It was at Elm Place that Mr. Browning first met Miss Euphrasia Fanny Haworth, then a neighbour of Mr. Macready, residing with her mother at Barham Lodge. Miss Haworth was still a young woman, but her love and talent for art and literature made her a fitting member of the genial circle to which Mr. Browning belonged; and she and the poet soon became fast friends. Her first name appears as ‘Eyebright’ in ‘Sordello’. His letters to her, returned after her death by her brother, Mr. Frederick Haworth, supply valuable records of his experiences and of his feelings at one very interesting, and one deeply sorrowful, period of his history. She was a thoroughly kindly, as well as gifted woman, and much appreciated by those of the poet’s friends who knew her as a resident in London during her last years. A portrait which she took of him in 1874 is considered by some persons very good.
At about this time also, and probably through Miss Haworth, he became acquainted with Miss Martineau.
Soon after his introduction to Macready, if not before, Mr. Browning became busy with the thought of writing for the stage. The diary has this entry for February 16, 1836:
‘Forster and Browning called, and talked over the plot of a tragedy, which Browning had begun to think of: the subject, Narses. He said that I had bit him by my performance of Othello, and I told him I hoped I should make the blood come. It would indeed be some recompense for the miseries, the humiliations, the heart-sickening disgusts which I have endured in my profession, if, by its exercise, I had awakened a spirit of poetry whose influence would elevate, ennoble, and adorn our degraded drama. May it be!’
But Narses was abandoned, and the more serious inspiration and more definite motive were to come later. They connect themselves with one of the pleasant social occurrences which must have lived in the young poet’s memory. On May 26 ‘Ion’ had been performed for the first time and with great success, Mr. Macready sustaining the principal part; and the great actor and a number of their common friends had met at supper at Serjeant Talfourd’s house to celebrate the occasion. The party included Wordsworth and Landor, both of whom Mr. Browning then met for the first time. Toasts flew right and left. Mr. Browning’s health was proposed by Serjeant Talfourd as that of the youngest poet of England, and Wordsworth responded to the appeal with very kindly courtesy. The conversation afterwards turned upon plays, and Macready, who had ignored a half-joking question of Miss Mitford, whether, if she wrote one, he would act in it, overtook Browning as they were leaving the house, and said, ‘Write a play, Browning, and keep me from going to America.’ The reply was, ‘Shall it be historical and English; what do you say to a drama on Strafford?’
This ready response on the poet’s part showed that Strafford, as a dramatic subject, had been occupying his thoughts. The subject was in the air, because Forster was then bringing out a life of that statesman, with others belonging to the same period. It was more than in the air, so far as Browning was concerned, because his friend had been disabled, either through sickness or sorrow, from finishing this volume by the appointed time, and he, as well he might, had largely helped him in its completion. It was, however, not till August 3 that Macready wrote in his diary:
‘Forster told me that Browning had fixed on Strafford for the subject of a tragedy; he could not have hit upon one that I could have more readily concurred in.’
A previous entry of May 30, the occasion of which is only implied, shows with how high an estimate of Mr. Browning’s intellectual importance Macready’s professional relations to him began.
‘Arriving at chambers, I found a note from Browning. What can I say upon it? It was a tribute which remunerated me for the annoyances and cares of years: it was one of the very highest, may I not say the highest, honour I have through life received.’
The estimate maintained itself in reference to the value of Mr. Browning’s work, since he wrote on March 13, 1837:
‘Read before dinner a few pages of ‘Paracelsus’, which raises my wonder the more I read it. . . . Looked over two plays, which it was not possible to read, hardly as I tried. . . . Read some scenes in ‘Strafford’, which restore one to the world of sense and feeling once again.’
But as the day of the performance drew near, he became at once more anxious and more critical. An entry of April 28 comments somewhat sharply on the dramatic faults of ‘Strafford’, besides declaring the writer’s belief that the only chance for it is in the acting, which, ‘by possibility, might carry it to the end without disapprobation,’ though he dares not hope without opposition. It is quite conceivable that his first complete study of the play, and first rehearsal of it, brought to light deficiencies which had previously escaped him; but so complete a change of sentiment points also to private causes of uneasiness and irritation; and, perhaps, to the knowledge that its being saved by collective good acting was out of the question.
