Dearest Isa: Robert Browning's letters to Isabella Blagden 9780292767621

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ISABELLA BLAGDEN

DEAREST ISA Robert Browning's Letters to Isabella Blagden

Edited and with an introduction by EDWARD C. MCALEER

UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS PRESS. AUSTIN

195 1

Copyright © 1957 by the University of Texas Press Copyright © renewed 1979 All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America

Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to: Permissions University of Texas Press P.O. Box 7819 Austin, TX 78713-7819 www.utexas.edu/utpress/about/bpermission.html ISBN 978-0-292-71513-4, paperback Library of Congress Catalog Number: 51-004323

Preface Browning wrote to Isabella Blagden, "I read your letters, twice, and then burn them: mine, I trust, earnestly conjure you will never show: but you will not." On another occasion, when one of his letters to Leigh Hunt had been published, Browning wrote, this time to the Storys, 'There's nothing in my letter I care about except the indecent nature of the exposure: it's just as if, being at my toilette, some clownish person chose to throw the bedroom door wide." These words but echo what he wrote in "House": REMEMBER,"

"Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key?" Invite the world, as my betters have done? "Take notice: this building remains on view, Its suites of reception every one, Its private apartment and bedroom too; "For a ticket, apply to the Publisher!9 No: thanking the public, I must decline. A peep through my window, if folk prefer; But, please you, no foot over threshold of mine! Yet the price Browning must pay for his literary fame is submission to the scholar's search, the public's entrance, and the collector's ferreting—for any fact or scrap of a fact which will help us better to understand the genius of Robert Browning is worth having and publishing, particularly in these days of psychological and psycho-analytical interests. Browning must, indeed, have had some realization of an "obligation" to the public, for he left the letters of the present volume unburned, even though he was prodigal

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Dearest Isa

in burning other material. It is fortunate that we have them, for they supply us with a monthly communication from the poet to his dearest friend, and they constitute our best source of biographical material for eleven years after the death of Mrs. Browning. Moreover, the fact that Browning wrote "off guard" is especially important because he was usually careful not to be taken off guard in his letters, in his photographs, and even in his poems, which he called so many dramatic utterances, not his own. In preparing this edition I have made use of many libraries and collections, and it is a pleasant task to extend thanks for the privilege of using the Browning Collection at Baylor University, the Henry W. and Albert A. Berg Collection in the New York Public Library, the Boston Public Library, the Harvard College Library, the Yale University Library, the Biblioteca Nazionale of Florence, and the British Museum. These libraries have not only allowed me the use of their resources, but have undertaken to assist me in the unravelling of complexities and the tracking down of elusive facts, and have granted generous permission to publish material in their collections. The many people, some of them internationally known scholars, who have offered assistance merely for the asking are a tribute to the genius of Robert Browning and an indication of the love which exists for him in America and in Europe. Special thanks are due to Miss Sue Moore of Baylor University; Professor W. O. Raymond of Bishop's University; Professor Clark S. Northup of Cornell University; Professor Napoleone Orsini of Duke University; Professor John B. Wolf of the University of Minnesota; Mrs. Catherine DeFord, Miss Eleanor E. Goehring, Professors John C. Hodges, K. L. Knickerbocker, Walter E. Stiefel and Alwin Thaler of the University of Tennessee; Professor T. L. Hood of Trinity College; Dean W. C. DeVane and Professor Norman H. Pearson of Yale; Mr. John Shuman of Minneapolis; Dr. John D. Gordan and Miss Barbara Spungin of New York City; and Miss Florence Epaves of Rome. Professor Knickerbocker suggested this book and generously relinquished his prior right to prepare it. Professor Pearson not only

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Preface

allowed me full use of his material on Hawthorne and Ada Shepard, but also directed me to other source material and made many valuable suggestions. Over and above the debt which all lovers of Browning owe to Dr. A. Joseph Armstrong, I am pleased to acknowledge my debt for his permission to prepare the present volume, to use his collection at Baylor, and to draw on his wide knowledge of persons and places significant in the study of Browning. To old friends and new acquaintances abroad I am happy to offer special thanks: to Professor Adolfo Betti of the Bagni di Lucca; Contessa Editta Rucellai, Madame Giuliana Artom, Professor Raffaele Ciampini, Mr. W. F. Copinger, Miss Anita Mandolfo, the late Madame C. Danyell Tassinari, and Miss Edith Tiffany of Florence; Signor Luigi Villari of Rome; M. Lavergne of Périgueux, France; Lady Berwick, the Honorable Theodora Benson, Sir Frederic Kenyon, and Mr. Victor Blagden of England. The following have granted permission to quote copyrighted material: Baylor University Press to quote from the Baylor Bulletins; Wm. Blackwood & Sons Ltd. to quote from Henry James' William Wetmore Story and His Friends; Farrar, Straus and Company, Inc., to quote from Michael Sadleir's Trollope: A Commentary; Harvard University Press to quote from A. Guérard's Napoleon 111; Sir John Murray and Mr. John Grey Murray to quote from Mrs. Browning's letters; Methuen & Co. Ltd., to quote from Minchin's Walter Savage Landor; and Yale University Press to quote from Letters of Robert Browning, ed. Hood, and New Letters of Robert Browning, ed. DeVane and Knickerbocker. The necessary privileges of copyright have been granted by Sir John Murray and Mr. John Grey Murray, to whom I wish to make grateful acknowledgement. EDWARD C. MCALEER

Rome, Italy January, 1951

Contents Preface

ν

Cue-Titles, Abbreviations, and Symbols

.

.

.

.

xvii xix

Introduction

Letters Number 1 2 3 4 5

6

7 8 9 10 11

12 13 14 15 16

Date c. 1850 Aug. 1, 1857 February, 1858 July 3, 1858 July 8, 1858 Aug. 1, 1858 Sept. 4, 1858 Sept. 11, 1858 c. Oct. 2,1858 Jan. 7, 1859 Feb. 15, 1859 Mar. 27, 1859 Aug. 2, 1859 Aug. 7, 1859 Aug. 11,1859 Sept. 9,1859

[ix]

Manuscript

Page

Baylor 29 Baylor 7 Baylor 17 Baylor 1 Baylor 2 Baylor 10 BM A2550 Baylor 11 Baylor 4 Baylor 8 NYPL and Baylor 9 Baylor 6 Baylor 28 Baylor 12 BM A2550 Baylor 13

1 2 5 6 10 12 17 20 21 23 32 39 41 42 44 46

Dearest Isa

χ

Number

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49

Date

Nov. 30, 1859 Dec. 29, 1859 Jan. 1, 1860 January 1860 January 1860 Feb. 8, 1860 March 27, 1860 April 19, 1860 May 2, 1860 May 10, 1860 May 19, 1860 Dec. 3, 1860 Dec. 8, 1860 Dec. 12, 1860 Dec. 27, 1860 Jan. 21, 1861 January 1861 c. Jan. 25,1861 May 13, 1861 June 23, 1861 June 24, 1861 June 25, 1861 June 26, 1861 Aug. 22, 1861 Aug. 31, 1861 Sept. 9, 1861 Sept. 17, 1861 January 1862 Feb. 6, 1862 Feb. 15, 1862 March 7, 1862 March 25, 1862 June 19, 1862

Manuscript

BM A2553 Baylor 18 Baylor 16 Baylor 3 Baylor 15 Baylor 18 Missing Baylor 19 Baylor 20 Baylor 56 Baylor 5 Baylor 21 Baylor 23 Baylor 22 Baylor 24 Baylor 26 Baylor 25 Baylor 34 Baylor 27 Baylor 33 Baylor 31 Baylor 30 Baylor 32 Baylor 35 Baylor 36 Baylor 37 Baylor 38 Baylor 40 Baylor 39 Baylor 41 Baylor 42 Baylor 43 BM A2553

Page

47 50 51 52 54 56 57 60 62 63 64 65 68 69 70 72 74 75 76 79 80 81 81 82 85 87 91 93 94 97 100 103 105

Contente Number 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 61 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Date July 19, 1862 July 26, 1862 Aug. 1, 1862 Aug. 18, 1862 Sept. 19, 1862 Oct. 18, 1862 Nov. 19, 1862 Dec. 19, 1862 Jan. 19, 1863 Feb. 19, 1863 March 19, 1863 April 19, 1863 May 19, 1863 July 19, 1863 Aug. 19, 1863 Sept. 19, 1863 Nov. 19, 1863 Dec. 19, 1863 Jan. 19, 1864 Feb. 8, 1864 March 19, 1864 Aug. 19, 1864 Sept. 19, 1864 Oct. 19, 1864 Nov. 19, 1864 Dec. 19, 1864 Jan. 19, 1865 Feb. 19, 1865 March 18, 1865 April 19, 1865 May 19, 1865 Aug. 19, 1865

xi Manuscript

Page

Baylor 44 BM A2550 Baylor 45 Baylor 46 Baylor 47 Baylor 48 Baylor 49 Baylor 50 BM A2535 Baylor 51 Baylor 67 Baylor 53 Baylor 54 and 55 Yale Baylor 57 Baylor 58 Baylor 59 BM A2550 Baylor 60 Missing Baylor 52 Baylor 61 Missing BM A2550 Baylor 62 Baylor 63 Baylor 64 Baylor 65 Baylor 66 Baylor 68 Baylor 69 BM A2536

109 113 115 116 122 127 133 141 145 151 155 158 162 166 171 175 178 182 184 187 187 189 193 194 198 200 203 206 209 213 215 218

Dearest Isa

xii Number 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114

Date Sept. 19, 1865 Oct. 19, 1865 Dec. 19,1865 Feb. 19,1866 March 19, 1866 April 22,1866 May 19, 1866 June 20, 1866 July 13, 1866 Aug. 7, 1866 Sept. 24, 1866 Oct. 19, 1866 Nov. 26, 1866 Feb. 19, 1867 March 21, 1867 March 29, 1867 April 23, 1867 May 22,1867 June 19,1867 July 19, 1867 Aug. 19, 1867 Sept. 19, 1867 Nov. 19, 1867 Dec. 31, 1867 Jan. 19, 1868 Feb. 20, 1868 March 19, 1868(?) June 16, 1868 June 19, 1868 Aug. 28, 1868 Oct. 19, 1868 Nov. 12, 1868 Dec. 17, 1868

Manuscript Baylor 70 Baylor 71 Baylor 72 Baylor 73 Baylor 74 Baylor 75 NYPL BM A2547 Baylor 76 BM A2548 BM A2548 Baylor 77 Baylor 78 BM A2553 Missing Baylor 79 Baylor 80 Baylor 81 Baylor 83

T. L. Hood BM A2548 BM A2548 Baylor 86 Baylor 87 Baylor 88 Baylor 89 Baylor 91 Baylor 90 Missing NYPL Baylor 92 Baylor 93 Baylor 94

Page 222 226 229 230 231 234 237 240 242 243 246 248 250 253 257 260 261 264 268 271 276 279 284 286 287 291 294 297 298 299 301 303 304

xiii

Contents Number 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147

Date January 1869 Feb. 19,1869 April 19,1869 May 16, 1869 June 19,1869 June 24,1869 Aug. 28,1869 Sept. 19,1869 Oct. 19,1869 Jan. 19, 1870 Feb. 24,1870 March 22, 1870 April 21, 1870 June 19,1870 July 2, 1870 July 19, 1870 Aug. 9,1870 Aug. 19, 1870 Sept. 19, 1870 Oct. 19, 1870 Nov. 21, 1870 Dec. 30, 1870 Jan. 23,1871 April 25, 1871 May 21,1871 July 19, 1871 Aug. 19, 1871 Oct. 1, 1871 Nov. 8, 1871 Dec. 29, 1871 Jan. 25, 1872 Feb. 19, 1872 March 30, 1872

Manuscript

Page

Baylor 85 Baylor 95 Baylor 96 Baylor 97 Baylor 84 Baylor 98 Baylor 99 Baylor 100 Baylor 101 BM A2553 Baylor 102 BM A2551 Baylor 103 BM A2551 Baylor 104 BM A2553 Baylor BM A2552 Baylor 105 BM A2552 Baylor 106 Baylor 107 Baylor 108 Baylor 109 Baylor 110 BM A2538 Baylor 111 Baylor 112 Baylor 113 Baylor 114 Baylor 115 Baylor 116 Baylor 117

307 310 313 316 318 321 322 324 325 327 330 332 335 335 337 340 341 342 345 347 350 352 355 356 359 361 363 366 369 370 372 374 376

Dearest Isa

xiv Number 148 149 150 151 152 153 154

Date April 30, 1872 May 22, 1872 June 1872 July 3, 1872 Aug. 27, 1872 Sept. 19,1872 Nov. 1, 1872

Manuscript

Page

Baylor 118 Baylor 119 Baylor 124 Missing Baylor 119a Baylor 120 Baylor 121

377 379 380 381 382 384 386

Appendix

389

Index

391

Illustrations Isabella Blagden

frontispiece opposite page

Facsimile of Letter 29

68

Mrs. Browning's Monument, Protestant Cemetery, Florence

220

Memorial Tablet on Casa Guidi

220

Robert Browning

316

[XV]

Cue-Titles, Abbreviations, and Symbols Armstrong Baylor BM BPL Britannica Curie DAB DNB DeVane D &Κ EBB G &Μ Hood Huxley Intimate Glimpses James

Letters of Robert Browning to Miss Isa Blagden, arr. for publication by A. Joseph Armstrong, Waco, Texas, 1923. Baylor University, Waco, Texas. British Museum. Boston Public Library. The Encyclopaedia Britannica, 11th ed., 1910-11. Robert Browning and Julia Wedgwood, A Broken Friendship as Revealed by Their Letters, ed. Richard Curie, New York, 1937. Dictionary of American Biography. Dictionary of National Biography. W. C. DeVane, A Browning Handbook, New York, 1935. New Letters of Robert Browning, ed. W. C. DeVane and K. L. Knickerbocker, New Haven, 1950. Mrs. Browning. W. Η. Griffin and H. C. Minchin, The Life of Robert Browning, New York, 1910. Letters of Robert Browning Collected by Thomas J. Wise, ed. Τ. L. Hood, London, 1933. Elizabeth Barrett Browning: Letters to Her Sister, 1846-1859, ed. Leonard Huxley, London, 1929. Intimate Glimpses from Browning's Letter File, assembled by A. Joseph Armstrong, Waco, Texas, 1934. Henry James, William Wetmore Story and His Friends, Boston, 1903.

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Dearest Isa

The Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, ed. F. G. Kenyon, New York, 1897. Jeannette Marks, The Family of the Barrett, New Marks York, 1938. Manuscript, generally unpublished. MS New English Dictionary. NED New York Public Library, Berg Collection. NYPL Mrs. Sutherland Orr, Life and Letters of Robert Orr Browning, rev. F. G. Kenyon, Boston, 1908. Publications of the Modern Language Association. PMLA The Letters and Private Papers of William MakeRay peace Thackeray, ed. G. N. Ray, Cambridge, Mass., 1946. Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett RB-EBB Barrett, 1843-1846, New York, 1899. The Browning Collections. Catalogue of Oil PaintSotheby ings, Drawings & Prints; Autograph Letters and Manuscripts; Books . . . the Property of R. W. Barrett Browning, Esq., London, 1913. Ulrich Thieme and Felix Becker, Allgemeines LexiThieme-Becker kon der bildenden Künstler von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart, Leipzig, 1907—. Typescript. TpS in BM refers to British Museum TpS ADD 42229-42231, the typescript prepared by Sir Frederic Kenyon for his edition of Mrs. Browning's letters and deposited by him in the British Museum. Triple asterisks indicate the beginning or end of a letter which exists only in part. Brackets indicate material inserted by the editor. [ ] Ellipses indicate omissions from quoted material in the notes, but not from the actual text of the letters. Elongated brackets indicate an irregularity in the < > manuscript the nature of which is indicated in the notes.

Kenyon

Arabic numerals refer to the present volume. Thus, 86 refers to the letter 86; 86.2 refers to letter 86, note 2. Text 86.2 refers not to the note but to the text of the letter at that point.

Introduction Robert Browning took his bride from England on September 19, 1846, he did not intend to settle in Florence, for that city, in spite of its attractions of beauty, culture, and tradition, was inhabited by hordes of vulgar and pushing English, parvenus who would have been inexorably excluded from polite society in England. The important thing was that the couple be together in "Pisa or Florence, or Sorrento, or New Orleans,—ubi Ba, ibi R Β!"1 With that one thought in mind they arrived in Paris and sent word to Mrs. Anna Jameson, Elizabeth's friend and confidante, that they were now man and wife and—between the lines— eminently in need of her help. Mrs. Jameson, not reluctant, took charge of the pair and accompanied them, with her niece, as far as Pisa where she saw them established in furnished rooms before she departed for Florence, Siena, and Rome. WHEN

The following spring—on April 20, 1847—the Brownings arrived in Florence, took rooms in the Via delle Belle Donne, and discovered to their joy and relief that they had quadrupled their income merely by moving from London to Florence. From that day until Elizabeth's death in June 1861 Florence was their home, or rather headquarters, for it was not unusual for them to spend the summer elsewhere, perhaps in Siena, and the winter elsewhere, perhaps in Rome, and stay in Florence briefly in between. In May 1848, after having tried furnished rooms at four different Florentine addresses, they rented seven unfurnished rooms in Casa Guidi. From the front door of Casa Guidi the Brownings could see a corner of the Pitti Palace, inhabited then by Leopold II of HapsburgLorraine, grand duke of Tuscany, and mildest of the Italian despots.

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Dearest Isa

Their Florence was grand-ducal Florence, and their Rome was papal Rome, cities of pageantry and grandeur if not of the liberalism which the Brownings ardently professed. Already, English and American artists and writers had begun to colonize the two cities, so that the Brownings did not lack stimulating society. Many of the artists are pathetically obscure today, remembered perhaps only because they once knew the Brownings, but in their own day they were distinguished and exerted their influence on the poets. Browning studied sculpture in the Roman studio of William Wetmore Story and painting in the studio of a Mrs. Mackenzie. He was thirty-five when he went to live in Florence and fortynine when he left, and these were his most vigorous years, the years when he wrote some of his best-known poems. He found Florence a dull city and would have preferred London, or Paris, or Rome; but Elizabeth needed the quiet of Florence (always comparatively provincial) and the mildness of the Italian climate. In spite of the famed perfect love between the two poets, Casa Guidi was for Browning not completely adequate. He was a man of health, virility, and spirit, married to an invalid six years his senior. During the early years of his married life, night after night he remained with his wife. In later years, though, he saw Elizabeth safely in bed, with a book, and went off to the social life that he loved. In Florence he was at Isabella Blagden's villa four nights a week. "There was always a ripple of laughter round the sofa where he used to seat himself," wrote Frances Power Cobbe, "generally beside some lady of the company, towards whom, in his eagerness, he would push nearer and nearer till she frequently rose to avoid falling off at the end!"2 (The men used to be rather afraid of him lest his quiet, lurking smile expose the shallowness of their utterances.3) This Isa Blagden, whose Florentine villa was Browning's second home, was a lovable little woman whose name appears, always with evidence of affection, in the memoirs and letters of her contemporaries. To Browning she was a "bright, delicate, electric woman"; to Kate Field "Our Lady of Bellosguardo"; to T. A. Trollope most

Introduction

xxi

"universally beloved"; to Hawthorne "a likable and intelligent person, with literary culture and affinities"; to Henry James "an eager little lady who has gentle, gay black eyes and whose type gives, visibly enough, the hint of East-Indian blood." After but brief acquaintance, Mrs. Hawthorne wrote in her journal, "I like dearly fto go there [to Isa's villa] because I love her," and Ada Shepard, the Hawthornes' governess, was filled "overflowing with happiness" because Miss Blagden, standing on her terrace at dusk, cried out, "I can see Miss Shepard's eyes shine all this way up here, and I know she is very happy."4 Another American, Charles A. Page of the New York Tribune, found her on first acquaintance "a wonderful little woman" and arranged (ineffectually, it proved) for her to become the regular Tribune Florence correspondent. "I am charmed with her personally," he wrote to Kate Field, "and I admire what she can do and does do with her pen."5 Over sixty years after Isa Blagden's death, the late Miss Margaret Jackson of Wellesley College remembered her well enough to write:6 "Miss Blagden (Isa, pronounced as eas(a) or eas(e), the short for Isabella) was a very dear and close friend of my mother, but since she died when I was quite a child my memory of her is vague, but the impression that remains is that she was small, slight, delicate, with very black eyes and jet black hair, olive complexion, she might have passed for an Italian. I seem to connect her with a crimson shawl—whether habitual or not—I do not know. Another impression is that she was born in India of an English father and native mother. What definite memory I have of her is connected with the Villa Castellani on the square of Bellosguardo—unless I am mistaken Henry James describes it in the 'Portrait of a Lady.' When I went up there with mother I would be turned into the garden to play with the dogs, one, Venezia, a white French poodle, was kind but rather depressed. Miss Blagden saved him from drowning in a Venice canal, the other a black-and-tan had an uncertain temper, there was in the garden a tiny grave with a headstone Teddy' which impressed me much.

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"My mother's references to Miss Blagden were of her vivacity of manner, her kindness of heart, her thoughtfulness for others, her charming hospitality, her luncheons to which English men and women of letters, resident in Florence or passing through were asked and her regular Saturdays at home where, when the weather permitted tea was served in the terraced garden which overlooked Florence and the Arno to the West. She wrote several novels, the only one that I remember was 'Aunt Margaret's Trouble.'7 I have the impression that it was somewhat autobiographic . . . . I have among my papers a poem not in the [Austin] collection, called 'After the Ball' written for my mother's Album."8 The hospitality which she extended to her many, many friends was managed on pitifully slender means, derived largely from her writings. In Florence she lived in various villas outside the city where rent was cheaper. They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city!9 Yet she was able to live well in a fourteen-room villa with two servants and a carriage, generally sharing expenses with another woman. "I think few writers lay sufficient stress," she wrote in Agnes Tremorne, "on the large space which a true friendship, such as two mature minds can feel for each other, holds in the lives of two single women, and what exquisite enjoyments are derived from it. In the personal intimacy which exists in such a relation, there is entire comprehension and knowledge of each other. This is seldom attained, even in the holiest and truest marriage."10 Beloved though she was by many friends, not one friend has told us anything of her origins. There were rumors of an English father and an Indian mother, a "nebulous impression" that her parents were unwed,11 and an entry in the register of the Protestant Cemetery in Florence saying that her father's name was Thomas, her nationality Swiss, and that she died on January 20, 1873, aged

Introduction

xxiii

fifty-five.12 The India Office could provide no record of her birth or baptism, and the two branches of the Blagden family in England have no record of her, although their records are quite complete. (The theory of Indian origin is supported by Mrs. Browning's references to India where Isa's invalid friend Louisa Alexander died, and also by an apparently well-informed treatment of India in Isa's novel The Crown of a Life.1*) The only definite reference to relatives is contained in a letter from Mrs. Constanza (Mazini) Hulton, who wrote to Dr. Armstrong, "very little was known to me about her family connections, her only relations that I ever heard of are a widowed Mrs Bracken living in Florence in those years (1865-72) & her son. Both are dead. The son married a Madlle Des Boutins, daughter of a well known French painter & etcher who also lived at Bellosguardo."14 Miss Blagden settled in Florence in 1849, and was acquainted with the Brownings by the summer of 1850; for the remaining twentytwo years of her life the record is fairly complete. Her principal addresses during these years were, 1849-1850 1851 1852 1853-1854 1854-1855 1855-1856 1856-1861 1861-1862 1862-1873

Florence, Villa Moutier Rome, 18 Via dei Prefetti England Rome, 13 Via Gregoriana Florence England and France Florence, Villa Brichieri England Florence, Villas Giglioni, Isetta, and Castellani

She visited the Bagni di Lucca during the summers of 1857 and 1867; England during the summers of 1866, 1868, and 1872; Madrid from November 1858 to March 1859; Siena (near the Brownings) during the summer of 1860; Venice during May of 1865; and Austria in July 1871. Her friendship during the early fifties was with Mrs. Browning whose letters were addressed to "Dear Miss Blagden" until March

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Dearest Isa

1853 when they were addressed to "Dearest Isa." By the late fifties, Browning was writing to his "Dearest Isa," and after Mrs. Browning's death, Isa Blagden became his dearest and closest woman friend. The Brownings and Miss Blagden spent the summer of 1860 near each other in Siena, but when winter approached they went to Rome and she to Florence. Mrs. Browning was not well when she returned to Florence on the fifth of June. Cavour, on whom she had pinned most of her hopes for Italy, died the next day, and his loss only aggravated her poor health. On Thursday, June 20, Isa called early in the evening, and, when the windows, closed during the day to exclude the sun, were opened, Mrs. Browning sat in the draught despite Isa's remonstrances. By Sunday she was so ill she could receive no visitors, but the next Thursday she was able to see Isa, and on Friday the two women were able to talk a little politics, even though Browning objected "No talking, come, go Isa." Isa returned to her villa, but, unable to sleep, sat at her desk, making a pretense at writing, until dawn when she heard the rattle of a pair of wheels down in the city below. She knew at once that a cab was coming for her, and she was ready and waiting to go back to Casa Guidi when the cabman arrived with the message, "La signora della Casa Guidi è morta."15 Isa Blagden went down to Casa Guidi and spent there the first day of what she later called her "apocalyptic month."16 In the evening she took the boy Pen Browning back with her to the Villa Brichieri on Bellosguardo, and Browning stayed at Casa Guidi until after the funeral, which was held on July 1 at seven in the evening. The next day his grief quite overcame him and he found himself with his "head on the table and sense out of it for some few moments." He walked up to the Villa Brichieri, where Isa Blagden took care of him, alarmed when he expressed the fear that he might not get through the next night.17 Browning arranged for the sale of those things he did not wish to save, stored other possessions in cases in the cellar of Mlle. de

Introduction

xxv

Fauveau, and prepared to leave Florence. Miss Blagden closed her villa, stored her possessions in the Villino Trollope, and set out for Paris with Browning and his son on August 1. She saw her two charges safely in Paris with Browning's father and sister, and then departed for England. Browning wrote to her that he was happy she was with people who could minister a little to her. "I tire myself thoroughly in the day," he wrote, "and go to bed & sleep, thank God."18 She remained in England a year—now here, now there, sometimes at Stone House in Kent, sometimes across the way from Browning's house in Chichester Road. From the first she intended to go back to Florence. "I like England excessively for many things," she wrote to Mme. Mignaty on March 16 [1862], "but for others I prefer Italy much. In England there is such a dearth of men in society, all the men are too occupied to go out, and in England if a man talks twice to the same lady he is thought engaged to her. It makes me so mad —for of course one can talk to men to all eternity without thinking or dreaming of anything but what one is saying . . . . I daresay several men in England have thought I wished to make love to them, just because I talked and laughed with them, for their sisters or friends have immediately praised them up to the skies as if it mattered what they were, beyond the minute to an old stager like me."19 In September 1862 she returned to Florence, where she remained, except for visits and excursions, until her death. Before her return, she and Browning made an agreement to write to each other once a month, she on the 12th, the anniversary of Browning's marriage, and he on the 19th, the anniversary of the elopement from England. The letters were not intended to be profound or to go an inch below the surface; they were merely to be a substitute for the old chats and gossip until Browning, his son educated and ready to face life for himself, could join Isa and spend his old age chatting and gossiping, two "pythons" basking in the sun in Italy.20 Isa devoted the remainder of her life to writing, and, when she was needed, to nursing her friends. Just as she had nursed Robert Lytton and cared for Browning in his time of need, she nursed

xxvi

Dearest Isa

Theodosia Trollope, Count Cottrell, and how many others it would be impossible to know. In her own last illness she was attended by Mme. Linda (White) Mazini, who was with her when she died. Her death was sudden and, according to T. A. Trollope, unnecessary.21 She was never a strong woman; yet she was always unwilling to seek medical advice and did not do so until the second day of her last illness. Trollope felt that he or Browning could have made her call a doctor, but they were absent, Trollope at Siena, and Browning, of course, in England. She died on January 20, 1873. One copy of her funeral notice read, 'The interment of MISS BLAGDEN will take place at the Protestant cemetery on Tuesday, Jany 28th at noon and Mr & Mrs Jackson are invited to attend. 1873 Florence Italy."22 After Isa's death, photographs were taken of the rooms in her Villa Castellani, her possessions were sold, and her friends were invited to contribute to a memorial placed over her grave. Mme. Mazini gathered together some of Isa's poems and asked Alfred Austin to prepare an edition of them. Austin had met Isa in 1865 and, like so many others, had immediately become one of her friends. He agreed to edit the poems and to write a memoir, the project to be financed by subscription. Browning felt that he could not subscribe to any project with which Alfred Austin was connected, and wrote: London, 19. Warwick Crescent, W June 5. '73 Dear Madame Mazini, My son gives me a letter which I can answer more frankly and directly than he may like to do. I am sure you mean nothing but kindness to Isa Blagden's memory, and kindness to myself also, in the scheme of republishing her poems and in this application to add my name to the subscription-list. Of the first,—as it is being already carried into execution, there is no use in saying a word now: of the other, I shall only assure you, as briefly but as emphatically as I can, that I will be no party to the association of a dearly-loved name with that of Mr Alfred Austin. When the book is perpetrated,— I may buy it, and, by help of penknife and ink-blotting, purify and

Introduction

xxvii

render it fit to be read—for so I understand the "mark of friendship" you expect of me. Ever most truly yours Robert Browning.23 Austin edited the poems, introducing some changes of his own, and wrote a tender and appreciative memoir which was published in 1873. Years later (1885) he wrote, in "A Letter from Italy": When, as evening belfries chime, I to Bellosguardo climb Vaguely thinking there to find Faces that still haunt my mind, Though the doors stand open wide, No one waits for me inside; Not a voice comes forth to greet, As of old, my nearing feet. So I stand without, and stare, Wishing you were here to share Void too vast alone to bear. There is no indication that Browning ever intended to marry Miss Blagden, although he gave her frequent assurances of his friendship and love:—"You who are our best & dearest friend, as you know . . ."24 "Dearest friend, no one has ever been to me all you have been. I shall find no new friends even of a lower grade nor do I want them—kind acquaintances I continue to make every day: you are my—nearly one, certainly best, woman-friend."25 "I gladly go on to say that . . . if you don't like me, I continue to love you dearly, and ever shall,—and that if you won't write to me, that is no reason why I should not write to you till my dying day . . . ."26 But the love he had for Isa differed from the love he had for Elizabeth, and Browning never let Elizabeth out of his mind, especially when dealing with other women. In the act of proposing to Lady Ashburton, he told her "my heart was buried in Florence."27 To Julia Wedgwood he wrote that Elizabeth "never had any womanfriend so entirely fit for her as you would have been—I have told

xxviii

Dearest Isa

you so sometimes."28 And to Isa Blagden he wrote, "no human being can give me one hand—with the feeling on my part that the other holds that of my own Ba—as you can & do."29 None of these women was allowed to forget that it was Elizabeth whom he loved. To him Isa was a dear friend with whom he would wrangle and gossip, and near whom he wished to spend the last years of his life in Italy. On the other hand, there is evidence that Miss Blagden had a serious love for Robert Lytton, diplomat and author. Lytton arrived in Italy in 1852 at the age of twenty-one, fifteen years younger than Miss Blagden. He had a series of affairs with various women before he married in 1864, and he had a reputation for love making, at least with Browning, who wrote, "je connais mon L." 30 He was a frequent visitor and houseguest at the Villa Brichieri, and in 1857 Miss Blagden nursed him through a dangerous siege of gastric fever. Mrs. Browning identified Isa as the Cordelia of Lytton's poem "Warnings," and also as the heroine of his Lucile. "Is it good for him indeed, Isa?" wrote Elizabeth when Lytton's first engagement was announced, "and is it not bad for her, indeed? Pray be humane, you who are magnanimous—or do the great virtues exclude the small?"31 Isa's question in her Crown of a Life may have been dictated by her own experience. "Oh! why does a man dare to win a woman's heart, prize it, hold it, caress it, and although, perhaps, no sacramental words are said, betray the deepest interest and affection for it, just to throw it away, and say 'that page is turned over, your name is not on the next;' or deceive with honeyed flatteries all the while he is vowed to another?"32 In the same novel she wrote, "There is no such abject slave as a middleaged woman enthralled by a man."33 Whatever Lytton himself thought, it is clear that the Brownings felt that there was more than friendship between their two friends. Writing was one of the few methods by which a single gentlewoman could earn a livelihood a hundred years ago, and it was inevitable that Isa Blagden should try her hand at authorship. In time of discouragement, she had thought of nursing or teaching,

Introduction

xxix

but Mrs. Browning dissuaded her. "I am as fit for nursing as you are," she wrote. "Certainly you can teach children to read and spell —but if you are humble enough to do so, why not write books for children to teach them more?"34 Isa did write, though not specifically for children, five novels,35 enough poetry for a small volume, and several stories and articles, most published anonymously or under such a pseudonym as "Ivory Beryl." Her work is today tiresome and unpalatable even to the most omnivorous reader, and in her own day it was necessary for her to solicit the aid of such friends as Browning or Anthony Trollope to find publishers for her novels. Chapman published three and as good as said that he paid £170 for one of them as a bribe to Browning.36 Trollope was able to get the first novel published; when the second appeared, his wife wrote to Kate Field, "I hope it will have more common sense than the former one—it can't well have less."37 Yet some of her work was considered worthy of reprint in Living Age and the Eclectic Magazine, and one of her novels was reprinted by Tauchnitz and by the Seaside Library in America. The Tauchnitz volume appeared in 1872, the same year that Tauchnitz published Browning's poems, and one suspects that Browning's terms were that Tauchnitz accept Isa's novel too. It is not for her writings, however, that Isa Blagden is interesting to us today, but for her friendships with the great, particularly with the Brownings, of whom she was worthy. Browning made it quite clear to Miss Blagden that he intended his letters for her eyes alone. "These notes are always private, you know," he wrote to her, and he further assured her that he read her letters twice and then burned them.38 He did not ask her to burn his letters, merely earnestly conjured her not to show them. Miss Blagden saved his letters, and after her death they were returned to Browning. Perhaps, however, Miss Blagden did give away some. The holograph of letter 151, for example, was in the possession of Mme. Mazini, and not among those letters returned to Browning. Browning had, then, the opportunity to destroy the letters had he so desired, and it is possible that he did destroy some of the

XXX

Dearest Isa

missing ones. However, most of the letters of this volume, specifically, 148 of the 154, passed through his hands and received, at least negatively, his nihil obstat. The poet's son, too, had the opportunity of destroying the letters, and it may be that he destroyed some, a conclusion supported by the fact that there is no account in the letters of Pen's failure at Oxford. The letters, while still in the son's possession were used by Mrs. Orr in writing her Life and Letters of Robert Browning, but subsequent biographers, even Griffin and Minchin, appear not to have consulted the originals.89 After the death of Pen Browning (1912), the letters were sold at auction by Sotheby, Wilkinson & Hodge. They were purchased by Fairfax Murray for £360 and later were sold by Maggs Bros., of London, 27 to T. J. Wise and 121 (according to the numbering of this edition) to A. Joseph Armstrong of Baylor University. Professor Armstrong published his collection in 1923, and in 1933 T. L. Hood included Wise's 27 letters in his edition of the letters of Robert Browning. Before he died, T. J. Wise sold five of his letters through the Anderson Galleries in New York. One was purchased by T. L. Hood, of Hartford, Connecticut; two by W. Τ. Η. White of Cincinnati, Ohio; and two additional letters by purchaser or purchasers unknown. The remaining twenty-two are still in the Ashley Library in the British Museum. The two letters purchased by White were acquired by the Berg Collection of the New York Public Library in September 1940. The Wise and Armstrong collections account for 148 letters and, presumably, all the letters of the Sotheby sale. There are six additional letters (23, 63, 69, 72, 131, and 151) in the present volume. Letter 69 was published by Curie in his edition of the Browning letters to Julia Wedgwood. Letter 72 was published in part by Mrs. Orr, showing that she had access to more letters than were available at the Sotheby auction. Note also that the conclusion of letter 147 is taken from Mrs. Orr and not from the original holograph. The present location of each manuscript is indicated in the table of contents.

Introduction

xxxi

There remain at least twenty-nine letters still unaccounted for, if we presume that Browning lived up to agreement and wrote a letter every month from June 1862 until Miss Blagden's death. Many of these letters were written when Miss Blagden was away from Florence, but there is no indication that she did not receive them. Perhaps, and this is mere conjecture, she presented them to people she visited; perhaps she lost them before adding them to the rest of the correspondence which she kept in Florence; perhaps she destroyed some herself; perhaps they are now in private or public collections and will come to light. At least one letter (72) and a portion of another (147) were available to Mrs. Orr and lost or destroyed after she used them. In preparing the present volume, the editor has consulted the original holographs except those few which are indicated as missing. The result is a number of changes in the text: for example, Cherberg (Armstrong, p. 6) becomes Chambery; Ld. Ashhursfs (p. 191) becomes V Ashburton's; Fulk (p. 108), Trautchen (p. 13), and Fanveau (p. 16) become Tulk, Frautchen, and Fauveau. It has, consequently, been possible to identify these hitherto-unidentified names. The resultant more accurate text and recent contributions to scholarship have made it possible to redate sixteen of the letters, although one of these (108) is only tenuously redated. In addition, two of the letters (112 and 128) were mis-dated by Browning himself, and are here corrected. This process results in a new and more accurate sequence and provides future scholarship with a more valuable tool. I have attempted to identify every person mentioned and to indicate that person's relationship to Browning. I have also attempted to discuss every statement that seemed in need of amplification or elucidation. Where I have been unsuccessful, I have indicated my lack of success in the notes. The text is as far as possible a reproduction of the original holographs. Browning's spelling has been retained even when an obvious error was made.

xxxii

Dearest Isa

To avoid sprinkling the pages with sic signs I have generally not used that sign to indicate Browning's misspelling of proper names, such as Lewis for Lewes, or Villeri for Villari.

Notes on the Introduction 1. RB-EBB, II, 195. 2. Life of Frances Power Cobbe (Boston, 1895), p. 343. 3. T. A. Trollope, What I Remember (New York, 1888), p. 403. 4. Called Isabella Jane Blagden by F. Boase, Modern English Biography . . . (Truro, 1892-1921), I, 299. See the memoir by Alfred Austin in Poems by the Late Isa Blagden (London, 1873) ; and W. O. Raymond, "Our Lady of Bellosguardo," University of Toronto Quarterly, XII (1943), 449-452. Other sources are the letters and biographies of Alfred Austin, the Brownings, Frances Power Cobbe, Charlotte Cushman, Kate Field, the Hawthornes, Harriet Hosmer, Robert Lytton, Ada Shepard, William Wetmore Story, Frederick Tennyson, and T. A. Trollope. 5. MS in BPL. 6. MS at Baylor. 7. Actually by Frances (Ternan) Trollope. 8. The album is now in the Wellesley College Library. 9. From Browning's "Up at a Villa." 10. Agnes Tremorne, II, 37. 11. Letter from Lilian Whiting at Baylor. 12. Yet the dates on her tombstone (photographs in BPL and at Baylor) read 1816-1873. 13. The Crown of a Life, III, 221-244. 14. MS at Baylor. 15. H. W. P[reston], Complete Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning (Boston, 1900), p. xviii. 16. Orr, p. 238. 17. D & Κ, ρ. 141. 18. Letter 40. 19. MS in Biblioteca Nazionale, Florence. 20. See 48.5. 21. What I Remember, p. 394. 22. Copy at Baylor. 23. Lady Berwick, Mme. Mazini's granddaughter, has recently presented Baylor with the holograph of this letter, MSS of Isa Blagden's poems, and photographs of rooms in her villa. 24. Letter 31. 25. Letter 50. 26. Letter 119.

Introduction

xxxiii

27. Hood, p. 326. 28. Curie, p. 121. 29. Letter 41. 30. Letter 66. 31. See 11.5 and TpS in BM. 32. The Crown of a Life, II, 243. 33. Ibid., III, 10. 34. TpS in BM. 35. Agnes Tremorne (1861); The Woman I Loved, and the Woman Who Loved Me (1862); The Cost of a Secret (1863); Nora and Archibald Lee (1867) ; and The Crown of a Life (1869). 36. Letter 106. 37. MS in BPL. 38. Letters 49 and 53. 39. Until Frances Winwar wrote The Immortal Lovers (1950).

DEAREST ISA

Letter 1 [Casa Guidi, Florence, Circa 1850.]1 Friday Mg My Dear Miss Blagden,2 Many thanks for your kindness—Ba3 is better, decidedly, tho' very weak,4 of course, & unable to do more than send her love, which she does. But,—oh my own stupidity! One main incitement to going to Poggio5 the other night, was to ask where may be "the letter" said to be included in your last note, and for which the postage was enclosed with such exemplary precision? I have been expecting it would arrive every morning—I trust it was not lost by the way. Ever yours faithfully, R Bg Notes

on Letter 1

1. Unless otherwise noted, dates in brackets are those assigned by K. L. Knickerbocker in "Browning's Letters to Isabella Blagden," PMLA, LIV (1939), 565-578. 2. This is the only extant letter from Browning to Miss Blagden which employs the formal salutation. 3. EBB's nickname, pronounced bay. The name, which was derived from the word baby, meaning that Elizabeth was "just 'half a Ba-by' . . no more nor less" (RB-EBB, I, 192), is the subject of EBB's poem "The Pet Name." 4. Reference here may be to EBB's convalescence after her fourth miscarriage (Marks, p. 567) of July 28, 1850 (Hood, p. 27). 5. "Hill." In 1850 Miss Blagden occupied the Villa Moutier near Poggio Imperiale, a palace about one-half mile ascent by road to the left outside the Porta Romana of Florence.

