The Complete Works of Robert Browning: Poems, Plays, Letters & Biographies in One Edition. Robert Browning

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СКАЧАТЬ work all the time, indeed, up to the latest, when, three weeks ago, I found it impossible to keep going. Don’t think that the kindness which sometimes oppresses me while in town, forgets me afterward; I have pouring invitations to the most attractive places in England, Ireland, Scotland,—but “c’est admirable, mais ce n’est pas la paix.” May I count on the “paix” where I so much enjoyed it? I hear with delight that Edith will be with you again,—that completes the otherwise incompleteness. Yes, the Rezzonico is what you Americans call a “big thing.”... But the interest I take in its acquisition is different altogether from what accompanied the earlier attempt. At most, I look on approvingly, as by all accounts I am warranted in doing, but there an end....

... So, dearest friend, “a rivederci!” Give my love to Edith and tell her I hope in her keeping her kindness for me, spite of the claims on it of all the others. And my sister, not one word of her? Somehow you must know her more thoroughly than poor, battered me, tugged at and torn to pieces, metaphorically, by so many sympathizers, real or pretended. She wants change, probably more than I do. And, but for her, I believe I should continue here, with the gardens for my place of healing. How she will enjoy the sight of you, if it may be! Tell me what is to be hoped, or feared, or despaired of, at Pen’s address, whatever it may be. And remember me as ever most affectionately yours,

      Robert Browning.

      The succeeding letter, written from Albergo Gille, Primiero, tells the story of a rather trying journey, what with the heat and his indisposition, but on finding himself bestowed at Primiero he is “absolutely well again,” and anticipating his Venice: “what a Venice it would be,” he says, “if I went elsewhere than to the beloved friend who calls me so kindly!” And he adds:

      “My stay will be short, but sweet in every sense of the word if I find her in good health, and in all other respects just as I left her; ‘no change’ meaning what it does to me who remember her goodness so well. It will be delightful to meet Edith again, if only it may be that she arrives while we are yet with you, even before, perhaps.

“Can I tell you anything about my journey except that it was so agreeable an one? On the first evening as I stepped outside our carriage for a moment, I caught sight of a well-known face. ‘Dr. Butler, surely.’ You have heard of his marriage the other day to a learnedest of young ladies, who beat all the men last year at Greek. He insisted on introducing me to her; I had seen her once before without undergoing that formality and willingly I shook hands with a sprightly young person ... pretty, and grand-daughterly, she is, however, only twenty-six years his junior. Then, this happened; the little train from Montebelluna to Feltre was crowded—we could find no room except in a smoking carriage—wherein I observed a good-natured, elderly gentleman, an Italian, I took for granted. Presently he said, ‘Can I offer you an English paper?’ ‘What, are you English?’ ‘Oh, yes, and I know you,—who are going to see your son at Primiero.’ ‘Why, who can you be?’ ‘One who has seen you often.’ ‘Not surely, Mr. Malcolm?’ ‘Well, nobody else.’ So ensued an affectionate greeting, he having been the guardian angel of Pen in all his chafferings about the purchase of the palazzo. He gave me abundance of information, and satisfied me on many points. I had been anxious to write and thank him as he deserved, but this provided an earlier and more graceful way, for a beginning at least.

      “Pen is at work on a pretty picture, a peasant girl whom he picked up in the neighborhood, and his literal treatment stands him in good stead; he is reproducing her cleverly, at any rate, he takes pains enough.”

Towards the end of September they joined in Venice the “beloved friend,” whose genius for friendship only made each sojourn with her more beautiful than the preceding, if that which was perfect could receive an added degree. “It was curious to see,” wrote Mrs. Bronson, “how on each of his arrivals in Venice he took up his life precisely as he had left it.” Browning and his sister frequently went on Sundays to the Waldensian chapel, where in this autumn there was a preacher of great eloquence. Every morning, after their early coffee, the poet was off for a brisk walk, and after returning he busied himself with his letters and newspapers, his mail always containing more or less letters from strangers and admirers, some of whom solicited autographs, which, so far as possible, he always granted. Mrs. Bronson has somewhere noted that when asked, viva voce, for an autograph, he would look puzzled, and say “I don’t like to always write the same verse, but I can only remember one,” and he would then proceed to copy “All that I know of a certain star,” which, however it “dartles red and blue,” he knew nothing of save that it had “opened its soul” to him. Arthur Rogers, delivering the Bohlen lectures for 1909, compared Browning with Isaiah, in his lecture on “Poetry and Prophecy,” and he instanced this “star” which “opened its soul” to the poet, as attesting that Browning, like Isaiah, could do no more than search depths of life.

The Palazzo Giustiniani-Recanti was a fitting haunt for a poet. Casa Alvisi, adjoining, in which Mrs. Bronson lived, looked out, as has been noted, on Santa Maria della Salute, which was on the opposite side of the Grand Canal; but the Giustiniani palace, dating to the fifteenth century, had its outlook through Gothic windows to the south, on a court and garden of romantic loveliness. The perfect tact of their hostess left the poet and his sister entirely free to come and go as they pleased, and at midday they took their déjeuner together, ordering by preference Italian dishes, as rissotto, macaroni, and fruits, especially figs and grapes. They enjoyed these tête-à-tête repasts, talking and laughing all the while, and then, about three every afternoon they joined Mrs. Bronson and her daughter for the gondola trip. The hostess records that the poet’s invariable response to the question as to where they should go would be: “Anywhere, all is beautiful, only let it be toward the Lido.” While both the poet and his sister were scrupulously prompt in returning all calls of ceremony, they were glad to evade formal visits so far as possible; and the absolute freedom with which their hostess surrounded them was grateful beyond words. “The thought deeply impressed me,” said Mrs. Bronson, “that one who had lifted so many souls above the mere necessity for living in a troublesome world deserved from those permitted to approach him their best efforts to brighten his personal life.... The little studies for his comfort, the small cares entailed upon me during the too brief days and weeks when his precious life was partly entrusted to my care, might seem to count for little in an existence far removed from that of an ordinary man; yet, as a fact, he was glad and grateful for the smallest attention. He was appreciative of all things. He never regarded gratitude as a burden, as less generous minds are apt to do,” continued Mrs. Bronson.

      Mrs. Arthur Bronson

       From a painting by Ellen Montalba, in Asolo

      In the possession of Edittá, Contessa Rucellai (née Bronson), Palazzo Rucellai, Florence.

      One of his greatest enjoyments in Venice was to wander with Edith Bronson through the Venetian calli. “Edith is the best cicerone in the world,” he would remark; “she knows everything and teaches me all she knows. There never was such a guide.” The young girl indeed knew her Venice as a devotee knows his illuminated missal, and her lovely vivacity and sweetness must have invested her presence with the same charm that is felt to-day in the Contessa Rucellai, in her Florentine palace, for Miss Bronson, it may be said en passant, became the wife of one of the most eminent Italian nobles, the Rucellai holding peculiar claim to distinction even among the princely houses of Florence.

      From these gondola excursions they always returned about five, and sometimes the poet would join the group around Mrs. Bronson’s tea-table, conversing with equal facility in French, German, or Italian, and to their delight would say, “Edith, dear, you may give me a cup of tea.” But as a rule he considered this beverage as too unhygienic at that hour, and whenever with an “Excuse me, please,” he sought his own apartments, he was never questioned for his reasons. “It was enough that he wished it,” said his hostess. He and Miss СКАЧАТЬ