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

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СКАЧАТЬ to grant this because she was afraid her little boy would be tiresome to him. Her fear, however, proved mistaken. The child’s prattle amused the philosopher, and led him on one occasion to say: ‘Why, sir, you have as many aspirations as Napoleon!’ At Paris he would have been miserable without Mr. Browning’s help, in his ignorance of the language, and impatience of the discomforts which this created for him. He couldn’t ask for anything, he complained, but they brought him the opposite.

      On one occasion Mr. Carlyle made a singular remark. He was walking with Mr. Browning, either in Paris or the neighbouring country, when they passed an image of the Crucifixion; and glancing towards the figure of Christ, he said, with his deliberate Scotch utterance, ‘Ah, poor fellow, your part is played out!’

      Two especially interesting letters are dated from the same address, February 15 and April 7, 1852.

      ‘… Beranger lives close to us, and Robert has seen him in his white hat, wandering along the asphalte. I had a notion, somehow, that he was very old, but he is only elderly — not much above sixty (which is the prime of life, nowadays) and he lives quietly and keeps out of scrapes poetical and political, and if Robert and I had a little less modesty we are assured that we should find access to him easy. But we can’t make up our minds to go to his door and introduce ourselves as vagrant minstrels, when he may probably not know our names. We could never follow the fashion of certain authors, who send their books about with intimations of their being likely to be acceptable or not — of which practice poor Tennyson knows too much for his peace. If, indeed, a letter of introduction to Beranger were vouchsafed to us from any benign quarter, we should both be delighted, but we must wait patiently for the influence of the stars. Meanwhile, we have at last sent our letter [Mazzini’s] to George Sand, accompanied with a little note signed by both of us, though written by me, as seemed right, being the woman. We half-despaired in doing this — for it is most difficult, it appears, to get at her, she having taken vows against seeing strangers, in consequence of various annoyances and persecutions, in and out of print, which it’s the mere instinct of a woman to avoid — I can understand it perfectly. Also, she is in Paris for only a few days, and under a new name, to escape from the plague of her notoriety. People said, “She will never see you — you have no chance, I am afraid.” But we determined to try. At least I pricked Robert up to the leap — for he was really inclined to sit in his chair and be proud a little. “No,” said I, “you sha’n’t be proud, and I won’t be proud, and we will see her — I won’t die, if I can help it, without seeing George Sand.” So we gave our letter to a friend, who was to give it to a friend who was to place it in her hands — her abode being a mystery, and the name she used unknown. The next day came by the post this answer:

      ‘“Madame, j’aurai l’honneur de vous recevoir Dimanche prochain, rue Racine, 3. C’est le seul jour que je puisse passer chez moi; et encore je n’en suis pas absolument certaine — mais je ferai tellement mon possible, que ma bonne etoile m’y aidera peut-etre un peu. Agreez mille remerciments de coeur ainsi que Monsieur Browning, que j’espere voir avec vous, pour la sympathie que vous m’accordez. George Sand. Paris: 12 fevrier ‘52.”

      ‘This is graceful and kind, is it not? — and we are going tomorrow — I, rather at the risk of my life, but I shall roll myself up head and all in a thick shawl, and we shall go in a close carriage, and I hope I shall be able to tell you the result before shutting up this letter.

      ‘Monday. — I have seen G. S. She received us in a room with a bed in it, the only room she has to occupy, I suppose, during her short stay in Paris. She received us very cordially with her hand held out, which I, in the emotion of the moment, stooped and kissed — upon which she exclaimed, “Mais non! je ne veux pas,” and kissed me. I don’t think she is a great deal taller than I am, — yes, taller, but not a great deal — and a little over-stout for that height. The upper part of the face is fine, the forehead, eyebrows and eyes — dark glowing eyes as they should be; the lower part not so good. The beautiful teeth project a little, flashing out the smile of the large characteristic mouth, and the chin recedes. It never could have been a beautiful face Robert and I agree, but noble and expressive it has been and is. The complexion is olive, quite without colour; the hair, black and glossy, divided with evident care and twisted back into a knot behind the head, and she wore no covering to it. Some of the portraits represent her in ringlets, and ringlets would be much more becoming to the style of face, I fancy, for the cheeks are rather over-full. She was dressed in a sort of woollen grey gown, with a jacket of the same material (according to the ruling fashion), the gown fastened up to the throat, with a small linen collarette, and plain white muslin sleeves buttoned round the wrists. The hands offered to me were small and well-shaped. Her manners were quite as simple as her costume. I never saw a simpler woman. Not a shade of affectation or consciousness, even — not a suffusion of coquetry, not a cigarette to be seen! Two or three young men were sitting with her, and I observed the profound respect with which they listened to every word she said. She spoke rapidly, with a low, unemphatic voice. Repose of manner is much more her characteristic than animation is — only, under all the quietness, and perhaps by means of it, you are aware of an intense burning soul. She kissed me again when we went away… .’

      ‘April 7. — George Sand we came to know a great deal more of. I think Robert saw her six times. Once he met her near the Tuileries, offered her his arm and walked with her the whole length of the gardens. She was not on that occasion looking as well as usual, being a little too much “endimanchee” in terrestrial lavenders and super-celestial blues — not, in fact, dressed with the remarkable taste which he has seen in her at other times. Her usual costume is both pretty and quiet, and the fashionable waistcoat and jacket (which are respectable in all the “Ladies’ Companions” of the day) make the only approach to masculine wearings to be observed in her.

      ‘She has great nicety and refinement in her personal ways, I think — and the cigarette is really a feminine weapon if properly understood.

      ‘Ah! but I didn’t see her smoke. I was unfortunate. I could only go with Robert three times to her house, and once she was out. He was really very good and kind to let me go at all after he found the sort of society rampant around her. He didn’t like it extremely, but being the prince of husbands, he was lenient to my desires, and yielded the point. She seems to live in the abomination of desolation, as far as regards society — crowds of ill-bred men who adore her, ‘a genoux bas’, betwixt a puff of smoke and an ejection of saliva — society of the ragged red, diluted with the low theatrical. She herself so different, so apart, so alone in her melancholy disdain. I was deeply interested in that poor woman. I felt a profound compassion for her. I did not mind much even the Greek, in Greek costume, who ‘tutoyed’ her, and kissed her I believe, so Robert said — or the other vulgar man of the theatre, who went down on his knees and called her “sublime”. “Caprice d’amitie,” said she with her quiet, gentle scorn. A noble woman under the mud, be certain. I would kneel down to her, too, if she would leave it all, throw it off, and be herself as God made her. But she would not care for my kneeling — she does not care for me. Perhaps she doesn’t care much for anybody by this time, who knows? She wrote one or two or three kind notes to me, and promised to ‘venir m’embrasser’ before she left Paris, but she did not come. We both tried hard to please her, and she told a friend of ours that she “liked us”. Only we always felt that we couldn’t penetrate — couldn’t really touch her — it was all vain.

      ‘Alfred de Musset was to have been at M. Buloz’ where Robert was a week ago, on purpose to meet him, but he was prevented in some way. His brother, Paul de Musset, a very different person, was there instead, but we hope to have Alfred on another occasion. Do you know his poems? He is not capable of large grasps, but he has poet’s life and blood in him, I assure you… . We are expecting a visit from Lamartine, who does a great deal of honour to both of us in the way of appreciation, and was kind enough to propose to come. I will tell you all about it.’

      Mr. Browning fully shared his wife’s impression of a want of frank cordiality on George Sand’s part; and was especially struck СКАЧАТЬ