[1]

2

August 1, 1857

[2

Letter 2 Casa Betti Bagni alla Villa, Lucca. Saturday Mg [August 1, 1857.]1 Dearest Isa, I don't put down the sigh with which this line really began. Well, we arrived prosperously enough at about lO.p.m. We had the gratification of travelling with Miss Bessy2 who was extemporaneously affectionate,—I had to ask her "whom I spoke to?"— unfortunately forgetting all about the young lady,—but she did not care, and did care a great deal about Ba's comforts in the carriage till we parted at Lucca. Now for this place—our rooms are small,— there is compensation in a pretty garden all a-growing & a-blowing, with flowers and bowers—it's pretty, I assure you. In the middle of the day, I find the heat much the same as at Florence3—but the evenings are decidedly cooler: the place is very green & cheerful, —I find it just as I left it. If you choose to come, there will be no sort of difficulty in finding you accommodations: I went over a particularly picturesquely-perched house—much better than this, to my mind—you might have the whole of it—three padrone's bedrooms, two servants' rooms—and abundant room of all kinds— especially for the wretched set-out of tables and chairs, which constitute, I suppose, the strictly necessary: terms, 40 f1 the season,4— or about 30 for six weeks: you would be alone and with plenty to see & breathe. Down here, there is next door, over the way, next that other door, every where, in short: Pagnini,5 opposite would "do you" for some 10 pauls6 a day, we hear—no less, certainly: then there are others—in short, if you incline to come, the rest may be easily managed. But I won't teaze you, after the fashion I never particularly liked in other friends, to do what I like, disregarding what you may fail to like. There is no lack of conveniences, horses, donkeys, chaises, Miss H's,7 doctors, a churchyard,8 "Galignani"9 &c &c. Ba must say a cheerful word about it all. Better than the

2]

3

August 1, 1857

best of all the above delights, including the churchyard, would be a quantity of Villa Bricchieri10 just now; taken hot or cool—but not "without" your dearest face, Isa—and yours, Annette:11 write a many words to make me fancy myself nearer you. Ba is very well,— I count on her pressing you to come more earnestly than I venture to do. What is Lytton12 going to do? Has he decided on anything? He knows all about this Bagni di Lucca,—& I don't mind wishing he would come, wishing it with all my heart. Oh, my Isa! Ah, my Annette! Just so would sigh "Oh," and would moan "Ah," Inside his whale, the luckless Jonah! I need not tell you I have begun to write poetry again, & shall send Miss Power13 her portion this very day. God bless you. Love to Lytton from his and your R Β [Remainder from Mrs. Browning, crossed at top of letter] I say & Robert agreed that the prices might be brought down if we had leave to try. Notes

on Letter

2

1. In 1857 the Brownings went to the Bagni alla Villa, about fifteen miles north of Lucca, where they had summered in 1849 and 1853. Previously they had occupied the Casa Tolomei (photograph in E. E. Whipple, A Famous Corner of Tuscany [London, 1928], p. 236), but this year they occupied the Casa Betti a few doors away. They arrived on July 30 (Kenyon, II, 267); this letter was written on the next Saturday, August 1; and they returned to Florence on October 11. 2. In a letter dated [August 24, 1857], EBB wrote to Mrs. Jameson, " 'Bessie Herbert' (so called) came down with us, by coincidence, in the railroad, and was very obliging. She said she would 'call,' ! but has been unwell and interrupted therefore in her intentions. Scarcely to our despair!" (TpS in BM) 3. The valley of the Bagni is among the coolest in Italy, the height of the mountains causing the sun to rise two hours later and set two hours earlier, thus ensuring cool mornings and evenings.

4

August 1, 1857

[2

4. Forty francesconi. One francescane consisted of ten pauls (See Appendix). 5. Gustavo Pagnini kept the Pelicano Inn at the Bagni alla Villa (Murray's Central Italy [1861], p. 27). 6. See note 4. 7. The Misses Herbert (See note 2). 8. The churchyard of the English Chapel, established largely through the influence of Mrs. Henry Stisted (100.2), who published Letters from the Bye-Ways of Italy (1845) by subscription to help pay for the chapel. 9. Giovanni Galignani founded Galignani's Messenger in Paris in July 1814, first as a tri-weekly and then as a daily newspaper to supply news to English-speaking persons on the Continent, the stamp duty and postage rendering the cost of London papers prohibitive. In 1838, Thackeray, residing in Paris, worked on Galignani's newspaper, and Thackeray's Jos Sedley in Vanity Fair (II, xxvii) read "every word of Galignani's admirable newspaper (may the blessings of all Englishmen who have ever been abroad rest on the founders and proprietors of that piratical print!)" On January 1, 1896, the title was changed to the Daily Messenger. Publication ceased on July 30, 1904. 10. Miss Blagden had taken afive-yearlease on the Villa Brichieri, which dates at least to the early part of the fifteenth century and is described by EBB in Aurora Leigh (VII, 514-528), I found a house at Florence on the hill Of Bellosguardo, in lines which now appear carved in marble on the front of the villa (Guido Carocci, I Dintorni di Firenze [Florence, 1906], II, 362). 11. Annette Bracken, a young English lady of means, was at this time living with Miss Blagden. She was described by Ada Shepard in a letter dated August 11 [1858] as "a young English lady of great cultivation and refinement, and a charming person. She is eight months older than I [Miss Shepard was then twenty-three], but she is much younger in appearance, I should think. She is decidedly superior to any young lady of her age that I have seen in Europe. I should certainly fall in love with her if I were a young man. She is an orphan, and lives in a villa near us, with an older lady, Miss Blagden, also a remarkably interesting person." She was an amateur artist and a close friend of Browning's, who, in later life, recalled with pleasure the rides they took together at the Bagni "to the little old ruined chapel, by the bridge," and who spoke of her as being a relative of Lady Stratford de Redcliffe. She fell in love with Carlo Passaglia, an ex-Jesuit priest, and long entertained hope of marrying him, although he was unwilling to break his vow of celibacy as long as the Church discipline forbade the marriage of priests. In 1863 she went to live for a year in Genoa, and by 1864 she was married to Giuseppe Frascheri, a Genoese por-

3]

February 1858

5

trait painter. (Information for this note is» drawn from the letters of Ada Shepard [TpS at Yale], of EBB [TpS in BM], and of the present edition.) 12. Robert Lytton (1831-1891), diplomat and author ("Owen Meredith"), later (1880) the first Earl Lytton; son of Sir Edward BulwerLytton. In 1852 he went to Florence as unpaid attaché to the British Legation there, taking with him a letter of introduction to the Brownings from John Forster. He became a good friend of both Browning and EBB, and the latter was especially pleased that he was "inclined to various sorts of spiritualism and given to magic arts" (Kenyon, II, 97). Lytton, Miss Bracken, and Miss Blagden accepted Browning's invitation and took rooms at the Pelicano. Lytton became seriously ill with gastric fever, and Browning and Miss Blagden sat up nights with him (Hood, p. 46; A. B. Harlan, Owen Meredith [New York, 1946], passim). 13. Marguerite A. Power (1815?-1867), author, editor of The Keepsake (1851-1857), and niece of the Countess of Blessington, whose memoir she wrote. Browning's "Ben Karshook's Wisdom" appeared in The Keepsake for 1856 (p. 16), and the "portion" which he sent her "this very day" was his "May and Death" {Keepsake [1857], p. 164). Procter described her as "a young woman who is very respectable—hardworking—and wretchedly poor. It [The Keepsake] forms almost her whole substance" (R. W. Armour, Barry Cornwall [Boston, 1935], p. 234).

Letter 3 [Casa Guidi, Florence,] Sunday [February 1858.] Dearest Isa, It so happens that my stupid cold has returned—at least to such a degree as to make Ba wish that I should stay at home to-night—so, with your leave to have the pleasure another time, I will keep to the arm-chair & the fireside,—at least, in the evening. I am happy to hear that Annette 1 continues better. All love to her & to you from Yours affectly ever RB

Note on Letter 3 1. In February 1858 EBB wrote to Sarianna Browning: "The grippe is reigning here just now; the consequence I suppose of the union of this

6

July 3, 1858

[4

radiant march sunshine, and cold airs from the mountains. We are well— but Isa and her friend Miss Bracken have both been in bed for days, . . and people are actually dying all around. Did I tell you that Miss Bracken, a young girl of some means, had persuaded Isa Blagden to allow her to live with her. She has a sitting-room and bedroom of her own and her share in the carriage, paying her own way—and this is an advantage of course to Isa; and, as Miss Bracken is an active-minded person and much absorbed in her pursuits, besides being kind and gentle, there seems to be no disadvantage. Robert is up at the villa three or four evenings of the week, and then I go to bed with a book, as usual" (TpS in BM). EBB also wrote to Sarianna that Robert had "suffered from the prevailing malady" (Kenyon, II, 276).

Letter 4 Marseilles, Saty July 3 [1858] 1 Dearest Isa, Peni2 insists on my telling you that he "remembered me to write" —but I wanted none of his help, you may believe. You got my word in reply to your kind dear letter. I would have sent more had I known Ansano8 was not waiting to carry it. We got off propitiously, found the French boat crammed with passengers, & the cabin so insufferable that we all passed the night on deck stretched on the bare boards—no mattresses being allowed to people who could have been stifled in a berth below had they preferred: fancy Ba, the luxurious chair-lover, "pricking for a soft plank," as the sailors call it. We none of us were sick except Annunziata4 whose agonies were a moral lesson indeed! From Genoa to Marseilles, we had two sofas in the cabin, bare & cool enough, thro' the emptying of the boat at Genoa—but we were all more or less ruined by the sea which was rougher than we expected. None of us tasted anything for four & twenty hours or more. Ba is pretty well, Peni himself again with something over, Annunziata a little above dead already, and I—as you see! We stay to-night and go on gently to Paris, whence Ba will write.5 The weather is very cool—there will be rain, indeed—we shall be anxious to hear from you.

4]

July 3, 1858

7

God bless you, dearest Isa—take care of yourself & be happy. Ba's truest love goes with mine—& Peni again asks "if I have remembered that he remembered to remember me &c"—and after being reassured on that point, expressed his great gratitude for the talismans which he will keep safe whether or no they do as much for him. Don't forget the Athenaeum whereof a number arrived on Thursday, of course. Say to the Hawthorne's6 the exact truth of our sorrow at seeing nothing of them in our hurry of departure— & say so to the many friends we have apparently neglected. Ever yours affectionately Robert Browning. [Remainder from Mrs. Browning] One word from Ba, lest Isa should think what she has taken to think under her new misanthropical & sceptical phase. We are alive dear . . which is much to say after our horrible sea-voyage, spent in groans one to another. Even Peni was ill—& Annunziata was almost worse than Wilson.7 From Leghorn however to Genoa when the sea was smooth, I liked the night on deck between Robert & Peni, & under the starry sky—only my bones protested sorely against the boards. Peni walked down stairs from Casa Guidi mopping his poor eyes, also after he had parted from Ferdinando8 at the station his very shoulders sobbed, and he continued in dreadful spirits the whole journey till just now when he revived over the "dejeuner à la fourchette,"9 which is the "first in his life" he says. What an epoch. As for me, I could be very sentimental too, but I wont. I hated & hate going away. Love us ever a little, dearest Isa—I dearly love you. Your Ba. Best love to dear Annette. How good of you, I could say of many things. Of course your "charms" which Peni keeps in his pocketbook (& thanks you for gratefully) availed us over the "cuvettes"10 —Else I shouldn't be up to writing this.

8

July 3, 1858

[4

Notes on Letter 4 1. In 1858 the Brownings spent the summer in France. They left Florence on July 1, went by sea to Marseilles where they stayed over night at the Hotel du Louvre, thence to Paris by rail, stopping on the way at Dijon (Hotel du Parc), and Lyons (Hotel Colet), arriving in Paris on July 6. ( G & M, p. 211; hotel names are from Browning's address book in BM, A-5715). 2. Robert Wiedemann Barrett Browning, the Browning's only child, was born in Florence on March 9, 1849, and died at Asolo, Italy, on July 8, 1912. He gave himself the nickname Penini, which he meant for Wiedemann (Kenyon, II, 2 4 ) . During his mother's life, he was dressed in lace and velvet, wore his hair in long curls, and was one of the sights of Rome and Florence. Browning was frequently angered by strangers inquiring whether Pen was a boy or a girl. Julian Hawthorne wrote, "I had the contempt for him which a philistine boy feels for a creature whom he knows he can lick with one hand tied behind his back, and I had nothing whatever to say to him" (Hawthorne and His Circle [New York, 1903], p. 341). Within a week of EBB's death his hair was cut and he was dressed like a boy. His father took him to England where he prepared privately for Oxford. He was unsuccessful in meeting the requirements of Balliol College, but matriculated at Christ Church on January 15, 1869. He left Oxford without taking his degree and, encouraged by Millais, studied painting and sculpture. On October 4, 1887, with the heartiest approval of his father, he married Fannie Coddington (1854-1935), an American whom he had met in 1873 and who had recently come into an inheritance at the death of her father, Thomas B. Coddington. They were married at Pembury Old Church, Kent, by the Rev. R. S. Woodgate (New York Evening Post, October 5, 1887). Pen purchased the Palazzo Rezzonico in Venice and spent the remainder of his life in Italy. His wife, who separated from him after the poet's death, became an Anglican nun and wrote a slight volume, Some Memories of Robert Browning (Boston, 1928) (See Gertrude Reese, "Robert Browning and His Son," PMLA, LXI [1946], 784-803; and Betty Miller, "The Child of Casa Guidi," Cornhill, No. 978 [Spring 1949], pp. 416-428). 3. Miss Blagden's man-servant. Frances Power Cobbe wrote, Ansano "brought our meals every morning in Florence, cooked and served them; being always clean and respectably dressed. He swept our floors and he opened our doors and announced our company and served our ices and tea with uniform quietness and success" (Lije of FPC, p. 342). He remained with Miss Blagden until his marriage in 1865. 4. Annunziata entered the Browning's service at Bagni di Lucca in 1857 at which time, Wilson, thought pregnant, returned to Florence. She remained with the Brownings until EBB's death and was subsequently employed

4]

July 3, 1858

9

by various Englishwomen, among them Lady Duff Gordon (James II, 142), and Lady Lyell's mother (49.13). 5. EBB wrote on July 8 (Kenyon, II, 283). 6. Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864) lived in Italy with his wife, three children, and their governess during 1858 and half of 1859. He had previously met the Brownings at a breakfast at the home of Richard Monckton-Milnes on July 13, 1856, and the acquaintanceship developed into friendship in Italy. On June 8 Browning called to invite the Hawthornes to Casa Guidi, and the call is recorded at length in Hawthorne's Italian notebook, except that Mrs. Hawthorne excised the unfavorable part of the following sentence: Browning "must be an exceedingly likable man; but I somewhat question whether an intimate acquaintance with him would flow on quite smoothly and equably enough to be sure of lasting a great while." The Brownings and Hawthornes were in Rome during the winter of 1858-59 and the Brownings proved good friends during the months when Una Hawthorne was suffering from Roman fever. Mrs. Hawthorne's diary records frequent meetings with the Brownings, such as that on April 2, 1859: "I went out to breathe the air. I met Mr Browning—or rather he rushed at me from a distance & seemed to come through a carriage in his way to me" (MS in NYPL). In 1871 Browning worked with Una Hawthorne preparing her father's Septimius Felton for posthumous publication. 7. Elizabeth Wilson, EBB's maid, was in service at 50 Wimpole St. in 1846. She witnessed the Barrett-Browning marriage on September 12, 1846, and one week later accompanied her mistress in the flight from London to Italy. "A more honest, true and affectionate heart than Wilson's cannot be found," EBB wrote to her sister (Huxley, p. 22). In 1848 she became engaged to Signor Righi, a handsome member of the Ducal Guard, but, jilted the next year, she resigned herself to marrying Ferdinando Romagnoli, the Brownings' man-servant, in Paris on July 11, 1855 (Sotheby, No. 175, p. 39). They had several children, among them Orestes, the eldest son, and Pilade Francesco, whose godmother was Fanny Haworth. Wilson left the Brownings' service in the fall of 1857 and set up lodgings in the Via Nunziatina, Florence. Among her lodgers were Fanny Haworth and later (1859-1864) Walter Savage Landor. Her husband remained in the service of the Brownings, and when they went to Rome for the winter of 1858-59, Wilson asked to return to their service, for she desired to be with her husband and she was jealous of Annunziata. Such an arrangement was not possible, and when the Brownings returned to Florence in 1859, they found Wilson religiously insane, "quite mad"; she was convinced that the baker was trying to poison her and that she had seen an angel carry her son Orestes past the house. EBB could only recommend that Wilson stop reading the New Testament. After Landor's death (1864) Wilson's business failed, and she returned to England, set up a lodging house in Scarborough, and again failed. Against

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July 8, 1858

[5

Browning's advice, she returned to Italy. In 1869, destitute, she appealed to Browning for aid, and he sent her something through Miss Blagden, although the situation was not helped by an impertinent letter which Wilson's sister, a milliner at East Retford, wrote to Browning charging him with neglect. By 1872 Wilson had appealed to George Barrett, who agreed to allow her ten pounds a year, but Browning felt that it was rather his own responsibility and allowed Wilson the sum himself. After Pen Browning married in 1887, he took Wilson and her husband to live with him in the Palazzo Rezzonico. She remained with Pen until 1902 when she died at Asolo, where she is buried. (See Virginia Woolf, Flush [New York, 1933], pp. 176-182. Information in this note is drawn from EBB's letters, especially those in BM and NYPL, and the letters of the present volume.) 8. Ferdinando Romagnoli, a sometime Garibaldian soldier who had been the Peytons' servant, entered the service of the Brownings in 1853 at the monthly wage of six francesconi. In 1855 he married Wilson, whose fortunes he shared until his death in 1893 (See note 7). 9. "Knife and fork breakfast." 10. "Washbasins."

Letter 5 [Hotel Hyacinthe, Rue St. Honoré, Paris, Thursday, July 8, 1858.] 1 [From Mrs. Browning] 17—nor indeed, a dozen, or more, people whom I greatly want to see—but I am overcome by the calls on my time. To be sure, as I stay here, I keep consoling & excusing myself by saying "there will be time"—but who knows ? For that day whereon nothing could have induced me

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to leave the house18—I received eight invitations! But you thought of me, I know. All this tittle-tattle is intended to resemble what will be lost to us for many a year—the old chats and gossips: I can never,—shall never try to go an inch below the surface—but what need is there of that with you ? Dearest friend, no one has ever been to me all you have been. I shall find no new friends even of a lower grade nor do I want them—kind acquaintances I continue to make every day: you are my—nearly one, certainly best, woman-friend. God bless you,—we will be "snakes"19 together yet, if He please. Tell me about yourself, your health—I will send the French address to Stone.20 21 Notes

on Letter

50

1. The 19th of each month (49.1). 2. See G & M, page 226, for a photograph of "Paddington Canal, as seen from Browning's house in Warwick Crescent." 3. "From beefsteak pies up to fricassees—he is a master, and from bread and butter puddings to boiled apple dumplings . . . an artist" (Huxley, p. 9 7 ) . 4. Marianne Margaret Alford (1817-1888), Viscountess Alford, artist, art patron, and author. Her husband died in 1851 leaving two sons, John, the second Earl Brownlow, and Adelbert, the third Earl Brownlow. She first met the Brownings in Rome in 1860 (Kenyon, II, 392) and maintained her friendship with Browning even through the difficulties with Lady Louisa Ashburton, who was also her friend (Carr, Harriet Hosmer, passim). 5. Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton. 6. Sir Edward purchased Copped Hall, Totteridge, which he kept until 1867. 7. Those which since July 1861 had been stored in Florence. '8. The Times for June 26, 1862, page 7, published a letter signed Walter Savage Landor telling of a trip to Rome and the witnessing of cheating, drunkenness, and simony on the part of Roman Catholic clergy there. Landor had not been to Rome at all, but he had intended that the letter be published without his signature (Text 51.4). 9. Emma Mary, second daughter of the Very Rev. Gilbert Elliott, Dean of Bristol. Frances Power Cobbe wrote: "How to prevent girls who left Bristol Workhouse from falling into the same gulf as the unhappy ones in London, occupied very much the thoughts of Miss Elliott and her sister

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(afterwards Mrs. Montague Blackett) and myself, in 1859-61 . . ." (Life of FPC, pp. 299-300). 10. Montague Blackett (1826-1866) married on September 4, 1862 (Landed Gentry). 11. Frances Mary Blackett, wife of Count Henri du Quaire. "Of old Northumberland race, married to a Frenchman, then widowed, childless, and loving the world, of which she took an amused view, Mme du Quaire seemed in those days, with a home on each side of the Channel, to have had neither in Paris nor in London a sacrifice to make. She had kept each intimacy without giving up the other—which was really to know how to live" (James, II, 121). 12. Charles Francis Fuller (1830-1875), English sculptor and pupil of Hiram Powers at Florence (Thieme-Becker). 13. Emma Katherine Julia Sneyd married (1858) George Glynn Petre (1822-1905), English diplomat, whose assignments included that of Naples attaché in 1856 (Burke's Peerage). 14. Conjectural restoration of a gap caused by excised autograph. 15. Theodosia (Garrow) Trollope died in Florence on April 13, 1865, after a lingering illness. 16. Thomas Adolphus Trollope. 17. Interlined. 18. The anniversary of EBB's death June 29, 1861. 19. See 48.5. 20. Stone House, where Isa was staying. 21. See note 14.

Letter 31 19. Warwick Crescent, Harrow Rd. July 26. '62 Dearest Isa, There can be no doubt that your letter from Florence is much later than my bad news, 1 given by Chapman nearly a fortnight ago. I know nothing else: poor people, the end is in sight, be it delayed or accelerated. Of course Chapman only hears when business letters have to be written—you certainly will be better informed than he— but should I ever hear of anything you shall receive it immediately. I have got my poor old things from Florence & write this with the Bookcase beside me—it is a sad business and I hardly know—or

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care to think—whether I like the things best here, or there, or at the bottom of the sea.2 When you return to Florence, please see if there be not at least one case, containing pictures & specchj,3 left with your property—with which, in all likelihood, it has been confounded. I have just heard from Landor4—first that he could never go to Rome, he with only three lire in the world &c &c and, in a postscript, these words "The Letter is mine. It was sent to Walker5 for the "Times"—but the signature was not for the "Times" but for him." Anything more disgraceful to him or to Walker I cannot easily fancy: as he confesses the letter was one lie, I shall not scruple to set down the "signature for Walker & not for the "Times" "—as another. Poor old man, this is a break-down far beyond the infirmities which he brings forward in the same letter as his stock in trade. And Walker, to receive this & print this, knowing there was not a word of truth in it! A friend and a (Plymouth) brother! I have at least kept him out of such friendly & brotherly hands, but he really deserves little better. He writes about his book (another service of Hookey's)6 and grieves (or grunts rather) over its delay—I shall not put out a finger to help any of them, depend on it. I have not seen Fraser7—but will try & get it. My engagements are just as wearisome as ever—but in a fortnight at farthest I shall escape from it all. Pen is quite well: here is a second summer's-day, yesterday being the first. Mrs Forster was better, decidedly, last week—I have not called since. I know nothing, not having cared to enquire about T's marriage. I heard from Annette again yesterday—she talks about being in Paris in October. I could see that Mrs M.8 wanted to begin talking to me about the P. malie,9 but I turned a deaf ear. Goodbye & God bless you— Ever affy yours, R B.

Notes on Letter 51 1. See 50.15. 2. See 50.7.

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3. "Mirrors." 4. See 50.8. 5. Dr. Arthur de Noé Walker handled some of Landor's literary affairs, e.g., the publication of Heroic Idyls (1863), and was himself the author of such publications as On the Therapeutic Action of Atomic Doses (1862) (See 41.2). 6. John Walker, an outdoor clerk, was known as Old Hookey because of his eagle nose. "Hookey Walker" means a tale not to be trusted (E. C. Brewer, Dictionary of Phrase and Fable [London, 1900], p. 1281). 7. Fraser's Magazine, LXVI (July 1862), 95-113, included "A Model and a Wife. In Three Chapters. By the author of 'Agnes Tremorne,' " signed I[sabella] B[lagden]. 8. Very likely Mrs. Mackenzie. 9. Very likely "P [assaglia] episode."

Letter 52 19. Warwick Crescent, Harrow Road. Aug. 1. '62.

Dearest Isa, I go to-morrow to Paris, & thence to whatever place my sister & father may decide upon. My address will be always 151. Rue de Grenelle, Faubourg St Germain.—Keep it correctly in your mind, as the loss of one of your letters would grieve me indeed. I only write to say this, being steeped in the memories of all travelling days, —and moreover of this day last year.1 Poor Cottrell wrote for your address, which I gave him: he came up to town to get a surgeon—who yesterday operated on his poor wife: he tells me so today—adding that she was insensible thro' chloroform but is very ill to-day & he knows not what he is about— "You can feel for me" he says—& indeed I can. It is sad to go away & leave him so: I shall make him write to me—but you must tell me what you know. God bless you, dearest friend=Pen has long been in bed, but is well: did I tell you I called on the Mackays & that he came, in his kind quiet way, a couple of days after ? Ever yours affectionately Robert Browning.

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August 18, 1862 Note

on Letter

[53

32

1. When Isa and Browning travelled from Florence to Paris after the death of EBB.

Letter 53 Next month's letter to/ Chez M. Laraison, Maire de Ste Marie,1 Loire Inférieure. Aug. 18. '62. Dearest Isa, I begin my letter at once, fearing that the slowness of the post may cause you to miss it otherwise. This is a wild little place in Brittany something like that village where we stayed last year2— close to the sea—a hamlet of a dozen houses, perfectly lonely— one may walk on the edge of the low rocks by the sea for miles— or go into the country at the back. Pornic is full & gay enough at half an hour's distance. Our house is the Mayor's, large enough, clean & bare. I sit in my room all day & walk of an evening. Pen & my sister bathe. My father (perfectly well) walks & reads & draws. Mrs J. Bracken & Willie arrived yesterday & will get settled somewhere, here or at Pornic, in the course of the day. The place is much to my mind; I have brought books, & write: I wanted a change. I wish you all enjoyment in your villa—for me, I had rather you were there than as you lived in England, now at one & now at another place, always with some obstacle to my seeing you (what I call "seeing")—I could not even "fancy" you at places of which I know nothing: now, I shall very well see you in my mind's eye. Is not Giglioni's3 the villa where the Kinneys4 staid for some time—on the hill, near Gregory's garden. Oh, those walls & the way back—& the gate, & the long street & the corner house bent sharp like a card.8 I will tell you, dearest friend, but it is a secret, please—I shall go to Florence whenever the erection takes place of the monument6—

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of which the designs are nearly finished. Leighton made them,— carrying out the idea I told you, I think,—but there is much to be done in the details: he worked with the greatest zeal,—dear fellow, —and I am in hopes that Cottrell will be able to take the main designs with him, so as to let the artist begin at once: the point we are anxious about is the substructure which must be very particularly attended to that the safety of the whole may be ensured, and I shall just go to Florence while this is being done,—for that & nothing else. I have not even mentioned it to Pen or my sister, but I must go, you under[stand]. If it can be next summer, well—if not, the next. I have told Cottrell & Leighton (who was earnest about his directions being attended to) but nobody else—& I trust you, mind. I could not live at Florence, now or at any time—unless perhaps in old age: but Italy,—Rome or Naples, I will go to the moment I can— & when will that be ? You must write me long detailed letters—you don't now: remember I read your letters, twice, & then burn them: mine, I trust,—earnestly conjure you will never show: but you will not. Now to something else: what is there to "enquire about" in this decision at Perigueux ?7 I saw it in the French papers & talked it fully over with Milsand: it is precisely as I thought & told you. In France, there is a secular, and a religious marriage—the first, obligatory on everybody, the second optional: any priest, as a person not already married, may be married by the first form—which takes no account whatever of religious disqualification: on the other hand, the R. C. Church only attributes efficacy to its own form, tho obliged (in France) to have the civil form superimposed also. Milsand said that the refusal to marry on the part of the Mayors in this case was a complete mistake—arising from a clause in the "Concordat"8 providing that the civil ceremony shall be refused to a priest on the religious consideration—which has nothing to do with it: so that the man is re-instated in his rights to marry. But do you call this "secularization" ? His own words are, in the report of the trial in a paper, that happens to be here are, "The Church might ignore the ceremony, or even excommunicate him for the act, but her censures would not invalidate the civil contract"—exactly! But what of a man, like your

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friend,9 who professes to defer to the church, fear excommunication, and abide by her censures? That was the case I considered—and it was even said that "several Bishops had professed themselves willing to perform the ceremony"—which of course was a stupidity. The only obstacle I ever saw to the man's going to France & getting civilly married was in his unwillingness to loose [sic] character, prestige & hopes of perferment: if he likes to lose them, he may— but as for getting the consent of the church, remaining in it (as the Church would consider "remaining") and yet marrying,—it is impossible, as he knows well enough. I knew a French Priest who had married in this manner, & who became an Irvingite— & Lady Elgin10 (an Irvingite) told me she could hardly keep her servants from insulting him when he came there. I said to Milsand—"How should you judge such a man?" He answered—"I hate compulsory vows— but undoubtedly there must be a strong feeling against such a man." That is the reason why the mayors refuse to be accessory to so wicked a thing—whereupon the Tribunal says properly "the wickedness is nothing to the Law." Have the goodness, dearest, not to quote me to anybody on this subject: it is a matter as clear as day and evident to the meanest understanding, & certainly does not want such authority as mine—but I write at this length to you, because I really am surprised at your seeming to see some new light on the matter. Recollect that it is otherwise in Italy—because, in the Papal states, there is no civil form at all—and wherever there is such a form—as (I suppose, in Piedmont) the Church still has her veto: but in France, she can only "grin & bear it." I have written again to Cottrell—I had a letter when in Paris telling me as much, & no more than you tell me. I know nothing about the disorder that required the operation—a tumour, perhaps. I pity him & her with all my heart.11 If they stay so long in London I may not improbably see them: I shall be in England, I hope, by the 1st October. The weather here is very pleasant—very cool, no sun: Pen finds the sea do him good—he grows much: Remember me kindly to Miss Smith who has been so attentive to him—& tell her

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that he draws a great deal, copies the church (very old & picturesque) an old tower close by, & will "do" the whole place bit by bit. And your next letter will be from Florence! Do be minute—tell me trifles—no trifles to me! See my letter—the little writing & the quantity of it! I heard from Wilson two days ago—she said the heat had been excessive & that Orestes (her eldest boy, who joined her (after calling on me) a few weeks ago, suffers much from it. Mr Landor was pretty quiet & well enough. I have not heard from Lytton this long while—I must write to him. You must know that one of your Miss Elliotts is going to marry the brother of Made Du Quaire—it was old news a month ago in London. I was unfortunately unable to get your tale—in Fraser ?12—before I left: indeed, I never quitted a house so precipitately—my engagements were continual to the last: I look forward to the quiet October & November in London: fortunately I have so many invitations to go into the country that I shall best extricate myself by pleading the impossibility of accepting one without offending another—I shall go nowhere. If I could, I would stay just as I am for many a day. I feel out of the very earth sometimes, as I sit here at the window— with the little church, a field, a few houses, and the sea; on a week day there is nobody in the village: plenty of haystacks, cows & fowls —all our butter, eggs, milk are produced in the farm-house. Such a soft sea & such a mournful wind! I wrote a poem yesterday of 120 lines13—& mean to keep writing, whether I like it or no. I hear Willy's voice downstairs, & suppose his mother may be with him— & will go & see whether they have found a house. They hope to get one close by us. Willie is a very nice boy, much grown, no longer taller than Pen however: he looks paler than will be the case after plenty of bathing & air: his gentle manners & intelligence make him a very desirable companion for Pen. Goodbye, dearest Isa. If I ever can do anything, remember me. I shall know that wherever you are, my dearest friend is: I forget nothing and all your goodness comes into my mind whenever my thoughts go back—as they will do, I think, even more & more now. Tell all friends in Florence, the Trollopes, Mignatys,—I remember

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them. Powers14 was in London but I could never learn where. My father & sister send their kind love to you—& Pen shall, when he returns. Ever yours affectionately Robert Browning. Recollect to see if my missing case is with your things, please. Notes

on Letter

33

1. On August 2, 1862, Browning left London for Paris and went thence with his father, sister, and son to Sainte Marie in Brittany where they occupied the mayor's house. "Truly, the post was one to inspire such sorrowful reflections as might people the lonely hours of fames Lee's Wife" ( G & M, p. 233). They remained until October 2. 2. St. Enogat (See 4 0 ) . 3. After her return to Florence, Isa lived on Bellosguardo in the Villa Giglioni (Guido Carocci, I Dintorni di Firenze [Florence, 1881], p. 201). 4. William Burnet Kinney (1799-1880), the U. S. Minister to the Court of Sardinia at Turin, and his wife, Elizabeth Clementine (Dodge) Stedman Kinney (1810-1899). They moved to Florence in 1853, at which time they met the Brownings (Kenyon, II, 126). E. C Stedman was her one child by her first marriage (DAB). 5. Browning is describing the walk from Isa's villa to Casa Guidi. The "walls" are the walls of the various villas, the "gate" is the Porta Romana, the "long street" is the Via Romana, and the "corner house bent sharp like a card" is the house next to Casa Guidi. 6. EBB's monument in the Protestant Cemetery in Florence, consisting of a sarcophagus supported by six pillars. On the sarcophagus the central medallion is an idealized head of Poetry, and beneath that are the letters "Ε. Β. Β." The monument was designed by Frederick Leighton, who experienced much difficulty before its erection late in 1865. He wrote to Browning on July 15, 1862: ". . . the one thing of paramount importance is the foundation which must be of this nature—the part below the soil should be a hollow square of brick work having the shape of the pedestal of the monument; it would look thus in the plan [follows a rough sketch]; the inside would be hollow—the thickness of the walls of this structure should be if of brick about a foot—more or less—if of loose stone or marble about 16 inches" (MS at Baylor). In spite of delays, Browning kept faith in Leighton, and wrote: "I can only repeat, with entire truth, that you will satisfy me wholly. I don't think, however, you can make me more than I am now" (Mrs. Russell Barrington, The Life, Letters and Work of Frederick Leighton [London, 1906], II, 6 5 ) .

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7. In July 1861 Pierre-Adolphe Brou de Laurière requested that the banns of his projected marriage to Elisabeth Fressange be published at Cendrieux and Périgueux, but the mayors refused to publish the banns because he was a Catholic priest. M. Brou de Laurière appealed to the Civil Tribunal of Périgueux, and on July 31, 1862, the court decided that a man on entering the priesthood did not incur an impediment to civil marriage, and directed the mayors to perform the ceremony(Débats sur la Question de Manage des Prêtres [Périgueux, 1862]; and Times, August 7, 1862, p. 10). 8. The Concordat of 1801 whereby Pope Pius VII and Napoleon Bonaparte re-established the Catholic Church in France. 9. Carlo Passaglia (1812-1887), Italian divine, who gave up estates and an inheritance of £45,000 to enter the Society of Jesus. He took vows in 1845 and in 1848 went to England when the Jesuits were expelled from Rome. In 1854 he gained favor with the pope by advocating the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception, but in 1859, at the time of the war between Austria and France, he espoused the popular cause and attacked the temporal power of the pope. He was expelled from the Society of Jesus, his writing was put on the Index, and his figure was struck out of the picture painted to commemorate the proclamation of the Immaculate Conception. In 1862, he, together with nine thousand priests, was excommunicated for having signed an address opposed to the temporal power. In 1864 he wrote against Renan's Vie de Jésus, and he endeavored to effect a reconciliation with the pope before he died (Britannica). His quarrel with the Church was disciplinary rather than doctrinal; he advocated, among other reforms, marriage of the clergy. Frances Power Cobbe discussed him at length: "Passaglia is an exceedingly handsome man; tall, resolute, and powerful-looking . . . . His manners are very dignified; and assuredly the beautiful Tuscan language never sounded more perfect than from his lips. It is divine Italian. Altogether, there are not a great many men in the world more remarkable in various ways than Don Carlo Passaglia" (Italics, pp. 288-308). Isa was interested in Passaglia and in the decision at Périgueux because her friend Annette Bracken wished to marry him. 10. Lady Elizabeth Elgin (d. 1860), mother of Lady Augusta Stanley, and a patron of the "Holy Catholic Apostolic Church" founded by Edward Irving in 1832. She lived in Paris where she first met the Brownings in 1851. Browning used to call on her and read poetry to her (Huxley, passim). 11. See letter 52. 12. See 51.7. 13. "James Lee's Wife," or, more likely according to DeVane, page 253, "Gold Hair." 14. Hiram Powers (1805-1873), sculptor, in his time the most famous American artist at home and abroad. He arrived in Florence in 1837 and there executed his Greek Slave (1843), one of the most controversial and influential statues of the century, and the inspiration of a sonnet by EBB.

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In 1847 EBB wrote, "Mr. Powers the sculptor is our chief friend and favorite, a most charming, simple, straightforward, genial American, as simple as the man of genius he has proved himself needs be" (Kenyon, I, 347; Gardner, Yankee Stone Cutters, pp. 27-32).

Letter 34 Ste Marie, près Pornic, Loire Inf : Sept 19. '62 My Dearest Isa, Here is your letter, to my great delight, & there you are—to be happy, I hope with all my heart. 1 1 could not open your letter for some minutes, took it upstairs & waited awhile before I made up my mind to read it. So all has gone well hitherto journey & difficulties & the getting into a house, all over. You do not tell me which Villa yours is—I fail to recognize it by its name but fancy it to be the one where the Kinneys stayed for a time, at the top of the steeper ascent between that to Villa Brichieri & the Columbaja.2 I have also a confused notion of a new entrance having been made on the side near the Hairdresser's Villa—I forget even his name. Remember to set me right about this. With respect to Florence, I cannot tell how I feel about it, so do I change in my feelings in the course of a quarter of an hour sometimes: particular incidents in the Florence way of life recur as if I could not bear a repetition of them—to find myself walking among the hills, or turnings by the villas, certain doorways, old walls, points of sight, on a solitary bright summer Sunday afternoon—there, I think that would fairly choke me at once: on the other hand, beginning from another point of association, I have such yearnings to be there! Just now, at the approach of Autumn, I feel exactly like a swallow in a cage,—as if I must go there, have no business anywhere else, with the year drawing in.— How thankful I am that all these foolish fancies never displace for a moment the solid fact that I can't go but have plain duty to do in London,—if there could be a doubt about that, I should drift about

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like a feather: at times (to give you a notion of what I might do if free to be foolish) I seem as if I should like, by a fascination, to try the worst at once,—go straight to the old rooms at Casa Guidi, & there live & die! But I shake all this off—& say to myself (sometimes aloud) "Don't be afraid, my good fellow, you'll die too, all in good time": so I go on. It is a great sustainment that I think I see clearly success in my management of Pen—that he is doing well, on the whole, with me. The health & strength of him are extraordinary, & indeed, perfect. Mrs Bracken's surprise at his growth, you may imagine—three years ago, Willie was nearly a head taller— now, Pen is exactly as tall, spite of Willy's having continued progress also—indeed Pen is taller legitimately—Willy's head & neck being rather unduly slender perhaps. He swims daily, quite well, in the deep sea—with a baigneur swimming beside, for my assurance—so that he has gained a good thing. Willy bathes too, begins to swim a little, and looks infinitely the better for his absence from Paris—his mother is delighted and says he never derived such immediate & evident benefit from any excursion. The weather has been admirable —it is so fine to-day that one could not wish a change for the better, and I determine to stay a fortnight longer—till the end of the month —in order to use such advantages to the utmost. The air, neighbourhood of the sea, extreme solitariness of the place, suit us all— Pen having Willy & my father to his heart's content. At the end of Septr we shall go to Paris, stay a few days, & return to London. You will find me there with your next—to 19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace—and there I hope to be for many a month to come. Pen has never opened a book since we left—I don't at all care. Now, dearest Isa, to the other matters—I hear with no surprise at all that the tablet3 has never been put up—though Villari wrote to me more than six months ago, that the Decreto had either passed or was to pass immediately, and that, in the mean time, the tablet was actually in the course of being engraved. He will, I am sure, take some step in the matter—& you, at least, can understand how I feel about it. One cannot expect everybody to have your dear &

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great heart,—but this might be done without an extraordinary effort, surely. One word to the Torrearsas4 will probably help us—and you are there, which is saying everything. I am very glad to hear of any symptom of amendment in health on the part of poor Mrs Trollope5—but! Give my truest regards to Trollope: he and his brother were most kind to me in London, and I seem to myself to have cut (as usual) an ungracious figure in not accepting their invitations—but my very head, heart & limbs were tired at that time. I will not lose A. Trollope's company by any fault of my own for the future. How is Beatrice,6—grown & well? How is Trotman ?7—who was ill. If you see Mrs Baker, tell her that I was quite unable to call on her during the day or two she was at Bayswater, & that I am sorry for it. Another thing,—she promised to lend me a M.S account of the trial of Count Francesco Guidi for the murder of his wife,8— which I am anxious to collate with my own collection of papers on the subject: she told me she had lent it to Trollope, along with other documents which she thought might interest him, and that he had found nothing in this subject to his purpose. Can you ask him if there was no mistake in her statement, if the account really related to my Count Francesco Guidi of Arezzo ? Because, in that case, with her leave (which I shall beg your kindness to ask) I should greatly like to see it—would find some friend to bring me the papers and would return them safely and expeditiously. Say a word of kind remembrance for me to Mrs Crossman & Miss C. With respect to my box—the missing one9—I never dreamed of asking you to take any trouble about it—dearest Isa: I will speak about it to Cottrell—who, poor fellow, must have something else than my matters to think about or he would hardly "have an idea it was left at Casa Guidi & therefore sold with the rest of the things" —seems that it was packed up and sent off to Madlle de Fauveau's with the other boxes: it contained the glass that used to stand on the old bureau—in carved walnut-wood,—the glass from over the stove in the little dining-room, and the little inlaid table at which I used to write. Of course Ferdinando can know nothing about the

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box—it has either been lost in the way to Mlle de F's—or is there— or was lost in the way to Leghorn: Cottrell must ask the Packer, who best knows. I am glad to hear a good account of Wilson—I saw Oreste in London. Did you not see Mr Landor ? He continues to do his utmost at teazing—sends me a picture to sell for him to "pay for his grave" &c I had four letters from him last week! I write myself to Mr Kirkup—you will see him, I suppose. Never forget me when you write to dear Kate Field & her mother. How are the Mignaty's, the Kinneys? I wish I knew something about Annunziata—Wilson always "looked down on her," & will not be likely to have news of her. Do you know anything about Lytton? I believe I have seven letters of his unanswered—shame to say! But I will write in a day or two. Do you go on with the old people—the Breckers or Vieusseux? Who lives in Casa Guidi, I wonder!10 Remember, Isa, that I am in London, & that what I can do for you, in any way, I shall be happy to do. I believe I shall be at comparative leisure this winter: Pen can & will do more by himself,— I like much what I observe in his moral character as it develops itself—he may be depended on, is very undemonstrative and very sensitive—has good sense & self command. You don't know what a sad thing happened here three weeks ago: Made La Raison, the wife of our landlord,—with whom, indeed, we only had to do, caught cold, had an attack of pleurisy, kept her bed nine days, and died— in the room next to mine & Pen's—leaving four little children beside the husband. The matter was most painful—Never was truer grief than that of the neighbours,—her sister came too—the husband did everything (& the doctor, I suspect, only too much) & so it ended. It was sad to see the children dragged upstairs to "bid goodbye"— for she was delirious, & in pain. The body remained in the house the next night—& Mrs Bracken, who wisely declared nothing would induce her to stay in the house with it, offered us all (kindly enough) such accommodation as she could give: you may suppose, we declined that—but I thought Pen's nerves might be younger & told him how easy it would be for him to go away for a night—his room being only divided by a thin partition from the other: I said, when we

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were alone, "It would be better perhaps for you to avoid the thought." He replied—"I go away? As if I shall not be more comfortable knowing she is out of her pain to-night than I was last night when she was in such pain." I told him he was quite right and that I felt exactly so. So now—there will be another month to wait till I hear again from you: may you do well—God bless you, dearest friend! As I told you, if the monument11 can be completed by next summer, I will go over & superintend the erection— but I hardly think it possible: Leighton wrote to me yesterday that the designs were completed—it is my own idea carried out—and beautifully, I think. I can't talk about it, and have not mentioned the thing to anybody (here), even Pen. Hatty however saw the design and approved it, —as you will, I believe. Have I not written a long letter,—for me,— who hate the sight of a pen now—& see a pile of unanswered things on this very table. Do you tell me, in turn, all about yourself—I shall be interested in the minutest thing you put down. What sort of weather is it? You cannot but be better at your new Villa than in the large, solitary one—all the more if the congenial people, under you once, would have been in the old place.12 There I am again, going up the winding way to it, and seeing the herbs in red flower & the butterflies on the top of the wall under the olive trees ! Once more, goodbye ! Pen sends his best love to you—bade me give it this morning at breakfast. My father & sister are quite well, happy to hear of your safe arrival, & return your kind regards. My father is quite well, & my sister also. I bathe every day & like it increasingly, to my wonder. Mrs Bracken told me to give her love when I next wrote to you. Ever yours most affectionately, dearest Isa— Robert Browning. What is your precise address ? Villa Giglioni, & what else ? [At top of first page] I don't even run over this scribble, you must understand & forgive.

