Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  He often gave an instance of the tricks played in the name of spiritualism on credulous persons, which may amuse those who have not yet heard it. I give the story as it survives in the fresher memory of Mr. Val Prinsep, who also received it from Mr. Browning.

  ‘At Florence lived a curious old savant who in his day was well known to all who cared for art or history. I fear now few live who recollect Kirkup. He was quite a mine of information on all kinds of forgotten lore. It was he who discovered Giotto’s portrait of Dante in the Bargello. Speaking of some friend, he said, “He is a most ignorant fellow! Why, he does not know how to cast a horoscope!” Of him Browning told me the following story. Kirkup was much taken up with spiritualism, in which he firmly believed. One day Browning called on him to borrow a book. He rang loudly at the storey, for he knew Kirkup, like Landor, was quite deaf. To his astonishment the door opened at once and Kirkup appeared.

  ‘“Come in,” he cried; “the spirits told me there was some one at the door. Ah! I know you do not believe! Come and see. Mariana is in a trance!”

  ‘Browning entered. In the middle room, full of all kinds of curious objects of “vertu”, stood a handsome peasant girl, with her eyes fixed as though she were in a trance.

  ‘“You see, Browning,” said Kirkup, “she is quite insensible, and has no will of her own. Mariana, hold up your arm.”

  ‘The woman slowly did as she was bid.

  ‘“She cannot take it down till I tell her,” cried Kirkup.

  ‘“Very curious,” observed Browning. “Meanwhile I have come to ask you to lend me a book.”

  ‘Kirkup, as soon as he was made to hear what book was wanted, said he should be delighted.

  ‘“Wait a bit. It is in the next room.”

  ‘The old man shuffled out at the door. No sooner had he disappeared than the woman turned to Browning, winked, and putting down her arm leaned it on his shoulder. When Kirkup returned she resumed her position and rigid look.

  ‘“Here is the book,” said Kirkup. “Isn’t it wonderful?” he added, pointing to the woman.

  ‘“Wonderful,” agreed Browning as he left the room.

  ‘The woman and her family made a good thing of poor Kirkup’s spiritualism.’

  Something much more remarkable in reference to this subject happened to the poet himself during his residence in Florence. It is related in a letter to the ‘Spectator’, dated January 30, 1869, and signed J. S. K.

  ‘Mr. Robert Browning tells me that when he was in Florence some years since, an Italian nobleman (a Count Ginnasi of Ravenna), visiting at Florence, was brought to his house without previous introduction, by an intimate friend. The Count professed to have great mesmeric and clairvoyant faculties, and declared, in reply to Mr. Browning’s avowed scepticism, that he would undertake to convince him somehow or other of his powers. He then asked Mr. Browning whether he had anything about him then and there, which he could hand to him, and which was in any way a relic or memento. This Mr. Browning thought was perhaps because he habitually wore no sort of trinket or ornament, not even a watchguard, and might therefore turn out to be a safe challenge. But it so happened that, by a curious accident, he was then wearing under his coat-sleeves some gold wrist-studs which he had quite recently taken into wear, in the absence (by mistake of a sempstress) of his ordinary wrist-buttons. He had never before worn them in Florence or elsewhere, and had found them in some old drawer where they had lain forgotten for years. One of these studs he took out and handed to the Count, who held it in his hand a while, looking earnestly in Mr. Browning’s face, and then he said, as if much impressed, “C’equalche cosa che mi grida nell’ orecchio ‘Uccisione! uccisione!’“ (“There is something here which cries out in my ear, ‘Murder! murder!’“)

  ‘“And truly,” says Mr. Browning, “those very studs were taken from the dead body of a great uncle of mine who was violently killed on his estate in St. Kitt’s, nearly eighty years ago. . . . The occurrence of my great uncle’s murder was known only to myself of all men in Florence, as certainly was also my possession of the studs.”‘

  A letter from the poet, of July 21, 1883, affirms that the account is correct in every particular, adding, ‘My own explanation of the matter has been that the shrewd Italian felt his way by the involuntary help of my own eyes and face.’ The story has been reprinted in the Reports of the Psychical Society.

  A pleasant piece of news came to brighten the January of 1858. Mr. Fox was returned for Oldham, and at once wrote to announce the fact. He was answered in a joint letter from Mr. and Mrs. Browning, interesting throughout, but of which only the second part is quite suited for present insertion.

  Mrs. Browning, who writes first and at most length, ends by saying she must leave a space for Robert, that Mr. Fox may be compensated for reading all she has had to say. The husband continues as follows:

  . . . ‘A space for Robert’ who has taken a breathing space — hardly more than enough — to recover from his delight; he won’t say surprise, at your letter, dear Mr. Fox. But it is all right and, like you, I wish from my heart we could get close together again, as in those old days, and what times we would have here in Italy! The realization of the children’s prayer of angels at the corner of your bed (i.e. sofa), one to read and one (my wife) to write,* and both to guard you through the night of lodging-keeper’s extortions, abominable charges for firing, and so on. (Observe, to call oneself ‘an angel’ in this land is rather humble, where they are apt to be painted as plumed cutthroats or celestial police — you say of Gabriel at his best and blithesomest, ‘Shouldn’t admire meeting him in a narrow lane!’)

