, if cut deep down the middle, Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity."

A certain consciousness of each other already stirred in the air for Browning and Miss Barrett, and still closer were the Fates drawing the subtle threads of destiny.

It was in this November that Mrs. Jameson first came into Miss Barrett's life, coming to the door with a note, and "overcoming by kindness was let in." This initiated a friendship that was destined in the near future to play its salient part in the life of Elizabeth Barrett. In what orderly sequence the links of life appear, viewed retrospectively!

She "gently wrangles" with Mr. Boyd for addressing her as "Miss Barrett,"

deprecating such cold formality, and offering him his choice of her little pet name "Ba" or of Elizabeth.

She reads Hans Christian Andersen's "Improvisatore," and in reply to some expressed wonder at her reading so many novels she avows herself "the most complete and unscrupulous romance reader" possible; and adds that her love of fiction began with her breath, and will end with it; "and it goes on increasing. On my tombstone may be written," she continued, "'_Ci git_ the greatest novel reader in the world,' and n.o.body will forbid the inscription."

And so the prelude of her life draws to a close, and the future is to be no more the mere living "with visions for her company," for now, in this January of 1845, she has a letter from Browning, and she writes: "I had a letter from Browning, the poet, last night, which threw me into ecstasies,--Browning, the author of 'Paracelsus,' and king of the mystics." Not long after she writes that she is getting deeper and deeper into correspondence with Robert Browning, and that they are growing to be the truest of friends. Lowell writes to Miss Barrett regarding her poems, though the letter does not seem to be anywhere on record, and she writes to Mr. Westwood that in her view Mr. Browning's power is of a very high order, and that he must read "Paracelsus." In its author she finds one who "speaks true oracles." She finds "Colombe's Birthday" exquisite, and "Pippa Pa.s.ses" she "kneels to, with deepest reverence."

The first letter of Browning to Miss Barrett was written on January 10 of this year (1845), and he began with the words: "I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett." He enters into the "fresh strange music, the exquisite pathos, and true, brave thought" of her work; and reminds her that Kenyon once asked him if he would like to see Miss Barrett, but that she did not feel able, and he felt as if close to some world's wonder, but the half-opened door shut. Her reply, which is dated the next day, thanks him for his sympathy and offers him her grat.i.tude, "agreeing that of all the commerce from Tyre to Carthage, the exchange of sympathy for grat.i.tude is the most princely thing." And she craves a lasting obligation in that he shall suggest her master-faults in poetry. She does not pretend to any extraordinary meekness under criticism, and possibly might not be at all obedient to it, but she has such high respect for his power in Art, and his experience as an artist. She refers to Mr. Kenyon as her friend and helper, and her books' friend and helper, "critic and sympathizer, true friend at all hours!" and she adds that "while I live to follow this divine art of poetry ... I must be a devout student and admirer of your works."

Browning is made very happy by her words, and he feels that his poor praise "was nearly as felicitously brought out as a certain tribute to Ta.s.so, which amused me in Rome some weeks ago," he says. "In a neat penciling on the wall by his tomb at Sant' Onofrio--'_Alla cara memoria--di--Torquato Ta.s.so--il Dottore Bernardini--offriva--il sequente Carme--tu_'--and no more; the good man, it would seem, breaking down with the over-load of love here! But my '_O tu_' was breathed out most sincerely, and now you have taken it in gracious part, the rest will come after." And then he must repeat (to himself) that her poetry must be infinitely more to him than his could be to her, "for you do what I have only hoped to do." And he hopes she will nevermore talk of "the honor" of his acquaintance, but he will joyfully wait for the delight of her friendship. And to his fear that she may hate letter-writing she replies suggesting that n.o.body likes writing to everybody, but it would be strange and contradictory if she were not always delighted to hear from and to write to him; and she can read any ma.n.u.script except the writing on the pyramids, and if he will only treat her _en bon camarade_ "without reference to the conventionalities of 'ladies and gentlemen'"; taking no thought for his sentences (or hers), "nor for your badd speling nor for mine," she is ready to sign and seal the contract of correspondence. And while she throws off the ceremony, she holds faster to the kindness. She is overjoyed with this cordial sympathy. "Is it true," she asks, "that I know so little of you? And is it true that the productions of an artist do not partake of his real nature? It is not true to my mind,--and therefore it is not true that I know little of you, except in so far as it is true that your greatest works are to come.... I think--if I may dare name myself with you in the poetic relation--that we both have high views of the Art we follow and steadfast purpose in the pursuit of it.... And that neither of us would be likely to be thrown from the course by the casting of any Atalanta ball of speedy popularity.

"And after all that has been said and mused upon the anxiety experienced by the true artist,--is not the good immeasurably greater than the evil?

For my part I sometimes wonder how, without such an object and purpose of life, people contrive to live at all."

And her idea of happiness "lies deep in poetry and its a.s.sociations." And he replies that what he has printed "gives no knowledge of me," and that he has never begun what he hopes he was born to begin and end--"R. B. a poem."

"Do you know Tennyson?" she asks, "that is, with a face to face knowledge?

I have great admiration for him," she continues. "In execution he is exquisite,--and in music a most subtle weigher out to the ear of fine airs." And she asks if he knows what it is to covet his neighbor's poetry,--not his fame, but his poetry. It delights her to hear of his garden full of roses and his soul full of comforts. She finds the conception of his Pippa "most exquisite, and altogether original."

In one of Miss Barrett's letters a few weeks later there seems discernible a forecast of "Aurora Leigh," when she writes that her chief intention is the writing "of a sort of novel-poem," and one "as completely modern as 'Geraldine's Courtship,' running into the midst of our conventions, and rushing into drawing-rooms and the like 'where angels fear to tread'; and so meeting face to face and without mask the Humanity of the age, and speaking the truth, as I conceive of it, out plainly." She is waiting for a story; she will not take one, because she likes to make her own. Here is without doubt the first conception of "Aurora Leigh."

Touching on Life in another letter, she records her feeling that "the brightest place in the house is the leaning out of the window."

Browning replies: "And pray you not to lean out of the window when my own foot is only on the stair."...

"But I did not mean to strike a tragic chord," she replies; "indeed I did not. As to 'escaping with my life,' it was just a phrase ... for the rest I am essentially better ... and feel as if it were intended for me to live and not to die." And referring to a pa.s.sage relating to Prometheus she asks: "And tell me, if aeschylus is not the divinest of all the divine Greek souls?" She continues:

"But to go back to the view of Life with the blind Hopes; you are not to think--whatever I may have written or implied--that I lean either to the philosophy or affectation which beholds the world through darkness instead of light ... and after a course of bitter mental discipline and long bodily seclusion I come out with two lessons learned--the wisdom of cheerfulness and the duty of social intercourse. Anguish has instructed me in joy, and solitude in society.... What we call life is a condition of the soul, and the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault.... And I do like to hear testimonies like yours, to happiness, and I feel it to be a testimony of a higher sort than the obvious one.... Remember, that as you owe your unscathed joy to G.o.d, you should pay it back to His world. I thank you for some of it already."

And she feels how kind he is,--how gently and kindly he speaks to her. In his next letter he alludes with much feeling to her idea of the poem-novel:

"The Poem you propose to make; the fresh, fearless, living work you describe, is the only Poem to be undertaken now by you or any one who is a poet at all; the only reality, only effective piece of service to be rendered G.o.d or man; it is what I have been all my life intending to do, and now shall be much nearer doing since you will be along with me. And you can do it, I know and am sure,--so sure that I could find it in my heart to be jealous of your stopping on the way even to translate the Prometheus...."