‘Strafford’ was performed at Covent Garden Theatre on May 1. Mr. Browning wrote to Mr. Fox after one of the last rehearsals:
May Day, Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
Dear Sir, — All my endeavours to procure a copy before this morning have been fruitless. I send the first book of the first bundle. Pray look over it — the alterations to-night will be considerable. The complexion of the piece is, I grieve to say, ‘perfect gallows’ just now — our King, Mr. Dale, being . . . but you’ll see him, and, I fear, not much applaud. Your unworthy son, in things literary, Robert Browning.
P.S. (in pencil). — A most unnecessary desire, but urged on me by Messrs. Longman: no notice on Str. in to-night’s True Sun,* lest the other papers be jealous!!!
* Mr. Fox reviewed ‘Strafford’ in the ‘True Sun’.
A second letter, undated, but evidently written a day or two later, refers to the promised notice, which had then appeared.
Tuesday Night.
No words can express my feelings: I happen to be much annoyed and unwell — but your most generous notice has almost made ‘my soul well and happy now.’
I thank you, my most kind, most constant friend, from my heart for your goodness — which is brave enough, just now. I am ever and increasingly yours, Robert Browning.
You will be glad to see me on the earliest occasion, will you not? I shall certainly come.
A letter from Miss Flower to Miss Sarah Fox (sister to the Rev. William Fox), at Norwich, contains the following passage, which evidently continues a chapter of London news:
‘Then ‘Strafford’; were you not pleased to hear of the success of one you must, I think, remember a very little boy, years ago. If not, you have often heard us speak of Robert Browning: and it is a great deal to have accomplished a successful tragedy, although he seems a good deal annoyed at the go of things behind the scenes, and declares he will never write a play again, as long as he lives. You have no idea of the ignorance and obstinacy of the whole set, with here and there an exception; think of his having to write out the meaning of the word ‘impeachment’, as some of them thought it meant ‘poaching’.’
On the first night, indeed, the fate of ‘Strafford’ hung in the balance; it was saved by Macready and Miss Helen Faucit. After this they must have been better supported, as it was received on the second night with enthusiasm by a full house. The catastrophe came after the fifth performance, with the desertion of the actor who had sustained the part of Pym. We cannot now judge whether, even under favourable circumstances, the play would have had as long a run as was intended; but the casting vote in favour of this view is given by the conduct of Mr. Osbaldistone, the manager, when it was submitted to him. The diary says, March 30, that he caught at it with avidity, and agreed to produce it without delay. The terms he offered to the author must also have been considered favourable in those days.
The play was published in April by Longman, this time not at the author’s expense; but it brought no return either to him or to his publisher. It was dedicated ‘in all affectionate admiration’ to William C. Macready.
We gain some personal glimpses of the Browning of 1835-6; one especially throu
gh Mrs. Bridell-Fox, who thus describes her first meeting with him:
‘I remember . . . when Mr. Browning entered the drawing-room, with a quick light step; and on hearing from me that my father was out, and in fact that nobody was at home but myself, he said: “It’s my birthday to-day; I’ll wait till they come in,” and sitting down to the piano, he added: “If it won’t disturb you, I’ll play till they do.” And as he turned to the instrument, the bells of some neighbouring church suddenly burst out with a frantic merry peal. It seemed, to my childish fancy, as if in response to the remark that it was his birthday. He was then slim and dark, and very handsome; and — may I hint it — just a trifle of a dandy, addicted to lemon-coloured kid-gloves and such things: quite “the glass of fashion and the mould of form.” But full of ambition, eager for success, eager for fame, and, what’s more, determined to conquer fame and to achieve success.’
