The Complete Works of Robert Browning: Poems, Plays, Letters & Biographies in One Edition. Robert Browning
life. He remained, nevertheless, subject, for many years, to gusts of uncontrollable emotion which would sweep over him whenever the question of ‘spirits’ or ‘spiritualism’ was revived; and we can only understand this in connection with the peculiar circumstances of the case. With all his faith in the future, with all his constancy to the past, the memory of pain was stronger in him than any other. A single discordant note in the harmony of that married love, though merged in its actual existence, would send intolerable vibrations through his remembrance of it. And the pain had not been, in this instance, that of simple disagreement. It was complicated by Mrs. Browning’s refusal to admit that disagreement was possible. She never believed in her husband’s disbelief; and he had been not unreasonably annoyed by her always assuming it to be feigned. But his doubt of spiritualistic sincerity was not feigned. She cannot have thought, and scarcely can have meant to say so. She may have meant to say, ‘You believe that these are tricks, but you know that there is something real behind them;’ and so far, if no farther, she may have been in the right. Mr. Browning never denied the abstract possibility of spiritual communication with either living or dead; he only denied that such communication had ever been proved, or that any useful end could be subserved by it. The tremendous potentialities of hypnotism and thought-reading, now passing into the region of science, were not then so remote but that an imagination like his must have foreshadowed them. The natural basis of the seemingly supernatural had not yet entered into discussion. He may, from the first, have suspected the existence of some mysterious force, dangerous because not understood, and for this reason doubly liable to fall into dangerous hands. And if this was so, he would necessarily regard the whole system of manifestations with an apprehensive hostility, which was not entire negation, but which rebelled against any effort on the part of others, above all of those he loved, to interpret it into assent. The pain and anger which could be aroused in him by an indication on the part of a valued friend of even an impartial interest in the subject points especially to the latter conclusion.
He often gave an instance of the tricks played in the name of spiritualism on credulous persons, which may amuse those who have not yet heard it. I give the story as it survives in the fresher memory of Mr. Val Prinsep, who also received it from Mr. Browning.
‘At Florence lived a curious old savant who in his day was well known to all who cared for art or history. I fear now few live who recollect Kirkup. He was quite a mine of information on all kinds of forgotten lore. It was he who discovered Giotto’s portrait of Dante in the Bargello. Speaking of some friend, he said, “He is a most ignorant fellow! Why, he does not know how to cast a horoscope!” Of him Browning told me the following story. Kirkup was much taken up with spiritualism, in which he firmly believed. One day Browning called on him to borrow a book. He rang loudly at the storey, for he knew Kirkup, like Landor, was quite deaf. To his astonishment the door opened at once and Kirkup appeared.
‘“Come in,” he cried; “the spirits told me there was some one at the door. Ah! I know you do not believe! Come and see. Mariana is in a trance!”
‘Browning entered. In the middle room, full of all kinds of curious objects of “vertu”, stood a handsome peasant girl, with her eyes fixed as though she were in a trance.
‘“You see, Browning,” said Kirkup, “she is quite insensible, and has no will of her own. Mariana, hold up your arm.”
‘The woman slowly did as she was bid.
‘“She cannot take it down till I tell her,” cried Kirkup.
‘“Very curious,” observed Browning. “Meanwhile I have come to ask you to lend me a book.”
‘Kirkup, as soon as he was made to hear what book was wanted, said he should be delighted.
‘“Wait a bit. It is in the next room.”
‘The old man shuffled out at the door. No sooner had he disappeared than the woman turned to Browning, winked, and putting down her arm leaned it on his shoulder. When Kirkup returned she resumed her position and rigid look.
‘“Here is the book,” said Kirkup. “Isn’t it wonderful?” he added, pointing to the woman.
‘“Wonderful,” agreed Browning as he left the room.
‘The woman and her family made a good thing of poor Kirkup’s spiritualism.’
Something much more remarkable in reference to this subject happened to the poet himself during his residence in Florence. It is related in a letter to the ‘Spectator’, dated January 30, 1869, and signed J. S. K.
‘Mr. Robert Browning tells me that when he was in Florence some years since, an Italian nobleman (a Count Ginnasi of Ravenna), visiting at Florence, was brought to his house without previous introduction, by an intimate friend. The Count professed to have great mesmeric and clairvoyant faculties, and declared, in reply to Mr. Browning’s avowed scepticism, that he would undertake to convince him somehow or other of his powers. He then asked Mr. Browning whether he had anything about him then and there, which he could hand to him, and which was in any way a relic or memento. This Mr. Browning thought was perhaps because he habitually wore no sort of trinket or ornament, not even a watchguard, and might therefore turn out to be a safe challenge. But it so happened that, by a curious accident, he was then wearing under his coat-sleeves some gold wrist-studs which he had quite recently taken into wear, in the absence (by mistake of a sempstress) of his ordinary wrist-buttons. He had never before worn them in Florence or elsewhere, and had found them in some old drawer where they had lain forgotten for years. One of these studs he took out and handed to the Count, who held it in his hand a while, looking earnestly in Mr. Browning’s face, and then he said, as if much impressed, “C’equalche cosa che mi grida nell’ orecchio ‘Uccisione! uccisione!’“ (“There is something here which cries out in my ear, ‘Murder! murder!’“)
‘“And truly,” says Mr. Browning, “those very studs were taken from the dead body of a great uncle of mine who was violently killed on his estate in St. Kitt’s, nearly eighty years ago… . The occurrence of my great uncle’s murder was known only to myself of all men in Florence, as certainly was also my possession of the studs.”‘
A letter from the poet, of July 21, 1883, affirms that the account is correct in every particular, adding, ‘My own explanation of the matter has been that the shrewd Italian felt his way by the involuntary help of my own eyes and face.’ The story has been reprinted in the Reports of the Psychical Society.
A pleasant piece of news came to brighten the January of 1858. Mr. Fox was returned for Oldham, and at once wrote to announce the fact. He was answered in a joint letter from Mr. and Mrs. Browning, interesting throughout, but of which only the second part is quite suited for present insertion.
Mrs. Browning, who writes first and at most length, ends by saying she must leave a space for Robert, that Mr. Fox may be compensated for reading all she has had to say. The husband continues as follows:
… ‘A space for Robert’ who has taken a breathing space — hardly more than enough — to recover from his delight; he won’t say surprise, at your letter, dear Mr. Fox. But it is all right and, like you, I wish from my heart we could get close together again, as in those old days, and what times we would have here in Italy! The realization of the children’s prayer of angels at the corner of your bed (i.e. sofa), one to read and one (my wife) to write,* and both to guard you through the night of lodging-keeper’s extortions, abominable charges for firing, and so on. (Observe, to call oneself ‘an angel’ in this land is rather humble, where they are apt to be painted as plumed cutthroats or celestial police — you say of Gabriel at his best and blithesomest, ‘Shouldn’t admire meeting him in a narrow lane!’)
* Mr. Fox much liked to be read to, and was in the habit of writing his articles by dictation.
I say this foolishly just because I can’t trust myself to be earnest about it. I would, you know, I would, always would, choose you out of the whole English world to judge and correct what I write myself; my wife shall read