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Notes on Letter 54 1. Isa had again taken up residence in Florence (53.3). 2. The Villa Columbaia was a former convent occupied by Mrs. Crossman (6.10). 3. On Casa Guidi. 4. Fardella Vincenzo Torrearsa (1808-1889), Italian marchese and Florentine official. 5. See 50.15. 6. Daughter of T. A. Trollope. Isa took care of her after her mother's death and again during her father's second honeymoon. She married (1880) Charles Stuart Wortley and died of fever after childbirth in July 1881. 7. An "English physician residing in Florence during winter & Lucca during summer" (Murray's Central Italy [1861], p. 28). 8. Mrs. Baker sent the MS, believed to be "The Death of the WifeMurderer Guido Franceschini, by Beheading," the "Secondary Source" for The Ring and the Book (DeVane, p. 288; Hood, p. 351). 9. See 51.2 and 3. 10. Charles R. Weld in his Florence, the New Capital of Italy (London 1867, page 21), reported that Casa Guidi was being let out in apartments at an exorbitant rent. 11. See 53.6. Browning never returned to Florence. 12. Villa Brichieri.

Letter 55 19. Warwick Crescent, Harrow Road. Oct. 18. '62 Dearest Isa, I shall not again tell you that your letter arrived & made me happy: understand without more telling, as I think you do, that I look for it thro' the long month as I never looked for anything else in the letter way: it is a comfort I depend upon till the end—it & you, Isa! I stayed a week in Paris then crossed over, finding all much as I left it & very black & blank: the weather which had been very fine till then, broke up next day—oh, the light by which I try & write, this afternoon, with a memory of poor Casa Guidi, which I thought black! Arabel Barret was—& is still in the country—& Pen felt lonely for a day or two: however things grow more propitious, there is much to make him comfortable, some better weather allowed

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him to row (his especial passion) & other good things are in store. Last night, Hal Cottrell1 came, to our great delight, slept at night, & has just gone away (this moment) with his Father (who came early and spent the morning) & his mother, who did not leave the carriage, the rain pelting: I was glad to see them: Hal is a sweet fellow, to my mind: Pen has outgrown him by half a head. She appeared better than I expected, but C. assures me that much is yet wrong with her, poor thing. He takes to you two photographs of Pen,—very good, I think—and a little parcel of which this is the history: it is a book & testimonials which Annunziata gave me to keep for her once on a time: when I left Florence, it got packed up among my own things by mistake: I promised to send it, as it is valuable to her.2 If you have any opportunity of sending it to her, at the B. di Lucca, you will greatly oblige me. Thank you most truly for attending to my request so promptly, in the matter of the Account of the Murder &c which I found on my return—pray thank Mrs Baker for her kindness, & say it will be particularly useful to me: 3 it would be of little use to anybody without my documents, nor is it correct in several respects, but it contains a few notices of the execution &c. subsequent to my account that I can turn to good: I am going to make a regular poem of it. I hope to print a new book of "Men & Women" (or under some such name) in April or May—& next year, this which shall be a strong thing, if I can manage it.4 Cottrell takes also with him the Drawings—which I should like you to see: it is my idea, (I think I told you about it) carried beautifully out, I think. I have not seen Romola,5 nor any illustrations to it, except the first number, which, he told me, were a failure thro' the engraver's fault. I will get—and read the story, which I shall like, I am sure—yet Chapman told me, two days ago, that it was considered a complete failure in point of attractiveness. Who values that, I wonder, unless those who make money by it! Dearest Isa, you know what I feel about that Tablet: 6 1 have two letters from Villery, written perhaps ten months7 ago, telling me in the most circumstantial matter [sic] that the Decreto was issued, and the Tablet sent to the Stone cutters, and the inscription—what

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you have read, and the thing done: I am sure he at least believed so,—it is not for me to ask the people concerned to remember my feelings, at hearing month after month, that nothing has been done, after all: Villeri will help, I know. It does not seem to me exactly the concern of the Matteuccis, who are of another country. I think a word from Villeri, would advance the thing: it is all great pain to me. This is a discouraging business, the substitution of Drouin de l'Huis for Thouvenel:8 I was the other night at Lady W. R's9 who told me the talk of the town was a visit Panizzi10 had just paid to Biarritz, whence he had returned persuaded that L. Napoleon meant the very best for Italy and would do it the moment he could. It's weary waiting, however. Poor perverse Mr Landor has sent me the big case of his picture— the "Sebastian del Piombo,"11 bless him! I shall be sure to offend him, whether I sell the picture for £5. or buy it in for £6. The "attention" of his sons would be praiseworthy were it in less evident connection with attempts to get money out of the Brothers: I have forwarded an application from Mr L. & hear in reply that he twice spent the money himself, and only now, when the burthen is clearly off his shoulders, begins to be alive to the interest of the "younger children." So demeans himself in his sad old age one of the greatest geniuses England ever produced! I don't think the end is near, or so very near—he can't keep on so to the end!12 I wrote to Lytton as I told you I would—the return is a huge letter exceeding all its predecessors in warmth & overflowing! He desires to be lovingly remembered to you:13 has been studying, rather than writing—reading Greek Books—& has had (of this I had heard before) quite a diplomatic success from his late little mission, receiving the thanks of the Government.14 He is coming to England, to make a long stay, and will be with Forster—who wants me to go & meet him on Christmas day—Forster writes in good spirits, his wife,—who, you remember was in a very unsatisfactory state,—is so much better that she can already walk four or five miles: they are at

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Bangor, till mid-November. I shall not forget your message to Forster. Monday 20/ No post yesterday—so I would not close this but have the feeling of writing one day later, & bringing the time till I hear again nearer by that much. I told Miss Smith of your lovesending, but she had just heard from yourself. Pen is drawing with her while I write,—it did me good to see him run past the window this (fine) morning.—I don't think it is my way to be over hopeful or anything but nervously apprehensive & suspicious of what comes in the likeness of good & success to me now—but I do believe Pen is doing as well morally & intellectually as physically: he is slow in development, but sure—retains all he has learnt & digests it, as I am surprised to find: is undemonstrative but feels deeply, as I have had occasion to observe: I cannot know what will come of it, but I incline to hope nothing till something—that is, no clever precocious immaturity to be admired and then forgotten—which it unluckily never is, but binds its author to many a crude, wrong & untrue profession of faith which seriously hampers him after & long after. I shall be able to manage him easily, I believe, and already have not half the difficulty that I had last year. I know you will be glad to hear this for all our sakes—as for me, I see increasingly every day, that were he not here, I should be "no where": life is, as you describe Mr Landor's dressing gown, "all the color washed out of it"— but, with the particular incentives I retain, I hope to fight a good fight & finish my course." You suppose I was dull at Ste Marie—on the contrary I stayed a week longer than the allotted time, and could have done well there for ever: it was in my scheme to read, walk, & do nothing but think there—here, my way is to do many other things —among others go out a good deal—just as now it suits me to stay at home—& I no more think of accepting an invitation (to the country) now than four months hence, I shall of refusing one: I do it all with a purpose, & don't care for one course more than another. My health is much improved, I should tell you—for I was regularly ill when I left town.

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I am so glad that I can be comfortable in your comfort: I fancy exactly how you feel & see how you live: it is the Villa Geddes15 of old days, I find. I well remember the fine view from the Kinney's upper-room—that looking down the steep hill, by the side of which runs the road you describe: that path was always my preferred walk, for its shortness (abruptness) and the fine old wall to your left (from the Villa) which is overgrown with weeds & wild flowers— violets & ground-ivy, I remember. Oh, me—to find myself there, some late sunshiny Sunday afternoon, with my face turned to Florence,—"ten minutes to the Gate, ten minutes home!" I think I should fairly end it all on the spot. If Cottrell is right in his calculations I shall have to go there in the autumn:16 do you know it will be most to my present feeling to go to some crowded Hotel in the middle of the town ? But I won't think of it till the time comes. Well, Isa—what do you forbode from the changes in Paris?17 The more I reflect, the more hopeful I grow, on account of the very circumstances that make the papers here overboil: I seem to have observed a wise principle in Louis Napoléon: wise in anyone who is strong enough to command his servants and get the precise work done which he needs: he entrusts it invariably to a man of opposite feeling if not principle—and thereby secures himself from the danger of too much zeal, and by the procedures of the unwilling instrument,— his manners, representations & diplomacy in accordance with his personal predilections, breaks the blow and half conciliates the party that has to suffer from the naked measures themselves—which are of course quite enough to satisfy the other party which benefits by them: thus when he sent Benedetti18 to Turin, Lavelette19 to Rome— you had conservative measures, liberal agents and mollifiers of the refusal to leave Rome: is it not conceivable that having to adopt liberal measures he employs those agents who will do what they are enjoined with all those sympathies & consideratenesses which ensure the success of a difficult enterprise—in short, do just what they are told,—forced to do,—& not more: this would not be the course taken by a half-powerful government, only anxious to procure the evacuation of Rome, for instance—then, the way would be to get a

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zealous liberal to help all he could: but here, no help that way is wanted—but immense help toward inducing Pope & Cardinals to "bear" the blow with decency: in short, when a landlord with power & will determines to eject an old lady from her half century of tenancy—he gets her best friend to go & tell her—may it not be so? See what a letter I have written you? I, who hate writing a word, and wait for months before I can make up my mind to do so ! Do you write to me as your good heart shall persuade. I am glad to hear Made Brecker, Brini, & the others still think of me & mine. You may safely give my love to everybody in Florence. Do you see Kirkup ? Especially my kind regards to Dr Grisanowsky, the Trollopes, Mignatys—but you know. God bless you, dearest Isa: Pen, returned, gives you his best love. Can I ever do anything for you here? I shall go & call on the kind Mackays. Ever yours affectionately R Browning. Notes

on Letter

35

1. Son of Count Cottrell. 2. See text 63.10. 3. See 54.8. 4. Browning's next volume, Dramatis Personae, was published on May 28, 1864, and the first volume of The Ring and the Book appeared on November 21, 1868. 5. George Eliot's Romola appeared serially in the Cornhill (1862-63) and Leighton provided a full-page drawing for each installment. 6. See 45.1. 7. See 48.4. 8. On October 21, 1862, Edouard Antoine Thouvenel (1818-1866), French minister of foreign affairs, was obliged to relinquish his portfolio to Edouard Drouyn de Lhuys (1805-1881). Thouvenel's policy had been anti-clerical. 9. Lady William Russell. 10. Anthony Panizzi (1797-1879), Italian patriot who fled to England, became an English citizen, principal librarian of the British Museum (1856), and K. C. B. (1869). He was introduced to Napoleon III by his friend

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Prosper Mérimée and spent much time with the emperor at Biarritz (Rudman, Italian Nationalism and English Letters, pp. 198-208). 11. Fra Sebastiano del Piombo (1485-1547), Italian painter of the Venetian School. 12. Landor's brothers allowed him £200 a year which Browning administered ( G & M , p. 288). 13. Lytton wrote, "Pray tell me something about Isa—her angel will rise agst me in the Day of Judgement, for I came here meaning to write constantly to her; and our correspondence, entirely through my own fault, has dropped altogether" (Letters from Owen Meredith, p. 209). 14. "I am but just returned from Belgrade, whither I was suddenly sent by the Gov1 to keep the peace between the Turks and Servians till the close of the Conference at Constantinople" (Ibid., p. 206). 15. Geddes is a not uncommon Scottish name, but I have not found a villa with the name. Isa occupied the Villa Giglioni. 16. When EBB's monument was to have been finished (53.6). 17. See note 8. 18. Count Vincent Benedetti (1817-1910), first envoy of France to the King of Italy. 19. Charles Jean Marie Félix, Marquis de La Vallette (1806-1881), French ambassador to Rome in 1861-62.

Letter 36 19. Warwick Crescent, Harrow Road. Nov. 19. '62 Dearest Isa, I did indeed get your little note, 1 and will tell you the truth—I could not answer it, so strangely did it affect me; I was forced to write to my sister that day, and made such a business of it that at last I told her why I could do no better, & so left off. After waiting a day or two, I thought I should do better to wait—even now, I can't tell you the thrill of pain & pleasure I feel about it: the presence of Her is now habitual to me,—I can have no doubt that it is my greatest comfort to be always remembering her,—the old books & furniture, her chair which is by mine,—all that is comfort to me— but in this case, it was as if, besides my feeling on my own account the deepest gratification at this act, determined & carried into effect, —I also sympathized with her pride & pleasure. And how must I

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feel to you, my own dearest of friends, whose work it has been ? I know you "Thank God," as you say, from your very heart, and so do I: all I can say is, I shall love the dust of Florence, the letters which make up its name, every man, woman & child it holds. There— I've done. For that monument,2 I hope & suppose that you have by this seen the real design which Cottrell carried out: Hatty only saw the general sketch made for my approval—which was afterward elaborated & improved, all the details proceeded into, finished indeed. Leighton has been most dear & zealous in the matter. He told me of the Tablets, its size & appearance, but you—of course had been, as usual, my best genius. I shall want you, Isa, to do what you promise: I have the inscription in a letter of Villeri's—but there may be alterations—at all events I should like to have in your hand writing an exact transcript of the inscription, line after line, letter for letter, from first to last, just as it stands: I will have it cut in marble and put where I can always see it.3 Next time you write! Of course I mean to send you the selection the moment it appears —which it probably may do next week.4 Early in Spring, I print new poems, a number: then, a new edition of all my old things, corrected: then begin on my murder-case.5 I shall have no amanuensis however!6 Yes, Pen is getting a great help to me: his Tutor7 said yesterday— "I have never once had an instance of inattention in him" (since our return) "It is a confirmed habit of attention now, and the result is certain." I do very little with him, and his improvement is noticed by even the servants. People are very kind to him, and if I were to break thro' my rules, I might give him holidays enough—but he does not desire it,—in fact, he thinks now: he has taken to earnest reading . . of Marryat's8 novels! I can hardly get him to lay them down. I had a note from Annette at last, proposing to call on me with her uncle on a day when I was engaged—so I called on her. She was looking particularly well and pretty and said she was quite well—which I the more rejoiced at, as I had heard a passage

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from a letter read by Mrs Bracken mentioning that she was so weak as to [be] hardly able to cross the room. We talked out the business,9 and ended as we began: as I told her, it was the old spirit-rapping reasoning—"I can't expect you to believe—but if you knew, as I do, the perfect honesty &c" She professed no hope about it, and, depend on it, will never break her heart, whatever happens. If I understand anything by the public news, the worthy is looking out for higher perferment instead of &c. A. talks about the difference of feeling that prevails among Catholics, how many of them are liberal & would approve of such a step, what Mrs Davy10 thinks! & so on—to which I replied that the law, while in force, was the law,—whatever individuals, many or few, might "wish" to the contrary—and that if she had any doubts as to what the law was on the subject,—not might be, nor ought to be,—she could get an opinion from a proper authority just as I could learn what the law allowed or disallowed if I wanted to throw up the lease of my house, because my conscience might suffer me so to do: but she had no inclination to that—"she would far more grieve at finding him dishonest than at anything else." I repeat,—spirit-rapping logic. "Can you prove it? No. May I test it? No. Then, why am I to believe it? Don't. Or, why do you believe it? Because I know the angelic purity of Hume." We parted good friends, but I don't expect to be readily called to her counsels in a hurry. She is gone, I believe, to Miss Chappie's.11 Mr Landor is, I hope, hardly to be blamed for what he does. He has been trying hard of late to annoy us all here as much as possible: if he were to be judged by his actions, it would be sad indeed. He wrote to me three days ago that he should die this year—but what folly and falsehood does he not write?—Yes, I heard of Capt. W's 12 death,—and meeting the other day an acquaintance of the wife's,—a clever woman,—she informed me that the wife was inconsolable— her affection was intense—never was there such an union—& all that! The very devil does seem to me to have his own way with the heads of all the good people, to make amends for his failing to get their hearts! I let her talk away without comment.

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I am very sorry for poor Made Tassinari:13 I daresay chagrin at the prevalent politics helped to undermine her health: if she cares to take it, give her & her husband my true sympathy in any form you choose. On the other hand, I rejoice to hear of the improvement of Mrs T. Trollope—give them all my kind regards, please. I saw very little of Hatty in London: < . . . > 1 4 in the materials & make of the things, perhaps, < . . . > blouseway! But this change began in Rome < . . . > dearly, however, dressed or undressed. Miss Cushman < . . . > to be got at: I went one night to Sir C. Eastlakes15 < . . . > Hatty cross from Folkestone with you? Mrs Kemble16 < . . . > certainly did; but I told her you would properly have < . . . > has my entire sympathy: what do you think? I met Mrs Car "Joseph"17 was here under a feigned name—I remarked "Don't let me < . . . > tempted to get him hanged the next time he set foot in Italy—whereas she < . . .> city & the ignorance of the English—"J" told her long ago he had done all he could to protest the expedition, wrung his hands over G's18 folly &c &c whereto I replied, of course, that "J·" was the little boy who had stuck a pin into a horse to get him to move on gently—& now was amazed at his sprunting out right & left & doing no end of damage. Well, last Monday, being at Chelsea to see Rossetti,19 who has taken a huge old house there which he is mediaevalising, I called at Carlyle's—when, lo, there was "J" tête-à tete with Mrs C: I spoke to him in Italian at once, naming him— his hesitation & replies in English were funny—he had forgotten me & no wonder. I said, "Ί should know you anywhere!"—When he found out who I was he grew cordial—but I would not talk except on general subjects: I always liked him personally, & still believe in his sincerity in the main,—but can hardly keep patience with his folly or madness: he was looking very well, younger than I, and seemed none the worse for his illness at Torquay which was urged last year on the Ital. Government with a view to his return to "die in his native land." I am glad the Cottrells are returned safely: all thanks to you for the trouble you have been taking about my missing case20—it con-

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tains pictures, & glasses, and, what's worse, books & papers and other small matters stowed between: if they could be recovered, I should be very glad: the packer ought to know where he put the cases & how many there were—I was not in a state to do more than tell him what to pack: it may be perdue in some blind corner of the Fauveaus. One picture in it, makes four smaller ones or parts of it, useless by its loss—but I don't care a straw except for the papers &c which greatly concern me. It may yet be found. By the bye, there is another thing which I forgot to mention to Cottrell & which you may tell him, if you please,—the porter of Casa Guidi has sent to say that he did something or other at & before the sale "e non ha avuto niente":21 should it be so, if Cottrell will satisfy him & repay himself at Brini's I shall be much obliged to him. What you write about Shelley's servant22 is very interesting: I am sadly unsettled in my feelings about Shelley, or rather confirmed in my secret apprehensions, by the recent books23 < . . . > since dead) : there has been a little book < . . . > (especially) are attacked—how judiciously < . . . > tance on certain friendly letters to his first wife < . . . > was afterwards his second: but they showed their friendliness < . . . > "sororually" (as D r Parr24 called it) with her successor < . . . > Lady Audley's Secret", by an actress, Miss Braddon.25 You have < . . . > not [.] Mrs Forster has returned quite well—a happy circum < . . . > expected. He is pretty well, most kind, building a great house26 < . . . > at such things as at the piled-up luggage in a rail-way station—likely to be swept away in six minutes: yet at this moment there is hammering going on over head,—I am having the old tapestries27 put up like curtains in the drawing room: there are two large windows & I mean they shall (the tapestries) hang & draw their full length: I find this house very comfortable & shall hope to make it serve my turn till I have done my work here—then I shall go home— not, I think, to establish myself anywhere, but to wander about the world: meantime, as you say & I thankfully assent to, all goes well with me: I write a good deal & mean to do more. Arabel Barrett

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has not returned from Wales, nor will, I expect, till Christmas—I avoid calling & going out, and find it more comfortable than at any previous time of the year. I mean to go & see those kind Mackays. Give my kind love ever & always to all friends: if you write to dear Kate Field, true love to her. Story sold his statues,281 am told (not by him) for £2400: he had the usual number of quasi-offers & assurances at second-hand—so at the end, when delay began to be serious he sold them—rightly, for the consequences of going away with these on hand would have been disastrous; no sooner were they sold, than the half offers grew to whole ones,—its so with a picture exposed for sale,—fifty people pass it every day, & when at last somebody really perils five dollars and buys it outright, they each & all discover they had been meaning to do so. Story's reputation is immense now, & he has only to take care of himself and only to do his very best and he will be what he pleases, and, for the matter of that, get what he likes. They started this day week for Paris & Rome. Now good bye, & God bless you, my dearest friend: (by the way, I dined with Matt: Arnold last week,—you know what that reminiscence implies!)29 I have to see Rossetti & Allingham30 to-day, they lunch with me—& I must leave off: how I enjoy the certainty of your love, and care for me, and the feel of your dear hand thro' the distance ! I shall see you, you know when, with the bodily eyes— but I am always with you in my thought & memory: I say this, because I feel how inadequate a representation is any such letter as this poor thing of what I ought to express—but that cannot be. Pen's best love to you, he has just bidden me say. I am so glad your Villa arrangements are satifactory. Have you got Emilia31 again? A kind word to her & to Ansano, & the Vetturino:32 I can't cram in any more. Ever yours affectionately Robert Browning. [At top of first page] (I venture a Photograph of my Father, taken a month ago—in his 81st year.) 33

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Notes on Letter 56 1. Isa's unanswered "little note" had told Browning that the memorial tablet (45.1) was finally erected. Pen Browning had a copy "cut in marble" in the Palazzo Rezzonico, Venice. 2. See 53.6. 3. See note 1. 4. Selections from the Poetical Works of Robert Browning (London, 1863). The preface was dated November 1862, although the volume was printed and ready at least two months previous (Hood, p. 71). 5. The Ring and the Book. 6. Not Isa, as formerly. 7. Gillespie. 8. Captain Frederick Marryat (1792-1848), author of novels of sea life, including Mr. Midshipman Easy (1836). 9. Of Annette Bracken's desire to marry Passaglia (53.9). 10. Not identified. 11. Not identified. 12. Captain Fleetwood Wilson. 13. Mary (Thornton) Tassinari (1819-1895), daughter of Sir Edward Thornton, English diplomat, and wife of Giovanni Tassinari (1805-1892), chamberlain to the Grand Duke. On July 23, 1858, EBB wrote to Fanny Haworth: "Mme. Tassinari is admirable in her music—keep her to that point. When Frederick Tennyson had his concerts at Florence, she required no practice and preparation to take the piano-part in the most learned pieces of Beethoven &c, and did it to the wonder of the Tuscan artists" (TpS in BM; information from the late Mme. C. Danyell Tassinari of Florence). 14. A tear in the MS, upper right-hand corner recto. 15. Sir Charles Eastlake (1793-1865), president of the Royal Academy (1850-1865). When Browning died, Lady Eastlake wrote, "I knew him tolerably well, and liked him better than his works {Journals and Correspondence of Lady Eastlake, ed. C E. Smith [London, 1895], II, 298-99). 16. Frances Anne Kemble (1809-1893), actress and author. She first met Browning in 1845 at a dinner at Mrs. Procter's (F. A. Kemble, Records of Later Life [London, 1882], III, 101). "You are the only man I have ever known," she once told Browning, "who behaved like a Christian to his wife" (Dorothy Bobbé, Fanny Kemble [New York, 1931], p. 256). 17. Giuseppe Mazzini. On August 29 Garibaldi was wounded and taken prisoner while leading an expedition against Rome. Mazzini's part may be inferred from a letter he wrote Mrs. Carlyle from London on August 22: "No, I am not holding conferences with Garib[aldi]; but I do not dissemble the fact that I am about doing so. Much as I deplore and find premature all this uproar, it is growing an Italian one and . . . I am therefore going to see what can be done." By August 29 he was in Italy and by October 13

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back in London, the expedition having failed (Scritti editi ed inediti di Giuseppe Mazzini [Imola, 1936], LXXIII, 72-73, 79, and 113). 18. Garibaldi's. 19. D. G. Rossetti lived at 16 Cheyne Walk and the Carlyles at 5 Cheyne Row. 20. See text 51.2. 21. "And has not received anything." 22. Browning became acquainted with the poetry of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) at the age of fourteen when James Silverthorne presented him with Shelley's Miscellaneous Poems (1826) (Sotheby, No. 1080, p. 129). Shelley's influence is manifest in Pauline (1833) and Paracelsus (1835), and Browning's continued admiration is evident in his "Essay on Shelley" (1852) and in his well-known Memorabilia (1855). Three years later (1858) Thomas Hookham, Jr., a bookseller once intimate with Shelley, showed Browning some letters from Shelley's first wife which convinced Browning that Shelley had deserted her. Browning lost all admiration for the man, and later (1885) refused to accept the presidency of the Shelley Society (Hood, p. 371; N. I. White, Shelley [New York, 1940], II, 403-04). In the summer of 1820 Paolo Foggi, a discharged servant of the Shelleys, attempted to blackmail Shelley with the charge that Claire Clairmont had borne him a child (Ibid., II, 71-83, and 306-315). 23. Some of the books written during the five years previous to this letter are T. J. Hogg, Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1858), C. S. Middleton, Shelley and His Writings (1858), E. J. Trelawny, Recollections of Shelley and Byron (1858), Lady Jane Shelley, Shelley Memorials (1859), and Relics of Shelley, ed. Richard Garnett (1862). 24. Dr. Samuel Parr (1747-1825), scholar, called the "Whig Johnson." 25. Mary Elizabeth (Braddon) Maxwell (1837-1915), author of some eighty novels. Her Lady Audley's Secret (1862), a "preposterously successful melodrama," has sold perhaps a million copies, has been many times dramatized, and twice filmed (DNB). The stage adaptation was produced successfully in London during the 1949-50 season. 26. A photograph of Forster's house at Palace Gate, Kensington, faces page 148 of Richard Renton, John Forster and His Friendships (London, 1912). 27. The tapestries which once hung in the salon of Casa Guidi are now at Baylor. 28. See 49.10 and 11. 29. See 48.5. 30. William Allingham (1824-1889), Irish poet, and editor of Frase's (1874-79). He knew Browning by the spring of 1852, and frequent meetings thereafter are recorded in his diary. He was an early admirer of Browning's poetry, but his admiration decreased with the passing years (M.

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L. Howe, "Robert Browning and William Allingham," Studies in Philology, XXXI [1934], 567-577). 31. Isa's servant. EBB wrote to Isa about January 1861: "But, Isa, do you mean to say that it was an immediate, evident necessity for her to go? I am very, very sorry for her and for you—it is melancholy. There was a wild-fruit flavour about that poor girl with her sudden radiance of a smile— Oh, that wretched man. But, Isa I am afraid you don't sufficiently realize to yourself the physical tendencies of the sexes . . . . Poor, poor Emilia" (TpS in BM). On April 4 [1864] Isa wrote to Kate Field, "That rebellious individual Emilia has returned to my service" (MS in BPL). 32. "Coachman." 33. See photograph in Hood, p. 94.

Letter 57 19 Warwick Crescent, Harrow Road Dec. 19. '62. Dearest Isa, I shall only be able to write a short letter to-day from a press of business,=don't talk about my being good in writing long ones— it is altogether a selfish thing—I even know while I do it that I could amuse you perhaps a little by putting down some of the incidents in my life here, accounts of the people I see, & so on—just as you tell them to me—but I can't help going on and talking about Florence & the friends or acquaintances there—the other matters absolutely go out of my head—& I should have to dig into it uncomfortably deep to get at what was said & done only last week. As for your letters, if you knew how I count on them, wait for them, & this time vex myself because the arrival is three days after time (postage-mark, "Firenze 15. December"!)—you would see on whose side the obligation was. I have hardly such an other pleasure as the hearing from you. Well, I gather that you are well, comfortable & as gay or grave—i.e. solitary—as you like. I was quite pleased to see that Chapman publishes your novel:1 he certainly is select in his novelists, & you will not come out & go in again unnoticed, depend upon it, even were your book's merit less than Miss Smith assures me

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it is: I shall be happy indeed in its success, and, next time, you can treat directly with Chapman, you know, & make all the better bargain, as of course Bradbury2 has to make his separate profit. I believe Chapman is good & honest & not ungenerous—but he is mortally slow & in want of jogging every now & then—I had to discipline him on my own account the other day & made him wake up & rather rub his eyes: we have considerable dealings to-gether just now. I am going to print the "Essay on the Later Greek Poets" which appeared in the "Athenaeum" twenty years ago: 3 it was brought with us to Italy for correction & augmentation—there having been applications to print it in America—yet, after sixteen years, I open the doubled-up papers here & so! There follows an Essay on the English Poets, a light running criticism, which I shall also print: if I did not, it would be eventually done: & there are fine, & beautiful passages everywhere. My own selections4 come out today or to-morrow: I will send you a copy—tho' there is nothing new in it: in the spring I print the new poems, & a new edition of my things in four vols, uniformly with Her's: 5 what I feel in not having you to help & copy! Never mind, it is all the harder & the better. Pen continues quite well, quite good—just as I wish, errors and all: & I don't think it is my failing to be over credulous of goodness. He is certainly happy, too: I asked him two days ago, as we were at dinner alone,—"what would you like at Christmas,—you ought to tell me if there's anything in particular that would please you." He answered—"Oh, no—don't get me anything: you have given me so many things lately, & beside you have been put to so many expenses about the house." I replied, "Oh, I must give you some trifle, for all that"—"Well" he said "then do let it be some very little thing, just for your sake"—adding presently—"I really want nothing— you get me all I want—I could not have more things." That was nice & good of him, I thought: indeed he is very moderate in any want for himself, & only asks me to give away to other people. He is much taken up with reading & buys books with his own money: Arabel is still away, so we are much together: I went out far too much lately—not being able to help myself—& became unwell a

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fortnight ago: now I refuse invitations on that ground. I went the other evening to see Mrs Lewis6—he having called on me & been very kind in another matter: I liked her much: dined with Ruskin7 on Tuesday: with Fanny Kemble, Ly W. Russell, the Fitzpatrick's (Gertrude's married, I'm glad to say,) 8 with Julian Fane's9 mother— (the most thorough lover of Florence, where she was sixteen years when her husband was ambassador)—: Lytton is almost despaired of,—his visit, I mean: I must write, if he don't come. J. Fane I like extremely. I am very sorry you don't like the Design:10 I cannot pretend to look at it steadily & critically, but I am satisfied with it—and, having deliberately accepted it, shall either have that or none: Leighton intended to make something of his own, and not take a composition out of the examples of this or the other "style" which you may find in books by the hundred: he did not think pure Gothic or pure Grecian would be appropriate in this case, and tried to invent one not merely appropriate: in such an endeavour he of course lays himself open to the charge of mixing styles;—how else could anything new ever be done? If I disapproved of the design I should put it aside altogether and get an entirely new one—though, to be sure, changing the pillars to cariatides, and changing the area into Gothic, and other changes mentioned, would come to the same thing: the proper way would be to ask M. Mathas11 to make a design of his own. But this is another man's design and it is but justice to him to see that it is rigourously carried out. With respect to the relative size of the area & columns that was the difficulty of the design: Mr Kirkup wrote to me twice very kindly & forcibly advising me not to have an area supported by pillars at all—as he considered such an erection unsafe: he had helped to put up such a monument (to Napier's wife) 12 and seen it give way thro' the over weight of the area: & Leighton was at great pains to proportion the pillars to their office—they will bear that area & not a larger—so a larger it cannot be. Even as it was, the one fault Hatty found with it (to me, at least) was that the area was too heavy: but Leighton understands all this: I have asked him to express on paper his own intentions &

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reasons for them, because he is quite capable of that, and will send them to Cottrell—whose behaviour in the matter has been kindness itself—I understand all he thought would be to my advantage, and trust he knows it: I shall write to him—not to-day I fear—but tomorrow. Poor Leighton, he suffers enough from the interpreters of his drawings for "Romola"13—I daresay they seem to everybody hideous: I could not have believed unless I had seen the photographs from the originals that so they were drawn on the wood, and so cut into it & turned out by the engraver—who goes over all the beautiful, refined work & expresses by a cut here & a rub there what he considers the essential part: of course other artists understand the subsequent process better, draw for the engraver better, and get better treated: his tunes don't grind well on the organ, in fact: but when you look at the drawings themselves you won't find Ruskin far wrong in saying, as he did to me on Friday, that the spirit of beauty & grace is in him above his contemporaries. I am so particularly glad that you saw & spoke of my feeling to Tommaseo.14 ***15

Notes on Letter 57 1. The Cost of a Secret, received at BM on January 2, 1863, reviewed unfavorably in the Saturday Review, April 18, page 509. 2. William Bradbury and Frederick Mullet Evans, printers for Chapman & Hall, and publishers. Much of Isa's and Browning's later difficulties with Chapman were caused by her dealing through Bradbury (See text 90.2). 3. EBB's "Essay on the Later Greek Poets" and her "Essay on the English Poets" constituted a series in the Athenaeum for 1842. Browning supervised their publication in book form (1863). 4. See 56.4. 5. Browning's next volume, Dramatis Personae, was not published until May 28, 1864. In 1863 he published The Poetical Works in three volumes. The fifth edition of EBB's poems had been published in 1862. 6. Mary Ann (Evans) Cross, "George Eliot" (1819-1880). She was known as Mrs. Lewes after 1854 when she formed a connection with, without marriage to, George Henry Lewes (1817-1878), editor and publisher. The Leweses were in Italy in 1860 at which time EBB wrote, "I admire her books so much that certainly I shall not refuse to receive her, though she is not a medium" (Kenyon, II, 4 0 0 ) . Although George Eliot did not call, Isa called

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on her and "was enchanted, like all the world, with George Eliot" (Life of F. P. Cobbe, p. 347). On the evening of December 16, 1862, "Browning paid us a visit for the first time," George Eliot wrote in her journal (J. W. Cross, George Eliot's Life [Edinburgh, n. d . ] , p. 357). 7. John Ruskin (1819-1900) first met the Brownings in London in the summer of 1852 when EBB wrote, "We count him among the valuable acquaintances made this year in England" (Kenyon, II, 8 7 ) . He thought Aurora Leigh "the finest poem written in any language this century" (Kenyon, II, 268); and of Browning's "The Bishop Orders His Tomb" he said, "I know of no other piece of modern English, prose or poetry, in which there is so much told, as in these lines, of the Renaissance spirit . . . " (Modern Painters, IV, 380). 8. See 49.4. 9. Julian Henry Charles Fane (1827-1870), diplomat and author, fourth son of John Fane, the eleventh Earl of Westmorland. He wrote Poems (1852), a translation of Heine (1854), and, with Robert Lytton, Tannhäuser, or The Battle of the Bards, a poem (1861). His mother was Priscilla Anne (Pole) Fane. She lived in Florence (18141830) when her husband was minister plenipotentiary there. Lady Rose Weigall recorded, "the poet Browning would talk to Lady W , to whom he was much attached, about the education of his beloved boy" (Rachel Weigall, Lady Rose Weigall [London, 1923], p. 8 8 ) . 10. See 53.6. 11. Browning elsewhere (73) refers to Cavalier Mathas, an artist recommended to make a design for EBB's monument. 12. Caroline Napier (1806-1836), wife of Henry Edward Napier (17891853), died at Florence on September 5, 1836, and was buried there in the Protestant Cemetery. 13. See 55.5. 14. The poet who wrote the inscription for EBB's memorial tablet (45.1). 15. The remainder is missing. When originally printed (Armstrong, pp. 8 2 - 3 ) , a conclusion consisting of one MS sheet was added. This conclusion belongs properly to letter 78.

Letter 38 [Athenaeum Club] 1 Jan 19. '63. Dearest Isa, I shall not be able to write much even now—after wanting & meaning to say so much to you: here is my day, & here must be my scrap of letter: I am plagued with work & calls on my time of

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various sorts—let me however begin & write fast. How I know, dearest, that you mean what you say—& don't you know that I know it, am the better for your wishes, and wish you, not in return, but always wish you every good ? I am very well & Pen is quite well: there are many things that vex me—I'll tell you if I have time—but on the whole I see progress for him, work for me, the passing of time,—and other helps,—well,—for your request, and all your urging, coaxing & eloquence—take my laugh at you for a goose! You ought to be sure that only at a word I will go, & be happy to go, not simply to Mrs Alexander2 but to her housemaid's cousin,—I will go the first day I can—to-day if I find I am in time,—if not,—next to certainly, to-morrow; & not merely call & return, if she is out, but repeat the call till I see her—& take Pen whenever she likes. For the photographs, being here at the Club, I can't get at them—but I shall be writing to you in a few days, as soon as I get the information about your Sanscrit Professor3 which you want, for which I shall write presently,—and Mad6 Torrearsa shall receive one with all my heart: the whole lengths of Pen are gone, but I have ordered more from Paris—& will send you one as soon as they arrive—it was very kind & considerate to give it to Wilson. Now of your book,4— I have read two volumes only, thro' Mudie's5 stupidity twice sending the second, i.e two second vols: I can only say that so far I think you write with visible improvement & limpidity: the subjective matter is very good indeed,—the letters from Siena, for instance, which are truth itself, & very dear: you don't treat us to very new or striking types—but you manage the ordinary people very well, and are certainly improving: there are a few slipshod phrases,—but a few, (such as "cauterizing a pain9— for, "a wound" &c) and one name is unhappy to me—Bifrons, because impossible, and tale-telling: when I read the whole,—as I am glad to see is necessary, since you have a decided plot & work up to a crisis,—I will say what occurs: meantime I am happy to say that those who have read it, like it much —make my heart glad by praising it: Mrs Procter was most laudatory, for instance. Chapman tells me the sale is very good: you will get better and better prices for your books. He said it was

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wholly thro' a mistake of yours that he did not publish it & pay you that price—he waited for some reason or other, & you would not wait: but then, he tells more than I vouch for. I saw Mrs Lewis again the other evening—and continue to like her exceedingly: I am going even to dine with her on Thursday to meet A. Trollope: the change in L: is astounding! She spoke very kindly of you,— had not read the book yet, however. Now, dear, let me say a word to you, strictly to you only, about the Monument,6 about which I think you are in a misconception. Leighton made that design, with all love & effort. So far from despising the criticism of an Architect, he had all along the superintendence and advice of Cockerell,7 son of the Architect, and said to be of great ability: his aim was, to make something new, and not dozzinale,8 something beautiful, and something safe—a difficult matter: indeed, Mr Kirkup had previously written to me twice or thrice to warn me that such erections (pillars supporting an area) were ruinous—thro' the area's being always too heavy: snow lies on it, one pillar breaks, then all falls. Leighton studied this difficulty, and, in the opinion of the competent, removed it—I don't hear a word of objection as from an Architect, i.e, with respect to the building-part, which is just where fault, as in a painter's work, might be most easily found. Cottrell saw leisurely this design, talked over it with Leighton, might have found any objection he pleased, but found none. After several weeks, he called on me for the drawings —I begged him to state frankly any objection that had subsequently struck him, anything he had not liked to mention to Leighton,— still, none. He then returns to Florence, and writes to me that "Mathas" says the styles are mixed, the area should be altered, the pillars changed for cariatides, and that he will make a design and send it. This is merely one artist bidding you accept a work from him rather than what you have ordered from another. And who is "Mathas?" "Very clever" & so on: I daresay, but I never heard his name before: would you really recommend that at first mention of it, I should throw up Leighton, renounce what I had entirely admired & gratefully accepted,—all for a design still in the air,

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promised as a better thing, by a man wholly unknown to me? If Mathas had sent a design, by which I could judge of the superiority of his taste to Leighton's, well and good: Leighton would have been the first to entreat me to accept it if I so willed— as he has entreated me to give up his design if I have the least inclination to do so— but indeed I have not: you say, "Rafael would have consulted Michel Angelo"—now, I don't say L. is Rafael—but does anybody call the other Michel Angelo? I really want to know—is it meant that "Mathas" is an arbiter and judge as the other would have been? Recollect, I have only M's word & Cs opinion that something better will be done by this great man, and I am to throw up what, at least, I have seen and do like. Suppose when we had all accepted the Inscription on the Tablet,9 somebody had said, "A or B, a very clever writer, now employed in cutting the letters on such a public monument, finds the metaphors mixed, the style unclassic, he's for altering the first line, changing the second, & removing the third, and I'm sure that Tommaseo if on the spot would applaud his performance, for would not Horace have consulted Virgil on such a matter?"— So I see the matter, at least: and the vexatious circumstance is, that Cottrell who is kindness itself, who means all for the best, probably misunderstands me, thinks my disinclination to adopt his view pure obstinacy &, perhaps, ingratitude—such are the misfortunes of friendship! He has never answered my letter, sent a month ago: nor, by the bye, will he do the simple favor of making some enquiry about that missing cassa10 with many precious things of mine in it— it don't help me to have been all this time in Florence without asking de Fauveau or the Packer a word about that. I lose pictures & papers, beside the other things—but never mind. Don't mention it. There are worse miseries,—those I referred to. Ever since I set foot in England I have been pestered with applications for leave to write the Life of my wife: I have refused—& there an end. I have last week received two communications from friends—enclosing the letters of a certain Geo: Stampe of Great Grimsby,11 asking them for details of life and letters, for a biography he is engaged in—adding that he has "secured the correspondence with her old friend Hugh

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Stuart Boyd."12 Think of this beast working away at this, not deeming my feelings, or those of her family, worthy of notice—and meaning to print letters written years & years ago, on the most intimate & personal subjects, to an "old friend"—which, at the poor, old blind, forsaken man's death fell into the hands of a complete stranger,13 who, at once wanted to print them—but desisted thro' Ba's earnest expostulation enforced by my own threat to take law proceedings—as fortunately letters are copy-right: I find this woman died last year, & her son writes to me this morning that Stampe got them from him as autographs merely: he will try & get them back: Stampe, evidently a blackguard, got my letter,14 which gave him his deserts, on Saturday—no answer yet; if none comes, I shall be forced to advertise in the Times, and obtain an injunction. But what I suffer in feeling the hands of these blackguards (for I forgot to say, another man15 has been making similar applications to friends)— what I undergo with their paws in my very bowels, you can guess & God knows! No friend, of course, would ever give up the letters: if anybody ever is forced to do that which she would have so utterly writhed under—if it ever were necessary, why, I should be forced to do it, and, with any good to her memory & fame, my own pain in the attempt would be turned into joy—I should do it at whatever cost: but it is not only unnecessary but absurdly useless—&, indeed, it shall not be done if I can stop the scamp's knavery—along with his breath. I am going to reprint the Greek Christian Poets & another Essay:16 nothing that ought to be published, shall be kept back—& this she certainly intended to correct, augment & reproduce—but I open the doubled-up paper! Warn anyone you may think needs the warning of the utter distress in which I should be placed were this scoundrel or any other of the sort, to baffle me & bring out the letters. I can't prevent fools from uttering their folly upon her life, as they do on every other subject, but the law protects property—as these letters are. Only last week or so, the Bishop of Exeter stopped the publication of an announced "Life"—containing extracts from his correspondence.17 And so I shall do.