  * Mr. Fox much liked to be read to, and was in the habit

  of writing his articles by dictation.

  I say this foolishly just because I can’t trust myself to be earnest about it. I would, you know, I would, always would, choose you out of the whole English world to judge and correct what I write myself; my wife shall read this and let it stand if I have told her so these twelve years — and certainly I have not grown intellectually an inch over the good and kind hand you extended over my head how many years ago! Now it goes over my wife’s too.

  How was it Tottie never came here as she promised? Is it to be some other time? Do think of Florence, if ever you feel chilly, and hear quantities about the Princess Royal’s marriage, and want a change. I hate the thought of leaving Italy for one day more than I can help — and satisfy my English predilections by newspapers and a book or two. One gets nothing of that kind here, but the stuff out of which books grow, — it lies about one’s feet indeed. Yet for me, there would be one book better than any now to be got here or elsewhere, and all out of a great English head and heart, — those ‘Memoirs’ you engaged to give us. Will you give us them?

  Goodbye now — if ever the whim strikes you to ‘make beggars happy’ remember us.

  Love to Tottie, and love and gratitude to you, dear Mr. Fox, From yours ever affectionately, Robert Browning.

  In the summer of this year, the poet with his wife and child joined his father and sister at Havre. It was the last time they were all to be together.

  Chapter 13

  1858-1861

  Mrs. Browning’s Illness — Siena — Letter from Mr. Browning to Mr. Leighton — Mrs. Browning’s Letters continued — Walter Savage Landor — Winter in Rome — Mr. Val Prinsep — Friends in Rome: Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright — Multiplying Social Relations — Massimo d’Azeglio — Siena again — Illness and Death of Mrs. Browning’s Sister — Mr. Browning’s Occupations — Madame du Quaire — Mrs. Browning’s last Illness and Death.

  I cannot quite ascertain, though it might seem easy to do so, whether Mr. and Mrs. Browning remained in Florence again till the summer of 1859, or whether the intervening months were divided between Florence and Rome; but some words in their letters favour the latter supposition. We hear of them in September from Mr. Val Prinsep, in Siena or its neighbourhood; with Mr. and Mrs. Story in an adjacent villa, and Walter Savage Lando
r in a ‘cottage’ close by. How Mr. Landor found himself of the party belongs to a little chapter in Mr. Browning’s history for which I quote Mr. Colvin’s words.* He was then living at Fiesole with his family, very unhappily, as we all know; and Mr. Colvin relates how he had thrice left his villa there, determined to live in Florence alone; and each time been brought back to the nominal home where so little kindness awaited him.

  * ‘Life of Landor’, p. 209.

  ‘. . . The fourth time he presented himself in the house of Mr. Browning with only a few pauls in his pocket, declaring that nothing should ever induce him to return.

  ‘Mr. Browning, an interview with the family at the villa having satisfied him that reconciliation or return was indeed past question, put himself at once in communication with Mr. Forster and with Landor’s brothers in England. The latter instantly undertook to supply the needs of their eldest brother during the remainder of his life. Thenceforth an income sufficient for his frugal wants was forwarded regularly for his use through the friend who had thus come forward at his need. To Mr. Browning’s respectful and judicious guidance Landor showed himself docile from the first. Removed from the inflictions, real and imaginary, of his life at Fiesole, he became another man, and at times still seemed to those about him like the old Landor at his best. It was in July, 1859, that the new arrangements for his life were made. The remainder of that summer he spent at Siena, first as the guest of Mr. Story, the American sculptor and poet, next in a cottage rented for him by Mr. Browning near his own. In the autumn of the same year Landor removed to a set of apartments in the Via Nunziatina in Florence, close to the Casa Guidi, in a house kept by a former servant of Mrs. Browning’s, an Englishwoman married to an Italian.* Here he continued to live during the five years that yet remained to him.’

  * Wilson, Mrs. Browning’s devoted maid, and another most

  faithful servant

  of hers and her husband’s, Ferdinando Romagnoli.

  Mr. Landor’s presence is also referred to, with the more important circumstance of a recent illness of Mrs. Browning’s, in two characteristic and interesting letters of this period, one written by Mr. Browning to Frederic Leighton, the other by his wife to her sister-in-law. Mr. — now Sir F. — Leighton had been studying art during the previous winter in Italy.

  Kingdom of Piedmont, Siena: Oct. 9, ‘59.