I do not think his memory ever taxed him with foppishness, though he may have had the innocent personal vanity of an attractive young man at his first period of much seeing and being seen; but all we know of him at that time bears out the impression Mrs. Fox conveys, of a joyous, artless confidence in himself and in life, easily depressed, but quickly reasserting itself; and in which the eagerness for new experiences had freed itself from the rebellious impatience of boyish days. The self-confidence had its touches of flippancy and conceit; but on this side it must have been constantly counteracted by his gratitude for kindness, and by his enthusiastic appreciation of the merits of other men. His powers of feeling, indeed, greatly expended themselves in this way. He was very attractive to women and, as we have seen, warmly loved by very various types of men; but, except in its poetic sense, his emotional nature was by no means then in the ascendant: a fact difficult to realize when we remember the passion of his childhood’s love for mother and home, and the new and deep capabilities of affection to be developed in future days. The poet’s soul in him was feeling its wings; the realities of life had not yet begun to weight them.
We see him again at the ‘Ion’ supper, in the grace and modesty with which he received the honours then adjudged to him. The testimony has been said to come from Miss Mitford, but may easily have been supplied by Miss Haworth, who was also present on this occasion.
Mr. Browning’s impulse towards play-writing had not, as we have seen, begun with ‘Strafford’. It was still very far from being exhausted. And though he had struck out for himself another line of dramatic activity, his love for the higher theatrical life, and the legitimate inducements of the more lucrative and not necessarily less noble form of composition, might ultimately in some degree have prevailed with him if circumstances had been such as to educate his theatrical capabilities, and to reward them. His first acted drama was, however, an interlude to the production of the important group of poems which was to be completed by ‘Sordello’; and he alludes to this later work in an also discarded preface to ‘Strafford’, as one on which he had for some time been engaged. He even characterizes the Tragedy as an attempt ‘to freshen a jaded mind by diverting it to the healthy natures of a grand epoch.’ ‘Sordello’ again occupied him during the remainder of 1837 and the beginning of 1838; and by the spring of this year he must have been thankful to vary the scene and mode of his labours by means of a first visit to Italy. He announces his impending journey, with its immediate plan and purpose, in the following note:
To John Robertson, Esq.
Good Friday, 1838.
Dear Sir, — I was not fortunate enough to find you the day before yesterday — and must tell you very hurriedly that I sail this morning for Venice — intending to finish my poem among the scenes it describes. I shall have your good wishes I know. Believe me, in return, Dear sir, Yours faithfully and obliged, Robert Browning.
Mr. John Robertson had influence with the ‘Westminster Review’, either as editor, or member of its staff. He had been introduced to Mr. Browning by Miss Martineau; and, being a great admirer of ‘Paracelsus’, had promised careful attention for ‘Sordello’; but, when the time approached, he made conditions of early reading, &c., which Mr. Browning thought so unfair towards other magazines that he refused to fulfil them. He lost his review, and the goodwill of its intending writer; and even Miss Martineau was ever afterwards cooler towards him, though his attitude in the matter had been in some degree prompted by a chivalrous partisanship for her.
Chapter 7
1838-1841
First Italian Journey — Letters to Miss Haworth — Mr. John Kenyon — ’Sordello’ — Letter to Miss Flower — ’Pippa Passes’ — ’Bells and Pomegranates’.
Mr. Browning sailed from London with Captain Davidson of the ‘Norham Castle’, a merchant vessel bound for Trieste, on which he found himself the only passenger. A striking experience of the voyage, and some characteristic personal details, are given in the following letter to Miss Haworth. It is dated 1838, and was probably written before that year’s summer had closed.
Tuesday Evening.
Dear Miss Haworth, — Do look at a fuchsia in full bloom and notice the clear little honey-drop depending from every flower. I have just found it out to my no small satisfaction, — a bee’s breakfast. I only answer for the long-blossomed sort, though, — indeed, for this plant in my room. Taste and be Titania; you can, that is. All this while I forget that you will perhaps never guess the good of the discovery: I have, you are to know, such a love for flowers and leaves — some leaves — that I every now and then, in an impatience at being able to possess myself of them thoroughly, to see them quite, satiate myself with their scent, — bite them to bits — so there will be some sense in that. How I remember the flowers — even grasses — of places I have seen! Some one flower or weed, I should say, that gets some strangehow connected with them.