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Dearest Isa, I will end now—as soon as I get the information from Paris, you shall have it. I have not gone out much lately, having suffered from bile & cold—both are subdued plagues just now. Arabel B. is returned: I shall probably go to Paris for a week at the end of next month—as a change to Pen and a pleasure to my Father. Give my love to all old & dear friends: I am so happy, Isa, to think that you prosper, as you manifestly do, in your house & society: that is right! I am glad you went to those Balls,—you will find the good of them in your novels. Kind love specially to the Cottrells—Trollopes—Mignatys: you don't see Kirkup, I suppose? I will write you, if I can, a supplementary letter of gossip, to take the taste of this bitter sheetful out of your mouth. Thank my kind understander, Mr Brett,18 for his goodness to me: I shall be glad to know him whenever he comes to England. Now, good bye & God bless you, my dearest friend. I comfort myself in the thought of you in dear, dear Florence: I wait for your letters,—they come and I wait again, —nothing delights me so much. Ever yours affectionately R Browning. Notes

on Letter

58

1. Written on Athenaeum Club paper. 2. Browning's address book lists Mrs. [J. Dupré] Alexander at 43 Grosvenor Place, and Stone House, Broadstairs, Kent. 3. Browning was not able to get the information about the Sanskrit Professor, nor was I (Text 59.1). 4. See 57.1 and 2. 5. Charles Edward Mudie (1818-1890), stationer and bookseller, began his lending library in 1842. An indication of its circulation is that he took 2,400 copies of Volumes III and IV of Macaulay's History of England (DNB). 6. See 53.6. 7. Samuel Pepys Cockerell (1754-1827), an architect, had an architect son, Charles Robert (1788-1863), who, in turn, had an architect son, Frederick Pepys Cockerell (1833-1878) (DNB). 8. "Ordinary." 9. See 45.1.

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10. See text 51.2. 11. Not identified. A George Stamp published An Index to the Statute Law of England in 1848 and 1853. 12. Hugh Stuart Boyd (1781-1848), scholar and author. EB met him in March 1828 after she had corresponded with him for a year; in the same year he became blind, and she became his reader (Marks, The Family of the Barrett, p. 365). She wrote "Wine of Cyprus" and three sonnets in his honor. The letters Stampe wished to publish were subsequently returned to Browning, 240 "in the handwriting of Miss Barrett" and about 170 from Boyd to her, and were sold in 1913 for £135 (Sotheby, p. 29, No. 131). Sir Frederic Kenyon included sixty-seven of them in his edition (1897) and Bennett Weaver edited an additional twenty (PMLA, LXV [1950], 397418). 13. Not identified. 14. On January 21 Browning wrote to the offender, "I fancy you are young, & in a proper exercise of your faculty you may achieve distinction: be assured that all such interferences with the sacredness of the grave are abominable" ("Robert Browning, A Castigation," Methuen's Annual [1914], pp. 46-49; repeated in Macmillan's Annual [1914], pp. 61-64). 15. Not identified. 16. See 57.3. 17. A detailed life of Henry Phillpotts (1778-1869), Bishop of Exeter, by the Rev. Reginald N. Shutte was begun, but abandoned when the bishop obtained an injunction (DNB). 18. John Brett (1831-1902), marine painter, Associate of the Royal Academy. He exhibited at the Royal Academy every year from 1853 to 1864 except in 1863. In 1863 he submitted a picture (which I have not found) inspired by lines, "And washed by the morning water-gold . . . As the sights in a magic crystal ball," from Browning's "Old Pictures in Florence." The picture was not accepted (DNB; 62).

Letter 39 19. Warwick Crescent, Harrow Road, W. Feb. 19. '63 My dearest Isa, I may stereotype "thank you heartily for your letter"—for you will always send one, I know, & I shall always be as grateful as to-day, I know. First, I was to write & tell you what information I could get about your Professor:1 I did so—&, as usual, Milsand promised

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to do what he could—but it all ended in nothing—nobody will tell— the other professors have some sort of dread of committing themselves: M. is to see Renan2 & ask him—& if I get anything worth transmitting, expect it. I beg to say it was neither good nor kind in me to do what you desired & call on Mrs Alexander—simply a duty & pleasant: I liked her much—fancied her like you somewhat in face—& mean to call again as often as she may seem to like: she asked me to dinner last week, but unluckily I had been engaged for many a day before & after: people now give you a fortnight's notice: W. Bracken called on me with all his old benevolence—he had your book,3 or one volume of it, in his pocket (saying much for the size of that) and was studying it to his great contentment at odd moments. Why is Mrs A. "slow" ? I don't see it at all. W. Β wanted to take Pen to the play—(like his goodness!) but Pen was engaged too. I was to have gone next Saty to Paris for a week—but Pen managed to catch a vile cold, I don't know how,—and that's put off till he is cured ; only a week, with my father & sister—I shall see nobody else: and, I suppose, Miss Annette if, as W. Β said, she was going to leave Paris at the end of Feb: for Nice. Let me say, by association of ideas, that Fanny Haworth, now in Paris, has lost all her headaches by a miraculous powder the nostrum of a Shropshire Farmer,—a really wonderful cure, at which I rejoice. I shall tell my sister all the kind things you say & mean. Tell dear Mrs Trollope from me that I am very grateful to her for her paper4—quite perfect in its way: such a notice ought to have appeared, in justice to Florence,—and nothing could have answered the purpose better: she has true tact & taste, & feeling beside,—I am bound to her. She & her husband would smile if they knew the real affection I have for them. To be sure, I feel love for the dust of the streets of Florence. I knew you would sympathize with me about the Designs:5 preference for one or another, even prejudice in favor of one person or against another, can't be helped and don't in the least matter in this question—which was,—could I, having accepted the laborious performance of one artist, throw it up at a word from Cottrell in favor

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that,—and even were it so? And suppose at the end it did not please —not of another and better performance—but of a mere name— somebody who perhaps might please me more; but who could tell me? I wonder how anyone with ordinary feeling could expect I should go to Leighton and say—'True, I did like & accept your work —but a friend tells me there is a great man in Florence who will do it better: I don't know anything about Mathas, but he does, & that's enough." If Cottrell had sent me a design—adding, "Don't you think this is better—& will not your friend, being utterly generous & disinterested, allow you to prefer it to his own?"—Voila parler:6 instead of which there was proposed a measure which I would not be in a hurry to adopt with my butcher or grocer: I should not throw up these on anybody's mere assurance that their protégés furnished better articles. I wish this for your only eye, you know,—but, if you think I speak somewhat sharply, observe that Cottrell has not favoured my letter, two month's old, with a word of reply: nor, by the bye, has he been at the trouble, at least to apprise me of any enquiry he may have made, or forgot to make, about my missing case7—containing many things valuable to me, & which he was to see to on his return five months ago. I rely on you to make no allusion to these things: they should have needed no prompting,—and, as to the carrying out the Design, I am no longer at all anxious it should be attempted in such a spirit. I tell you this, because I trust you. Well, Isa, I have read the last vol:8 I know the success, the sale &c, has been great: in some respects your progress is evident, and I read all with love and anxiety: whatever comes out of yourself is very good: the outside work & incidents you will do better with experience. The character of the father is very good, & there are excellent things about the other individualities: but I can't admit that Mrs V.9 had a right to contract a secret marriage—it is the worst proceeding anybody can take next to a crime—because it causes perforce so much lying, from the parties concerned, to all about them—nor ought such a secret to be kept (for no better reason than is given, viz: that it is a secret—) by a wife from a husband: his distrust is natural. Also the machinery goes on too often by one person's overhearing

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the conversation of another: last, I don't think you manage dialect well, housemaid's talk—there you have all my objections! And the rest to say is good & honest congratulation. I am quite sure your next book will be an increasing success: the notices are singularly eulogistic, & in short, you must be satisfied. And now, dearest Isa, I have to tear myself away, for there is very much to do. I am so glad you went to that picturesque Ball—as an Artist should—you can describe what you have seen capitally—witness dear, dear Siena ! I feel it is selfish in me not to try & run thro' my own names & places,—it would amuse you, for I see somebody every evening—but there's no time. I do go to balls—when Pen goes, as was the case last week at Lady de Grey's:10 & he would go to another to-morrow but for the cold—the same reason keeps him from accepting an invitation to dine with Ly Westmorland tonight & go to Fechter11—I won't have it. I myself dine with Ly W m Russell tonight, & then go to Ly Salisbury's12—tomorrow, Sartoris,—next day, Ly Palmerston's13 &c &c. But I want to tell you that I am going to enter Pen, if I can, at Balliol, under Jowett14—one must do it for years beforehand. Goodbye,—Goodbye, Dearest friend. All love from Pen: I never had a photograph taken of my stupid self. I am printing my books,15 & the Essay on the Greek Christian Poets16—you shall have the earliest copy I can send—Love to all friends. Yours affy ever R Browning. I hear Giudici17 has married a woman with £3000 a year, & likes it much.

Notes on Letter 59 1. See 58.3. 2. Ernest Renan (1823-1892), French philospher and Orientalist, best known for his Vie de Jesus (1863). Some of Browning's work has been interpreted as a reply to Renan (DeVane, pp. 261-64; text 66.10). 3. See 57.1. 4. Th[eodosia] T[rollope], "Elizabeth Barrett Browning," Athenaeum, January 31, 1863, page 153. The article reported the erection of EBB's memorial tablet.

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5. See 53.6. 6. "That would be the way to talk." 7. See text 51.2. 8. See note 3. 9. In Isa's novel, the marriage of Mrs. Ellinor Vibert to M. Corsand is the "secret'' of the title. 10. Henrietta Ann Theodosia, wife of George Frederick Samuel Robinson, Earl de Grey, second Earl of Ripon (1859), and first Marquis of Ripon (1871). 11. Charles Albert Fechter (1824-1879), actor and dramatist, famous for his representation of Hamlet. "On 10 Jan. 1863 Fechter opened as lessee, the Lyceum with the 'Duke's Motto' from Le Bossu of Paul Feval in which he played Henri de Lagardère" (DNB). 12. Lady Mary Catherine (West) (1824-1900?), wife of the Marquess of Salisbury (1791-1868). Her sisters were Elizabeth, Duchess of Bedford, and Diana Arabella, wife of Sir Alexander Bannerman. 13. Wife of Henry John Temple (1784-1865), third Viscount Palmerston, statesman and prime minister. 14. Benjamin Jowett (1817-1893), Master of Balliol College, Oxford (1870-1893), and Regius Professor of Greek. When he met Browning, he wrote: "I had no idea that there was a perfectly sensible poet in the world, entirely free from enmity, jealousy, or any other littleness, and thinking no more of himself than if he were an ordinary man. His great energy is very remarkable, and his determination to make the most of the remainder of his life" (Evelyn Abbott and Lewis Campbell, Life and Letters of Benjamin Jowett [London, 1897], I, 400-01). Browning and Jowett remained close friends, and through Jowett Browning was made Honorary Fellow of Balliol, was awarded honorary degrees, and was offered the Professorship of Poetry when Matthew Arnold retired. 15. See 57.5. 16. See 57.3. 17. Browning's address book lists "Sigr P. Emiliani-Giudici, High-Bank, Tunbridge." Paolo Emiliani Giudici (1812-1872) was professor of aesthetics and secretary of the Academy of Fine Arts in Florence, and (1867) member of the Chamber of Deputies (Britannica, sub Giudici; Enciclopedia Italiana, sub Emiliani-Giudici).

Letter 60 Paris, 151. Rue de Grenelle. March 19. '63. Dearest Isa, I am here, you see, since last Saturday—& cannot consequently have received your letter which I am sure is waiting for me at home.

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Should there be anything in it requiring an answer before the time, you shall hear from me. By the way, you know it could be nothing but one of my stupid fits of forgetfulness which prevented me sending the Photograph to Made Torrearsa in reply to your request for one: you shall have it when I return. As for our visit here, Pen was attacked by such a vile cold that travelling proved impossible: I compounded the matter by engaging to give him a fortnight instead of a week's holiday. We find my Father very well, just as usual, & my sister quite well also. The weather is surprisingly cold—far below the temperature of London, as we left it: but the clear, bracing, exciting character of the air has a great effect on me, & I have got rid of a sort of cough which plagued me for weeks. I find Willy Bracken very well, though palish—Annette left last week, & I was sorry to miss her—she establishes herself, at least for a year, at Genoa, with Made Beati:1 Mrs Bracken is all her old self. Just before we left, I had the satisfaction of getting Pen entered on the books of Balliol "for residence in 1867"—this was done simultaneously by both the Master2 and Jowett, who, each of them, wrote most kind letters to the two friends of mine who had applied about the matter. Balliol is immeasurably the best College for Pen— if he will but resolve to rise to their high standard of scholarship, as I hope & trust he will. He engages, after this holiday to set to work energetically. Milsand finds him "much more mature"—he certainly is so. He is much liked & kindly treated by various friends —enjoys himself, I think, and, on the whole, I venture to say satisfies me. We saw the sights, I ought to tell you—he, from the War Office in Pall Mall, I from Devonshire House: the illuminations I went to see with Dickens3—we left Waterloo Bridge in a Van at 7 oclock—were to go by a by-way to Southwark Bridge in order to do the thing superiorly: spent five miserably cold & black hours in trying vainly to do so, got out again in despair, & walked back—by which means I saw a little—far more, however, than was worth seeing: the English can't manage anything of the kind—I notice every night that the illuminations here of the Place de la Concorde & all round are so strangely superior that I cant understand how people

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with the love of fireworks & lights in their large souls don't go to Paris & return—at less expense than Dickens' Van which cost £5! 4 I am going to night with Milsand, my sister, Pen & Willy Bracken to see Macbeth at the Odeon: I write in the greatest haste & amid talking—but you will understand that come what come will you must have your letter. When I get to England I will at once send you the little book5 just about to come out when I left London: I thought it my duty to print it, of course. I will leave off now, my dearest Isa,—for I am too teazed by the noises—this will do moreover: as soon as I get your letter, on my return at the end of the month, I will write again. That will be a good reason for my doing so. Goodbye, & God bless you a thousand times, my own friend. My Father & sister & Milsand send their true love at this minute—all three being round the table: my sister says you promised her a photograph of your dear self—I sympathise with her in abusing you for not doing so. Ever your own, affectionately, R Browning. Notes

on Letter 60

1. Not identified. 2. Robert Scott (1811-1887), best known for the Liddell and Scott Greek lexicon. In 1870 he was promoted to the deanery of Rochester, and Jowett was elected to the mastership. 3. Charles Dickens (1812-1870) first met Browning as early as 1838 through John Forster. Concerning Browning's A Blot in the 'Scutcheon Dickens wrote: "I know of nothing that is so affecting, nothing in any book I have ever read, as Mildred's recurrence to that 'I was so young—I had no mother.' I know no love like it, no passion like it, no moulding of a splendid thing after its conception, like it" (G & M, p. 115). Macready, in his acting copy of the play, excised at least once the line that Dickens quoted (Sotheby, p. 42, No. 193). 4. On March 10, 1863, the Crown Prince married Princess Alexandra, daughter of Christian IX, King of Denmark, and Browning saw the sights and illuminations attending the marriage. On March 31 Dickens wrote to Macready: "Having two little boys sent home from school 'to see the illuminations' on the marriage-night, I chartered an enormous van, at a cost of five pounds, and we started in majesty from the office in London, fourteen

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strong. We crossed Waterloo Bridge with the happy design of beginning the sight at London Bridge, and working our way through the City to Regent Street. In a by-street in the Borough, over against a dead wall and under a railway bridge, we were blocked for four hours. We were obliged to walk home at last, having seen nothing whatever. The wretched van turned up in the course of the next morning . . ." (The Letters of Charles Dickens [New York, 1879], II, 231). 5. See 57.3.

Letter 61 19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace. Apr. 19. '63 My Dearest Isa, You don't quite believe me, I see—that writing to you is next best thing to hearing from you,—or you would not wonder that I remembered it was the day on the day.1 So I shall while I can hold pen, & look to your heart over the world. The other letter was a treat to myself, under circumstances,—the former having been interrupted by talkers; moreover there was Brett's picture2 to tell you about: he is going to call it by my lines about the "chrystal ball," changing the "morning" to "evening" water-gold—I like that much in him, as it was the sight I had in my mind's eye, &, he says, my lines were in his mind always while painting. I shall go at once, to Mrs Alexander & leave the book. Let me say here I have just seen Miss Smith who had a message in a letter from you: I read your note and entirely approve of it,—it will consequently be sent at once and save time: I think it quite right to propose such a thing & expect that they will be glad of it. If I can do you any service, observe,—I am here and yours. Did I ever seem to dislike such a praise as that? In that case, it must have been just as I put aside a repetition of it,—from unaffected unworthiness. I take the offer, if you please, of good father & not bad master (of my little man & maid here!)—but the other,—all I can be sure of was my entire love—by the light of, & for the sake

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of which, now, I dare hope that all my follies, mistaken procedures & inconsequentia[l]ities are understood & forgiven; it was so with me then—I could have loved so, without erring so:3 now I know better, do not love better, but certainly know immeasurably better, and should not, or if God please, shall not—offend again: and I hope there will be found evidence of that in whatever I do till the end. As for Pen, I love him dearly, but if I hated him, it would be pretty much the same thing. There are most unspeakable alleviations in my case,—so plain a course to pursue,—the effects of it so immediately consoling, and the power to carry it out, almost as complete as I could desire: so it is little wonder, & no subject of praise that I don't turn out of the one strip of light into the darkness on either side. Poor J.4 is without light inside or outside: there is some hole in his head, break in his moral constitution, that does for him: I always considered him to be the nearer madness . . Mrs E,5 devilishness. Remember in his wretched story the various pure falsehoods he used to tell, with a babe's innocency, as if everybody would forget & believe at word of command,—how he would reveal everything, then maintain he had never opened his mouth,—write down (as I have seen) that his wife was "merely caluminated because she was beautiful"—& so on till one's sick of remembering. The very birth of the child, his ostentatious petting it &c what was it for? What new light can have dawned on him since then? Couple this with the hallucinations about the pictures, chopping & changing names &c—to leave out the "Spirits"—you can't help seeing the "hole". I am sorry about it, for old time's sake: but it is a part & parcel of one disease. I have heard no more of the other poor creature,6 for whom I feel sorry too: the initials were those of Russell Sturgis,7 partner in the house of Baring & Co—he is her cousin. I took out her portrait to-day, & put it, for a few days at least, in the drawing room.8 Judge how I look at, think of those who were not merely part of the old time but blessings besides. I am not going to write much because I am very bilious & out of sorts—it's nothing worse. I go out as little as I can,—the weather is fine, Pen rows & rides daily, grows and promises in every way. I

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am getting on with my new edition, which they will publish volume by volume, beginning in May, all the Poems, Tragedies, and Poems again.9 I have something doing which I shall send you, & which will please you, I know: you remember the picture at Arabel's—well, in the country Octavius10 had the original drawings for the heads— the real portraits from which the picture was made,—and very like, I am assured: I am having two,—the brother is the other—photographed11—and shall have a duplicate of one made for you: I will find out how to send it,—perhaps by Mrs Alexander. I think I must leave off here—but my love & its wishes go on. Remember me to all friends: to Kate Field, when you write. I never read Hume's book,12—avoid looking at an extract from it. Did I tell you that, just before I went to Paris, I went to a party at Lady Salisbury's and came right upon him—though I could not believe my eyes: presently the Marchioness' sister13 asked me, "what I thought of him?"—I said my say, as briefly as possible—"Why, he's gone!" said she—& so he had,—I can't help flattering myself, that the announcement of my name did him no good. So forget him—I am very grieved to gather from what you write that the King is not popular at Florence.14 As for Mario, Mazzini &c here the contempt for them is complete—I should not think them worth prosecution. But if the Govt think so, nobody will deny the rich desert of punishment of these miserable marplots. I don't know anything about the nature of L's novel15—it is accepted by C. & H. (at very different terms from his) along with two volumes of verse—I suppose, collected & original poems. Adelaide Procter16 is in the worst way, I fear: no better, still weaker, in bed these three months, confined to her room eight—poor, dear thing. Goodbye, God bless you, dearest Isa. Pen is not here, but I may send his dearest love. How is Madame Tassinari ? Ever yours affectionately Robert Browning.

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Notes on Letter 61 1. See 49.1. 2. See 58.18. 3. Cf. "Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!" in the "Epilogue to Asolando." 4. Jarves (64.11). 5. Mrs. Eckley. 6. Mrs. Eckley. 7. Russell Sturgis (1805-1887) of Boston. In 1849 he became a partner of Baring Brothers, of London, and in 1873, senior partner. Sturgis did not go much into English society, but he entertained many distinguished guests, among them Browning (Julian Sturgis, From Books and Papers of Russell Sturgis [Oxford: privately printed (1893?)], p. 261). I have found no evidence that he was a cousin of Mrs. Eckley, although her father was associated with him in establishing an early loan association in Boston (Letter, February 15, 1950, from O. L. Clark, of Amherst, Mass.). 8. On May 2 Browning wrote to Story: "You know that those inventions about 'spirits,' &c, were not at all more prodigious than the daily-sprouting toadstools of that dunghill of a soul—lies about this, that and the other . . . . I accept her now as a familiar blotch on a picture of the past, and I solaced myself the other day by placing two portraits of her on each side of a delicious drawing of a 'model' in the costume of Truth, just given to me by Leighton. I should like above most things to have a good talk with her: no hurting me, alas!" (James, II, 136-38.) 9. See 57.5. 10. Octaváis Barrett (1824-1910), EBB's youngest brother. 11. See Huxley frontispiece. 12. D. D. Home, Incidents in My Life (First Series, London, 1863) (DeVane, p. 275). 13. See 59.12. 14. In 1863 King Victor Emmanuel "was busily developing a secret unofficial policy which was often in direct variance with that of his ministers" (King, History of Italian Unity, II, 253). 15. [Robert Lytton], The Ring of Amasis (Chapman & Hall, 1863). 16. Adelaide Ann Procter (1825-1864), daughter of Bryan Waller Procter. Her Legends and Lyrics (1858) went into ten editions by 1866. She died of consumption, and her poetry (e.g. "The Lost Chord") continued its popularity, which was reported to be (1877) second only to Tennyson's. In 1851 she and two of her sisters were converted to Roman Catholicism (Mme. Belloc, In a Walled Garden [London, 1895], pp. 164-78).

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Letter 62 19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace W May 19. '63 Dearest Isa, I got your last note yesterday night—the former, in due course: Miss Heaton is in town, & I will try & see her presently & enclose her answer in this note. I will give Mrs Stallybrass1 a small photograph, such as I give friends, if she will let me know where to send it— or I may even enclose it also. I feel guilty, though not without excuse, about the calling at Mrs Alexander's: I understood from you,—indeed your words were,—"that she would leave town at the end of the month—(April)": and it was in my hopes to send you, not only the book,2 but the drawing,—of which a photograph was nearly ready3—I thought that any day before the real end would be time enough,—& do believe I was quite punished enough for my misconception by finding that Mrs A. had left a week before that— the servant could not say whether she was at Stone House or no: I did not know that W. B4 was in town, and never thought of leaving the parcel: the photograph was not ready after all, though I shall have it to-morrow or next day. I met afterwards Giudici who kindly offered to take it for me—but for the same reason I delayed: you shall have it by the first opportunity. Next season, if we live, Mrs A. & "Ellen"5 shall have exactly as much of my poor "calls" as they please—I liked Mrs A. very much & felt her kindness: as for W. B. he is made up of that commodity, too much indeed, for he wants the proper alloy which should stiffen the gold in him & keep him from bumps & bruises.6 Now begins my writing or speaking, business done—dearest Isa, I love you with all my heart & am vexed indeed that you should be vexed: yet I wonder at you—I thought you knew the trick of the superfine "Saturday,"7 which I saw through long ago: you don't

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suppose they ever want to do anything but look fine themselves at everybody's expense,—what good would they get from honestly putting all the good of your book prominently forward,—animadverting, if you please, on any blemishes, but doing justice on the whole to the real worth there? All they hope for is that people will never think of the book but as the text whence they preached so clever a sermon. I read the article at the Club, thought it poor & ungenerous enough—but you are a woman doing her best & they enjoy putting down such impertinence as that. Chapman remarked, as you do, that it must be some "friend" in a pet: I don't think so,— or, at least, that it needs be so. But don't mind them—how young you must be, in the craft, to mind what one forgets in a week! When I next see Chapman I will ask about < t h e > 8 sale as you desire: he certainly told me at the beginning that the sale was good; an adverse criticism, that I hear of, has appeared till now, —when I should think the h are supplied. But, sale much or little, go on & do your best & so be revenged on all spite & stupidity ! Or, if you can take comfort from a greater injustice, indeed one of the greatest I remember, think of the Academy's rejecting from a place among its thousand protégés that picture by Mr Brett, & another probably as fine! I could not believe my eyes at first, when on looking into the catalogue I found no mention of it. I wrote a few words of sympathy which he was good enough to be pleased with: and the universal feeling of disgust is so strong that I really believe he will be the gainer in the end by this miserable piece of malice or whatever it is. Here you see, however, the exercise of "fair criticism", as I wrote to Cottrell last week: the three judges will answer us all by simply lamenting that tastes differ, that what we like in Mr Brett they dislike, that no work is without its faults &c Cottrell wrote to me at last—a week ago: I have never had any doubt as to his kindness, & good intentions: he has undertaken the matter,9—which I studiously forbore to desire: he has voluntarily done so, however,—and as I, in regard to his feelings, in which I believe & for which am grateful, allow the superintendence to con-

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tinue his—I do trust he will as scrupulously respect mine. With respect to the missing Cassa10—I have my answer at last in these precise words "I am sorry to say I cannot find your box, it must have been stolen." That's all: I wonder whether such an account is more satisfactory to M. de Fauveau than to me. I shall write to Brini and try & see if the Packer can give any information on hope of a good reward—if I had but done so at first! Or, if I had asked you! I don't care about my pictures & other things,—but have nervous apprehensions about papers & letters and all that was so hastily packed away in that miserable time: even then, I was anxious for their safety. Well, to forget it, Pen is thriving & doing well—he grows, & is so strong: the poor little pony is a source of real sorrow to me,— he is at his prime, not six yet,—fuller than ever of spirit, so pretty, —but so small now that the season must be his last with Pen:11 of course I shall never sell him, but care for his comfort to the last: where shall I ever find such a trusty little brute ? Pen is increasingly fond of riding, figures every day in Rotten Row, and only yesterday somebody wrote to me saying how much his horsemanship was noticed—for the little thing leaps & capers & shows off. We go to Ella's12 concerts, & Halle's,13 & though there is too little practising, his general taste & intelligence in music improve. I am glad you are going to have Miss Stebbins:14 give her my kind remembrance, if you please: would she like to receive a photograph? If so, I will send one next time. What do you do in the summer? Tell me all about it: how I yearn, yearn for Italy at the end of my life! I wholly with you about Kinglake's15 book. Give my true love to all old friends—the Trollopes, Mignatys, & so on: How is Made Tassinari?—you don't tell me. I think I will go now & see about your business with Miss H: 16 having to go elsewhere after: to-morrow I take Pen privately to the Derby,—go to a friend's cottage at Epsom by a private way. Pen's best love to you All my memories, all my love are yours ever, dearest! God bless you— R B.

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[Remainder on inside flap of envelope] May 21 st I have waited to post this till I could have Miss H's17 answer: she sends the enclosed small photogr. for Mrs S's18 acceptance—but says (very kindly & anxiously, to oblige) that she fears she has no right to do what may endanger the artist's copyright. There is no other objection. Probably this small one will be better than a reflexion of the other: I send the last one also. I met Sir Edw. Lytton the other day at dinner—he invited me, Pen & the Tutor (!) to Knebworth for the Whitsun holidays— really pressed it: but I would not go & spend a week with the Angel Gabriel at his country seat. Oh, the bitter English weather, moreover! Read the account of yesterday's "Derby"19 to which I took Pen—privately, by going to a friend's house close by the course. Ever yours affy. R B. Notes

on Letter

62

1. Not identified. The name is an anglicization of Sonnenscbein. 2. See 57.3. 3. See 61.11. 4. William Bracken. 5. Heaton. 6. Cf. Browning's ring metaphor in The Ring and the Book: gold without an alloy is unserviceable. 7. The Saturday Review (April 18, 1863, pp. 509-10) reviewed Isa's The Cost of a Secret. "That human brain and hands should find their account in producing a book of the kind, and that enough readers should read it to justify a first-rate publisher in publishing it, indeed implies a secret which whatever its cost may be, it would be worth some outlay to investigate." Many of the criticisms echo criticisms which Browning himself made in letters 58 and 59. 8. Conjectural restorations of a slight tear in MS. 9. The construction of EBB's monument (53.6). 10. See text 51.2. 11. See 17.2. 12. Professor John Ella (1802-1888), violinist, musical editor of the Athenaeum, and founder of the Musical Union, a set of chamber concerts (DNB).

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13. Sir Charles Hallé (1819-1895), pianist and conductor, born in Westphalia but resident in England after 1848, knighted (1888). Browning mentions him in "The Founder of the Feast." 14. Emma Stebbins (1815-1882), American sculptor. She went to Rome in 1857 and became the friend of Harriet Hosmer and of Charlotte Cushman, whose memoir she wrote (1878) {National Cyclopedia of American Biography, VIII, 292; Gardner, Yankee Stone Cutters, pp. 71-72). 15. A. W. Kinglake, History of the Crimean War (first two volumes, 1863). 16. See note 5. 17. See note 5. 18. See note 1. 19. "The Derby Day," Times, May 21, 1863, page 11.

Letter 63 19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace, W. July 19. '63. Dearest Isa, W e are here, you see, and mean to leave London as we did last year, on the 1st August—for the same place, Pornic or rather St6 Marie, two miles off—if we can get the same house there—for which my sister has written. There are many advantages,—not the least being that we know the place.1 Mrs Bracken & Willy mean to accompany us in all probability—we stay there two months, I suppose—and I shall much enjoy the silence & fresh air, little picturesque as the country is. You must write to my sister's next time & till the end of September,—"R. B. 151. Rue de Grenelle, Faubourg St Germain"—in your most legible hand, if you please. Annunziata called here last Sunday—I was out unluckily: she promised to come again to-day, and I shall see her with very mixed feelings. Here she is. and now she is gone, poor dear thing. She looks very well, seems very comfortable,—may stay in England a long time. She was amazed at Pen's growth,—he was as happy to see her as I. Just let me tell you a characteristic thing while it is in

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my mind: sweet Sophy E. has published a volume of verses2—of which I only came across one specimen in a review the other day —the "Press": this critic, evidently knowing nothing of the author, whom he called "Miss Eckley"—said—"respect for the 'mighty dead', should have kept this lady from touching those poems of Heine's which were the last translation of Mr8 B"—and he quoted the attempt—actually the first of that last translation of all. It strikes me as more repulsive than any instance of Eckleyism even I ever came across—and really completing, by one black touch, the picture of that remarkable lady. You can hardly fancy a stranger doing it —unless he were translating the whole of Heine: but in a collection of rubbish, to stuff in just this!—All I can say is, I would not have believed it of her! I shall not write much, for seeing A. has given me a headache. I received your note about Mrs Freeman3 and called on her the next day. Her works show how decidedly artistic a turn she has, and what a deal she might have done with cultivation. Her vase, and other little things have everything but what, I suppose, it is too late for her to acquire. I hope she may succeed in selling them. She looked very well, & spoke in high praise of London, preferring it (as I understand) to Rome. It will be long before I read Mrs Brotherton's4 book,—but the review[s] praise it, I am glad to find. I cannot get Romola—spite of my repeated applications at Mudie's —& shall give up subscribing to him in consequence: his humbug is too much. I found Tennyson, however, reading it in bed last Thursday—he has got an eruption—suppressed hay fever or irregularly-acting vaccination, he thinks. I dined with him the week before, and found him very pleasant: he has poems ready,—one, in particular, called "Enoch the sailor",5—which I wish he would make haste & print. Yes, you may be sure I saw Mr Conway's6 unwise piece of picturesque narration: he means well, of course. He said I was very intimate with the Lewes's—i.e, I dined once, and spent two evenings there. Kate Field wrote a nice letter to me the other day with reference to some article she had written & sent—but

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which I have not yet received.7 I can't fancy she would do anything to give me pain, so shall not anticipate it. By the bye, I met Mr Adams,8 the A. Minister, in a railway this mg & he told me Vicksburg9 was taken—no news to you by the time you read this. Annunciata never got the book of certificates10—& I forget to whom you sent it: was it to Lucca? You told me, but I can't remember. Cottrell wrote about the contract he had signed11—it seems a very moderately-termed & judicious one, & if the sculptor is honest & careful, I shall be very satisfied—as I have told him. I never had any doubt as to his kindness. What do you mean by saying that Pen "with his new friends & new objects of interest, cannot remember you much?"—All I can say is, his delight at seeing A. just now —was edifying—he kissed her, got her wine &c, went with her to Miss Barrett's,—part of the way home, & wanted to go further—in short was just as he should have been. You must have enjoyed Vallombrosa—Cottrell mentioned your going there. Are you going to stay at the Villa now, or go elsewhere, to Leghorn, or Siena ?—tell me. I hear the weather has been very hot at Florence, & Rome: here it was oppressive, certainly— but for these last few days I have felt actually cold. My dinners, & all that, are nearly at an end—to my immense relief. I saw A. Trollope the other night at my new club, the Cosmopolitan12—he told me of his brother's arrival, & wanted to arrange for our meeting but it was not to be—they went to Torquay, I believe, & will return when I am far away. I had a letter from Lytton the other day. I believe he is coming to England in August. His novel seems an absolute failure13—but he has got the money for it: he said, it might be surprizing, but he had really expected the thing to be an advance on all he had done before. I only observed two reviews of it—two contemptuous notices. He should act differently if he wants to get any permanent hold of people worth securing. Good bye, now, dearest Isa: I fancy you were in a hurry when you got over these two half sheets I last received—all the same, I am always glad & grateful for never so little a scrap of writing, &

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sometimes you are very generous. Pen came into the room just now "Are you writing to Isa? Give her my best love!"—I would not tell him you suspected him of forgetting you. Whenever I have an opportunity, I will send the photograph & and the little book.14 I won't forget you to my father & sister—& do you remember me to the Cottrells & other friends. Ever yours affectionately Robert Browning. Notes

on Letter

63

1. See 53.1. 2. EBB wrote to Isa in March 1861, "I hear Mrs. E[ckley] talks of bringing out a volume of poems—(save the m a r k ! ) " (TpS in B M ) . Mrs. Eckley had previously published The Oldest of the Old World, a book of travels, and EBB wrote in her copy, "R. & E. B. Browning, Casa Guidi, 1860. From the author" (Sotheby, p. 94, No. 645). She wrote Mrs. Eckley a not unkind letter (MS in N Y P L ) expressing the wish that Mrs. Eckley had given more of her own personal reactions to the sights she had seen in her travels. To Miss Haworth, she wrote in a different tone. "Never think that I advised the printing of that book. If I had seen a page of it when we were intimate and I felt most warmly for her, I should have entreated her not to print it; though everybody now a days considers it allowable to trip into literature. Have you read this book? It is the calibre of a school-girl's exercise—(and not a clever school g i r l ) " (TpS in B M ) . Two years later Mrs. Eckley wrote to Browning for advice or help in getting a volume of poems published. He replied on March 28, 1862, "As for a publisher, none can ever be found for poetry by a new author, of whatever pretension it may be: that is certain" ( D & K, p. 144). Mrs. Eckley was able to arrange for publication, however, and her Poems appeared in 1863. In this volume she included the translation of ten Heine poems, one of which, "Intermezzo," EBB had previously translated. Although EBB's translations did not appear until Last Poems (1863), she had at least begun translating them in 1858, when she dated a translation for Mrs. Eckley (MS in N Y P L ) . The years they come & go The races drop in the grave Yet never my love doth so Which, for thee, in my heart I have. Might I see thee but once, one day And sink there down on my knee

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[63

And die in thy sight while I say 'Madam, I love but thee'? Nov. '58

Heine Ba for Sophia

The poem which both women translated and which grieved Browning follows: EBB Out of my own great woe I make my little songs, Which rustle their feathers in throngs And beat on her heart even so.

Mrs. Eckley From out my great sorrow, These little lays I bring, Which soar with ringing plumage, And to her heart take wing.

They found the way for their part, Yet come again, and complain: Complain, and are not fain To say what they saw in her heart.

They find their way to my darling, And come again to complain, To mourn, but will not utter, What shivers my heart with pain.

3. Augusta (Latilla) Freeman (1826-?), the Italian sculptor wife of an American painter (11.23). During her visit to England, the Art Journal (November 1863, p. 231) wrote: "Mrs. J. E. Freeman, a lady whose works in sculpture are well known and highly estimated in Rome, where she resides, has brought to England several models of very great excellence which she desires to submit to British producers of Ceramic Art and of works in silver" (Gardner, Yankee Stone Cutters, p. 64). 4. Mary Isabella (Irwin) Brotherton, whose Respectable Sinners (1863) was her second novel. She met the Brownings in Rome in 1853, and EBB was interested in her because, although she knew not a word of Greek, the spirits, through her, wrote "mystical Greek, from a spirit-world" (Kenyon, II, 157). In 1854 she wrote to Frederick Tennyson, "I like Mr Browning too very much—though we differ as often as we meet on every possible topic—so that he declares we must be 'natural enemies' " (Letters to Frederick Tennyson, ed. Η. J. Schonfield [London, 1930], p. 127). 5. Tennyson sent a copy of Enoch Arden to "Robert Browning, from his friend and admirer A. Tennyson" (Sotheby, p. 135, No. 1146). For Browning's statement as to how he would have handled the poem, see Curie, pages 56-58. 6. Moncure Daniel Conway (1832-1907), American Unitarian clergyman, author and biographer. From 1863 to 1884 he was pastor of the South Place Chapel, Finsbury, London, and for many years he lived on Delamere Terrace near Browning's home on Warwick Crescent. He wrote a review

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(not found) of Browning's Poetical Selections (1863) which Browning here calls an "unwise piece of picturesque narration." Browning, however, recognized that the review evidenced a loving study of his poetry, and he supplied Conway with information for a second review which appeared in the Victoria Magazine, II (February 1864), 298-316. 7. "Elizabeth Barrett Browning," Atlantic Monthly, VIII (1861), 368-76; or "English Authors in Florence," Atlantic Monthly, XIV (1864), 660-71. See text 64.9, however, which indicates that the article is a review. 8. Charles Francis Adams (1807-1886), American minister to the Court of St. James (1861-68). 9. Vicksburg surrendered to Grant on July 4, 1863. 10. See text 55.2. 11. The contract for EBB's monument in the Protestant Cemetery (53.6) called for the payment to the sculptor of £240, one-third down, the second third when the work was two-thirds finished, and the remainder when the monument was erected (See 78). 12. On Charles Street, Berkeley Square, in a house which had previously contained the studio of Watts. The club numbered clever and distinguished men among its members, but it was dissolved (Ralph Nevill, London Clubs [London, 1911], p. 267). 13. Lytton sent the proof sheets of his Ring of Amasis to his father and to John Forster for their criticisms. Alarmed by their unfavorable opinions, he sent the proofs to Julian Fane and to Browning, who concurred with the others. Lytton attempted too late to stop publication {Letters from Owen Meredith, pp. 214-16). 14. See text 62.2 and 3.

