The Complete Works of Robert Browning: Poems, Plays, Letters & Biographies in One Edition. Robert Browning
till April, in small rooms yellow with sunshine from morning till evening, and most days I am able to get out into the piazza and walk up and down for twenty minutes without feeling a breath of the actual winter … and Miss Boyle, ever and anon, comes at night, at nine o’clock, to catch us at hot chestnuts and mulled wine, and warm her feet at our fire — and a kinder, more cordial little creature, full of talent and accomplishment never had the world’s polish on it. Very amusing she is too, and original; and a good deal of laughing she and Robert make between them. And this is nearly all we see of the Face Divine — I can’t make Robert go out a single evening… .’
We have five extracts for 1848. One of these, not otherwise dated, describes an attack of sore-throat which was fortunately Mr. Browning’s last; and the letter containing it must have been written in the course of the summer.
‘… My husband was laid up for nearly a month with fever and relaxed sore-throat. Quite unhappy I have been over those burning hands and languid eyes — the only unhappiness I ever had by him. And then he wouldn’t see a physician, and if it had not been that just at the right moment Mr. Mahoney, the celebrated Jesuit, and “Father Prout” of Fraser, knowing everything as those Jesuits are apt to do, came in to us on his way to Rome, pointed out to us that the fever got ahead through weakness, and mixed up with his own kind hand a potion of eggs and port wine; to the horror of our Italian servant, who lifted up his eyes at such a prescription for fever, crying, “O Inglesi! Inglesi!” the case would have been far worse, I have no kind of doubt, for the eccentric prescription gave the power of sleeping, and the pulse grew quieter directly. I shall always be grateful to Father Prout — always.’*
* It had not been merely a case of relaxed sore-throat.
There was an abscess, which burst during this first night of sleep.
May 28.
‘… And now I must tell you what we have done since I wrote last, little thinking of doing so. You see our problem was, to get to England as much in summer as possible, the expense of the intermediate journeys making it difficult of solution. On examination of the whole case, it appeared manifest that we were throwing money into the Arno, by our way of taking furnished rooms, while to take an apartment and furnish it would leave us a clear return of the furniture at the end of the first year in exchange for our outlay, and all but a free residence afterwards, the cheapness of furniture being quite fabulous at the present crisis… . In fact we have really done it magnificently, and planted ourselves in the Guidi Palace in the favourite suite of the last Count (his arms are in scagliola on the floor of my bedroom). Though we have six beautiful rooms and a kitchen, three of them quite palace rooms and opening on a terrace, and though such furniture as comes by slow degrees into them is antique and worthy of the place, we yet shall have saved money by the end of this year… . Now I tell you all this lest you should hear dreadful rumours of our having forsaken our native land, venerable institutions and all, whereas we remember it so well (it’s a dear land in many senses), that we have done this thing chiefly in order to make sure of getting back comfortably, … a stone’s throw, too, it is from the Pitti, and really in my present mind I would hardly exchange with the Grand Duke himself. By the bye, as to street, we have no spectators in windows in just the grey wall of a church called San Felice for good omen.
‘Now, have you heard enough of us? What I claimed first, in way of privilege, was a spring-sofa to loll upon, and a supply of rain water to wash in, and you shall see what a picturesque oil-jar they have given us for the latter purpose; it would just hold the Captain of the Forty Thieves. As for the chairs and tables, I yield the more especial interest in them to Robert; only you would laugh to hear us correct one another sometimes. “Dear, you get too many drawers, and not enough washing-stands. Pray don’t let us have any more drawers when we’ve nothing more to put in them.” There was no division on the necessity of having six spoons — some questions passed themselves… .’
July.
‘… I am quite well again and strong. Robert and I go out often after tea in a wandering walk to sit in the Loggia and look at the Perseus, or, better still, at the divine sunsets on the Arno, turning it to pure gold under the bridges. After more than twenty months of marriage, we are happier than ever… .’
Aug.
‘… As for ourselves we have hardly done so well — yet well — having enjoyed a great deal in spite of drawbacks. Murray, the traitor, sent us to Fano as “a delightful summer residence for an English family,” and we found it uninhabitable from the heat, vegetation scorched into paleness, the very air swooning in the sun, and the gloomy looks of the inhabitants sufficiently corroborative of their words that no drop of rain or dew ever falls there during the summer. A “circulating library” which “does not give out books,” and “a refined and intellectual Italian society” (I quote Murray for that phrase) which “never reads a book through” (I quote Mrs. Wiseman, Dr. Wiseman’s mother, who has lived in Fano seven years) complete the advantages of the place. Yet the churches are very beautiful, and a divine picture of Guercino’s is worth going all that way to see… . We fled from Fano after three days, and finding ourselves cheated out of our dream of summer coolness, resolved on substituting for it what the Italians call “un bel giro”. So we went to Ancona — a striking sea city, holding up against the brown rocks, and elbowing out the purple tides — beautiful to look upon. An exfoliation of the rock itself you would call the houses that seem to grow there — so identical is the colour and character. I should like to visit Ancona again when there is a little air and shadow. We stayed a week, as it was, living upon fish and cold water… .’
The one dated Florence, December 16, is interesting with reference to Mr. Browning’s attitude when he wrote the letters to Mr. Frank Hill which I have recently quoted.
‘We have been, at least I have been, a little anxious lately about the fate of the ‘Blot in the ‘Scutcheon’ which Mr. Phelps applied for my husband’s permission to revive at Sadler’s. Of course putting the request was mere form, as he had every right to act the play — only it made ME anxious till we heard the result — and we both of us are very grateful to dear Mr. Chorley, who not only made it his business to be at the theatre the first night, but, before he slept, sat down like a true friend to give us the story of the result, and never, he says, was a more legitimate success. The play went straight to the hearts of the audience, it seems, and we hear of its continuance on the stage, from the papers. You may remember, or may not have heard, how Macready brought it out and put his foot on it, in the flush of a quarrel between manager and author; and Phelps, knowing the whole secret and feeling the power of the play, determined on making a revival of it in his own theatre. Mr. Chorley called his acting “fine”… .’
Chapter 10
1849-1852
Death of Mr. Browning’s Mother — Birth of his Son — Mrs. Browning’s Letters continued — Baths of Lucca — Florence again — Venice — Margaret Fuller Ossoli — Visit to England — Winter in Paris — Carlyle — George Sand — Alfred de Musset.
On March 9, 1849, Mr. Browning’s son was born. With the joy of his wife’s deliverance from the dangers of such an event came also his first great sorrow. His mother did not live to receive the news of her grandchild’s birth. The letter which conveyed it found her still breathing, but in the unconsciousness of approaching death. There had been no time for warning. The sister could only break the suddenness of the shock. A letter of Mrs. Browning’s tells what was to be told.
Florence: April 30 (‘49).
‘… This is the first packet of letters, except one to Wimpole Street, which I have written since my confinement. You will have heard how our joy turned suddenly into deep sorrow by the death of my husband’s mother. An unsuspected disease (ossification of the heart) terminated in a