Snowdrops and Tilsit in Prussia go together; cowslips and Windsor Park, for instance; flowering palm and some place or other in Holland.
Now to answer what can be answered in the letter I was happy to receive last week. I am quite well. I did not expect you would write, — for none of your written reasons, however. You will see ‘Sordello’ in a trice, if the fagging fit holds. I did not write six lines while absent (except a scene in a play, jotted down as we sailed thro’ the Straits of Gibraltar) — but I did hammer out some four, two of which are addressed to you, two to the Queen* — the whole to go in Book III — perhaps. I called you ‘Eyebright’ — meaning a simple and sad sort of translation of “Euphrasia” into my own language: folks would know who Euphrasia, or Fanny, was — and I should not know Ianthe or Clemanthe. Not that there is anything in them to care for, good or bad. Shall I say ‘Eyebright’?
* I know no lines directly addressed to the Queen.
I was disappointed in one thing, Canova.
What companions should I have?
The story of the ship must have reached you ‘with a difference’ as Ophelia says; my sister told it to a Mr. Dow, who delivered it to Forster, I suppose, who furnished Macready with it, who made it over &c., &c., &c. — As short as I can tell, this way it happened: the captain woke me one bright Sunday morning to say there was a ship floating keel uppermost half a mile off; they lowered a boat, made ropes fast to some floating canvas, and towed her towards our vessel. Both met halfway, and the little air that had risen an hour or two before, sank at once. Our men made the wreck fast in high glee at having ‘new trousers out of the sails,’ and quite sure she was a French boat, broken from her moorings at Algiers, close by. Ropes were next hove (hang this sea-talk!) round her stanchions, and after a quarter of an hour’s pushing at the capstan, the vessel righted suddenly, one dead body floating out; five more were in the forecastle, and had probably been there a month under a blazing African sun — don’t imagine the wretched state of things. They were, these six, the ‘watch below’ — (I give you the result of the day’s observation) — the rest, some eight or ten, had been washed overboard at first. One or two were Algerines, the rest Spaniards. The vessel was a smuggler bo
und for Gibraltar; there were two stupidly disproportionate guns, taking up the whole deck, which was convex and — nay, look you! (a rough pen-and-ink sketch of the different parts of the wreck is here introduced) these are the gun-rings, and the black square the place where the bodies lay. (All the ‘bulwarks’ or sides of the top, carried away by the waves.) Well, the sailors covered up the hatchway, broke up the aft-deck, hauled up tobacco and cigars, such heaps of them, and then bale after bale of prints and chintz, don’t you call it, till the captain was half-frightened — he would get at the ship’s papers, he said; so these poor fellows were pulled up, piecemeal, and pitched into the sea, the very sailors calling to each other to ‘cover the faces’, — no papers of importance were found, however, but fifteen swords, powder and ball enough for a dozen such boats, and bundles of cotton, &c., that would have taken a day to get out, but the captain vowed that after five o’clock she should be cut adrift: accordingly she was cast loose, not a third of her cargo having been touched; and you hardly can conceive the strange sight when the battered hulk turned round, actually, and looked at us, and then reeled off, like a mutilated creature from some scoundrel French surgeon’s lecture-table, into the most gorgeous and lavish sunset in the world: there; only thank me for not taking you at your word, and giving you the whole ‘story’. — ’What I did?’ I went to Trieste, then Venice — then through Treviso and Bassano to the mountains, delicious Asolo, all my places and castles, you will see. Then to Vicenza, Padua, and Venice again. Then to Verona, Trent, Innspruck (the Tyrol), Munich, Salzburg in Franconia, Frankfort and Mayence; down the Rhine to Cologne, then to Aix-la-Chapelle, Liege and Antwerp — then home. Shall you come to town, anywhere near town, soon? I shall be off again as soon as my book is out, whenever that will be.
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 407