Letter 64 Chez M. Laraison, St Marie, près Pornic, Loire Inférieure1 e

Aug. 19. '63—and the first time I am without a letter from you, dearest Isa: it is either sent to London, or misdirected to Paris, or lost—it shall not be, unwritten because you are ill,—I will not think of that. I sent you a book & a photograph2 by Mr Trollope—who was just about to leave for Florence —of course, I sent the proper note this day last month. Well, I don't find out to-day for the first time that one can't have one's will & way in this world. Trollope told me you had been subjected to

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some vexatious treatment on the part of a periodical, which engaged to print a tale of yours and changed its mind.3 I was very sorry— but you know something of the uncertainty of promises & arrangements. Go on with your novel—there will be sure to be a welcome for it. I wonder whether you are at Florence in what must have been outrageous weather: the missing letter leaves me so forlornly ignorant of you! We left London on the 2d August—up to when it was, to my thinking cold rather than cool: and arrived in Paris to be really broiled: I read myself on a Fahrenheit thermometer in the Place Royale, one day at 2 oclock 96! We stayed a week—saw Miss Haworth whose journey to Spa had been delayed by headaches and other troubles—Mrs Bracken & Willy, of course,—and left on the 9th for Tours,—thence, next day to Nantes and this old place— where I find nothing altered. Willy & his mother have taken a house close by—they were to have arrived two days ago, but were prevented by the poor boy's illness,—we expect them to-night. Pen is in perfect health,—swims daily a long way out into the sea—not yesterday, however, for a man sank and was all but drowned, and the business of saving and recovering him, in which Pen had a share, took away the zeal of the bathers for that occasion. Pen distinguished himself by remembering the Humane Society's rules, of which the people were ignorant,—and preventing their laying the body in unnatural ways, administering salts &c. He ran into a house, got brandy & vinegar, and on being directed by somebody to do some stupidity or other, bade him "Allez au diable!"4—So, you see, he promises. He is drawing a good deal, and reading a very little Virgil with me. My Father & Sister are perfectly well. For me, I bathe daily, write also, feel better than in London, & go very early to bed. It is very cool here—the effect of some tempest not very far off,—high wind, grey sky, un-august-like weather: tho' it has been very hot, and all the grass is brown as rusty iron. I had a letter from Story the other day—with all the news of dear Siena. I see by an article in a French paper this morning, that, at the very latest, the Mont Cenis tunnel5 will be completed in five

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years. What is it all to me, however? Something perhaps in my old age. I wish I could tell you anything about people you know. Miss Haworth told me she had recently heard from you. I saw Mrs Lewes just before I came away. He told me she was much annoyed by criticisms on her "Romola"—They have taken a house; bought it, indeed,—in St John's Wood,6 but intend to go to Rome this winter. I like her & him very much. Lytton's novel has been exactly the failure I expected.7 It is a fact, that he asked £1500 for it: I don't believe it will pay printing: pity, pity! I also saw Miss S.8 to whom I & Pen are indeed indebted for her pains—I brought his last drawings to Paris, and highly satisfactory was their reception. I had a letter and a review9—(I think I told you of this) —from Kate Field—about whom Trollope told me something puzzling—of wedding-cards he had received from a "Kate Field," who could hardly be other than ours, and yet, surely her letter would not be signed K. F. as usual, in that case!10 Trollope also told me more of l'ami Jarves,—whom I take to be wholly unveracious, and utterly harmless: I believe his wife's account entirely.11 From Mrs Bracken, I hear that Annette is very well, at Genoa, and that's all. Another year gone by, poor girl ! Mrs B. has sold her furniture, and goes to England after her six week's sojourn here—it will be much the better for Willy, I think. Mrs B. lent me "Salammbo"12—don't you remember my old, and still continuing passion for "Made Bovary?"—If you have read this—as probably you have, my immense disappointment will be easily understood. I take nine-tenths of the "learning"—the historical touches &c to be pure humbug—"all made out of the carver's brain." I am reading too, with much milder disappointment Maurice de Guerin's "Remains"13—limpid & deep as water in a tea-spoon, I find it: very good, & pretty, & true in its little way, but surely nothing to warrant this outcry of wonder & praise on every side: I like the notion of a deep thinker,—whose main subject of study is Lamennais,14—taking him for a model Catholic,—he who died detesting their doctrine: but it's one thing to say pretty things about swallows, roses, autumn &c and another to look an inch into men's hearts. I have also got here some novels

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that I mean to read, besides books of my own,—so I shall get thro some six weeks more. Dearest Isa, if there is anything to say, won't you say it to me here. My letters sent to London, stay there: I have nobody to inspect them, and there are probably fifty by this time, of very various importance. At all events, address the next letter to me here. I live upon milk & fruit—figs, chiefly; and send thoughts over sea and land even at the suggestion of a fig-skin! Give my love to all friends. How is Hatty, do you know ? I saw Gibson at the Academy the day before I left—or two days. My sister & father, to whom I gave your kind message, thank you heartily and send their love. Pen's love with that of Yours ever affectionately Robert Browning.

Notes on Letter 64 1. Browning left London on August 2 for Paris, where he joined his father and sister, and proceeded thence to Sainte Marie, where they arrived on August 10 and where they had vacationed in 1862 (53.1). 2. See 62.2 and 3. 3. Anthony Trollope frequently helped Isa get her work published. On August 23, 1862, he wrote to Kate Field: "You will not be glad to hear me declare that your dear friend (and my dear friend also) Miss Blagden is a plague. . . . She got me to sell a MS. of hers—and then bargained about it with some one else, because she did not get from me a letter by return of post,—she having given me no address!" (Sadleir, Trollope, pp. 234-35.) 4. "Go to the devil." 5. The Mont Cenis tunnel through the Alps between France and Italy was proposed as early as 1840 but not opened until 1871. 6. The Leweses took up residence in The Priory, St. John's Wood, in 1863. 7. See 63.13. 8. Miss Smith, Pen's drawing teacher. 9. See 63.7. 10. On April 4 [1864] Isa told Kate Field of this occurrence: "I saw Anthony Trollope last autumn. He desired me to give his love to you and to say to you that he was always & ever your friend. He told me many things which surprised me. One that he had received wedding cards purporting to be from you" (MS in BPL). 11. Jarves married his second wife in Boston in 1862. On October 27 [1865] Isa wrote to Kate Field: "Mr Browning liked what he saw of Mrs

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Jarves very much. He says they are coming here [Florence], I hope he may not for people do not speak kindly of him & besides he ought not to be here under the same sky as after all that has passed" (MS in BPL). 12. Gustave Flaubert's Salammbô (1862), a story of ancient Carthage, was well received by the young generations though not by the critics. 13. Maurice de Guérin (1810-1839), French poet, whose Remains (1861) were enthusiastically received by many, including Matthew Arnold. SainteBeuve wrote, "at the approach of death, his family had the consolation of seeing him again become a Christian" (Journal of M. de Guérin [New York, 1891], p. 8). His biographer reports in detail his reconciliation with the Church (E. Decahors, Maurice de Guérin [Paris, 1932], pp. 549-50). 14. Hugues de Lamennais (1782-1854), French priest and author, who severed from the Church (1834) and died unreconciled. Browning's "deep thinker" is Sainte-Beuve, who wrote on Lamennais in Portraits Contemporains (1832).

Letter 65 Ste Marie, Pornic. Sept. 19. '63. Dearest Isa, I got your first letter the day after my own was sent: you meant all for the best & kindest. I was much interested in hearing about Pelago1—knowing it well: I remember the room in the Inn, to the left of the door as you enter,—and how I took luncheon there sixteen years ago. Oh, those days—I think of little else: but never mind. You don't tell me if you went to Leghorn, met Hatty and the rest: I suppose you are settled till next year. Then, I expect to see you: Cottrell has probably told you of his arrangements,2 and I shall go to Florence at the very end. Isa, may I ask you one favour ? Will you, whenever those dreadful preliminaries, the provisional removement &c—when they are proceeded with,—will you do,— all you can,—suggest every regard to decency and proper feeling to the persons concerned? I have a horror of that man of the graveyard, and needless publicity and exposure—I rely on you, dearest friend of ours, to at least lend us your influence when the time shall come: a word then may be invaluable. If there is any show made, or gratification of strangers' curiosity, far better that I had left the

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turf untouched. These things occur through sheer thoughtlessness —carelessness—not anything worse, but the effect is irreparable. I won't think any more of it—now, at least. We have nearly done with this place—shall probably stay ten days longer—till the end of the month, indeed, and then—not "home" (God knows!) but to Paris & London. The weather, though not so exceptionally fine as last year, has yet been very favorable: my father walks and enjoys himself. Pen was joined, the day after I wrote, by Willy Bracken—and the two have kept up the ball of amusement pretty fairly till now: they swim capitally, both of them—keeping in the water for twenty minutes and more. I find bathing agree with me also—and this morning enjoyed it for the fortieth time. In the evening Mrs Bracken, my sister & I walk on the low cliffs and let the sea-wind blow us about. They stay a little longer than we do,—then go to London,—Willy being about to enter the London University School: he is a nice, clever, handsome boy, and will do well. Poor dear F. T.3 and his "mediumship" ! I can quite fancy how it all comes about, and how he grows tractable under it. His verses are meant for fun. Those of mine, by the way, which you inquire about, shall be printed with my new things.4 The criticisms on poetry in the "Ath:" are beneath contempt:5 I read one on Seasongs the other day as full of stupidity as an egg is of meat,—going on the notion that as sailors drive their trade and get their bread by means of the sea, they must like it and know more of its poetry than other men—just as omnibus-drivers and cab men are the true expositors of the mystery of London: Sailors, who call the depths of ocean "Davy Jones' Locker,"—the stormy petrel, "Mother Carey's Chickens,"—an early rainbow "Fly-away Jack," & so on. Poetry in a Sailor's life, there is,—but the beginning of it is the contempt he has for its dangers, the longing to get out of its reach and be with "Poll" &c. I want you to read a novel by Paul Féval6 now publishing in the "Opinion Nationale", and sure to be reprinted— "Annette Laïs"—so far, it seems delicious: I did not think any-

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thing so delicate and witty had been in the man. It is the second of a series. I must see the first story—if I don't forget! For I do forget many things, and feel tired, and think of going to London with "ribrezzo"7—I could live here, so far as myself am concerned, for many a year to come. But the years go—two are gone, you see,—and the end of me, if I can so manage it, shall be spent, I know where: meanwhile, pazienza!8 Tell me more gossip about people: you never mention the Kinneys, Mrs Baker & her sister & mother, the Tassinari. Poor Powers—I don't remember Florence,9 but pity them heartily. The Fauveaus, too—do they thrive and expect as of old ? Lytton was in Paris the other day—has been in London, I believe, on a hurried visit—I don't know. Any news of dear Kate Field ? You will have A. Trollope, who has been very kind in carrying something for me, I find—but they all are full of kindness. Goodnight and goodbye, dearest Isa! Pen has been asleep long ago—I write latish—but he loves you, I know: so do all here—and how does, Your ever affectionate R Browning. Notes

on Letter 65

1. The Brownings visited Pelago, between Florence and Vallombrosa, in the summer of 1847 (Kenyon, I, 333). 2. Regarding EBB's monument (54.11). 3. Late in life Frederick Tennyson wrote: "The supernatural has occupied and absorbed my whole soul to the exclusion of almost every subject which the Gorillas of this world delight in whether scientific, political or literary" (H. Nicolson, Tennyson's Two Brothers, pp. 19-20). 4. Dramatis Personae, May 28, 1864. 5. The Athenaeum for August 29, 1863 (p. 263), reviewed Sea Songs and Ballads, by Dibdin and Others, quoting And if to Old Davy I go, my dear Poll, Why, you never will hear of me more. 6. Annette Lais by Paul Féval (1817-1887) was republished in book form (1864) by Hachette. 7. "Disgust, nausea."

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8. "Patience." 9. Florence, the daughter of Hiram Powers, died in July 1863, aged 17, and was buried in the Protestant Cemetery, Florence.

Letter 66 19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terr: Nov. 19. '63. Dearest Isa, I was happy hearing from you—& am happy in talking to you again. To begin where you leave off—the Leweses have just moved into a new house, a purchase in S1 John's Wood: I am asked to the housewarming, but can't go. I told you what I thought of the two first volumes of Romola:1 as honestly, I add now that I was much disappointed in the third & last: there was too much dwelling on the delinquencies of the Greek after he had been done for, and might have been done with, as a pure and perfect rascal—while the great interests, Savonarola and the Republic, which I expected would absorb attention and pay for the previous minutenesses, dwindled strangely. My impression of the great style and high tone remain, of course,—but, as a work of art, I want much. Other people like it —I heard Gladstone2 loud in its praise the other day at a dinner— but then he detested, he said, that horrible "Wuthering Heights" 3 —which has also a merit of its own. Mrs Bracken is come at last, and domiciled for the present—i.e till she can take a house, in Bayswater—near this place. Willy is to go by underground-railway4 to the London University School.5 He will have to work hard,—for I doubt if he have seriously learnt anything, except French: he is a good boy, and will do well if well done by. Mrs B. is curious to me, with her intense appreciation of trifles—you'd suppose she had no other object in the world than to get thro' the day pleasantly: how can people who have known real grief stop to notice the darkness of the sky, the ill-manners of the passers-by < . . . > 6 their hats") and so on ? I laug < . . . > her that if she comes for a < . . . >

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she really wants Willy's < . . . > miseries. As for Annette's < . . . > tainly does not dream of, nor arrange for, such an apparition. I can't tell you if Lytton went to Florence. He left England just before my arrival. I met, a fortnight ago, Sir Edward—was asked to dine with him and the Ernsts7 at a friend's—could not, but looked in later. He was going to Bath next day—with the Ernsts to whom he is abundantly kind—asked me to go too! On entering the room where Mrs E: was, up she rose—a very pretty, young woman of a piquant style—"Mr Β—allow me to introduce myself to you—as the best friend of Robert L!" She went on to tell me in a breath that she wrote to him daily, that he sent her his journal daily, that he had read her such a beautiful poem of his own &c &c that he loved me so much &c &c"—Now, by this time, "je connais mon L."8 and, given the piquant brunette, with a husband—the rest follows as the cat & fiddle follows hi-diddle-diddle. Ernst the husband is in a deplorable state of health,—can't stand, and worse than that. She told me "Sir E. and Robert had mutually fallen in love with one another on the occasion of this last visit—meant next year to take a house in Town, that they might live together. L. is now at Vienna —or was, very lately. Ly Westmorland told me he had stayed two days with her at Wimbledon. George Barrett is not so much to blame as you think: for, till the last year, he was a barrister and had engagements: he wrote to me —a few days after the end,— 9 —that he would willingly come if I thought there was any increase of weakness—begged me not leave him ignorant on that point. All the Barretts, that I know < . . . >peculiar in this, that they are made out of in < . . . > out of proportionate value to the < . . . > if a dealer in choice woods had < . . . c> ases out of the odds and ends of < . . . wh>ich the bulk had gone to make the priceless of coffer you know: they are limited strangely—but the limits are of fine stuff: Arabel, for instance, is perfect as far as she goes, and one cube of her wood would drop into Knebworth like so much brazil-wood into the chip-basket of one of the Swiss

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manufacturers of shaving-work cottages: but the wants are manifest enough, she can't hold the world, like my coffer. I have just read Renan's book,10 and find it weaker and less honest that I was led to expect. I am glad it is written: if he thinks he can prove what he says, he has fewer doubts on the subject than I— but mine are none of his. As to the Strauss school,11 I don't understand their complacency about the book—he admits many points they have thought it essential to dispute—and substitutes his explanation, which I think impossible. The want of candour is remarkable: you could no more deduce the character of his text from the substance of his notes, than rewrite a novel from simply reading the mottoes at the head of each chapter: they often mean quite another thing,—unless he cuts away the awkward part—as in the parable of the Rich Man & Lazarus. His admissions & criticisms on St John are curious. I make no doubt he imagines himself stating a fact, with the inevitable license—so must John have done. His argument against the genuineness of Matthew—from the reference to what Papias12 says of the λογια13—is altogether too gross a blunder to be believed in a Scholar,—and is yet repeated half a dozen times throughout the book: if Pen, in three ye means an oracle or revelation < . . . > he'll stand badly of [sic] for < . . . > honest old Tom Paine14 stands < . . . mir>acles were cheats, and their author a cheat! What do you think of the figure he cuts who makes his hero participate in the wretched affair with Lazarus, and then calls him all the pretty names that follow? Take away every claim to man's respect from Christ and then give him a wreath of gum-roses and calico-lilies—or as Constance says to Arthur in King John—"Give Grannam kingdom, and it grannam will Give it a plum, an apple and a fig.15 For what you ask about my things—most of what you saw at Siena will be brought out in the Spring:16 I shall soon go to press with them—but we wait, because there is some success attending the complete edition,17 and we let it work. That critique was fair in giving the right key to my poetry—in as much as it is meant to have "one central meaning, seen only by reflexion in details"—"our principle,"

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says the critic—"mine and good" say I: he is more than fair in praising one portion of my works at the expense of all the rest,— unfair in saying I have never even tried to do, what I have done, well or ill, in long poems he is pleased—not to call failures but pass clean over: thus, I never describe ("Flight of the Duchess")— never delineate the quieter female character ("Colombe") & so on. The fact is, there is more in my works than a new comer can take in at once—or by next month, when the article ought to be ready.18 Bless us, I can wait a little longer. Here is a letter! < . . . > all love. Annunziata is to stay all < . . . > : remember me to all friends < . . . > that sprung to my mind when < . . . > Ever yours affectionately R Browning.

Notes on Letter 66 1. Probably in the missing letter of October 19. 2. William Ewart Gladstone (1809-1898), statesman, author, prime minister. Browning's friendship for Gladstone remained warm during the '60's and 70's but cooled in the '80's, when Gladstone favored Home Rule for Ireland. Browning refused to write an inscription for him on the occasion of Gladstone's fiftieth wedding anniversary (1889) (John Morley, The Life of William Ewart Gladstone [London, 1909], III, 417-18). 3. Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights (1847). 4. The first line of the London Underground was opened on January 10, 1863. 5. Browning attended London University for a short time in 1828. 6. All four pages of the MS are torn, pages 1 and 3 on the lower righthand corner. 7. Heinrick Wilhelm Ernst (1814-1865), celebrated violinist and composer, gave up playing in public because of poor health. He and his French wife visited Bulwer-Lytton and spent at least one winter at Totteridge (Rudolph C. Lehmann, Memories of Half a Century, p. 210). 8. "I know my L[ytton]." 9. Interlined. 10. Vie de Jésus. 11. David Friedrich Strauss (1808-1874), German theologian, whose Leben Jesu (1835), a rationalistic presentation of the life of Jesus, was translated into English by George Eliot (1846). Browning's Christmas Eve (1850) has been interpreted as being in part a reply to Strauss (DeVane, pp. 181-82).

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12. Papias of Hierapolis in Phrygia, one of the Apostolic Fathers. His Exposition of the Lord's Oracles is the prime early authority as to the gospels of Matthew and Mark. 13. "Oracles," from Papias' title. 14. Thomas Paine (1737-1809), whose Age of Reason (1793) is a defense of Deism against Christianity and atheism. 15. King John, II, i, 159. 16. Dramatis Personae. The Brownings and Isa had been at Siena during the summer of 1860. 17. See 57.5. 18. Perhaps Moncure D. Conway, "Robert Browning," The Victoria Magazine, II (February 1864), pp. 298-316.

Letter 67 19th Dec. '63 Dearest Isa, I am bilious to day & only able to write a word or two— but you know what I feel: I believe you wish me all the good in the world & out of it—& I wish you,—that I know,—whatever happiness life can bring. Yes—the years go—we are in the third:1 at first, when you were here, the business was of the hardest, for nothing seemed doing, nothing growing,—only the emptiness and weariness of it all: now, there seems really use in the process, & fruit. Pen is evidently the better for my being here, so it is all easier to go on with: if I live, I suppose I shall get done in five or six years more: but enough of me. I have various pieces of gossip to give you, could I find them in my head to-day: Sir E.2 has taken a house in Park lane,—hopes L. will live with him. He is at Bath & very well—with the Ernsts: it must have been Η. Β.3 (now here) who passed thro' Florence & was taken for L. You see Hatty's character as given by Story in the Ath: 4 I don't think I should have troubled my head about such a charge in such a quarter, had I been she. Hume went to Rome with a letter from Mr Mitchel5 to Story, asking to become his pupil: Story refused, but got him a studio, conceiving himself bound to do so much by the letter: Mrs S.6 wrote me this: of course Hume immediately wrote to England

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(to D r Gully7 a Gull indeed) that S had taken him as a pupil— it is Story's own business,—he chooses to take this dung-ball into his hand for a minute, and he will get more & more smeared. I mean to write to Kirkup, whom I really love—only the incessant press on me has delayed my replying to his letter: Landor is teazing various friends about his book & what has come of it—he & Walker are at daggers-drawn8—he accusing Walker of various delinquencies, quite forgetting his own stupidity,—if these be truly charged,— in getting into a passion of wonder over the perfection of the man: but life, even L's, is not long enough for this repeated imbecility— of which I suppose old age is the excuse, poor man. I have a mind to tell you something that happened the other day in illustration of what I said was the Barrett character: a stupid family lawyer told Henry Barrett that an estate in England now belonging to Charles John B.9 ought to have been divided between him & a cousin, in their grandfather's time—adding that of course it was not to be mentioned: H. at once wrote to tell C. J—who by return of post wrote to the cousin—bidding him take the half, & all arrears of profit. The cousin replied that he knew better the state of the case, that the right had been settled long ago, & there was not a pretence for a claim on his part: so far good—but C J. really meant to make an immense sacrifice & would gladly have done so. This poor letter is only made worth receiving by the love in it, my dearest friend: next time I will be in better condition, I hope, & make amends; always I am yours—till death & after. All goes well: Willy & Pen take fencing lessons together. W. is very often with Pen—he is a very nice boy. Pen learns boxing also. Goodbye, dearest Isa—I am yours affectionately, Robert Browning. Can you have the goodness to send the enclosed to Cottrell ?

Notes on Letter 67 1. Since the death of EBB. 2. Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Nr. 1 Park Lane.

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3. Perhaps Sir Henry Bulwer (1801-1872). 4. The Athenaeum for December 19, page 840, contained a letter from W. W. Story defending Harriet Hosmer against the charge that her Zenobia was actually the work of one of her workmen. 5. Not identified. In 1863 D. D. Home settled in Rome intending to study sculpture. In January 1864 he was expelled from Rome on the charge of sorcery (Burton, Heyday of a Wizard, pp. 168-172). 6. Mrs. Story. 7. James Manly Gully, M. D. (1808-1883), was present at Home séances and made an affidavit in Home's favor during the Lyon-Home lawsuit (Mme. Home, The Gift of D. D. Home, p. 136; 101.12). 8. See 51.5. 9. Henry Barrett (1818-1896) and Charles John Barrett (1814-1905), two of EBB's eight brothers.

Letter 68 19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terr. [January 19, 1864.] Dearest Isa, As soon as I came home, after writing that letter, I remembered my omissions: give your—or rather, give what I enclose to Stewart 1 with my love: tell him, it was a real sorrow to me when I found last year that he had left England: when he first called on me, I was not in a condition to do justice to his kindness by the outward show of my own feeling—but I supposed there would be plenty of time to make up for present loss: when I can, I will send him another photograph: also, assuredly, whatever I have got to dear Jessy White—let me so call her: I well enough know her heart to me & mine. All the political matters, on which we differ more than ever, have nothing to do with that: give her my old love, as I have already bade you. I am vexed that you are suffering from the cold, dearest Isa,—we had a bitter week here, to Pen's delight, who bought skates at once and used his time fully. Now, we have mild hideous weather, black at noonday: I shall be anxious to hear how Pisa agrees with you—it was wise to go there. W e had a sad

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Christmas of it with poor Thackeray's death:2 on the Wednesday (23) I was to have met him at dinner—he had sent to say he was unwell, so his empty place was provocative of the usual talk and tattle—next day, 24. I was certain to meet him at dinner also, because the people promised a wonderful Christmas Tree for children, a flock of whom were invited—on arriving, I heard his name mentioned—"Not too unwell to come?" I asked—he was dead. I met him perhaps a fortnight before at the same house—and once after that—in a house once Mr Kenyon's3—and the last thing I remember his saying to me was "I wonder where the old owner of this place is now?"—to which I replied—"Just what was in my mind." He was always unwell, so never inspired any sort of apprehension. Everybody feels kindly towards him now—his defects were quite noticeable enough, but of a kind to let the goodness show through: and I am rather struck to find how much I must have liked him, these many years. The poor girls4 have been at the Isle of Wight but return to town soon. Bless us all, we can't make too much of each other, while the little time lasts. I am told he looked grandly in his coffin: Thackeray with all the nonsense gone would be grand indeed, and I hope and trust that so it proves. Pen caught a cough and cold in common with all the world, and I was uneasy about it, as it would not go: it is much better, however: skating &c don't assist lozenges in such a case. He continues to do very well, putting increasing interest into his various business: I am very glad in the hope that he will get scholarship, accomplishment, health,—and be happy and indulged all the same. I hope there will not be holes and gaps in his mind, but that it will be all equally cared for up to the time when individual tastes go ahead. I shall certainly expect to see you in the Autumn or perhaps Summer:—I have just learned from Brini of the payment of a second instalment which denotes that the work is two-thirds finished:5 I have determined at last that the central medallion shall be appropriated, not to a Portrait, but to an ideal head of "Poetry": a portrait proves to be impossible,—one, that is, which we would accept:

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there is nothing to be done but submit to a necessity—for any playing with the truth there would be hateful to me. Leighton's whole conduct has been entirely noble and generous: he will go to Florence and see the last of the work. I certainly have met with many admirable natures in my life. I wish I had time to talk more with my dearest friend, Isa—but I am pressed into a corner. Goodbye, for this time: don't write any day when you are in such a hurry as to hinder what I should else get—for I love every scrap of news and gossip from Florence, as you know: yet, on second thought, do write, however hurriedly, for I should get uneasy indeed were you to make no sign. Mr Mackay has just made a long call—I can only end, with Pen's best love as he begs me to say. God bless you, dearest Isa Yours ever affectionately R Browning. Notes

on Letter

68

1. The Brownings met James Montgomery Stuart at the Bagni di Lucca in the summer of 1849 when he was lecturing there on Shakespeare. "We mean to use his society a little when we return to Florence, where he resides," EBB wrote (Kenyon, I, 422). Browning lent Mrs. Stuart 20 francesconi on April 24, 1858, and another 50 on May 31 (Account Book in BM, A 5715), and on June 5 he wrote to Chapman recommending Stuart as very able and very learned (D & K, p. 106). On August 28, 1869, Browning wrote Isa, "The refusal of Stuart to pay a farthing of his debt to me . . is a fine example of pure rascality . . . . But I spit at him and have done with it" (121). 2. Thackeray died during the night of December 23-24, 1863. 3. John Kenyon (1784-1856), poet, philanthropist, cousin of EBB, and schoolmate of Browning's father. He met Browning in 1839 and later urged him to write to EBB. She dedicated Aurora Leigh to him, and Browning wrote "Andrea del Sarto" for him. He allowed the Brownings £100 a year, and at his death he left them £11,000, his largest bequest. 4. Thackeray's daughters. 5. On EBB's monument (63.11).

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Letter 69 [19 Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace, February 8, 1864.]1 Dearest Isa, This will introduce to you a very charming and accomplished Lady, the daughter of Sir James Mackintosh.2 I say no more, because I probably shall have written before this arrives. I know you will do any little thing in your power. Affectionately yours ever, Robert Browning Feb. 8, '64

Notes on Letter 69 1. This letter was found among those to Julia Wedgwood. 2. Sir James Mackintosh was the maternal grandfather of Julia Wedgwood, with whom Browning carried on a correspondence between 1863-70. On February 6 he also wrote to Harriet Hosmer in Rome introducing Mrs. Hensleigh Wedgwood, "a very accomplished and admirable person" (MS in Harvard College Library).

Letter 70 [19 Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace,] Saturday 19th March [1864]. Dearest Isa, This is to be a short letter, by way of change—or indeed because I am tired, bilious, and inclined to go and walk it away presently. I am glad, but a little surprised that you are in Rome again:1 a sudden fancy, it seems—I wish you all the enjoyment in the world.

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Pen & Willie are gone (two ways, by ill luck) to see the famous boat-race—Pen in the boat which is expected to hold the Prince of Wales: 2 I did not care to go. The "squabble" to which you allude is serious enough—I rejoice at the proper punishment of that foolish friend, and exposure of the execrable folly of his friend— who to rid himself of blame must declare the culprit G.3 a monster, and yet has certainly up to the last been at least calling him an enthusiastic &c The whole set are detestable. I don't choose to go into details here. Well, Willy is, and has been enjoying a holiday this fortnight, the school being prematurely broken up on account of an universal outbreak of "mumps," so they say—and now begin the Easter Holidays, of another fortnight at least,—what gain may be in all this, I don't see, but the loss would not be hard to find. Pen really don't want holidays—he is not overworked, nor underworked. Give my love to all old friends you see, Miss Cushman, Miss Stebbins,—Hatty & all indeed. Tell the Storys that they don't write, as they ought. I shall be much interested in your next letter, which must tell me all that there is to tell. I saw Miss Elliott and Mrs Blackett last night at Lord Russell's4—they begged to be remembered particularly to you, when they heard I meant to write to-day. I wish if you have occasion to see D r Burridge you would tell him how warmly I remember his kindness to me. To answer the questions in your note—The Tragedy was just the usual failure—when a thing has been handed about or read in private as a prodigious favour: it answers people's purpose (the initiated) to talk fine of their privilege: not that there is not much talent, & more promise in it, but the ways & phrase are conventionally the old Elizabethan, and one knows there is no truth nor life in it all: I like F. K5 much, but she don't grow, depend on it. I am happy to hear Kate Field was so well—somebody, I think Trollope, gave me to understand last year that she was married,6 he fancied—and it kept me from writing—I shall write now. I shall try over Boott's music, and tell him what I think of it: I had

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no time to do it, nor at first knew who was the Author: if you knew how little time I have! Goodbye, dearest Isa: I suppose from your way of writing that I shall not see you at all, this year—when then?7 All the same, ever and always, You are very dear to yours affy R B.

Notes on Letter 70 1. Visiting Miss Cushman (MS in BPL). 2. The Times March 21, 1864, page 9, reported the Prince of Wales aboard the George Peabody. Oxford won. 3. Garibaldi? 4. John Russell (1792-1828), First Lord of the Treasury (1846-52, and 1865-66), Viscount Amberley (1861), and Earl Russell (1861). 5. Perhaps Fanny Kemble, whose translation of Dumas' Mademoiselle de Belle Isle was produced on March 10, 1864 (A. Nicoli, History of the Late Nineteenth Century Drama [1946], II, 442). 6. See 64.10. 7. July 1866 (90).

Letter 11 Aug 19. '64 Cambo près Bayonne, Basses-Pyrenées. Dearest Isa, You will wonder to find me so far South:1 we had a fancy to go to Arcachon, a newish place by Bordeaux, but found it crammed with strangers: we tried St Jean de Luz and Biaritz to no better purpose, and, having to make the best of a mistake, settled ourselves in this pleasant little place for a month—meaning to get two or three weeks of sea-bathing at St Jean (as charming as Biaritz is ugly). We are just under the Pyrenées, and an easy morning's walk from Spain: indeed, if I listen much to Pen I may be forced to go to Madrid2—

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which is a day's traveling by rail: only one would like to see that with greater consideration, and not at the expence of the sea. I am much disappointed at getting no letter from you—had one reached Paris two days ago, or less, it would have arrived: I want to know how and where you are:—to be sure, when do I not want news of you? Besides, my letters, poor things, are even poorer when not directly answers to yours. It is very saddening to me to feel the Southern influence again: the mountains under which we are are just like the Tuscan ranges: the verdure and vegetation more flourishing and abundant, and the villages less picturesquely distributed by far: but there are cicale on the trees, and much the same blue sky as of old: few vines, but great fields of maize, and plenty of fern and heather. No, it is not anything near Italy after all—but dearer for what is like. I am supremely dull here, I know. Pen amuses himself very well—having a knack that way,—draws a good deal with my father—who is perceptibly younger than last year. My sister, too, finds the South interesting—sees it for the first time. I shall be able to spin the month out. Now what can I tell you ? I kept up the ball gallantly to the last in London, dining out in a way that looks absurd enough: at last—my head began to turn in an ominous way, one morning, and I got ready and set out. My last memorable dinner was with Trelawny,3 Byron4 & Shelley's friend—I liked him much. We talked (we two and a lady) till I got up from table at 12 o'clock: he then accompanied me nearly home. Well, Isa; Lytton is engaged to be married, to Miss Villiers, niece of Ld Clarendon:5 not rich, but influential, they say. Sir L:6 will have to be generous. He is going to print a new Poem. Do you hear anything of Annette ? I wrote to congratulate her,7 but have got no answer yet. Everybody seems to know about the P.8 episode: Mrs Story, Hatty &c. Mrs Mackenzie said that there had been some explosion, some seductioncase, which ended by the good man having to pay 40 fcs monthly to the interesting little stranger. What does Mr Bracken say? After all, it is the best Annette could do—she had outgrown English ways, no doubt. I saw less than usual of the Storys: they go full-butt at

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every social delight, and, I daresay, find some good in it. Edie9 is a nice girl, pretty too & simpatica:10 I think very few English women pretty—their complexions I don't care for, and their Elizabethan aquiline noses and chubby cheeks I dislike. I only saw one beautiful girl, that I should so designate, at two great houses last season (I mean, I saw her twice)—but had not the curiosity to ask her name. The infinitely best thing in London to me is the music, —so good, so much of it: I know Hallé, Joachim,11 and others, and make them play at parties where I meet them—the last time I saw Hallé, at his own house, he played Beethoven's wonderful last Sonata—the 32d—in which the very gates of Heaven seem opening. You don't say anything to me about my poems,12 and, I make no doubt, are vexed with me for not sending them by post: but the tricks of that Office irritate me too much: I pay what is asked, send a book to Paris, and after some days, get a letter to say that, on receipt of four pence, the book will be sent—to me back again. I thought Leighton would have taken it to you this month—but he is unable to go till much later—meanwhile, there is a new edition nearly ready, with a few additional stanzas to one poem,13 you shall have that. By this time, Tennyson's book14 will have reached you, moreover: tell me what you think of it. I daresay you have seen mine,15 after all, and, like the proud puss you are, you won't speak about it! Just as if there were one person in the world whose opinion I cared more about,—I mean, whose sympathy I wanted more! Goodbye with that sweet word, and God bless you, my dearest friend! Can it be that you have directed your letter scrawlingly?—I can't get over the want of it. But you don't expect I should. Write to Paris, next time—I don't know where I may be. It is night, I write in my room, but I know that everybody here loves you and would send you the assurance of it. I know that I am as ever or more than ever 16

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Notes on Letter 71 1. On August 3, 1864, Browning left London for Paris where he remained a week, thence to Cambo until September 13. After spending three weeks at Biarritz, his party returned to Paris, and he to London on October 11 (Curie, pp. 38-79). 2. The Brownings spent a day in Spain (73), although they did not go to Madrid. 3. Edward John Trelawny (1792-1881), author and adventurer. Browning met him in 1844 in Leghorn with a letter of introduction; the two were never intimate (Orr, p. 127). 4. Browning's boyhood verses Incondita evidence the influence of Lord Byron (1788-1824), and EB at ten thought seriously of disguising herself as a page in order to enter Byron's service (G & M, p. 143). Browning's singing master Isaac Nathan (122.5) entertained his pupil with anecdotes of Lord Byron's life. On August 22, 1846, Browning told EB that he "would have gone to Finchley to see a curl of [Byron's] hair or one of his gloves" (RB-EBB, II, 453). Later, Browning objected to Byron's assertion of the soul's nothingness in comparison with the ocean, and, "as a Christian" (G & M, p. 249) he attacked the assertion in Fifine at the Fair (1872) LXVII, 19-20: Childishest childe . . . . Stay with the fiat fish, thou! However, he soon after wrote to Miss Egerton Smith, "I never said nor wrote a word against or about Byron's poetry or power in my life" (Hood, p. 159). 5. George William Frederick Villiers (1800-1870), fourth Earl of Clarendon, thrice Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. On July 29, 1864, Lytton wrote to Browning, "Proposal and joyful acceptance" {Letters from Owen Meredith, p. 223) and thus communicated the news of his engagement to Edith Villiers, daughter of Mrs. Edward Villiers and niece of Lord Clarendon. The Lyttons were married on October 4. 6. Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton. Browning should have written "Sir E." 7. Annette Bracken, now married to Giuseppe Frascheri (73.7). 8. Perhaps P[assaglia]. I have found no record of the "little stranger." 9. Edith Story. 10. "Sympathetic, agreeable." 11. Joseph Joachim (1831-1907), the greatest violinist of his generation. Browning mentioned him in "The Founder of the Feast" (W. L. Phelps, "Browning, Joachim, Salvini," Spectator, September 23, 1938, p. 477). 12. Dramatis Personae. 13. In the second edition, "Gold Hair" contained three additional stanzas (21-23) interpolated at the suggestion of George Eliot.

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14. Enoch Arden (63.5). 15. Dramatis Personae. 16. Signature excised.

Letter 12 Biarritz, Maison Gastonbide, September 19, 1864.1 ***I stayed a month at green pleasant little Cambo, and then came here from pure inability to go elsewhere—St.-Jean de Lux, on which I had reckoned, being still fuller of Spaniards who profit by the new railway. This place is crammed with gay people, of whom I see nothing but their outsides. The sea, sands, and view of the Spanish coast and mountains are superb, and this house is on the town's outskirts. I stay till the end of the month, then go to Paris, and then get my neck back into the old collar again. Pen has managed to get more enjoyment out of his holiday than seemed at first likely —there was a nice French family at Cambo with whom he fraternised, riding with the son and escorting the daughter in her walks. His red cheeks look as they should. For me, I have got on by having a great read at Euripides—the one book I brought with me,2 besides attending to my own matters, my new poem that is about to be; and of which the whole is pretty well in my head—the Roman murder story you know.3 . . . How I yearn, yearn for Italy at the close of my life!*** Notes

on Letter

12

1. The text is from Mrs. Orr (p. 250), who misdated (W. O. Raymond, "New Light on the Genesis of The King and the Book," Modern Language Notes, XLIII [1928], 357-68). 2. Yet on August 19 Browning wrote that he had Euripides, a volume of George Sand's plays, and the Travels of Rabbi Benjamin of Tudela (Curie, p. 41). 3. The Ring and the Book (1868-69). Browning wrote to his publisher on July 30, 1868: "I have been thinking over the 'name' of the Poem, as you desired,—but do not, nor apparently shall, come to anything better than "The Franceschini;' that includes everybody in the piece, inasmuch as every

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one is for either Franceschini or his wife, a Franceschini also. I think 'the Book & the Ring' is too pretty-fairy-story-like. Suppose you say 'The Franceschini' therefore. Good luck to it!" (MS in BM.)

Letter 73 19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace W Oct. 19. '64 Dearest Isa, I returned on the 11 th . We stayed three weeks at Biarritz; in the loveliest weather possible—just spent a day in Spain, to get a taste of its quality (a very pleasant one)—going to Fontarabia, Irun & St Sebastian. We returned easily by Bayonne, Bordeaux, Tours & Paris: I only stayed one day there, though the Storys, arriving the same evening, caught sight of us & pressed us to stay— but I was wanted at home: and here I hope to be for many a month. I doubt whether the warm sea & air have "braced" us all as the Breton place1 used to do—but the return to the South was attractive indeed. Pen enjoyed himself besides, & is very well. It was fortunate indeed that I was saved from the addition to my annoyances which I should have had to bear had my journey been to Florence. Leighton writes to me that nothing can be more impudently bad than the execution of his designs2—there has been no pretence at imitating some of them—and the four capitals of the columns will have to be sawn off and carved afresh,—also two of the medallions have to be cut out and replaced—as infamous: while the third "though indeed detestable is not quite irremediable." The Profile3 is "less slovenly than the rest," though open to many objections—"the hair, with the designing of which I took great pains, is entirely different: the fellow4 had the coolness to say that he thought I had probably done the thing hastily without nature, and that he had put up a plait, and done the thing afresh himself (if you could see it!)—also, in the ear, "ho cercato di

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migliorare!"5—he added that he had obtained from Cavalier Mathas & Count Cottrell the sanction to improve these parts of the work— let us hope there is no truth in this. Cottrell says he saw all the criticisms I make, himself—but that he thought it better to leave them to me to make, as the mischief was irremediable."—On the contrary, Cottrell wrote to me that it was "extremely well executed," —and as he paid up the last instalment, though not due till the work was really erected, I have no sort of remedy. Don't say one word about this—I won't have any wrangling over . . literally . . the grave. Cottrell has done his best, I daresay—but my best, in such a case, would have been to tell the sculptor "You will please to reproduce exactly what you have given you in the Designs, good, bad, or indifferent—if you want to practise drawing of your own, do it elsewhere; and be particular in bidding the Cavalier Mathas mind his own business." I am glad that poor Landor is out of the weakness and sorrow of his old age, and that nobody went to his funeral.6 By his will, he has left me certain pictures &c I notified at the time to his relatives that I only let that clause stand because unable to prevent it, but that I would never hear of taking a scrap of the old man's— excepting any papers he might wish me to examine, preserve or destroy. I have again—although unnecessarily—repeated my determination: which I mention to you, in case the amiable people at the Villa should declare that the Rafaels & Correggios are intended to grace my rooms here. I have been more than rewarded for my poor pains by being of use for five years to the grand old ruin of a genius, such as I don't expect to see again. Your letter about Annette & her husband7 was graphic indeed: I quite understand all about it. After such a blunder as hers, she cried "Anywhere, anywhere, out of the world"—i. e of Grosvenor Place, and her old friends' reach: and she is safe from them all effectually. After all, when folks fail I like them to fail—not patch up, make shift, keep going wretchedly. I can't tell you how little I care about Lytton—he is utterly uninteresting to me,—I seem to know all about him.8 His cleverness

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surprised me a little, when I saw him,—he can extend that to almost any extent. As to his being "kind" to any woman wholly in his power, I wonder what makes you hope that ? I have not seen Miss Cobbe's book,9—spite of finding that there is something about "the Brownings" in it. I was ungracious to her, I remember, in those days when I did as seemed right in my own eyes. I saw Geo: Smith10 yesterday;—don't know his wife, who seems a very nice person; I like him, however,—his generous ways and unpretentiousness. He told me about you, and was delighted with his visit to Florence. Tell Jessie White that I beg her pardon & trust to her kindness. I got her letter, at a time when every moment of mine was taken up; she never told me when she would certainly be at home, and I delayed calling: when I was about to do so, I heard she had left Town to return—at last my time was up, I was very unwell, I hesitated at writing, I could not ask her to come to me—at last the wrong was irreparable. I tell her the plain truth, in belief of its efficacity. Another time, it shall go hard but I will see her for old days' and enduring love's sake. No book yet!11 Well, you lose little: but you shall have it soon, somehow. I hope to have a long poem ready by the summer, my Italian murder thing.12 Do you see the "Edinburg" that says all my poetry is summed up in "Bang whang, whang, goes the Drum ?"13 I have not got to see your article in the Cornhill,14 though I went yesterday to the club in order to get it: I shall read it with great interest. Good bye, dearest Isa—Pen's love always Yours affectionately ever R. B. Miss Smith says she is much disappointed at getting no letter from you—but this is two days ago.