  ‘My dear Leighton — I hope — and think — you know what delight it gave me to hear from you two months ago. I was in great trouble at the time about my wife who was seriously ill. As soon as she could bear removal we brought her to a villa here. She slowly recovered and is at last well — I believe — but weak still and requiring more attention than usual. We shall be obliged to return to Rome for the winter — not choosing to risk losing what we have regained with some difficulty. Now you know why I did not write at once — and may imagine why, having waited so long, I put off telling you for a week or two till I could say certainly what we do with ourselves. If any amount of endeavour could induce you to join us there — Cartwright, Russell, the Vatican and all — and if such a step were not inconsistent with your true interests — you should have it: but I know very well that you love Italy too much not to have had weighty reasons for renouncing her at present — and I want your own good and not my own contentment in the matter. Wherever you are, be sure I shall follow your proceedings with deep and true interest. I heard of your successes — and am now anxious to know how you get on with the great picture, the ‘Ex voto’ — if it does not prove full of beauty and power, two of us will be shamed, that’s all! But I don’t fear, mind! Do keep me informed of your progress, from time to time — a few lines will serve — and then I shall slip some day into your studio, and buffet the piano, without having grown a stranger. Another thing — do take proper care of your health, and exercise yourself; give those vile indigestions no chance against you; keep up your spirits, and be as distinguished and happy as God meant you should. Can I do anything for you at Rome — not to say, Florence? We go thither (i.e. to Florence) to-morrow, stay there a month, probably, and then take the Siena road again.’

  The next paragraph refers to some orders for photographs, and is not specially interesting.

  Cartwright arrived here a fortnight ago — very pleasant it was to see him: he left for Florence, stayed a day or two and returned to Mrs. Cartwright (who remained at the Inn) and they all departed prosperously yesterday for Rome. Odo Russell spent two days here on his way thither — we liked him much. Prinsep and Jones — do you know them? — are in the town. The Storys have passed the summer in the villa opposite, — and no less a lion than dear old Landor is in a house a few steps off. I take care of him — his amiable family having clawed him a little too sharply: so strangely do things come about! I mean his Fiesole ‘family’ — a trifle of wife, sons and daughter — not his English relatives, who are generous and good in every way.

  Take any opportunity of telling dear Mrs. Sartoris (however unnecessarily) that I and my wife remember her with the old feeling — I trust she is well and happy to heart’s content. Pen is quite well and rejoicing just now in a Sardinian pony on which he gallops like Puck on a dragon-fly’s back. My wife’s kind regard and best wishes go with those of, Dear Leighton, yours affectionately ever, R. Browning.

  October 1859.

  Mrs. to Miss Browning.

  ‘. . . After all, it is not a cruel punishment to have to go to Rome again this winter, though it will be an undesirable expense, and we did wish to keep quiet this winter, — the taste for constant wanderings having passed away as much for me as for Robert. We begin to see that by no possible means can one spend as much money to so small an end — and then we don’t work so well, don’t live to as much use either for ourselves or others. Isa Blagden bids us observe that we pretend to live at Florence, and are not there much above two months in the year, what with going away for the summer and going away for the winter. It’s too true. It’s the drawback of Italy. To live in one place there is impossible for us, almost just as to live out of Italy at all, is impossible for us. It isn’t caprice on our part. Siena pleases us very much — the silence and repose have been heavenly things to me, and the country is very pretty — though no more than pretty — nothing marked or romantic — no mountains, except so far off as to be like a cloud only on clear days — and no water. Pretty dimpled ground, covered with low vineyards, purple hills, not high, with the sunsets clothing them. . . . We shall not leave Florence till November — Robert must see Mr. Landor (his adopted son, Sarianna) settled in his new apartments with Wilson for a duenna. It’s an excellent plan for him and not a bad one for Wilson. . . . Forgive me if Robert has told you this already. Dear darling Robert amuses me by talking of his “gentleness and sweetness”. A most courteous and refined gentleman he is, of course, and very affectionate to Robert (as he ought to be), but of self-restraint, he has not a grain, and of suspiciousness, many grains. Wilson will run many risks, and I, for one, would rather not run them. What do you say to dashing down a plate on the floor when you don’t like what’s on it? And the contadini at whose house he is lodging now have been already accused of opening desks. Still upon that occasion (though there was talk of the probability of Mr. Landor’s “throat being cut in his sleep” — ) as on other occasions, Robert succeeded in soothing him — and the poor old lion is very quiet on the whole, roaring softly, to beguile the time, in Latin alcaics against his wife and Louis Napoleon. He laughs carnivorously when I tell him that one of these days he will have to write an ode in honour of the Emperor, to please me.’

  Mrs. Browning writes, somewhat later, from Rome:

  ‘. . . We left Mr. Landor in great comfort. I went to see his apartment before it was furnished. Rooms small, but with a look-out into a little garden, quiet and cheerful, and he doesn’t mind a situation rather out of the way. He pays four pounds ten (English) the month. Wilson has thirty pounds a year for taking care of him — which sounds a good deal, but it is a difficult position. He
has excellent, generous, affectionate impulses — but the impulses of the tiger, every now and then. Nothing coheres in him — either in his opinions, or, I fear, his affections. It isn’t age — he is precisely the man of his youth, I must believe. Still, his genius gives him the right of gratitude on all artists at least, and I must say that my Robert has generously paid the debt. Robert always said that he owed more as a writer to Landor than to any contemporary. At present Landor is very fond of him — but I am quite prepared for his turning against us as he has turned against Forster, who has been so devoted for years and years. Only one isn’t kind for what one gets by it, or there wouldn’t be much kindness in this world. . . .’