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Notes on Letter 73 1. Sainte Marie where Browning vacationed in 1862 and 1863. 2. See 53.6. 3. An idealized head of Poetry. 4. Ottavio Giovannozzi, Florentine sculptor (Thieme-Becker). 5. "I tried to improve." 6. Landor died on September 17, 1864, and was buried in the Protestant Cemetery in Florence. The inscription on his tomb formerly read "The last sad tribute of his coife [sic] and children," but more recently some Swinburne verse has been substituted (See Hood, p. 350 for a discussion of Landor's will). 7. Giuseppe Frascheri (1809-1886), Genoese portrait painter. He exhibited at the Suffolk Street Exhibition of 1872. (Algernon Graves, A Dictionary of Artists Who Have Exhibited Works in the Principal London Exhibitions 1760-1893 [London, 1901], p. 103). 8. In 1875 Lytton wrote complaining of the "intolerable affectation of Swinburne, Morris, Rossetti, as well as the ingrained vulgarity of Browning" (Lady Betty Balfour, Personal and Literary Letters of Robert First Earl of Lytton [London, 1906], I, 333). 9. Italics: Brief Notes on Politics, People, and Places in Italy, in 1864. 10. George Murray Smith (1824-1901), publisher, son of the founder of Smith and Elder, and (after 1846) senior member of the company. Browning met him in 1844 or 1845 at the home of Thomas Powell. He became Browning's publisher in 1867, printing first a six-volume edition of the Poetical Works and then The Ring and the Book, the MS of which, now in BM, Browning presented to Mrs. Smith. He allowed Browning £1,250 for the right of publication for five years, and Browning wrote to him on January 1, 1869 (MS in BM), that if The Ring and the Book "fail to repay you in the long run, the fault will be purely its own,—you have helped, as nothing of mine was ever helped before." Smith published fifteen separate Browning volumes between 1871 and 1889, and Browning on his deathbed told his son to seek Smith's advice whenever in need of good counsel. Smith supervised the arrangements for Browning's funeral in Westminster Abbey and was one of the pall bearers (DNB). 11. Dramatis Personae. 12. The Ring and the Book. 13. "It would seem that in this practical and mechanical age there is some attraction in wild and extravagant language—some mysterious fascination in obscure half-expressed thoughts . . . . Tried by the standards which have hitherto been supposed to uphold the force and beauty of the English tongue and of English literature, his [Browning's] works are deficient in the «qualities we should desire to find them [sic]. We do not believe that they

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will survive except as a curiosity and a puzzle" {Edinburgh Review, October 1864, p. 565). 14. "A Tuscan Village, A Tuscan Sanctuary," Cornhill, X (October 1864), 461-76.

Letter 74 [19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace,] London, Nov. 19. '64 Dearest Isa, Your letters are never "stupid," and are more or less welcome exactly as they are longer or shorter: I expect them a long while before hand, and remember them as long: and so it will always be. It is useless saying anything more about the monument: only I ought to mention in justice to everyone that Leighton does not think the workmen incompetent by any means—on the contrary, he says that one morning's explanation—(which could only be an injunction) was enough, & that on his return in a fortnight he found the models for the capitals of the pillars re-made & perfectly done: he is sure, that, if the man pleases, he can execute the same as well:1 and had I fancied it was so difficult for Cottrell to insist on the thing's being performed exactly, I would have tried to find somebody else—you, for instance. As for doing the work in London,—Leighton would hardly have gone to see whether anybody else was advising the man to change particulars in the designs, if the work had been in progress a mile off. You gave me a ring (which I shall wear to my dying-day) and gave orders for it at Rome: suppose Castellani had sent it with the motto improved by Mrs Eckley to "Phyz tua" you would rather blame them than the general practise of Roman jewellers.2 Since I wrote to you, I think, I dipped into Miss Cobbe's book, at the Club: she feels kindly and means not ill,—indeed I feel grateful to her for thinking and speaking as she does of one she could easily have misunderstood. The introductory "fact" about Azeglio's3 being

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will survive except as a curiosity and a puzzle" {Edinburgh Review, October 1864, p. 565). 14. "A Tuscan Village, A Tuscan Sanctuary," Cornhill, X (October 1864), 461-76.

Letter 74 [19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace,] London, Nov. 19. '64 Dearest Isa, Your letters are never "stupid," and are more or less welcome exactly as they are longer or shorter: I expect them a long while before hand, and remember them as long: and so it will always be. It is useless saying anything more about the monument: only I ought to mention in justice to everyone that Leighton does not think the workmen incompetent by any means—on the contrary, he says that one morning's explanation—(which could only be an injunction) was enough, & that on his return in a fortnight he found the models for the capitals of the pillars re-made & perfectly done: he is sure, that, if the man pleases, he can execute the same as well:1 and had I fancied it was so difficult for Cottrell to insist on the thing's being performed exactly, I would have tried to find somebody else—you, for instance. As for doing the work in London,—Leighton would hardly have gone to see whether anybody else was advising the man to change particulars in the designs, if the work had been in progress a mile off. You gave me a ring (which I shall wear to my dying-day) and gave orders for it at Rome: suppose Castellani had sent it with the motto improved by Mrs Eckley to "Phyz tua" you would rather blame them than the general practise of Roman jewellers.2 Since I wrote to you, I think, I dipped into Miss Cobbe's book, at the Club: she feels kindly and means not ill,—indeed I feel grateful to her for thinking and speaking as she does of one she could easily have misunderstood. The introductory "fact" about Azeglio's3 being

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ignorant of the very name—I should think you could have instructed her about: there must have been some allusion in letters to the visit Azeglio paid her, "out of his own head," during the little time he was at Rome: she was much gratified by it: I came in and met him going out of the door & he told me that he had considered it his duty to call on one who loved Italy so: I suppose Miss Cobbe's Italian is not always clear, and that, just as I might tell an Italian with great sincerity that I had never heard of Miss ''Cob-bè'' might D'Azeglio affirm with respect to "Browning". I also am sorry that such unwarrantable a notice as that about Kirkup should appear.4 But what more than all surprizes me is the appreciation of Passaglia5— because it was through his assuring her that under no circumstances would he ever marry—while she knew he was under an engagement to do so, at that moment,—Miss C. having never let him guess that she was a friend of A's,—through information of this it was, according to Mrs Mackenzie, that A. came to a decision about him. Still, there seem clever things in the book,—for she is clever. I feel particularly sorry that you should fear disturbance in your pleasant Villa: perhaps the Padrone may prefer your quietness & prompt payment to uncertainties: that's the way with my Sister's Landlady at Paris—who has long since raised the rents of every room in the house but hers—which she says she shall never do. The years are going, Isa,—and in three years I may begin to hope for a realization of the snake-metamorphosis:6 I shall not keep house when Pen is at Oxford—to what use? He will enjoy his vacations best in travelling. I yearn for Italy again: the kindness of people is excessive here—but I am "done for," can't take root again. Pen is very well,—a good boy—with dreadfully incipient mustachios! He came here just now, and said "Give my best love to Isa"—so, there you have it. Lytton is in Athens:7 Sir E. "behaved like a brute" in money & other matters,—says an adequate authority. The very devil is in that stinginess of his.8 Mrs9 Sartoris has just undergone a most dangerous operation with the utmost fortitude,— unknown to everybody: she will probably regain her old health, I

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earnestly hope: she was two hours un 10

Notes on Letter 74 1. See 53.6 and 73.4. 2. I have not found the ring. The inscription on it was very likely Vis Mea ("my strength"), the inscription on the ring of Geoffrey Wentworth, the hero of Isa's Agnes Tremorne (I, 152). 3. Marquis Massimo Taparelli d'Azeglio (1798-1866), Italian statesman and author, "the Walter Scott of Italy." Although he called on EBB in 1859 (Kenyon II, 312), Miss Cobbe wrote in Italics (p. 389), "Strange to say, M. d'Azeglio had never heard of a woman [EBB] great in her way, as he in his, and whose whole heart was given to the course of which he was one of the leaders." 4. Miss Cobbe described Kirkup as a wizard (6.8) and mentioned (p. 396) Imogene, the little girl he thought to be his daughter. 5. On pages 288-308. 6. See 48.5. Browning hoped that Pen would matriculate within three years. 7. Where he was Secretary of the British Legation. 8. For a more favorable discussion of Sir Edward's financial arrangements with his son, see the Life of Edward, Bulwer, II, 412-15. 9. First written "Miss." 10. Crossed in heading offirstpage.

Letter 73 19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terr: Dec 19. '64. Yes, dearest Isa, it is three Christmasses ago1—fully now: I sometimes see a light at the end of this dark tunnel of life, which was one blackness at the beginning. It won't last for ever. In many ways I can see with my human eyes why this has been right & good for me—as I never doubted it was for Her—and if we do but re-join

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any day,—the break will be better than forgotten, remembered for its uses. The difference between me and the stupid people who have "communications" is probably nothing more than that I don't confound the results of the natural working of what is in my mind, with vulgar external appearances: poor old Tulk2 talked about the teaching he was in the habit of undergoing from his dead wife,— had an idea of her at his ear putting thoughts into his head,—not able to explain it otherwise. By the bye, why did not he, in turn, put into his sister's head to remember and make a will,—not leave Cottrell's children without a doit! There was a sale of her effects, & everything of course went to the near relations for whom she did not care a straw,—all for want of a "nudge" from her brother not to be so careless about those whom she professed to love. She would have told you, dying was the simplest matter in the world, and the last thing she feared at all,—yet,—make her will ?—better put that unpleasantness off till tomorrow. Well, for myself, I am certainly not unhappy, any more than I ever was: I am . . if the phrase were to now to be coined first . . "resigned"—but I look on everything in this world with altered eyes, and can no more take interest in anything I see there but the proof of certain great principles, strewn in the booths at a fair: I could no more take root in life again, than learn some new dancing step. On the other hand, I feel such comfort and delight in doing the best I can with my own object of life,—poetry,—which, I think, I never could have seen the good of before,—that it shows me I have taken the root I did take, well. I hope to do much more yet: and that the flower of it will be put into Her hand somehow. I really have great opportunities and advantages—on the whole, almost unparalleled ones, I think—no other disturbances & cares than those I am most grateful for being allowed to have. Pen, for instance, is so good & promising: I shall be increasingly nervous about his particular success at College—two years hence—because I have been trying an experiment, you see, in resolving to broaden his acquisitions, instead of deepen them in one or two respects, to the detriment of all the rest: there can be no doubt that, had I cut off the modern languages, drawing & music,

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he would even by this time be nearly fit for his particular work at Balliol: but I look further than the mere college career,—and of course it will be a success indeed if I get deepness enough in Greek & Latin with the other acquisitions: but folks frighten me a little when they tell me, as two people, strangers to each other, did last week, that merely to enter Balliol,—pass the matriculation,—is equivalent to taking honours at another College: well, we're in for it: Pen grows increasingly considerate, at least, and approximatively anxious—mathematics seem doing him good: and how can I regret that he plays Bach & Beethoven understandingly?—as he certainly does. I was to have talked over all these troubles of mine with Jowett last night, but—as usual, and only in his case,— there was a hitch, thro' the illness of our host,—and once again I am prevented seeing him. I had, by the bye, an invitation also to dine with Trelawny—but I could not accept it, tho' otherwise he is interesting enough. I sat, last Friday, by Millais3 at a dinner, & he said that Eastlake announced, a day or two before, to the Academy, Gibson's intention of leaving it all his fortune, and all his duplicates of statues (his own works) which are to be arranged in a room or hall built for the purpose:4 how often have I heard that Hatty was sure of it! I s e e * * *

Notes

on Letter 75

1. Since the death of EBB. 2. On February 22 [1848], EBB wrote to Miss Mitford: "His last unmarried daughter [Sophia Tulk] has lately married the late chamberlain of the late Duke of Lucca—Count Cottrell—and they and a whole colony of married Tulks including the Father, have come to settle in Florence . . . . Mr. Tulk often comes in to us to talk to Robert about Blake's poems and drawings, and to enlighten us both, upon Swedenborg's reveries on 'Conjugal Love'" (TpS in BM). 3. Sir John Everett Millais (1829-1896), painter, President of the Royal Academy, and baronet (1885). Browning met him in 1862 (G & M, p. 227), and he encouraged Pen to study painting (Ibid., p. 253). 4. John Gibson died "worth £32,000, which (with the exception of a few small legacies) he left with the contents of his studio to the Royal Academy" (DNB).

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Letter 76 [19. Warwick Crescent, London.] th 19 Jan. '65. Dearest Isa, I believe my last letter was delayed a day from my vile state of cold & headache just as I wrote it: whether my wishes came to you a day before or after the proper Christmas-time, they are always springing up fresh & fresh. I wish you so well in all you do, that I shall begin by venturing to question the policy of "keeping your name before the public," by merely a reprint: I don't believe there's anything but disadvantage in that; the public is glad enough to be ungrateful to old stagers & declare that every newcomer has quite leapt up to so & so's place—and new names (for new books) are the attractive thing. Of course I will say my say to Chapman,— though it is worth little enough: and I do quite remember enough of the story to be able to praise it sufficiently.1 But, don't mind if you keep people waiting a little for what is worth waiting for. I am quite of your mind about the worth of college-acquirements & fame, and how little they prove the owner a person of soul'squality: but a race is a race, and whoever tries ought to win—and has [sic] Pen means to try, why I want him to get the reward of it, though that be only a help to something better: I don't at all doubt that, once in the race, he will do his best—that's his way: but it happens to be really hard to get leave even to race—the matriculation2 being said to prove as much scholarship as obtaining a degree at another college: I don't know. I should be quite at my ease, too, if I could resolve to cut off all the languages, drawing & music, and give all the time to Latin & Greek—but I can't do that—so we must have all or nothing. Well, two years more, & then—I shall not break my heart in any case. He grows, is happy, & good—clear gain!

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Yes, Bessie Parkes "went over,"3 after the due hesitation & interesting struggle, and is now something or other that, it seems, she was not before,—whatever amazement that may give the world. Seeing that she was never one of my lights, I don't feel particularly in the dark. As for Miss Emily4—the Queen cut away that glory of Royal Printership at once: and one of the counsel in the case told an acquaintance of mine that the "sealed letter" contained a charge I shall be excused from even hinting to you—fear of the explosion of which, caused the shift of Miss E. from one side to the other. As is invariably the case, peoples' mouths are opened, and tell you what "they knew long ago" though it seems that did not matter a bit so long as nobody else knew: Mrs Procter,5 for instance told me of a lie she (E) had invented to interest Adelaide, about as pretty a specimen as I ever heard, though familiar with such sportings of the fancy. After all, folks are safe enough in the main—if you know a thing, and fear to be first in telling it, all's one as if you were ignorant: you don't say—"I'll have nothing to do with him or her, I know why & won't tell"—because friends smile and reply "Really, you can't expect that, without a definite charge being made, I am to avoid the person you please to dislike"—that is—"I contest your superior experience, and disbelieve in your acuteness, & suppose you to be prejudiced somehow besides": then one day comes a howl & a wondering at this wicked world. Yes, Florence will never by my Florence again. To build over or beside Poggio seems barbarous & inexcusable—the Fiesole side don't matter.6 Are they going to pull the old walls down, or any part of them, I wait to know? Why can't they keep the old city as a nucleus and build round and round it, as many rings of houses as they please,—framing the picture as deeply as they please ? Is Casa Guidi to be turned into any Public Office? I should think that its natural destination. If I am at liberty to flee away one day it will not be to Florence, I dare say. As old Philipson said to me once of Jerusalem—"No, I don't want to go there—I can see it in my head." By the way, how fares it with Mrs Philipson, the daughters & the boy ? Are they still in the house all gold & lacquer ? Do you bank

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with Brini ? Is Μ. St Paul7 alive and on the bridge ? Do the Beckers flourish ? Tell Cottrell I am his Debtor for a very kind & considerate letter: I never doubted he did all for the best, and only think of his invariable kindness in all the business: let Giovanozzi but do as he engages and all will go well at the end, which will be all I shall remember. Willie Bracken is just arrived from Liverpool—where he has been this three weeks with his mother—both are well. Good news from Annette, he says. I wrote to my sister yesterday and told her your kind wish to be remembered to her & my father: both of them will be delighted, I know. Is there any chance of your coming here this year ? I sometimes meet Miss Götting8 (?) in the street: she tells me the quondam Charlotte Agassiz, who was very ill in India, is now fortunately well again. Was that wound never healed between you & the Tassinari? She, too, was ill, seriously, was she not? What kind of elephantine development has the girl attained to,—and can poor T. still see a little out of his eyes ? Well, goodbye, dearest Isa: I have been for a few minutes— nay, a good many,—so really in Florence with you that it would be no wonder if you heard my steps up the lane to your house. Pen sends his best love. No book yet to you!9 Perhaps the fault is in me: I never think it worth serious caring for, that's the fact, but some day you shall have it, be sure, blessed prize as it will prove! Ever yours most affectionately Robert Browning. Notes

on Letter 76

1. Isa's The Woman I Loved (Chapman & Hall, 1865), originally appeared serially (46.6). 2. At Balliol. 3. Elizabeth Rayner Parkes (1829-1925), author and editor, mother of Mrs. Belloc Lowndes and Hilaire Belloc, became a Roman Catholic (1865), and married Louis Belloc (1867).

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4. Emily Faithfull (1835-1895), author, editor, and philanthropist. In 1860 she founded the "Victoria Press" which employed only female compositors, and shortly thereafter she became printer and publisher in ordinary to Queen Victoria. In 1863 she founded The Victoria Magazine, in which for eighteen years she fought for the right of remunerative employment for women (Britannica). 5. Anne (Skepper) Procter (1799-1888), step-daughter of Basil Montagu, wife of "Barry Cornwall," and mother of Adelaide Procter. For many years Browning "climbed to the fifth floor of Albert Mansions, 13 Upper Harley Street, to visit the Procters regularly every Sunday afternoon" (Kegan Paul, Memories [London, 1899], pp. 319-333). 6. In 1865 the city of Florence empowered the Florence Land and Public Works Company, consisting largely of English shareholders, to destroy the thirteenth-century walls of the city, to convert their site into a boulevard, and to erect houses (C. R. Weld, Florence: The New Capital of Italy, pp. 48-49). Casa Guidi was not turned into a public office, but rented in furnished apartments at "exorbitant rates" (Ibid., p. 21). 7. M. St. Paul, a goldsmith on the Ponte Vecchio, hanged himself in 1868 (129). 8. In [1855] EBB wrote to Isa from Casa Guidi, "Charlotte Agassiz has been here and Laura Getting" (TpS in BM). 9. Isa had not yet received Dramatis Personae.

Letter 11 19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace, W . Feb. 19. '65. Dearest Isa, First, I really thank you for apprizing me of the stupid blunder with the stamp: I can only suppose that writing always late & hurriedly I may have mistaken one stamp for another by London light—I always have store of both stamps. For the future, I will take good care, & spell the word before sticking on. Of course it is quite kind to tell me, as I should have told you : your letters never are wrongly stamped. Tho' I have so many to write, and have so little time to do it in, that perhaps there is more excuse for me than

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for everybody. The Postman's red collar, and ring and dump of the letters into letter box are a plague to me. Well, at last I caught a man going to Florence, Del Giudici1 [sic], to wit, and got him to carry your Book.2 I also sent a photograph, thinking you might care a little to see what has become of my old face. Now—I shall expect you at length to open your lips and tell me how you like or dislike the poems—I really want to know: (though to be sure that is no particular reason why you should do so—since I ask pagefuls of questions and never get a word of reply to them—I shall give it up now.) I have been rather anxious of late about Pen; he caught the measles somehow—had no premonitory headache, only a little indisposition to go out, which I thought was quite explainable by the vile weather—however, out they came, lasted three days, & then all was well again—the doctor taking his leave within the week: I hear all the danger is in catching cold after,—even long after,—it flies to the lungs. But Pen is very rational when out of sorts, rarely as that happens; and though he might have gone out last Tuesday, yet, up to this present Sunday, the cold being abominable, he prefers staying at home. Willy has not had the measles, and his mother is afraid naturally—so Pen is left to himself: he kept his bed three days and, to surprise me, mastered five new problems in Euclid,— which did please me. I am glad this ugly thing is over—and wish Willy may be so lucky: he grows very tall, and is a charming fellow,—strangely like Annette in the face & voice, I could fancy I hear her sometimes. I am glad to hear Mrs Mackenzie is well, and painting at Rome. Kinny3 is going to her, but will not long stand the Roman climate, I suppose. Yes, I know Chapman is going to reprint your book4 and am glad of it: I told him what I thought of it. Why do you not get on with your new novel though ?5 I am glad Lever remembers me kindly: I always warm to him now, since the last I saw or rather heard of him: and Pen has just been reading his "Luttrells"6 with immense delight—he asked me "Did I ever see Lever?" I said, "Certainly, whether you remember it or no—can you recollect nothing of his horses, Miss Lever, &c?"—Nothing!

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So when your letter came I was able to show him the paragraph which proved that I had known him. Yes, "the godlike man," connu! I saw him last week, looking very well: he sent me his poems, by the way. What is this I hear, through Miss Smith, of the possibility, or indeed likelihood of your coming to London in the summer ?8 You ought to tell me, if it be so: "settle here"—no,—but visit, I wish you may, with all my heart. I go wholly with the King, and think the Turin people disgraced themselves:9 I advise them to repeat that the cession of Nice & Savoy was unnecessary. They are not at all insensible to reasons of a pecuniary nature for being patriotic. As for the Mazzinian-Clerical party,—it is too contemptible! God bless you, dearest Isa: I am very sorry for Ansano,—for his sake & yours: I don't know whether you have Emilia yet,10 but seem to think so. Pen sends his best love—you always have mine. Yours Affectionately ever Robert Browning Notes

on Letter

11

1. Giudici and Del Giudice are well-known names in Florence (59.17). 2. Dramatis Personae. 3. Perhaps Mrs. Mackenzie's servant. 4. See 76.1. 5. Nora and Archibald Lee (Chapman & Hall, 1867). 6. Charles Lever, Luttrell of Arran (1865). 7. Line 266 of Tennyson's "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington" (1852) is "On God and Godlike men we build our trust." 8. Isa did not visit England in 1865. Instead, after having nursed Theodosia Trollope in her last illness, she spent her holiday in Venice (80.1). 9. In September 1864 the Turin people demonstrated with riot and bloodshed against the transfer of the Italian capital from Turin to Florence (King, History of Italian Unity, II, 262-64). 10. See 56.31.

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Letter 78 [19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace, W.} Saturday, 18th March, '65. Dearest Isa, I anticipate by a day, having a reason for writing at once, which you shall hear. You tell me that "Count Cottrell has been at death's door with pleurisy, but is out of danger now"—still he must be only convalescent, and I am vexed to think that he will receive a letter posted yesterday which, had I known the fact of his illness, should certainly have been delayed: the circumstances under which I wrote it were these. You may know that as soon as I heard from Leighton of that wretched business of the monument,1 how his designs had been first departed from in the models, and then again even the models in the marble, I wrote begging Cottrell to get the Sculptor to do the work again from the models re-made and approved of by Leighton, promising to pay the man whatever was proper. To this Cottrell replied in a very kind and considerate letter, dated Jan: 11 th that all was set right again, and that "I might rely on my interests being attended to." Well, Leighton wrote to me two days ago that Mr Matthews,2 who was here the other day, told him that he saw Giovanozzi (the Sculptor) before leaving Florence, and that, tho' the models were completed, (as the[y] were when Leighton left Florence) he had neither begun, nor intended to begin to carry them out in marble till he heard from me what compensation I meant to make him." I thought this so incredible, in face of Cottrell's account of the matter to me, that, after having written a letter to him, I delayed sending it till I could telegraph to Florence and know exactly when Mr Matthews had seen Giovanozzi: the answer returned was "about Feb 4th"—nearly a month after Cottrell's letter; so I posted mine; after which came the news of the illness—which I should be grieved if he fancied was known to me at the time of my application. About Giovanozzi I can have only one opinion. The

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irreparable mistake of Cottrell was to depart from the terms of the agreement—which were to pay one third of the price down—the second, when the work should be judged two thirds finished to the satisfaction of a competent artist, and the remainder only when the monument was erected: by paying the whole of the money before either of these last conditions was attended to, he placed me at the mercy of the man—who, no doubt, is not inclined to give up his hold in a hurry: what do you think of a fellow who having pocketed £240 mine—quietly folds his arms and intends "not to begin" till I inform him what I mean to pay—as if I am to know by inspiration what he is wanting—or, if I knew it, am to be treated as if less worthy of trust than he! Since the payment of the above sum, I see by Brini's account that he has drawn on me for £4 more—I don't in the least guess for what—and for aught I know he may help himself again. It is a great shame altogether: first, Leighton's designs were impudently departed from: Cottrell thinks they left the sculptor a certain lattitude: Leighton denies it, and appeals to the drawings themselves which were purposely made plain beyond the possibility of mistake: but be that as it may, even Cottrell acknowledges that there was a second departure even from those models— which nothing could justify: and how a protest ought to have been made, and certainly no money paid till the error was corrected. Of course all that is past is irrevocable: but I have written to implore Cottrell to get the man to finish his work at whatever cost: I am powerless and can only submit. However it will be in my power to give an account of the transaction in any English Journal I please, by the way of warning to others. My dearest Isa, can you be of any help to me, by quietly reminding Cottrell from time to time of the misery I undergo in this state of things ? Why, am I not as likely to be "at death's door" and through it, with this work undone: I know your affection can move mountains. What a simple thing it would have been to say plainly at the beginning to this Giovanozzi—"Here are designs—will you copy them or not? Leave the care of all else to the artist that made, and the proprietor that will pay for them." [Browning drew a line across the page here.]

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I have hardly spirit enough to write about the many things that were in my head: I heard from Kate Field lately—a pleasant, but not remarkably wise letter—she is one of those disappointing people, from whose ordinary life & ways you expect something better when they shall set to work. I like her all the same, however. Jarves and his wife called on me a fortnight ago:3 she is nice, and he, poor fellow,—I was moved to the marrow by the sight of him! He looks thin,—his eyes more spectral than ever,—but well enough:—is now gone to Paris—but will return and settle in London for some time: he has passed evidently a wet sponge over the past, Mrs J. his daughters & all. Miss Hays4 wrote to me for my signature to her petition for a literary pension. I thought it about the coolest proposal I remember, and told her plainly I would do no such thing: I will not ask for any such improper bestowment: (she had said, she did not rest her claims on her literary labours but on her work in behalf of women: and whatever be the worth of THAT, it is not LITERATURE. She replied by sending the petition itself, in which among other grounds for claiming relief from Government she mentions—I will give you her own words—"Never strong, the strain of so arduous a part as Juliet to Miss Cushman's Romeo, constantly repeated, brought on a condition of health which after a short time obliged me to give up the stage altogether." Not knowing how to say anything at all agreeable I have not replied to the letter, and shall let it alone, no matter what the disgust to Bessie Parkes, Emily Faithful &c5 I am very sorry indeed to hear of Mrs Trollope's illness6—I suppose there is but one way, sooner or later, poor thing—& poor husband & child who love her so much. Give her & them the assurance of my truest sympathy. I hear of Lytton sometimes (met his father at dinner last week)—Louis Blanc7 told me he had just received a letter of 16 pages, written by his wife to his dictation, he being unwell: (She is about to make Sir E. a grandfather8—which he, unnecessarily, assures his friends little gratifies him. I met a friend of yours, Miss Eden9 last night, at Lady Cowper's,10—promised to remember her most kindly to you: I had

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forgotten her face, but she said you brought her to call once. I am very glad you like my poems11 so much, dearest Isa, most have been written a long time ago—some were seen by Ba. I am about a long poem12 to be something remarkable—work at it hard. May it please you! Pen is quite well again: was 16. on the 9th ult.13 A great boy—or rather young man—I took him to a party last Monday, and, woe's me, he figured in coat and white tie! Goodbye—dearest: how happy I will be to see you in June, useless to say: it seems only too good to be true. Pen's kindest love,—he is here with Willy B. Ever affectionately yours Robert Browning. Notes

on Letter

78

1. See 53.6. 2. Browning's address book lists "Mr and Mrs Matthews, Casa del Bello, V. delle Fornaci." Mrs. Matthews was Frederick Leighton's sister Augusta. 3. See 64.11. 4. See 32.8. 5. The remainder of this letter was previously printed with letter 57. Notes 8, 11, and 13 show that the conclusion belongs rather here. 6. See 50.15. 7. Louis Blanc (1811-1882), French politician, historian, and political refugee in London (1848-1870). 8. Lytton's first child, Edward Rowland John, was born in England on September 19, 1865. 9. Emily Eden (1797-1869), novelist and traveller. 10. Katrine Cecilia (1845-1913), wife of Earl Cowper of Wingham. It was to her that Browning in 1871 gracefully dedicated his Balaustion's Adventure. 11. Dramatis Personae (77.2). 12. The Ring and the Book. 13. Pen was sixteen on March 9, 1865. Browning should have written "on the 9th inst."

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Letter 79 Paris, 151 Rue de Grenelle, Fb St Gn Apr. 19. '65 Dearest Isa, I arrived here last night—for a week's visit to my Father & Sister. I heard soon after getting your letter of the release of poor Mrs Trollope1 from the sufferings you were doing all in your power to lighten—I only hope at not too great cost to yourself, for the standing so long (to say nothing of the other trials of strength) must have tried you indeed. I saw Anthony Trollope on the 13th & he seemed to entertain hopes,—but I had none, from your account. I cannot but contrast the lingering six or seven weeks of agony with my own case, and be very thankful: you will have thought of that too. I am Vexed to hear that the chances are again against your coming to London. I will see Chapman & find out why he don't advertise,2 if I can—but his ways are his own, and he mends his pace for nobody—Story has just written to me in far more savage terms: the fact is, he is slow. How do you like fast people? Lucas,3 for instance,—who wrote to me to contribute to his new magazine— which I told him I could not do—whereupon he at once put my name into his list. I called on him, and he declared he had never seen it—yet there was a huge bill of the thing, with letters as thick as my thumb, lying on his table. I am very grateful for what you promise to do with respect to Cottrell: he wrote kindly to me about it, and may do the little that is wanted, if you speak to him every now and then. Milsand is going to be married4—a long engagement, twelve years old—which could not be carried out, because his mother refused her consent, through some religious scruple: the death of his mother some months ago allows him to marry at last: he is in the room while I write, and looking very well. Fanny Haworth was here just now,—in good care, also: Paris is brimful of English

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for the Easter Holidays—but I shall see nothing of them, I trust. Pen is with me of course. Oh yes—that Mrs Thistlethwaite,5 about whom you enquire, was the Laura Bell and is now the canting hypocrite you read about: about that, I am in no doubt at all—seeing that three years ago she concocted a copy of verses to herself beginning "Lost Angel!" and continuing after the same fashion—the whole signed—Robert Browning! ! She thought I was still in Italy and that she could show this impudent forgery with no risk of detection—but I got to see a copy of it, and wrote underneath my denial of having perpetrated a syllable of it: whereupon she wrote two flaming letters inviting me to dine with her—which I never answered: I thought she might want to get my handwriting and really forge something like it. There's a Magdalen for you! It answers perfectly, of course— crowds of people go to hear her, and take her by the hand,—like the exquisite fools they are—born for Laura Bells, Humes and such vermin. So is the world made, and we have got to live in it. I can only write this poor scrap this time—for I am forced to go out—but I would not let my day pass: God bless you, dearest Isa: Pen desires me, this moment, to give his best love: my sister & father send their's also. Ever affy yours RB Notes

on Letter

79

1. See 50.15. 2. The Athenaeum, April 22, 1865, page 554, announced The Woman I Loved. 3. Samuel Lucas (1818-1868), author and editor. The Athenaeum, April 8, 1865, page 480, contained an advertisement for the Shilling Magazine, edited by Lucas, announcing that Browning among others would contribute. The next issue April 15, page 525, contained a paragraph from Browning: "Will you oblige me by mentioning that my name occurs in a list of the promised contributors to a new magazine advertised in your last week's number, in spite of a distinct notice on my part of my inability to contribute."

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Lucas replied April 29, page 589: "I certainly inferred, from my interview with Mr. Browning, that at some time or other I should have the honour of an occasional contribution from him, though I did not as yet contemplate putting his name in my Prospectus, and it only appeared there through the mistake of my publisher." Thirteen issues appeared before the magazine was discontinued in 1866. 4. I have not identified his wife. 5. Laura (Bell) Thistlethwayte (1829-1894), queen of the Dublin demimonde. About 1850 she went to London where she created a sensation. She was the subject of a ballad, "Laura, Laura, we adore her"; Thackeray chose her name for his heroine in Pendennis; the whole house at the opera rose to its feet to watch her leave the theatre. After her marriage (January 21, 1852) to Augustus Thistlethwayte, an eccentric Londoner of means, she became an earnest and fervent preacher, both on the street and in a hall she hired at the Polytechnic (Charles A. Dolph, The Real "Lady of the Camellias" and Other Women of Quality [London, 1927], pp. 51-70; and Horace Wyndham, Feminine Frailty [London, 1929], pp. 31-67). I have not found "Lost Angel," the verses written to her allegedly by Browning. Although Browning refused to reply to her twoflamingletters, he took the precaution of writing in his address book, "Mrs. Thistlethwaite— 15 Grosvenor Square."

Letter 80 19. Warwick Crescent. May 19th [1865.] Dearest Isa, I am really delighted to think that you have been able to have such a pleasure as a visit to Venice at just the time when it will do you most good: it is another proof of Mr Bracken's constant kindness & forethought.1 I only hope the heat may not have increased too much. I know exactly where you are, or (alas, by this time, were) and see nearly what you see. It is a dear place—never to be supplanted in one's memory. I suppose you don't much care about missing the Dante ceremony:2 the mechanical, prepared programmed homage moves me little. I wonder if anybody looked up at the House as the procession passed it—as I suppose it must have done. What does it matter, however ? I know Beatrice3 is here—having met A7 Trollope at the Academy Dinner:4 he had arrived the night before, if not that morning: I

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did the former thing. Tell me particularly how Τ. Τ 5 is—were I he I should stay in Italy—I think: yet don't know. I saw Chapman yesterday, and spoke about the need of advertising your book:6 he said he had done so—but that it was not yet published, "out"—it was to be delayed a little at Mudie's request— is not that a good sign ? I have just got it & shall read it again. Did you see the reply of Lucas to me in the Athenaeum7—he said "he had certainly understood in our interview that I would write perhaps at some time or other"—I never having had an interview at all with him, but receiving and answering his letter: of course had there been any symptom of ambiguity in my answer he would have printed the passage, but he acknowledged to me there was none—and so, told this deliberate lie: had I retorted, and proved it was that, I should have absolutely done for him,—so I pitied and let him alone: I hear the clue to it all is he drinks desperately, and is "never himself after five o'clock": he is moreover a disgusting person being a great talker of obscenity of an extraordinary description: enough of him. He has quarrelled with his publishers already, & wanted Chapman to publish his next number ! Probably no second will appear. I wrote to you from Paris: all my little world is well: Milsand is married, dear fellow: I introduced him to Matthew Arnold8 who has long wanted to know him, and who, by the bye, goes to Florence soon. He is a Commissioner of Enquiry into the working of foreign Schools, a matter that much interests people here. I am very sorry—you know how sorry, that there is to be no visit this year—for me—for I can't much pity anybody who lives away from London where I grow bilious to an awful < . . . > 9 down a staircase the night before last, so dense was the double current, coming & going,—I stood on the landing jammed between two ladies, & laughed at my friends lower down. Then there are concerts &c. Dearest Isa, I shall hold you to your word—to do what you can, whether little or much, in the matter of the Monument: just remind

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C 1 0 gently as you see occasion: I believe he means well: just a word now & then may help so much. Won't you do this, dearest Friend that I have ? I dined with Sir Edw: last Sunday week—did not say two words to him, so have nothing to report. You ask about my summer, or Autumn plans. I fix on nothing, but suppose that I shall try some new part of Bretagne: the Pyranées are very lovely but too hot for the good of a change, and I want the sea beside. I am sorry you will have to move:11 the place will be spoiled & there is no help for it, "we two snakes"12 however, we will < . . . Ever affectionately yours Robert Browning.> 13 Notes

on Letter

80

1. Isa nursed Theodosia Trollope in her last illness, and after her death went for a month to Venice, assisted, it appears from Browning's comment, by William Bracken. She wrote to Kate Field about her trip (MS in BPL), and also published an article on it (83.2). 2. In May 1865 a festival was held in Florence to commemorate the birth of Dante Alighieri, who was born there about the middle of May 1265. {Athenaeum, May 27, pp. 718-20). 3. By October 27 Beatrice Trollope had returned to Florence (MS in BPL). 4. The annual banquet of the Royal Academy served as a private opening of the picture exhibit. 5. T. A. Trollope's wife had recently died (78.6). 6. See 79.2. The BM copy was received on June 5, 1865. 7. See 79.3. 8. On April 30, 1865, Arnold wrote to his wife from Paris, "On Tuesday I dine with Milsand, one of the Revue des Deux Mondes set." {Letters of Matthew Arnold, 1848-1888, arr. by George W. Russell [New York, 1896], I, 302). Arnold inspected Continental schools from April to October 1865. 9. A two-line gap caused by the excised autograph. 10. Cottrell (53.6). 11. In October, Isa was still at the Villa Giglioni (MS in BPL). 12. See 48.5. 13. See note 9.

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Letter 81 Ste Marie près Pornic, Loire Inferieure, France. Aug. 19. '65. Dearest Isa, Your letter came safely enough from St. Marcello: I am glad you have been there, little satisfactory as circumstances may have made your stay, for I feel affectionately about that little place which I never saw, nor probably shall see: when I first went to Italy, that was the place we rather wanted to go to—having heard about its seclusion and attractiveness from an English family that tried it: San Benedetto is another retreat akin, I think. I wish the poor Cottrells well out of all their troubles, especially this—I know: he means well, I believe. Let him make amends now, and I won't mind the past.1 I want to hear all is over, and be able to think of seeing Florence, if so minded, some day, without having to face that particular pain. What you can do you will—I know also. You see I am here again—as two years ago. Mind the address, and write to me here next time—I shall have the delight of your letter a day sooner. We are the same party, in the same house2—and all but the same other house—for Mrs Bracken & Willy could not get the old one, and are a few yards nearer. Nothing is changed— Pornic itself, two miles off, is full of company, but our little village is its dirty, unimproved self—a trifle wilder than before, if possible. The weather is not good: rain every day, with intervals of sun, but a contrast to the wonderful Biarritz & Cambo blaze of last year:3 at the same time, it suits me, & I think the others, better by far: the sea is the great resource. I used not to care about it inordinately till of late years—now, it seems to be the obbligato accompaniment to my last home but one. I bathe daily—and feel much the better for it. Pen and Willy swim capitally—far better than any other person out of the many who exhibit daily—(not at my little retired creek, which is close by.) My sister seems particularly well,—and my Father also. Mrs Bracken does well enough,

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I believe. She is a woman of a mild mournful voice over minute grievances, chiefly culinary, but really devoted to Willy—I don't see much more to say about the place except that since our arrival a fortnight ago, they have pulled—or are busy pulling down Pornic Church, mentioned in a poem of mine:4 on arriving, I went inside and found all as I had left it—last evening I looked through great gaps in the walls and saw the inside a mere shell: it was very old, and built on a natural pedestal of living rock—and there's the whole bare country round about to build on: also at this Ste Marie church opposite they have taken away old pillar-ornaments, columnheads with quaint figures,—made all smooth and white-washed where they were,—and flung them where they now lie, on a heap of stones by the road-side—where my father goes to draw them in his sketch-book5—groaningly. As to those nonsensical reports,6 I never supposed you believed any of them, but then, after all, people change their minds, and I have no right to pass for something above changes even of that sort: only observe that these reports were more impertinent and intentionally false than merely nonsensical: my sister told me that Mrs Carmichael Smith,7 Annie's grandmother, regularly came to condole with her (S) about Pen's approaching change of circumstances under another mother-in-law,—whose name, as you don't mention, I shall not: this was my first acquaintance with that report, just as stupid or spiteful as the rest. If there were not an intention of being spiteful, there are other names of people in houses where I visit, which are those at least of ladies I do occasionally see and converse with, and like well enough,—but you'll never hear of them, I think. I suppose that what you call "my fame within these four years" comes from a little of this gossiping and going out, and showing myself to be alive: and so indeed some folks say—but I hardly think it: for remember I was uninterruptedly (almost) in London from the time I published Paracelsus —till I ended that string of plays with Luria:8 and I used to go out then, and see far more of merely literary people, critics &c— than I do now,—but what came of it? There were always a few

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people who had a certain opinion of my poems, but nobody cared to speak what he thought, or the things printed twenty five years ago would not have waited so long for a good word—but at last a new set of men arrive who don't mind the conventionalities of ignoring one and seeing everything in another: Chapman says, 'The orders come from Oxford and Cambridge", and all my new cultivators are young men: more than that, I observe that some of my old friends don't like at all the irruption of outsiders who rescue me from their sober and private approval and take those words out of their mouths "which they always meant to say", and never did. When there gets to be a general feeling of this kind, that there must be something in the works of an author, the reviews are obliged to notice him, such notice as it is: but what poor work, even when doing its best!—I mean, poor in the failure to give a general notion of the whole works,—not a particular one of such and such points therein. As I began, so I shall end, taking my own course, pleasing myself or aiming at doing so, and thereby, I hope, pleasing God. As I never did otherwise, I never had any fear as to what I did going ultimately to the bad,—hence in collected editions I always reprinted everything, smallest and greatest.9 Do you ever see, by the way, the Numbers of the Selection which Moxons publish?10 They are exclusively poems omitted in that other selection by Forster:11 it seems little use sending them to you, but when they are completed, if they give me a few copies, you shall have one if you like. Just before I left London, McMillan was anxious to print a third Selection, for his Golden Treasury, which should of course be different from either: but three seem too absurd.12 There, enough of me. I certainly will do my utmost to make the most of my poor self before I die—for one reason, that I may help old Pen the better: I was much struck by the kind ways, and interest in me shown by the Oxford undergraduates,13—those that were introduced to me by Jowett: I am sure they would be the more helpful to my son. So, good luck to my great venture, the murder-poem,14 which I do hope will strike you and all good lovers of mine.

Courtesy Fratelli Alinari

Mrs. Browning's Monument, Protestant Cemetery, Florence (Insert: Memorial Tablet on Casa Guidi)

THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK

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Now, good bye, dearest Isa, I shall be glad to know what you decide on for your "pied-a-terre"15—how is the plan for the Cottage with Trollope?16 And how is he, pray? Do you read the "Fortnightly," with the "Belton Estate" in it?17 I like that much: it is the only novel of Anthony's that I have read of late years: very unpretending, but surely real, and so far a gain. Miss Braddon's I stop my ears to. I conjure you to be careful, to digest & re-digest what you write, and to do yourself justice. Don't trouble yourself about "keeping your name before the public," or anything but the main thing—to produce a real book. I wonder whether if I were by your side, snake-fashion,18 a-snubbing you in my ogre-fashion (as you used to say) I should be of any use: or can anybody be of use to any other body ? How I wish you success in all things, you must know well enough. That Bust arrived.19 There are reminiscences in it, certainly, and on the whole, it is much to my mind: I wish it were mine: nobody but Story could have brought so much together. At Paris, I saw a friend of my sister's, Miss Church,20 an American young lady,—who desired to be kindly remembered to you. I like her extremely: she is just going home. I have only time to add that Pen sends his best love—so do my Father and Sister. You hear from Miss Smith21—& probably know that she is going to live with some friends, finding the solitary life irksome after her sister's death. Ever affectionately yours, Robert Browning. Notes

on Letter

81

1. See 53.6. 2. See 53.1 and 64.1. 3. Browning's 1864 vacation was spent at Cambo and at Biarritz (71.1). 4. "Gold Hair," line 71. 5. A volume of sketches by the elder Browning is in the BPL; however, this collection was made up before the year 1840. 6. That Browning was planning to remarry.

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7. Thackeray's mother, Anne (Becher) Thackeray (1792-1864), married secondly Captain Henry Carmichael-Smyth (1780-1861). After 1838 she and her husband lived in Paris where they helped raise Thackeray's daughters (Ray, I, cxii-cxvi). 8. Paracelsus was published in 1835 and Luria in 1846. 9. Except Pauline (1833), which was not included until 1868. 10. Moxon's Miniature Poets. A Selection from the Works of Robert Browning (London, 1865). 11. See 56.4. 12. No Macmillan selection appeared. 13. See 59.14 for Jowett's comments on the occasion of this visit. 14. The Ring and the Book. 15. "Place of rest," "occasional lodging." 16. After the death of his wife, T. A. Trollope moved to the Villa Ricorboli outside the walls. If he and Isa planned to share a cottage, the plan never materialized. 17. Anthony Trollope's The Belton Estatefirstappeared in the Fortnightly, May 1865-January 1866. 18. See 48.5. 19. After EBB's death W. W. Story made a bust of her as a companion to his bust of Browning done in Rome in 1861. Later George Barrett commissioned both in marble and presented them to Pen. They are now in the Keats House in Rome. Another Story bust of EBB is at Wellesley, and copies of both are at Baylor. 20. Not identified. 21. Pen's teacher.

Letter 82 Ste Marie, près Pornic, Loire Inférieure Septr 19. '65—and a delicious day, much as it was when I left England all those years ago, eighteen in number.1 Well, dearest Isa, one travels & travels & gets the nearer to heaven, I hope. We have had perfect weather since the month began,—before it was cold,—rainy too—as it is, I quite hate thinking of the return on the l st October. So far as my sweet self is concerned, no other form of life is worth having now, than shall pass in a southern climate, in retirement, and near the sea: perhaps I may get it some future day,—more likely not,—but the feeling that here

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is such a good thing still in the world counts for an advantage. I go out less & less,—don't "explore" at all, confine myself to one & the same walk. I suppose my "poem", which you say brings me & Pornic together in your mind, is the one about the poor girl2—if so, "fancy," (as I hear you say)—they have pulled down the church since I arrived, last month—there are only the shell-like, roofless walls left, for a few weeks more: it was very old—built on a natural base of rock—small enough to be sure—so they build a smart new one behind it, and down goes this:—just as if they could not have pitched down their bricks and stucco further away and left the old place for the fishermen. So here—the church is even more picturesque—and certain old Norman ornaments, capitals of pillars and the like, which we left erect in the doorway, are at this moment in a heap of rubbish by the roadside. The people here are good, stupid and dirty, without a touch of the sense of picturesqueness in their clodpoles. The Mayor, and master of this house,3—for instance,—is good, and abundantly rich,—has houses & land and other incomings,—yet out of pure preference for piggishness, he sleeps in one room with his son and three daughters, the eldest being fifteen, and—the 4 maid servant of about nineteen or twenty,—who is lately taken into service,—four beds in a row—and the notion that such arrangement is queer will not enter a head in the village for the next fifty years. Now for you, Isa: I don't remember hearing that Miss Wilk's 8 & her niece were with you—and hope that their departure won't inconvenience you. I really sympathize with the Cottrells,—pray tell me particularly how they are, when you write. What you tell me about his intentions is a great comfort—think, it is just a year since the stand-still6—and Leighton then hoped that a few weeks work would repair the mischief—one's life is too short for such delays: I am glad that the place is not to hold any more people: that will not, of course, exclude me,7—should I die within easy reach,—as my abode is prepared, and not to find: as to Giovanozzi's ability, nobody spoke more highly of it than Leighton, who said he could do everything well

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if he pleased. Thank Cottrell for me very much—or rather continue to help us as I am confident you are doing, you good, dear Isa. You say you "are afraid you can never leave Italy"—and that I am tied to England,—now, certainly—but my spirits rise as I get on toward the time of release, I know—four years have gone by,—I hope, with reward for the pain of passing them. Pen is advancing, observe: after all, at worst it can be but a difference of one year, if I see fit to keep him at home so long, when the time comes for Balliol—and perhaps I make myself unnecessarily nervous—it has always been my fault to have an exorbitant ideal of things, which the reality makes absurd enough. Pen is thoroughly good & honest —and after all, he reads without previous preparation, a hundred lines of Virgil in an hour: does so every day here—we have thus read to-gether the 6th 7th 8th 9th & nearly the 10th book of the Aeneid:8 and then he spends half an hour or more in producing a very fair Greek translation, which I correct: and he has two years more—oh, I am sure he'll do! Then he is quite well and strong I told you of his swimming: I saw him swim two days ago for half an hour, by my watch holding an umbrella in one hand:—and a fortnight ago, he & Willy swam from this place to the Noveillard Baths, perhaps a mile & a half, in forty two minutes. (Willy is, I fancy, rather even a better swimmer,—he resists the cold better, which after a time turns Pen's crimson face into blueblack and makes his teeth chatter unmistakably: also Willy is fonder of diving—which Pen can do but wont do—for its one of Pen's hopeful points that you can't persuade him out of his own feelings,—his character being firm and decided enough. The two tried that long swim sometime before, and Pen felt so cold, after swimming for more than half an hour, that he got into the boat,— thinking that Willy was going to do the same, though he did not, and reached the goal: Pen said to me, "I will do it next time, depend on it," and so he did.) Here comes Mrs Bracken for my letter and cuts me short. Let me mention, that by a newspaper I see that poor Miss B. C.9 died on the 6th ult: by the advertisement

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I learnt her christian name and where she lived. But I shall not again allude to this lying tittle-tattle. Yes, I occasionally see Mrs Lewis, and like her always. I read her "Mill on the Floss"10 again the other day—approving the first vol. much, not so the second. I much regret I did not see Trollope & Bice in London: tell him so, with my kind remembrance. Isa, to fill up, you shall have one of my latest photographs—it will save your start at my venerable appearance when you next see me: and I'll wrap it in an envelope which shall help you to row your servant, if needs be,—or, still better, show you that Isa makes blunders in stamps as well as her ever aifectionate R Β—whom father & sister & son especially desire their best love to go with his. Direct next time—alas—to Warwick Crescent,—and finally God Bless You!

Notes

on Letter 82

1. The Brownings left England on September 19, 1846, actually nineteen years before this letter was written. 2. "Gold Hair." 3. M. La Raison (53). 4. Interlined. 5. Not identified. 6. In the work on EBB's monument (53.6). 7. The Protestant Cemetery in Florence (Swiss rather than English), was founded in 1827 and not used after 1877 except for the placing there of some urns containing ashes. EBB was buried there in 1861, and Isa in 1873, but when Browning died (1889), the cemetery authorities did not reply to the communication requesting permission to bury him beside his wife. While his sister and son were awaiting a reply, burial in Westminster Abbey was offered and accepted. {Diary of Miss Evelyn Barclay [Waco, Texas, 1932] p. 9). 8. Cf. the father and son reading Latin together in Book VIII of The Ring and the Book. 9. Bonham Carter (d. 1865), sculptress, and pupil of Thomas Woolner, R. A. (Curie, p. 65). She was acquainted with Julia Wedgwood, but I have not determined why she was a "lying tittle-tattle." 10. George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss, 1860.

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Letter 83 19 Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace W. Oct. 19. '65. Dearest Isa, Here we are back again in dear ugly old England:— the fine weather lasted to the very end: Pen bathed 73 times—& I, 60: we left on the 1st Oct—& returned slowly by Angers, Le Mans & Chartres—stayed a week at Paris, & then—to work again. Willy & his mother went three days before us. Pen came back very well, but has a vile cold at this moment—how escape something of the kind? I saw Jarves & his wife1 at Paris—she is very nice, he seems happy enough and buried in dishes and pictures: I like him, for the old reasons. They go to Florence very soon, to winter— (baby & all,—for there is such a thing) and you will see them. I also saw at Paris the Cornhill & read your very pleasant article2— very well written & interesting it is: I shall read it again—but our Athenaeum Club is shut up, all but a room or two, for repairs, and I can't get the magazine yet. Only write carefully and you'll do, depend on it—& nobody will ever be half so critical on you as I—born to plague my beloved ones, and do the agreeable to people I don't care two pence about. This black morning is darkened unnecessarily by poor Ld P's3 death: & there is the usual amount of insincerity poured forth in the papers,—personally pleasant he was, however. It seems to me that in a week he will be forgotten. Yet I have an ambition that way for Pen, you know: we are getting on—and I begin I think to see light at the end of the wood: he seems making steady progress, and likely to do—of course he gets more manly, for he is sixteen & a half: but I won't look forward, like a fool. I had last night a letter from dear old Kirkup—full of kindness, & clever—all so full of the old stories about Bibi,4 the table rising, Dante's visits, & so on—with the customary reasoning, "Why should she wish to deceive me?" He tells me they have made

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him a Knight,5—K. Victor Emmanuel,—& just sent him the proper authorisation to use that title—& I think such a proceeding does them much credit—for he was a liberal, & open-spoken too, in bad times. You amuse me with the speculations about the new Mrs T:6 lord love us, how little flattering is woman's love7—that is, the collective woman's love—the particular, is another matter. It seems he may throw his handkerchief to anybody in Florence. Tell Bice8 with my love that both Pen & I remember very well the day she mentions—(I can't pretend to have any but bitter remembrances about it)—but I have a real interest in her, and was very sorry not to see her when she was in London. Yes, Florence will never be her old self now to me, even as to the outside face9—but I love her with all my heart: there will be meeting between us yet, I hope, tho' I shall not live there. As soon as I can, I shall take to the tent life, & wander about to the last of me. So the Kinneys go—I don't envy them. Is that poor Made Tassinari dead or alive ? Of course, Brini flourishes as an honest man should: I got scent of the virtues of that Philipson establishment from à very early day, et bien m'en trouvai.10 I wish Ansano well, I am sure with his mate—what is become of Emilia?11 How you & your letters do pull me out of this English air into the blue! I could chatter away forever. Another thing—I have just been making a selection of Ba's poems which is wanted12—how I have done it, I can hardly say: it is one dear delight to know that the work of her goes on more effectually than ever—her books are more & more read—certainly, sold: a new Edition of Aurora Leigh is completely exhausted within this year. I shall give with it that girl-face13 which I sent you, because it was exactly like her in her girlhood. Mrs Lewis has it hanging in her room: by the bye she called here on Sunday with her husband—& I showed her some of the things—she said she had seen nothing so interesting since Goethe's house:14 I like her very much. Good bye, my own dearest friend: I must finish my work & be with Chapman at 1 0 clock: so you want to see Pornic? It would amuse you in some things: fancy ( . . shall I be cruel enough to bid you? . . yes, 1 will—) fancy the buxom servant girl, aged some 20, washing

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clothes before my window (on the pianterreno,15 dressed in a blue gown & nothing else, I can see, just covering the naked legs below the knees—and so kilted, turning her back to me and burying herself with linen she has to stoop for on the ground! Primitive manners! Goodbye; I am so sorry that we lose Miss Smith,16 who goes to live in the country. Pen's best love,—& always that of Yours ever affy R B. Notes on Letter 83 1. See 64.11. 2. [Isa Blagden], "A Holiday in Venice," Cornhill, XII (October 1865), 441-51. 3. Henry John Temple (1784-1865), third Viscount Palmerston, statesman and prime minister, died on October 18. 4. Imogene, daughter of Regina Ronti, Kirkup's servant. Kirkup wrote to Swinburne, "I believe I told you that she is a great medium, and is the cause of this house being haunted, and so she has been since she was two years old" (Edmund Gosse, "Swinburne and Kirkup," London Mercury, III [1920], 165). Regina Ronti swore on her deathbed that Kirkup was the father of Imogene, and he believed her. Imogene "was a clever, worthless hussy, and he was a besotted old man" (Trollope, What I Remember, p. 268). She died in 1878 leaving two children (DNB). 5. On November 30, 1865, Kirkup wrote to Swinburne, "the King has Knighted me at the recommendations of the minister of public instruction . . left me to guess for what services, as it only says: 'In considerazione di particolari benemerenze'" (Gosse, "Swinburne and Kirkup," p. 161). 6. On October 29, 1866, Τ. A. Trollope married Frances Eleanor Ternan, his second wife. 7. From Sir Henry Taylor's Philip van Artevelde (1834). 8. Beatrice Trollope. 9. See 76.6. 10. "And it was a good thing I did." 11. Emilia returned to Isa's service (56.31). 12. A Selection from the Poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning (Chapman & Hall, 1866). The frontispiece is a head of EBB "In early youth," and there is also a picture of the "Sitting Room in Casa Guidi, June 1861" by G. Mignaty. 13. See 61.11. 14. In Weimar, which the Leweses visited in 1854. 15. "Ground floor." 16. See 81.21.

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Letter 84 [19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace,] 19th Dec: [1865.] My Dearest Isa, This will be a very hurried & poor letter,—if it catch the post, even, is a doubt. The calls on my attention have been incessant thro' the morning. One great thing had to be properly acknowledged before I could even write to you—Cottrell's letter apprising me of the Monument's being really in its place. You know what a load that news takes from my mind. Now, Isa—whenever you can, —whenever the weather allows, and other matters give you the time,—do you, pray, go and see and tell me how all strikes you,— exactly that: I shall understand whatever you say. I have told Cottrell how much I thank him—one word, which I omitted, you will perhaps forward to him at your convenience. It happens that your letter is longer—and therefore better—than usual—& I was intending to give you double your allowance of gossip, in return— but this news puts all out of my head. I have had a letter from Wilson simply (in every sense of the word) dated "13. a." Street, House &c—unknown. I wrote to her a month ago, to the old address, and she evidently has never received the letter. I should be very glad to have the new one—yet I can't bear to trouble you—(It shows how unsafe the post is—for, between us, there was a scrap addressed to Brini in my letter—luckily of no use but to her,—don't mention it, for reasons I have.) I will leave off—for the best of reasons, and have my talk out next time. I saw Tennyson three or four times last week, and wanted to tell you about him. Don't you go, now, and be ungenerous and crib any of my next letter from me! You are really the likelier to see me one fine day at Florence, now this business is over.1 God bless you, my best of friends Robert Browning.

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Note on Letter 84 1. The erection of EBB's monument (53.6).

Letter 83 [The Athenaeum,] Feb. 19. '66. Monday. Dearest Isa, First of all, I am very sorry you are unwell,—you don't say precisely how,—from what causes, but to know that you write from your bed, and require nursing is anything but good news to me: I hope, with all my heart, that you are yourself again by this time. True thanks for your intelligence: I heard from Sir C. Lyell the other day that all cause for apprehension was nearly at an end.1 After my own life, I shall leave things to God,—while I am here, I will do what I can, & ought, in resisting such an outrage: let us think it settled now, however. I have nothing to tell you,—I love gossip from you, to hear what you do & whom you see,—but my own doings and seeings are out of my head the day after they have been accomplished. I go out a great deal; but have enjoyed nothing so much as a dinner last week with Tennyson who, with his wife & one son, is staying in town for a few weeks: she is just what she was and always will be—very sweet and dear: he seems to me better than ever. I met him on large party on Saturday2—also Carlyle, whom I never met at a "drum" in my whole life, till now: I met, by the bye, your friend Miss Elliot and told her you were unwell. Miss Smith is here for about a month. She comes and overlooks Pen's drawing, three times a week: Pen is drawing our Owl3—a bird that is the light of our house, for his tameness and engaging ways, I went some weeks ago to see the Mackays,—for I like them very much and was determined not to lose sight of them: I shall go again soon. The Lewises I sometimes see—not often. A. Trollope has invited me to a dinner of the Proprietors & Staff of the Fortnightly Review,4—I

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don't know why—for I never gave them a line in my life. Their Review or Magazine is very good and respectable, but hardly successful, I should fear, as a speculation. The "Pall Mall,"5 which was in a sorry condition, is now in high vogue,—so do things alter. I was sorry about the death of poor Gibson,6—a simple good man, with great talent and little genius enough, secondo me:7 I don't like—nor was prepared for—his not leaving Hatty . . so far as I hear . . a ring or an old set of modelling-tools: she has quite enough of her own, but there is too abrupt a descent from the high expectations***

Notes on Letter 83 1. Sir Charles Lyell (1797-1875), geologist, knight (1848), and baronet (1864). His mother-in-law had died in Florence in 1864. Browning was apprehensive about what the Florence Land and Public Works Company (76.6) would do to the Protestant Cemetery. The only alteration was the substitution of an iron railing for the old wall. 2. On February 10 Mrs. Tennyson wrote in her journal, "Mr. Browning gave me an affectionate greeting after all these years." 3. Photograph in Hood, p. 22. 4. The Fortnightly Review was founded in 1865 by Chapman & Hall, with George Lewes as editor. 5. The Pall Mall Gazette, an evening newspaper and review, began on February 7, 1865, published by George Smith. 6. In Rome on January 27, 1866 (75.4). 7. "In my opinion."

Letter 86 [19 Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace,] March 19. '66, Dearest Isa, First—I am really happy to hear you are recovered, tho' "weak and thin,"—poor dear: those harms can be remedied. I know how sea-air restores you too: in my own case, it seems to wipe out all my ailments and set the brain to-rights, I come back aged sixteen

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—"save for these bonds."1 So, go and do likewise. I am just now getting very tired of the early season, all but at end now, happily: and long to go to Paris, as I hope to do next Saturday week or thereabout: the weather is still vile here, and unholiday like, as is the way when Easter is so early. I should like to fancy you at the Villa Moutier2 again. I once walked thence with Ba to Casa Guidi —I think the longest walk I ever knew her take: it was at the very height of her health, so far as she ever recovered it: but we returned for the first time to England,3 and there was fatigue, and afterward, other troubles began, and she never touched that height again. Well, que voulez-vous ?4 Here was her child entering his eighteenth year this month: I hope he does well: I want a good deal, for him—& her,—but I think there's something. In one year he may go to Balliol—perhaps I shall keep him till he is nineteen, however. He is very strong and healthy—only, he won't be as tall as I expected: he will be about my size,5 and that will "do" in this world. His whole soul is concentrated on the approaching Oxford & Cambridge Boat-race,6—which I have no objection to. I shall not live again at Florence, I think—the changes seem too violent here—you get used to them little by little, but if I went and found walls levelled, squares where the lanes used to be, and so forth, I could not bear it.7 As for growing old here, unless there be plain good in it for Pen,—no! Now, about your letter: Chapman's carelessness is quite natural in that matter: I have suffered nearly as much as I can from his peculiarities: what disarmed me the other day was the death of his pretty, cheerful, good young wife, —she lost a child a few weeks before, her health was always consumptive, and she died—I suppose of consumption—a fortnight ago: I expected he would be heartbroken—but last Wednesday, going to a dinner given by the Proprietors of the Fortnightly Review to which I was invited for some inscrutable reason,—there was the man "under his thunder-split tree, playing Pan's pipes."8 He said— "You wonder to see me here" (answering my look, no doubt) "but I thought there was no use in moping at home." Well, it's either lucky or unlucky for him: mind, there is no doubt that he was

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devoted to her: he told me that "had her death happened by itself, he should have felt it terribly: but the death of his child seemed to prepare him for it"—another mystery. He is honest, but a scatter brain creature,—forgets, makes excuses, and worse—but the worst he is not, and you will certainly get your money tho' you have been most shamefully kept out of it—and might have suffered inconveniences enough. I don't hear from the Storys, but shall write one day—not in the least fearing that they will let me go, whether I write or not,—but because of my own selfish liking of what's old. As for Wilde,9 that's only gossip, I think—Mrs L.10 told me once how vexed the report had made them,—so absurd &c,—still it may happen, after all. Mrs Bracken and Willy are back again: Willy's destination is the Editorship or whatever the office is, in the Liverpool Mercury:11 he is much wanting to go to Oxford with Pen, and I should like it much,—not to Balliol, of course, but an easier college: the two boys really have a deep & true friendship for each other: but Willy knows exactly nothing of Latin,—how should he?—and not the Greek Alphabet: he is to have a private tutor— indeed he has got one—and means to "cram", he says: he is quite clever enough to catch up lost time, if he can get the money, and have the time. Cottrell sent me a photograph of the monument,—a bad one, taken by young Powers,12 to sell as fast as possible: I am to have another: this was sent that I might approve of Power's & Cottrell's opinion that the erection ought to be raised: I went about it to Leighton, who asked pertinently enough "If anybody proposed to stretch you out a verse you had written?" He says, the proportions are so, and should not be otherwise: it must be seen by itself,—the object was not to rise above the surrounding erections,—one must isolate it in one's mind. So I hope it may be let alone. I am thankful that there is no ground for Lady Eastlake's nonsensical fears or pretences of them,13—and that the ground will be preserved. Here they come for my letter—God bless you—I am ashamed of its stupidity.

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April 22, 1866

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To amuse you—a fancy comes into my head to send my memorandum of engagements for the last two months—D. dinner, E. Eg party: those marked √. have been attended to. Put it in the fire.14

Notes on Letter 86 1. Cf. Cymbeline, V, v, 402, "save these in bonds." 2. The Villa Moutier near the Poggio Imperiale where Isa lived, we learn here, in 1851 (1.5; G. Carocci, I Dintorni di Firenze [1881], p. 244). 3. During the summer of 1851. 4. "What do you wish?" 5. Five feet, eight inches. 6. On March 24, 1866, Oxford defeated Cambridge by nearly three lengths. 7. See 76.6. 8.

The lightning strikes a man, And when we think to find him dead and charred . . . Why, there he is on a sudden, playing pipes Beneath the splintered elm-tree! Aurora Leigh, VII, 261-64.)

9. Hamilton Gibbs Wilde (1827-1884), American artist and friend of W. W. Story. A photograph of his portrait (1859) of Pen on horseback faces page xxxii of T. J. Wise, A Browning Library. 10. Mrs. Lewes? Perhaps "S" for Mrs. Story. 11. The Liverpool Mercury, owned in part by Annie E. Smith, Willy's aunt, ran from July 5, 1811, to November 12, 1904, when it was amalgamated with the Daily Post. Its policy was liberal and dissenting. 12. The son of Hiram Powers. 13. Regarding alterations in the Protestant Cemetery (85.1). 14. The enclosure is missing.

Letter 87 19 April, '66. Kept on Apr. 22. 19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace, W. Dearest Isa, It happened unaccountably that, for once, I forgot the day— remembered it next day only, & then too late for writing—& yesterday I felt unwell and incapable, and so waited. I spent a fortnight

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in Paris, & did not find my father well,—far from it: however I left him better, and hear good news of him,—so trust that the fine weather will help him to regain strength: he has a peculiar complaint, an internal varicose vein,—very painful & debilitating at his age,—and from the want of his usual exercise his digestion suffers. I went no where,—did not make a single call in Paris lest I might be induced to spend an evening away. I shall tell you a sad piece of news. Yesterday Mrs Carlyle lunched with Mrs Forster,— was in particularly good spirits: she afterward went to drive in the Park: when there, she stopped the carriage to put down her little dog for a run,—a dog bequeathed her by poor Mrs Chapman a few weeks ago: no sooner out in the road, than the little thing's foot was run over by a carriage-wheel,—the creature screamed, & Mrs Carlyle got out and took it in again,—no doubt, much startled by the accident: the Coachman continued his drive round the Park, —repeated it,—then began to wonder at getting no order, looked round, and could not see his mistress: he stopped, and asked a passer-by to look in at the door,—the person, a lady cried ''Drive to St George's Hospital."—He did so,—they took her out dead.1 Forster was sent for,—and was at immense pains to get the body removed,—the authorities insisting that an inquest must be held: he put forth all his admirable energy and managed the matter—not before midnight. (I little guessed as I passed the Hospital at eleven, returning from Ld Belper's2 close by, who was lying there.) Carlyle is away in Scotland,3—one hardly can venture to fancy the shock to him,—at the end of his pleasant little triumph there. Forster, who had a deep affection for her, is in a paroxysm of grief,— yet, strange to see, I have had no message to prevent my dining with him to-day, as was arranged: he may want me for some purpose, to be sure: otherwise, what a "dinner!"—I met her the last time on the occasion of Carlyle's completing his seventieth year—not very long ago.4 Well,—what shall I say next? I saw Fanny Haworth, looking particularly well. I thought I had written that Lytton's complaint was much exaggerated—he was nervous, I suppose, and his friends

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made the most of a bad thing: but Julian Fane assured me there was nothing alarming in the matter,—and as I hear nothing new, I conclude there is nothing worse. I never hear from him.—which is wholly my fault: people say he and his wife are the happiest of pairs,—which is another good thing. Julian Fane is gone to Paris, —First Secretary there. No,—I never saw that number of "All the Year Round"—I will certainly do so, and read your verses.5 I am glad you have got your money from Chapman,—he is of an unpardonable carelessness—to say the least of it: I am far from satisfied with with [sic] his ways in my own case,—only I experience no worse than those vile scatter-brain ways I am as tired of as you can possibly be. Do you give him your new novel ?6 I am rejoiced that it is off your hands: and also, that you are settled: you had not mentioned the house by Porta Romana.7 I remember the place, —pretty well. Poor Jarves finds that there is no being simple with impunity; how can he have more than the most superficial notion of the authentication of pictures? He may know what he likes,— but how know it is by Raffaelle and Leonardo and all the other nonsensical names that used to dance thro' his brain ?8 I must write to the Storys—I don't hear from them: they will be at London before the season end, I engage, and obey their law of gravitation. Pen is quite well and sends his best love: I shall enclose you a photograph taken a fortnight ago—if it will go in the letter. Goodbye, dearest friend. You are never out of my thoughts for a day—how should you be ? God bless you, ever— Affectionately yours Robert Browning. Notes

on Letter 87

1. A letter from Miss Jewsbury to Carlyle gives substantially the same account (Froude, Thomas Carlyle, II, 390-92). 2. Edward Strutt (1801-1880), first Baron Belper (1856), philosophical radical, FRS (1860), president of University College, London (1871-1879). 3. Carlyle was in Edinburgh for installation as Rector of the University.

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4. On December 4. On December 5 Carlyle wrote to Dr. Carlyle: "Last night very much against my will, we had to go to Forster's; F. himself (ill of gout) would take no denial: 'Your birthday, Carlyle!' To set about rejoicing because one's seventieth year is done, would not have occurred to myself by any means: ah me, ah, me ! However, the thing went well enough, foolish as it was; and did not break my sleep. Browning was there, and one Dyce (an Aberdeen Ex-Shovelhat, huge grey man, very good natured) who lives upon Shakespear; no other except ourselves,—poor Jane says she always sleeps better after such a thing!" (New Letters of Thomas Carlyle, ed. A. Carlyle [London, 1904], II, 232-33.) 5. "Gibson's Studio," All the Year Round, XV (March 10, 1866), 205. 6. Nora and Archibald Lee (Chapman & Hall, 1867), received in BM on March 25, 1867. 7. Letter 99 is addressed to Isa at the Villa Isetta, Alle due Strade, Porta Romana, Florence. 8. The Jarves Collection, which was acquired by Yale University in 1871, is still considered one of the great teaching collections of Italian painting, although modern scholarship would not agree with most of Jarves's attributions. However, his aim was to form a collection not of great names but one to promote "the diffusion of artistic and aesthetic taste in America" (Letter, April 10, 1950, from Professor Charles Seymour, Jr., of Yale; Theodore Sizer, "James Jackson Jarves, a Forgotten New Englander," New England Quarterly, VI [1933], 328-52).

Letter 88 [19 Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace,] May 19. '66. Dearest Isa, I was particularly glad to get your letter, as I had received one a week or two before from Miss Smith inquiring about you,—she had missed your usual communication, it seems, and fancied you might be ill: I conclude, and trust, from the absence of allusion to it in this letter, that all is right. I am glad you like Pen's photograph,— by no means a flattering one, however,—too dark,—still very like undoubtedly. He ought to be somebody above nobody by virtue of the likeness you perceive,1 which gets stronger & stronger: but his development has been very gradual indeed, I think: his moral

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qualities are really nearly all I could wish,—his truthfulness, and deepness of feeling, & firmness of mind,—I hope the other good things will follow. We go in a fortnight to Oxford, on a second visit to Jowett at Balliol,—and don't my heart just beat! I don't know whether Pen will go next year, or after the next,—what shall I do, pray, when alone? But I won't begin conjuring horrors up,— in this world where one is always taken by surprise rather than by what one has foreseen and feared. My father has been very ill,— he is better and will go into the country the moment the East winds allow,—for in Paris,—as here,—there is a razor wrapped in the flannel of sunshine. I hope to hear presently from my sister, & will tell you, if a letter comes: he is eighty-five almost,—you see! Otherwise his wonderful constitution would keep me from inordinate apprehension. His mind is absolutely as I always remember it,—and the other day when I wanted some information about a point of mediaeval history, he wrote a regular bookful of notes and extracts thereabout.2 Well,—I forget whether I answered a question about Lytton,—if I did not, I can say, from having seen Drummond Wollfs two days ago, that he is quite well, going to get extra pay as Chargé d'aff in the absence of his chef, which Uncle Clarendon4 will considerately prolong, and then will get leave to return to Engd for the winter: his eyes are all right, and his happiness with his wife entire. I wish, by the way, you would give me one word, toward satisfying my natural curiosity, and tell me if the following personages are alive & how? Made Tassinari, Mrs Baker, D r Trotman. Not that I care three straws about the three,—but that I would like to know where they are, as Florentine stocks & stones. I agree with you, & always did, as to the uninterestingness of the Italians individually, as thinking, originating souls: I never read a line in a modern Italian book that was of use to me,—never saw a flash of poetry come out of an Italian word: in art, in action, yes, —not in the region of ideas: I always said, they are poetry, don't and can't make poetry,—& you know what I mean by that,—nothing relating to rhymes and melody and lo stile:5 but as a nation, politically, they are most interesting to me,—I think they have more

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than justified every expectation their best friends formed of them,— and their rights are indubitable: my liking for Italy was always a selfish one,—I felt alone with my own soul there: here, there are fifties and hundreds, even of my acquaintance, who do habitually walk up & down in the lands of thought I live in,—never mind whether they go up to the ends of it, or even look over them,—in that territory, they are,—and I never saw footprint of an Italian there yet. I shall go to Florence again to stay—certainly not now— but I should like to have earned a few years of that sort of solitude somewhere else in the divine Land of Souls: perhaps Greece would suit me even better.6 Never mind about it now. As for Mario, I daresay he is a born baby and less of a politician than the first mechanic you meet in the street here. My poem is nearly done—won't be out for a year or perhaps more.7 Suppose I am ruined by the loss of my Italian Rents,—how then?8 I shall go about and sell my books to the best bidder, and I want something, decidedly, for this performance: 16,000 lines,9 or over,—done in less than two years, Isa!—I having done other work besides,—and giving the precious earlier hours of the morning to it, moreover, which take the strength out of one. Poor Mrs Carlyle's death10 was sad & strange,—but by no means ''shook" me rudely;— after all, there are people to take care of her husband,—and she might be considered fairly as entitled to go: I have not seen C.,—he talks much about her, and shows more deep feeling than is usual with him: I dined with them both, and saw her for the last time, when he completed his seventieth year.11 God bless you, dearest— Pen was pleased with your "shake of the hand" and sends his best love. I am just going to write to Cottrell. Ever affy yours Robert Browning. Notes

on Letter

88

1. Pen was said to resemble his mother. 2. For use in The Ring and the Book (G & M, p. 18; Sotheby, No. 128, p. 28).

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[89

3. Sir Henry Drummond Charles Wolff (1830-1908), politician and diplomat. He was attached to the British Legation in Florence (1852-53), private secretary to Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1858), and K. C B. (1879). 4. See 71.5. 5. "Style." 6. Browning never visited Greece. 7. The Ring and the Book. 8. In May 1859 EBB wrote to her sister regarding Tuscan investments (Huxley, p. 315), and two years later she wrote to Sarianna Browning: "We have the satisfaction of seeing a precipitation of the Tuscan funds down, down, which only makes Robert wish for more power of 'buying in' . . ." (Kenyon, II, 441). Browning's account book (BM, A-5716) lists receipts from "Italian Dividend": 1878—241.12.7; 1879—236.11.2; 1880— 236.11.1; 1881—235.11 (See also R. A. King, Robert Browning's Finances from His Own Account Book [Waco, Texas, 1947], pp. 16-17). 9. Actually, 21,116 lines. 10. See 87.1. 11. See 87.4.

Letter 89 [19 Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace,] June 20 th '66. My dearest Isa, I was telegraphed for to Paris last week, and arrived time enough to pass twenty four hours more with my Father: He died on the 14th,—quite exhausted by internal haemorrage, which would have overcome a man of thirty. He retained all his faculties to the last —was utterly indifferent to death,—asking with surprise what it was we were affected about, since he was perfectly happy?,—and kept his old strange sweetness of soul to the end—nearly his last words to me, as I was fanning him, were "I am so afraid that I fatigue you, dear!"—this, while his sufferings were great,—for the strength of his constitution seemed impossible to be subdued. He wanted three weeks exactly to complete his 85 th year. So passed away this good, unworldly, kind hearted, religious man, whose powers natural & acquired would have so easily made him a notable

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man, had he known what vanity or ambition or the love of money or social influence meant. As it is, he was known by half a dozen friends. He was worthy of being Ba's father—out of the whole world, only he, so far as my experience goes. She loved him,— and he said, very recently, while gazing at her portrait, that only that picture had put into his head that there might be such a thing as the worship of the images of saints. My sister will come & live with me henceforth. You see what she loses,—all her life has been spent in caring for my mother, and, seventeen years after that, my father: you may be sure she does not rave and rend her hair like people who have plenty to atone for in the past,—but she loses very much. I returned to London last night—the 19th—I could not write then. I have at once gone on with business this morning, and begun by writing to Chapman. I am profoundly discontented with him, and shall dissolve our connection,—on my own account, not yours only.1 I think you are too desponding: the rejection of Mazzini proves that the Reds do not carry all before them; and the necessities of a war may be repaid by the advantages of a triumph, in which I believe.2 To be sure, I have not had the misfortune to hear a Red (perhaps Jessie)3 lay down the law. Depend on it, the fire can be kept within the stove, and not burn the whole house it warms. I will do what you want about Ferdinando. God bless you—expect a better letter next time & forgive this, & Yours ever affectionately R Browning. Notes

on Letter

89

1. This is the beginning of the end of Browning's relations with Chapman & Hall. On June 26, 1866, he wrote to Chapman, "You see, poor Miss Blagden has been too well justified in her complaints; and it is a worse case apparently than I or she supposed,—though you are happily out of it" ( D & K , p. 174). 2. Although Mazzini protested a Prusso-Italian alliance, the Italian government allied itself with Prussia against Austria in the Seven Weeks' War which was declared on June 20, 1866. Peace was signed in October and Austria ceded Venetia to Italy. 3. Jessie (White) Mario.

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July 13, 1866

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Letter 90 19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace, W. July 13. '66. Dearest Isa, You know what a joy it will be for me to see you again.—I shall write nothing, having the rare occasion of saying it all to you. Tell me the time when I can see you,—giving me, if possible, a little choice of times: any time on Sunday, for instance. Will you thank Miss Alexander1 for the letters she kindly addressed to me ? You will explain to her that there is nothing more to be done now, the money being fortunately paid to you—but I am also much interested in a transaction which involves serious considerations concerning the character of a person I have to trust: I waited some days for the letters of Β & E.2 which you wished to go with your letter to C. but as nothing came, I sent it at last with a copy, & not the original, of that note of B. & E which speaks of Cs just having paid the £75 which he declared to me had been paid three years ago: Mr. Dolling's3 second letter, forwarded to me by Miss Alexander, is not of any use,—I want the distinct declaration of Β & E. that they had transferred their rights,—or in some way made over the business of paying you,—originally theirs,—to C. Because he says to you, and to me, that he never was in any business-relation to you at all, but to them only. So it ought to have been,—that is clear,—nor should a debt be shifted on to another party's shoulders in this way,—otherwise C. might excuse himself to Β & E. on the ground that the retail-booksellers had not paid him; also, I don't understand how at the end B. & E. should have paid the money themselves, as Mr Dolling (in his first letter) supposes evidently that they did: also mentioning that they were inclined to be impertinent about it, till he very properly threatened legal proceedings. One or the other statement must be false, and till I know that Cs

91]

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August 7, 1866

is true, I refrain from seeing him: but he has the benefit of the doubt hitherto. Remember, whoever told the lie, would be apt enough to make the subsequent excuse: and I don't think C's letter was impertinent, tho' plain spoken, if he really had never owed you the money. You and I would "snub" anybody for telling anybody else we had been owing, and promising to pay, and breaking our word for three years together, if it were altogether a mistake. Ever affy yours R B. Notes

on Letter 90

1. Isa wrote to Kate Field saying "to the care of Miss E [llen] Alexander | 6 Lower Belgrave St | Eaton Square | London | will alwaysfindme" (MS in BPL). 2. Bradbury and Evans. 3. Not identified.

Letter 91 Le Croisic, Loire Inférieure. Aug. 7 [1866]. Dearest Isa, This time let my letter precede yours—otherwise you will not know whither to send one: we all found Dinard unsuitable and, after staying a few days at St Malo, resolved to try this place—and well for us, since it serves our purpose capitally:1 usually it is fashionable & full, but this season reports of the cholera and other causes have kept people away, and we have it nearly to ourselves: we are in the most delicious & peculiar old house I ever occupied, the oldest in the town—plenty of great rooms,—nearly as much space as at the Villa Alberti:2 Mrs Bracken is well-lodged too, close by: the little town, and surrounding country are wild and primitive, even a trifle beyond Pornic perhaps: close by is Batz, a village where the men dress in white from head to foot, with baggy breeches, and great black flap hats,8—opposite is Guerande,

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the old capital of Bretagne,—you have read about it in Balzac's Beatrix,4—and other interesting places are near: the sea is all round our peninsula, and on the whole I expect we shall like it very much. But I want to tell you that, on arriving at Jersey, I at once found out & called on F. Tennyson:5 he was not in doors, but his wife welcomed me most warmly—said they had been talking of me the day before, & so on. She showed me over the garden & house—which contents them greatly—has quite obliterated Florence from their thoughts: so it would not from mine,—nice enough as it is, but quite another thing from the Garden Palace they were used to: she spoke very eagerly of your coming to see and stay with them,—as if you had promised to do so: it would be a good visit— for the island seems beautiful, and the delight of seeing Tennyson again would affect you as it did me when I returned in the evening to take tea with them: I brought Pen & Willy with me: he was just as of old, pleasant and genial to the last degree,—I told him about you,—how you gave me his address (—which I had preserved, and gave him) and how I had seen you the day before:6 I saw also his three daughters,—two very pretty—and a young Alfred Tennyson: in short I enjoyed it all greatly, and, but for the arranged plan, would have passed our holiday there. Mrs T. told me he is wholly addicted to spirit-rapping and writing—in which she also believes—moreover he is "quite changed" (from what?) and "is of the faith of the New Jerusalem"—i.e Swedenborgian: she said a word or two on both subjects, but no more—and the fewer the better. He seemed to hope you would come and see him. I groan over such a noble, accomplished man being as good as lost to us all. At St Malo we made excursions to Dinan, which I knew, and the Mont S1 Michel, which I did not,—a very wonderful sight. I shall try and see the great things in this region which, for one cause or another I have hitherto missed,—Carnac &c. It was very vexing to see so little of you—still that little may help me over a few more stages of the journey: I shall not hope to return to Florence,—but some whither in the Land of Souls I will go to, if I can. Poor Italy,—whosoever the fault, how ill she has come off,

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—in the sea-fight,7 strangely so: and to get Venetia in this way! I don't envy you if you are to be dosed with Jessie's comments and explanations of it all—helped by the "Vice-Admiral's"8 experience. Tell me about your book,9 your arrangements with the Publisher, —and whether you have heard anything from Chapman: I told you I had written a letter to him that morning—which I had in my pocket, on the chance that you might say something admitting of an excuse for him,—for I hate quarreling with the poor fellow,—but I could not make matters better, so the letter was posted in the evening,—a decisive one. I don't believe he meant worse than delay—but that is a vile thing, and the carelessness also that he cannot deny. I see by the Athenaeum that Swinburne's Poems are out.10 Have you seen them ? Tell me: I am not badly off for news however,—receiving the "Times," "Ath" and "Illustrated News." I will now follow the others to the bathing-place: I wanted to write and apprize you whither to direct the letter I shall be so glad to receive. Direct the next hither also,—I stay till the end of September. The weather is not warm, rather chilly, but sunshiny and pleasant. Tell me all about yourself—and where I am next to think of you. Of course I found out much I had forgotten to enquire about,—and written words profit little, in my case. My sister is quite well, and sends her best love, as does Pen: the Brackens are quite well. Goodbye, dearest Isa. Give me a good full letter, not eked out by V V V 1 1 because I value every dear word you write. God bless you. Ever affectionately yours Robert Browning. Notes

on Letter

91

1. During 1866 and 1867 the Brownings spent their holidays at Croisic, a seaport in the south of Brittany. "He had never occupied a more delightfully quaint old house, and seldom a more roomy one" (G & M., p. 238). 2. In Siena (13.1).

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[92

3. "The famous paludiers or salt marsh workers, a colony of some four hundred persons, who lived in complete isolation and spoke a different patois from their neighbors" (Hood's note, p. 352). 4. Honoré de Balzac, Béatrix (1844). 5. Frederick Tennyson lived at Jersey from 1859 to 1896. 6. Isa was visiting in England. 7. On July 20 the Italians lost two of their ten ironclads to the Austrian fleet (King, History of Italian Unity, II, 297-98). 8. Perhaps Alberto Mario, Jessie White's husband. 9. Nora and Archibald Lee. 10. Poems and Ballads {Athenaeum, August 4, 1866, p. 137). 11. A scribbled parody of Isa's penmanship.

Letter 92 Le Croisic, Loire Inférieure. Sept. 24. '66—and not the 19th dearest Isa, this time, because I have been waiting fruitlessly for above a week the letter which I am sure is written—and I wanted so much to know about you and let you know that I did know it. You said in your last "I may not be in Florence by the 12th but will write from wherever I am." Perhaps the letter waits me at London: anyhow, for the future I will keep to my day—and this time it was the very day—how many years ago!1 At all events, you got my last month's answer at Stone House. The time here is drawing fast to a close: I feel a real attachment to the place—tested attachment, too, for the weather has been abominable these three full weeks,— rain and rain again. This, and the earlier report of cholera kept all visitors away, and the little peninsula was wholly our own. Miss Egerton Smith arrived a month ago,—I liked her always, and as much now. She is lodged at the Bathing Establishment, where they have sometimes a hundred and fifty inmates,—and, this season, a dozen or two: these also are all but gone; and, out of the pale, ourselves and Mrs Bracken are the famous "last roses." Pen and Willy have bathed regularly and led long days in the open air— shooting, alas! But the health is helped, if somewhat at the expense

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of the "morale." We go to Guerande to-gether,—the delicious little town,—dine there at an inn "Les Guérandaises" (where two pretty sisters do the waiting, and return early—generally catching a wedding-dance at some one of the intermediate villages—Saillié or Batz. Had the weather resembled that of last year at Pornic— when we had two months of golden days—the leaving all this, as we shall early next week, would have been difficult. I see Guérande— from this room—hardly farther, if at all, than Fiesole from Bellosguardo: but the sea is between, and the road goes round it, doubling the distance. I should suppose this is the last of our holidays of the kind: if Pen goes to Oxford next Michaelmas, it must be,— and he is summoned there, by the official letter: we should go somewhere and somehow, but not exactly after this careless way: so end good things! I was resolute not to return to Pornic, full of my poor dear Papa2—as I never broke the habit of calling him: I wonder whether Pen will long come and kiss me, morning and night, as he now does. I don't in the least know how he will turn out eventually: he is still, to all intents, growing,—a boy: he seems to me able to do many things for which at present he has little or no inclination,—and that inclination may arrive at any moment: but the bases of a strong and good character, on the other hand, are more than indicated,—they are laid: he is good, kind, cautious, self-respecting, and true: I ought to be satisfied with these qualities which are valuable enough. I want him to be what I think he may be: next year or two will decide perhaps if I shall be disappointed or no. Well, Isa—write to me next time—tho' you have not forgotten me now, I well know. I wish I had seen more of you,—that rushing way of yours,—unavoidable under the circumstances of a short stay,—drives the thoughts in instead of out: I have said nothing. How did your bargain conclude? Did you get the sum you asked? It will not come out (the book) till the winter, of course.3 Goodbye and God bless you. Sarianna and Pen send their true love with mine—ever affectionately yours Rob1 Browning.

248

October 19, 1866 Notes

on Letter

[93

92

1. Twenty, since the elopement on September 19, 1846. 2. Who died on June 14 and who had spent his holidays with Browning near Pornic in 1862, 1863, and 1865. 3. See 91.9 and 87.6.

Letter 93 19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace, Oct 19. '66. Dearest Isa, I knew there was good reason for your silence, and only wanted to be sure that it implied no accident to yourself: you were quite legitimately hindered,—only, take care, now that all the "rush" is over & ended, to repair your losses with rest: you do wonders really, considering how little you expected once to do,—in those Roman days when "all your ambition was to get from the Gregoriana to the Pinciana and there see the sun set": whereas you fly about like a dear little witch as you are. Tell me about your house, —is it the one you thought of taking?1 At any rate, please describe it all over again to me. Your visit to me was the one drop of water to the thirsty man who wants a pailful. Who knows? I may see you in Florence soon. Next Michaelmas—if God please to help us —Pen goes to Balliol.2 And what am I to do ?—Have new troubles and worse, probably, as a punishment for my ingratitude: perhaps however au fond du fond3 I am not so very ungrateful after all. Was it ominous that you missed just that 12th?—I was married on that day twenty years ago. We enjoyed Croisic increasingly to the last—spite of the three weeks vile weather, in striking contrast to the golden months at Pornic last year. I often went to Guerande: once Sarianna and I walked from it in two hours and somewhat under,—nine miles: tho' from our house, straight over the sands and sea, it is not half

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that distance. Miss Smith made the last part of our stay pleasant,— she is my favourite out of the trio.4 She too liked the place much— and got good from the Bathing: she regretted leaving so much—and so evidently needed more baths and, perhaps, holiday—that at the last moment we persuaded her to go and find the fine weather at Biarritz—she wisely did so, is there still, and likes it as we expected. The Brackens preceded us by some days, but Miss Smith started with us, to part company at Le Mans. We stayed three days at Paris, and now are here—for good, I hope: Pen working hard—and I have my poem5 to mend and end in the gaps between Greek and Latin. Let me tell you of two interesting books,—Le dernier Amour, by George Sand,6—surprising to me, from its cleverness and return to the Indiana style of thing (I generally hate her last writings)— and this new "Affaire Clemenceau" by young Dumas.7 "Tamaris" by G. Sand I don't believe in nor care about. I have not read Felix Holt8—nor seen her, though I have twice tried to do so: Lewis called yesterday—very kind & pleasant and useful, but looking so ill! The Fortnightly turns into a Monthly next year, and Lewis in all likelihood leaves the Editorship.9 I am glad to hear that T. Trollope is about to marry happily10— quite right in him to try. I think him affectionate, good, full of various talent,—all which his wife will soon find out. Give Bice my love,—I like the memory of her. My love to dear old Kirkup I will give myself—I have let him alone for too long:11 I'll be bound Dante, and anybody else his "medium" knows by name, sups with him and keeps him amused. I am never angry with the purely Duped. Poor Cottrell,—is it the beginning—or middle of the end? Things are changed indeed if he, as the Bible calls it, "goes softly."12 Do you ever hear from Lytton in any way? I found invitations here for those two marriages which have been the town talk, Julian Fane's & his sister's.13 Julian never saw his predestined one (a very pretty girl) till a certain Thursday,—next day, he proposed and was accepted, and fell at the mother's knees saying just "Give her me—for I cannot live without her!"—Whereto said the mother (whom I fancy I hear)—"Who's " S H E " ? " There's to

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November 26, 1866

[94

encourage you in gossiping, my own Isa! God bless you—my sister's best love and Pen's go with mine. A good long compensating letter next time, please! Ever affy yours R B.

Notes on Letter 93 1. The Villa Isetta (See 87.7). 2. Pen did not matriculate at Balliol at Michaelmas (September 29) but at Christ Church on January 15, 1869. 3. "At the very bottom." 4. Annie Egerton Smith, Mrs. Mary Bracken, and Mrs. Margaret Castle were sisters. 5. The Ring and the Book. 6. George Sand, Le Dernier Amour (1867), Indiana (1832), Tamaris (1862). 7. Alexandre Dumas, fils, L'Affaire Clêmenceau (1866). 8. George Eliot, Felix Holt, the Radical (1866). 9. George Lewes edited the Fortnightly Review from its first issue on May 15, 1865, until December 1, 1866. 10. He married Frances Eleanor Ternan on October 29, 1866. 11. Browning did not write until February 19, 1867 (Hood, p. 105). 12. Isaiah, 38:15. 13. On August 15, 1866, Lady Rose Sophia Mary Fane married Henry Weigall, of Southwood, St. Lawrence; and on September 29 Julian married Lady Cowper.

Letter 94 [19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace,] Nov: 26.'66. for the 19th! My dearest Isa, I was compelled to go the first thing last Monday to a horrid place called Clerkenwell, there to make part of a Grand Jury:1 next day, the same: next day was the last of Milsand's stay with us—he completed the four weeks: I had no minute to spare from him. Next day,—in fine, I said in despair, "I will wait the full week out, & then explain to Isa, begging her pardon if I have done wrong:"—

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The calls on my time are incessant just now—and even since writing the above scrap five or six hours have intervened,—but I will not rest till something in the shape of a word in answer to yours be despatched. Besides, who knows but you may be on your way to Rome, as you seem to determine shall be the case?—and rightly— few things would delight me more. Yes, it would have been good to see the reception at Venice2—but I am somewhat restive and averse to all prepared festivities: the unforeseen is the dramatically excellent. The best incident is said to have been that when, at the substitution of the new for the old flag, all the people were absolutely dumb thro' emotion,—waited a minute before they remembered to cheer, or could do so. I am glad you have a house so much to your mind:3 I shall only think of you as still at the old places, however—I can't do otherwise: God bless you wherever you are. The "Solomon" you mention is, I fancy, the painter of the best picture in the Exhibition where I saw it—that "Habet," which was fine indeed.4 I should like to know him. There is a portrait of my poor self5 whereof the newspapers speak well,—I admire it, but know nothing about the likeness: I have just sate to Lawrence6 for another—and have to repeat the process—which is tiresome in these quick photographing days—but he is a charming person,—as indeed is Watts.7 How I can fancy the long letters you speak of, with all the talk hung on to a peg! Well, I was right in my instincts about it all. I am now in the last throes—so far as this stage of his career— with Pen and his preparation: if all goes well, he will go to Oxford next Michaelmas—and then what will become of me? "Books and work and healthful play,"—shall I manage, I wonder? Oh, I dare say! Milsand's visit was wholly delightful—he had good weather for the time of year—which he chose so as to take me at the unoccupied season: we went together to M. Arnold's,8 Ruskin's, and another place or two. He will come again, we hope. If you go to Rome, don't forget me, pray. I am going to dine presently with

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November 26, 1866

[94

Lady W. R.9 who will tell me all the news. Geo. Barrett will be there,—but you don't care about him. Goodbye, ever dearest! Forgive this shabby letter,—but the best and longest is not worth the three or four words we had last July.10 May they happen again, or their like! Ever affy yours, R B. Notes

on Letter

94

1. The Sessions were reported in the Times for November 19, page 11, and November 20, page 9. The cases were petty. For example, James Pink, aged 12, accused of stealing three herrings, was found guilty of stealing one. He was imprisoned for one day and given ten stripes with a birch rod. 2. On the occasion of Italy's acquisition of Venetia. 3. The Villa Isetta. 4. Simeon Solomon (1840-1905), painter and draughtsman. At the Royal Academy Exhibit in 1865 his Habet! was enthusiastically received (Athenaeum, May 6, p. 627); but his During the Gloria, exhibited in 1866, was considered a "rather siovenly study in black and yellow" (Ibid., November 10, p. 612). 5. "Mr. G F. Watt's portraits of Messrs. Robert Browning (222) and Alfred Tennyson (223) are in noble companionship, and are noble works. The former delights us as one of the painter's most nearly perfect pictures. A real work of art, there is in this painting all of the higher qualities of portraiture" (Ibid., p. 613). 6. Samuel Laurence (1812-1884), portrait painter. His portrait of Browning, which was perhaps commissioned by George Smith (Sadleir, Trollope, p. 256), is now at Baylor. 7. George Frederick Watts (1817-1904), painter and sculptor. His portrait of Browning is now in the National Portrait Gallery. 8. On November 9 Arnold wrote to his mother: "We had a very pleasant dinner-party last night which grew up out of small beginnings. First, I had asked Lake to dine quite alone with us, then a M. Milsand, a Frenchman and a remarkable writer, who had been very civil to me when I was in Paris last year, called unexpectedly, and I added him to Lake; then I found Milsand was staying with Browning, and I asked Browning; then Lord Houghton went with me and William Foster to Spurgeon's lecture, and having asked William of course to dine if he stayed in London, I found that Lord Houghton was a friend of Milsand's, and so I asked him too" {Letters of M. Arnold, I, 397-98). 9. Lady William Russell. 10. In England.

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February 19, 1867

253

Letter 95 19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace, W. Feb: 19, '67. Dearest Isa, I am glad you are back again: you are glad too, I dare say, after the change and inevitable fatigue. The next three or four months are the pleasant time in Florence. Afterward,—where do you go? But it is foolish to ask, or even think, in this world of changes and warpings of plans. Pen will soon know his fate now: he goes on a visit of a week to Jowett on the 25th March,—Jowett most kindly meaning to look into his case at his ease in that way. Nothing can exceed his kindness. By the bye I ought to tell you what you are likely to hear of in some distorted way, that a number of young men at Oxford made a request that I might be their Poetry Professor,1 on Arnold's vacating the chair next June,—that, in compliance with this, a formal application was made, of which I have the printed copy, signed by forty-five of the most eminent people composing the "Congregation," or resident body, at Oxford,—to the effect that the Council would qualify me to compete, should I please, by conferring on me the degree of M. A. required by the Statute,—and that the Council declined to do this, as unfair to the Candidates already in the field. I think this declining on their part very fair and just. I should not have liked, had I been one of the members of the University, to be ousted of my chance by an outsider called in and made eligible just for the purpose: but I thought it was entirely for the University itself to decide on that,—just as, if you proposed to dedicate a book to me it would be impertinent to object,"But is that fair to this man or the other?" Had it been offered me, I should have accepted it— simply on account of the wish I have to stand well with,—and, above all, near to—the University where Pen will spend the next three or four years: I should have had a legitimate reason for going

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February 19, 1867

[95

down there, and a greater likelihood of hearing the truth of things, —how he got on in every way,—than I should otherwise have: besides I really feel the compliment of being pulled inside the body from its extreme outside. But of course there would have been drawbacks in the shape of the curtailment of liberty for the next five years, when I should perhaps want to dispose of my time otherwise. Moreover the three Lectures in the year would take as much trouble to write as three tragedies,—for I try to do things thoroughly. As it is, I have gained my point, by having taken the opportunity of showing the University my sense of their kindness—for I was applied to to say if I would take what they meant to try and offer me. Had they wished me to blacken their boots instead of polish their heads, I should not have demurred, you understand, in the prospect of possible advantage to Pen. So much for me. I see your book advertised2—& will of course read it, and tell you my exact feeing about it,—why not? You know me by this time, and know that, whatever my opinion may be worth, my wishes for your good are deep as deep can be. I have not seen Chapman since he saw you—can't help it, but distrust the man, without dislike of the poor, goodnatured fellow otherwise. I suppose he won't send me the book, but I can get to read it. I am very sorry about Locker3—the case is hopeless, as I told George Barrett and Arthur Locker,—Payne insulted Forster abominably—and must have known that Forster would never have allowed him to print pieces belonging to him,—the wonder is, he felt inclined to do so,—for Landor's poetry hardly makes such a book attactive. The thing is going to get to a regular trial, I fear, and the costs will be proportionate: it is inconceivable that Payne should not at once put up with his actual loss, call in the copies, and have done with the matter. Locker was wrong in not applying to Forster, and getting a plain answer: who was Chapman, to give leave or refuse it? I am very sorry, but nothing can be done: Payne has even added to his offences by writing a letter so insolent that it will be brought forward in the proceedings, as an aggravation of the wrong.

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Yes,—poor George is simple enough with his "warmth of character"! Hatty is just the old Hatty—less interesting, as is the way with all such pretty things after a time: the "not-niceness" of her conduct is the old story,—I observe that it is an unfailing characteristic of talent as distinguished from genius—that it cleverly uses all sorts of helps and as carelessly shakes them off: Genius sees the possible help quite as clearly, but, having besides a strong preference for the best and truest, cannot pretend to take all sorts of counters for good coin, merely because of the convenience,—it prefers saying "this is no coin but a counter''—even to its own loss. Hatty used to take up and be "dearest friend" with any and everybody, dropping them at a minute's notice or without it,—of course, for some defect or fault: but then genius would have foreseen and refused the thing, while talent either could not see or—likelier did see and only said to itself—"We shall break off the easilier." Hatty has seen into the characteristic points of the Storys long ago, and exposed them liberally enough. Now, there is another thing genius does occasionally—see a faulty thing, never suffer it to be taken for anything but a faulty thing, yet—all the same with that admitted, get good of a kind out of it too. Just so I feel for Hatty's little self —not mistaking her, but liking her considerably in her way: so the Storys are likeable in their way. Well, here is the season again, dinners again, parties again & more than ever. Sometimes, you know, I am in a mood to tell you gossip,—not to day, however. I promised to say, though, that I met Mr & Mrs Bowen4 at John Coleridge's5 two or three days ago—and talked about you. She is a nice gentle creature,—how do people get in love with that thing, though? Lewis & Mrs L: are in Spain,6 I believe: his health is deplorable. I wrote a long letter to Kirkup7 yesterday—do you ever see him ? He likes you much, poor old man, —besotted, I hear, with his spirits. Tell me—you won't however— about the Tassinaris—is she dead or alive! Mrs Baker & her sister & mother, & the others. Is the Philipson family still thriving? Trollope I hear of sometimes. No,—Florence is done with, for me —I shall serpentize8 elsewhere, Isa! Did you read a book called

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"Florence as it is" or something of the kind, by Weld,9 Brother-inLaw to Tennyson? I looked over the pages, no more: but noticed that Casa Guidi was to be let furnished, and that it was extravagantly dear. How is Jessie White,—near you ? I hear nothing of Annette, even from Mrs Bracken. Willy grows an immense fellow, very gentlemanly and pleasant. Good bye, dearest Isa—I have been busied these seven hours and feel stupid and weary. Your letters are always a bright spot in my month. I can't bring myself to make mine so, as I might, by merely putting in little notes of people you would be interested about: thus I met Macready10 the other day,—so old & changed, so uninterested in his old life! His wife is a Plymouth Sister,—never entered a theatre in her life. This seems to abolish the whole past existence of such a man. This is vile paper—runs—(and probably renders what I write of very little consequence:) I will beware another time. Sarianna's best love to you—Pen's also: both are very well: Pen boats—cares more for that than aught else,— unless perhaps for shooting and breech-loaders: but he is a good fellow all the same, and may wake up ambitious one day. Ever yours affectionately, Robert Browning

Notes

on Letter

95

1. The Poetry Professorship at Oxford was founded by bequest of Henry Birkhead which took effect in 1708. The post was held by Matthew Arnold (1857-67), who was succeeded by Sir Francis Hastings Doyle (See Intimate Glimpses, p. 24, for Jowett's correspondence with Browning on the subject). 2. Chapman & Hall's list {Athenaeum, February 16, p. 231) announced that Nora and Archibald Lee, "a new novel by the author of 'The Cost of a Secret,' &c." would be ready "next week." 3. Frederick Locker-Lampson's Lyra Elegantiarum (1867) included forty poems by Landor, although J. Bertrand Payne, manager of Moxon's, who published the book, had not secured the permission of John Forster, who held the copyright. The poems were removed from subsequent editions, but later reinstated, e.g., in the American edition of 1891. 4. Charles S. C. Bowen (1835-1894), whom Jowett called "a man of genius converted perhaps crushed, into a lawyer, and probably the greatest English lawyer of the day" (Life of Jowett, II, 112).

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5. John Duke Coleridge (1820-1894), knighted (1868); chief counsel for defendants in the Tichborne case (1871-72); and Lord Chief Justice of England. He advised Browning to usefictitiousnames in Red Cotton NightCap Country (1873) lest there be grounds for action (G & M, p. 251). 6. Early in 1867 George Eliot went to Spain to gather material for her Spanish Gypsy (1868). 7. Hood, pp. 105-08. 8. See 48.5. 9. Charles Richard Weld (1813-1869), author of Florence: The New Capital of Italy (1867), Last Winter in Rome (1865), etc. 10. William Charles Macready (1793-1873), English actor. Browning met him in October 1835; the two men liked each other and exchanged cards. At the Ion supper in May 1836 Macready asked Browning, "Will you not write me a tragedy, and save me from going to America?" (Gosse, Personalia, p. 43). Browning responded with Strafford, which was dedicated to Macready and acted on May 1, 1837. The two men remained intimate until the production of A Blot in the 'Scutcheon in February 1843, when they quarrelled (DeVane, pp. 124-30; Hood, pp. 296-98). Macready's first wife died in 1852. In 1860 he married Cecile Spencer, and lived thenceforth a life of complete retirement in Cheltenham.

Letter 96 Athenaeum Club Pall Mall S. W. 19th March (by rights!) really March 21, '67. Dearest Isa, I waited thus long in the hope I should be able to get your book1 before I wrote: I cannot,—get whoever may the novel,—I cannot get it, though, thro' Arabel Barrett, my name is long since down on a library-list for it. Will you wait till next time ? By when, depend on my reading and criticizing to heart's content. I never see Chapman, and there is no wonder he don't send it or lend it. I have seen no review as yet,2 even a line in length: I hope they will come in thick and threefold, all the better considered for not being done in a hurry as usual. I shall interest you by telling you that Lytton and his wife are here,—I met them at Forster's the day of their arrival. She is very

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nice and distinguished,—not, to my mind, with a trace of prettiness —but that may be owing to her health (she is to be confined in June). 8 He is just the same as ever,—was very affectionate and demonstrative,—seems very fond of his wife, too,—and she, I hear, gives him a wonderful character,—let it all be as it looks. He wants much to know Mat Arnould,4 and I will bring it about, if I can: but he called on Lady Strangford,5 at whose house A. was to be, and when I could have done it, and got no invitation—to his surprise— the fact being, I suspect, this—Strangford is the man who wrote that memorable review of "Serbsky Pesme" in the Saturday,—and may have his own likings or dislikings in the matter: I don't think Lytton guesses this,—and what is the use of telling him? They may arrange it among themselves. Lytton looks older, very bearded, seems occupied with his child,—in short is in good case, which you will be glad to hear. All you say about the inadequate test of superiority in a young man which college honours indicate I know very well ; I don't want them, in fact,—only the ordinary proficiency as a step to something else,—tho' I value learning too. I certainly shall feel it much if he can't get into Balliol,—that difficulty tided over, I shall only exact the ordinary application and gaining of a degree. I shall not be long kept waiting now. I told you, I think, that Pen goes on a visit to Jowett next Monday—for a week:6 and that the matriculation takes place—or should—on the 2d of May. Pen is not nervous at all—is in excellent health and strength, and has worked really hard this month—not before then: in fact, he is immature, and could not realize the nearness of the trial and necessity of preparing for it. I should not allow him to study long at this rate—and his progress has been great for the time. This is the season of dinners: I dined last eg. with Bright,1 and other notables,—I liked him much, we talked about poetry of which he is very fond. It was funny to see him sitting by a Duke and bating no syllable of his radicalism. But I was at a still better entertainment last week—dining with Ld Russell and Gladstone and only one other guest: the two talked unreservedly, and very interesting

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it was. I saw Gladstone at another party afterwards, looking radiant: also saw your friend Miss Elliot—and perhaps three hundred other people. I told you I had not the least wish to be made Professor8—I should just think not!—only wished to propitiate the Dons, and repay the young men for their partiality—which I am flattered with in a mild way. Three lectures would cost me as much pains to deliver as three tragedies to write. I do believe I forgot to tell you that I had seen Bowen and his wife lately at John Coleridge's—(that admirable person)—and that we talked pleasantly together about you.9 Indeed I don't think you told me those particulars about those Tassinaris and so on—tho' you may have done so: at all events, I decidedly read and reread your letters always—as you very well know. I don't care one brass farthing about the Tassinaris or Mrs Baker—yet—they are of Florence, and I never even see the name without a stir of heart. I am most sorry for the poor Cottrells—the annoyance to Cottrell is probably in the change in his fortunes—he began somewhat showily, flourishingly at all events,—and feels the altered figure he cuts in the eyes of foolish people more than those would who never had cared about their opinion: his wife's ill health may depress her: after all, "five or six hundred pounds" contribute materially to oil the wheels of life, in the case of folks of moderate means. Kirkup wrote a long affectionate letter to me a few days before yours arrived—containing most of the matter that is in your note. Poor man! Provided they don't stifle him or poison him, and afterward rob the house! Good bye, dearest Isa: Sarianna and Pen send their kindest love —both are quite well moreover. The weather here is vile to an extraordinary degree. Garibaldi is just what I always took him for, once out of a mountain pass!10 Give a kind of modified love, if you like, to Jessie. I have not seen Mrs Sartoris story11—nor any new English story this long while—so yours will find me fresh. Ever affectionately yours R. B.

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[97

March 29, 1867 Notes

on Letter

%

1. Nora and Archibald Lee, received by BM on March 25, 1867. 2. The only review found was in the Pall Mall Gazette, April 4, 1867, pages 1174-75. 3. Lytton's daughter, Elizabeth Edith, later the Countess of Balfour, was born on June 12, 1867. 4. A slip of the pen for Arnold. 5. Emily Anne (d. 1887), the wife of Percy Smythe (1826-1869), philologist and ethnologist, 8th Viscount Strangford of Ireland (1857). Lytton's Serbski Pesme, or National Songs of Servia (1861) was reviewed most unfavorably in the Saturday Review, March 23, 1861, XI, 298-99. 6. On February 14, 1867, Jowett wrote to Browning: "I shall hope to have the pleasure of seeing your son to spend a week at Oxford on Monday, March 25. I shall be a good deal at work myself & therefore I dare say that he will not object to do some work also" (Intimate Glimpses, p. 25). 7. John Bright (1811-1889), eminent Quaker, orator, and statesman, the hero of the reform bill of 1867. The dinner at which he and Browning met was at the home of Lady Hobart (Sotheby, p. 28, No. 126; 112.8). 8. See 95.1. 9. See 95.4 and 5. 10. During the Italian elections of March 1867, the "democrats dragged Garibaldi into an electoral campaign in Venetia, where his crude invective against 'the clericals and their accomplices' stirred the meetings to enthusiasm but left no result at the polls" (King, History of Italian Unity, II, 334). 11. Adelaide (Kemble) Sartoris, A Week in a French Country House (1867).

Letter 97 [19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace,] March 29. '67 Dearest Isa, You will have got my letter by this time: I have forwarded the Cheque & letter to Wilson,—that is, to her sister at East Retford. I have no sort of patience with the sister who allows, if she does not encourage Wilson in the notion of going to Florence,—just to get rid of her. The sister is to blame in the highest degree for advising Wilson to set up for herself as a lodging-keeper—as if there

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April 23, 1867

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were any chance of her doing that in England which she could not do in Florence, with fifty fold the advantage. I have told this to the sister in the plainest words I could use—written words—and, of course, affronted her,—to judge by the way she last wrote to me, —on the occasion of Wilson's wanting to return to Florence—where she will infallibly go mad. The sister could very well have taken her as assistant or partner in her millinery business. But the behaviour of them all (except poor Ferdinando, who has had to painfully expiate his old faults) is too exasperatingly imbecile. I sent your letter as the best corroboration of my few words. You know, I would have taken both Wilson & Ferdinando into my service, tho' intimately convinced I should be nearly ruined by one or the other of their incapablenesses—but fortunately for me, they, or she would not come. She hesitated at first between taking a cigarshop and a pastry cook shop! Imagine the imbecility of her brother & sister in putting such nonsense into her head, or allowing it to stay there for a moment! Somebody else was to buy or make the articles and she—retail them with a profit! I write in great haste: I have not yet got your book,1 but found the Procters reading it, last Sunday, and "liking it much" they said. Ever affy yours, R B. Note on Letter 97 1. See 96.1.

Letter 98 [19. Warwick Crescent, Upper Westbourne Terrace,] Tuesday, Apr: 23. '67. Dearest Isa, it is no use my waiting any longer—get the book1 as yet I cannot: people promise it me and send me something else: of course it is always just coming, so I don't take it up at the Club where I never spend more than a few minutes once a week: what

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April 23, 1867

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can I say—it seems as if I were indifferent, and I am certainly not that: if I could put up with my pride and ask Chapman to send it! But that would be too bad, poor fellow. Let me say no more— only implore you to believe in me and wait—till next time. I don't mean to say I am not very engaged: I am—with not a spare quarter of an hour. Still, I wish I had done the impossible, and been able to tell you how I like your novel, since you are good enough to care about that. I sent the cheque to Wilson's Sister, and got an impertinent, improper letter in reply, saying Wilson was quite able to take care of herself, and had been found so as long as she was of any use,— "when worn out in the service she was to be thrown on other people," and more of this sort of thing. I told her exactly what I thought of her, in reply, and said that with her would the [sic] remain the responsibility of what would be sure to happen in Florence. The next day brought Wilson herself—to my mind, mad now—so utterly irrationally did she talk. "Ferdinando must keep her, or why did he marry her?"—I asked what she was going to do ? Now this, now that. "Keep a shop, lodgings, take in needlework": with what? "Nothing—all the money was spent." She did not deny that her sisters, whose trade is doing needlework, would have nothing to do with her. The fact is, they have been determined she should do for herself,—just what she can't do,—never did nor will. It is all deplorable, and I expect the worst will come of it in every way. I am very grieved at what you tell me of the poor Cottrells: he wrote to me the other day and I am going to answer his letter very soon: it was a doleful one, as you might expect,—yet perhaps not altogether as much,—he seemed pleased at Hal's doings, talked of coming to London with him, & so on. I wish I could sell his picture,2 with all my heart: but nobody does more than say it is good of its kind. How hard it is for people to get money! I don't wonder they grow misers: It is so terrible to have to leave all your soul's business and set about getting fifty pounds—even your sorrows you would have to give up.

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April 23, 1867

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I am far from being as much at my ease about Pen's matriculation as you so complacently suppose: it comes of my knowing the shoe, and where it pinches or may pinch. Pen had, on the whole, a very successful visit to Jowett: it was not for matriculation that he went, —that is for May 2: 3 Jowett gave him Latin & Greek, that he had never seen, to translate without a dictionary, English to turn into Latin, & so on. In the matters where Pen is strongest, as Latin verse making, he would not try him. He wrote very kindly about him to me,—said he was up to the mark in Latin, hardly in Greek.4 So I got nervous and wrote to the Master asking leave to delay the matriculation, appointed for May, till the real time of residence, October,—for what is the use of throwing away five months, likely to be more profitably employed than almost as many of the last years? The Master graciously assented, and it is now in Pen's own power to do what is wanted or leave it undone: he seems quite awake at last, to the necessity of coming to a determination. Jowett spoke highly of his ways—said he got on very well with the undergraduates (whom he invited to meet him) and would be quite able to hold his own at College. I have no more of Lytton. I want to get done with my Poem,— sixteen thousand lines!5 Booksellers are making me pretty offers for it. One sent to propose, last week, to publish it as his risk, give me all the profits, and pay me the whole in advance—"for the incidental advantage of my name." Oh, R Β who for six months once did not sell one copy of the poems! I ask £200 for the sheets to America and shall get it,6—or rather, Pen will. Goodbye, ever dearest Isa: my sister sends her kindest love: she will go to Paris for a few weeks, but not I. [Remainder at top of first page] Pen is well (save a cold, caught in rowing) & sends his best love too. I had a letter from dear old Kirkup, which I shall answer when I can. Ever affy yrs R B.

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May 22, 1867

[99

Notes on Letter 98 1. See 96.1. 2. Not identified. 3. But see 93.2. 4. Jowett wrote: "I found that he got on very well with the undergraduates . . . . In Virgil & Horace he appeared to me to be quite up to the standard of matriculation at Balliol & nearly up to the mark in Latin writing. But in Greek he was far behind—" (Gertrude Reese, "Robert Browning and His Son," PMLA, LXI [1946], 789). 5. The Ring and the Book, 21,116 lines. 6. See Hood, pages 113-14, for Browning's letter to Fields, Osgood, and Co. regarding their acceptance of his proposal, and page 127 for another letter cancelling the arrangement.

Letter 99 For the 19th May—but May 22. '67. 19. Warwick Crescent, W. Dearest Isa,—first of all, at this moment, there is snow falling in thick flakes mixed with rain: mind that, and be thankful wherever you are. Next, & infinitely better, is that I have just finished your book:1 I got it a few days ago and delayed writing till I could talk about it. Now, you know I never flattered you in my life,—very far indeed from that!—and moreover am, or was, a little given to expect "better wine from you than is made of grapes"2 because I know what you ought to give forth under good culture: so you have nothing but pure truth in my assurance,—glad tho' I feel in making it,—that your book is very far in advance of its predecessors and shows rea! workmanship and art as well as the natural ability which could not well be wanting from whatever you do. It is a real conception and adequate execution, all soberly and determinedly done. I was much interested, and not cheated of my interest. The characters are all well intended and sufficiently wrought out, and the whole story is worth being told and attended to; I especially like the straight forward march of the whole, undiverted by episodic description, or other matter apart from the purpose. The proof of this is, that I could at no very far-off day read the book again with

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May 22, 1867

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greater pleasure inasmuch as there would be a light cast from the whole on the earlier parts which, taken as they came, were not so obviously interesting. I think you should at all events begin a story with so much of effectiveness that one shall be inclined to take those little details, not attractive in themselves, on trust—as what it will be worth while to remember: and I did not immediately care about the people, (a good number of them, nearly all your dramatis personae indeed) to whom you introduce us in rapid succession: but now at the end, I see reason in it all. The character I like best is that of Philip—(artistically like, I mean,) Nora is very attractive, but wants the pinch of common sense to flavour her charms—all her gettings wrong & gettings right come from quite other causes than her own rationality—and I am by no means of your opinion that "beauty is found to supply all wants and compensate for all faults": it does nothing of the kind,—the most infatuated man would tell you, far more explicitly than you would like to hear, that his passion for the beauty was one thing, and his contempt and even abhorrence of all the absent qualities, quite another. Also, a woman of the calibre of Mrs Lee the elder ought to know her daughter Lydia through and through,—there being none of the maternal love which might render her blind to her crimes—for such you make them, rather than faults: she should be sure such a person was doing wrong and hurting somebody: and Nora, as a simple and innocent person, ought to be disgusted at Lydia—at all events, not "stand" that letter about what Nora "owes her." Lydia herself is too hateful and unnecessarily wicked, I think—your character of her is better than the facts warrant,—for she don't do it all, as it seems to me, from "indolence"—but snaps up opportunities of committing crime with extraordinary alacrity. She might have been made only halfaware of her own actions and what their effects would be, or at all events sorry a little for those effects. Then, I should have liked a little less violent means to bring about the object in the story—which is, the making three people know and do justice to each other,—that half-maniac, with the management of him, and the vileness of his wife, are all quite natural enough but need, from their violent

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May 22, 1867

[99

character, separate explanations of their own,—another novel, in short, to make them fit into this present one without abruptness. The true artistic objection to violent means to an end is that it is only the next means at hand that can be introduced without preparation—when you bring in bigamies, suicides &c, they want an atmosphere of their own, so to speak, before you bring them harmoniously to bear in the ordinary landscape: they are just as natural,—that is, in nature,—as meetings in the street, & shakings of hands. I don't at all mean that these are unprepared, unaccounted for,—no,—but that they want the more, that less would have3 done: by the bye, you make people take them all too coolly: "I have no patience with her!" is not enough for the happy mother of Mrs Meredith to say: and Archibald seems to acquiesce tolerably in having such a—what? of a sister. I think your style immensely improved, tighter, compacter, yet fluid and in the main correct (— with such exceptions as when you talk about a climax culminating &c.) and the descriptions please me much as inelaborate and really apposite. Annina is perfect all through. I don't think you manage English dialect happily—the bad English is not such as I hear, at least. There, you have my worst about your novel, dearest Isa! I praise it decidedly, and wonder that I have seen so few notices of it in reviews which are well off if they get such subjects often to review: however I only see a few reviews now and then. I advise you to go on, make your incidents as simple as you can, put out your strength in the analysis of character, keeping in mind the immeasurable superiority (to my mind) of French models than English: oh, I know what the clever English find it useful to say!— and I say,—Bosh! I have other things to say, however & must end here. I never had, nor saw, anysuch drawing as you describe: though I, too, have a faint dreamy recollection of your talking about giving it me.4 In 1861, when we were in Paris, and after till next year, I never saw Mrs Bracken: you called, I believe.—I have enquired of her about it, she says she never had it,—but has seen it, she can't remember where. She is in Paris, since yesterday only, on a visit to

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May 22, 1867

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her sister—to join Willy also on a visit there. I am sure my sister never had it—she, also, is in Paris—but will return at the month's end: I will ask her if she ever heard of it: but beat up your own recollections, and see for yourself. So you go to Lucca. I don't in the least know—or rather in my fancies I change continually as to how I should feel on seeing old sights again. The general impression of the past is as if it had been pain. I would not live it over again, not one day of it. Yet all that seems my real life,—and before and after, nothing at all: I look back on all my life, when I look there: and life is painful. I always think of this when I read the Odyssey—Homer makes the surviving Greeks, whenever they refer to Troy, just say of it "At Troy, where the Greeks suffered so."5 Yet all their life was in that ten years at Troy. "Lucca, where I suffered so." God bless you, dearest. I always love you. R Browning. [Remainder inside flap of envelope] P. S. Cottrell wrote to me that M. de Fauveau had met him and desired him to remind me that he had some old picture frames of mine, loose, which he should like me to clear away, as he wants the room. I never knew—tho' it is possible, that he had them "loose"—I thought they were in that case which was lost in his keeping. At all events, when he sent the other things he ought to have sent these, one trouble for all. What am I to do? Do you know of a cellar (I would pay for) where there should be no fresh loss? Notes 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

on Letter 99

Nora and Archibald Lee. Cf. Othello, II, i, 257, "The wine she drinks is made of grapes." "of" written and deleted. See 100 which reports that the drawing had been found. Not found.

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June 19, 1867

[100

Letter 100 19. Warwick Terrace [sic], Upper Westb. Terr. June 19. '67. Dearest Isa, I have all that you mention fresh in my memory—know the place well.1 I am glad you like it so well,—but I fancied you thought the air relaxing. Tell me more and more about the excursions you make,—as you doubtless will. Is Mrs Stisted2 alive still?—Any people I used to know I shall like to hear of. Sarianna did receive your picture from Mrs Bracken, as you say: then William Bracken wrote for it and she gave it him: he will tell you the rest. Mrs Bracken seems to have forgotten all about it, and S. was in Paris when I wrote last, or I would have referred to her. I am glad you understand my sympathy about the novel:3 are you writing another ? I wrote to you, explaining why,—to introduce Prof. Campbell:4 I dare say he had left before my letter reached Florence. I wrote to Cottrell & Trollope too. I am just returned from my annual visit to Oxford, where I have been entertained pleasantly for three days: I returned on Monday night and next day got a telegram to my surprise from Jowett who was coming up at night to tell me "something of importance": he came, slept here, and is just gone. He came to tell me a long story of which the short is this—they (somebody unknown) proposed me at Oxford for the D. C. L. degree: no opposition was made, only, nobody having been apprised, there were not the proper two-thirds, but a simple majority of votes,—so the motion was lost. This transpiring, there was a [sic] another sort of motion from the members of congregation calling on the council to give me a M. A. degree by Diploma,—a very rare distinction said to have only happened in D r Johnson's case! It is much better than the D. C. L. because it

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June 19, 1867

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gives all the rights of the university, voting &c—while the other is a mere right to wear a gown and put the letters after your name. This the Council were obliged to accede to—and I am to receive my degree next Wednesday at Convocation before the assembled universe—so look out for me in the papers: I have just telegraphed & written to say I accept.5 Of course, it is purely for Pen's sake— though I am not insensible to the strange liking for me that young & old Oxford seems to have—WHY? And now, I shall tell you, while "in for it" a further secret,—mind, one of our secrets, Isa! I know I may depend on you. There is better still,—for they are going, once the degree given, to elect me Honorary Fellow of Balliol!!!6 You see the advantage it will be to me to be in that position while Pen is there. I do call it strangely kind of them to give me what might be turned to great advantage in other ways also. Years ago I only wanted a notice in a Review, and did not much want that. Now, all I want for myself is to be forgotten in some out of the way place in Italy or Greece, with books, a model and a lump of clay & sticks,—am ready to take up poor