Life and Letters of Robert Browning Part 21

and 'Aurora Leigh'. Even the exalted fervour of the invocation to Caponsacchi, its blending of spiritual ecstasy with half-realized earthly emotion, has, I think, no parallel in her husband's work.

'Pompilia' bears, still, unmistakably, the stamp of her author's genius.

Only he could have imagined her peculiar form of consciousness; her childlike, wondering, yet subtle, perception of the anomalies of life.

He has raised the woman in her from the typical to the individual by this distinguishing touch of his supreme originality; and thus infused into her character a haunting pathos which renders it to many readers the most exquisite in the whole range of his creations. For others at the same time, it fails in the impressiveness because it lacks the reality which habitually marks them.

So much, however, is certain: Mr. Browning would never have accepted this 'murder story' as the subject of a poem, if he could not in some sense have made it poetical. It was only in an idealized Pompilia that the material for such a process could be found. We owe it, therefore, to the one departure from his usual mode of dramatic conception, that the Poet's masterpiece has been produced. I know no other instance of what can be even mistaken for reflected inspiration in the whole range of his work, the given pa.s.sages in 'Pauline' excepted.

The postscript of a letter to Frederic Leighton written so far back as October 17, 1864, is interesting in its connection with the preliminary stages of this great undertaking.

'A favour, if you have time for it. Go into the church St. Lorenzo in Lucina in the Corso--and look attentively at it--so as to describe it to me on your return. The general arrangement of the building, if with a nave--pillars or not--the number of altars, and any particularity there may be--over the High Altar is a famous Crucifixion by Guido. It will be of great use to me. I don't care about the _outsid_.'

Chapter 16

1869-1873

Lord Dufferin; Helen's Tower--Scotland; Visit to Lady Ashburton--Letters to Miss Blagden--St.-Aubin; The Franco-Prussian War--'Herve Riel'--Letter to Mr. G. M. Smith--'Balaustion's Adventure'; 'Prince Hohenstiel-Schw.a.n.gau'--'Fifine at the Fair'--Mistaken Theories of Mr.

Browning's Work--St.-Aubin; 'Red Cotton Nightcap Country'.

From 1869 to 1871 Mr. Browning published nothing; but in April 1870 he wrote the sonnet called 'Helen's Tower', a beautiful tribute to the memory of Helen, mother of Lord Dufferin, suggested by the memorial tower which her son was erecting to her on his estate at Clandeboye. The sonnet appeared in 1883, in the 'Pall Mall Gazette', and was reprinted in 1886, in 'Sonnets of the Century', edited by Mr. Sharp; and again in the fifth part of the Browning Society's 'Papers'; but it is still I think sufficiently little known to justify its reproduction.

Who hears of Helen's Tower may dream perchance How the Greek Beauty from the Scaean Gate Gazed on old friends unanimous in hate, Death-doom'd because of her fair countenance.

Hearts would leap otherwise at thy advance, Lady, to whom this Tower is consecrate!

Like hers, thy face once made all eyes elate, Yet, unlike hers, was bless'd by every glance.

The Tower of Hate is outworn, far and strange; A transitory shame of long ago; It dies into the sand from which it sprang; But thine, Love's rock-built Tower, shall fear no change.

G.o.d's self laid stable earth's foundations so, When all the morning-stars together sang.

April 26, 1870.

Lord Dufferin is a warm admirer of Mr. Browning's genius. He also held him in strong personal regard.

In the summer of 1869 the poet, with his sister and son, changed the manner of his holiday, by joining Mr. Story and his family in a tour in Scotland, and a visit to Louisa, Lady Ashburton, at Loch Luichart Lodge; but in the August of 1870 he was again in the primitive atmosphere of a French fishing village, though one which had little to recommend it but the society of a friend; it was M. Milsand's St.-Aubin. He had written, February 24, to Miss Blagden, under the one inspiration which naturally recurred in his correspondence with her.

'... So you, too, think of Naples for an eventual resting-place! Yes, that is the proper basking-ground for "bright and aged snakes." Florence would be irritating, and, on the whole, insufferable--Yet I never hear of any one going thither but my heart is twitched. There is a good, charming, little singing German lady, Miss Regan, who told me the other day that she was just about revisiting her aunt, Madame Sabatier, whom you may know, or know of--and I felt as if I should immensely like to glide, for a long summer-day through the streets and between the old stone-walls,--unseen come and unheard go--perhaps by some miracle, I shall do so--and look up at Villa Brichieri as Arnold's Gypsy-Scholar gave one wistful look at "the line of festal light in Christ Church Hall," before he went to sleep in some forgotten grange... . I am so glad I can be comfortable in your comfort. I fancy exactly how you feel and see how you live: it _is_ the Villa Geddes of old days, I find. I well remember the fine view from the 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 and wild flowers--violets and ground-ivy, I remember. Oh, me! to find myself 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... .'

He writes again from St.-Aubin, August 19, 1870:

'Dearest Isa,--Your letter came prosperously to this little wild place, where we have been, Sarianna and myself, just a week. Milsand lives in a cottage with a nice bit of garden, two steps off, and we occupy another of the most primitive kind on the sea-sh.o.r.e--which sh.o.r.e is a good sandy stretch for miles and miles on either side. I don't think we were ever quite so thoroughly washed by the sea-air from all quarters as here--the weather is fine, and we do well enough. The sadness of the war and its consequences go far to paralyse all our pleasure, however... .

'Well, you are at Siena--one of the places I love best to remember. You are returned--or I would ask you to tell me how the Villa Alberti wears, and if the fig-tree behind the house is green and strong yet. I have a pen-and-ink drawing of it, dated and signed the last day Ba was ever there--"my fig tree--" she used to sit under it, reading and writing.

Nine years, or ten rather, since then! Poor old Landor's oak, too, and his cottage, ought not to be forgotten. Exactly opposite this house,--just over the way of the water,--shines every night the light-house of Havre--a place I know well, and love very moderately: but it always gives me a thrill as I see afar, _exactly_ a particular spot which I was at along with her. At this moment, I see the white streak of the phare in the sun, from the window where I write and I _think_... .

Milsand went to Paris last week, just before we arrived, to transport his valuables to a safer place than his house, which is near the fortifications. He is filled with as much despondency as can be--while the old dear and perfect kindness remains. I never knew or shall know his like among men... .'

The war did more than sadden Mr. and Miss Browning's visit to St.-Aubin; it opposed unlooked-for difficulties to their return home. They had remained, unconscious of the impending danger, till Sedan had been taken, the Emperor's downfall proclaimed, and the country suddenly placed in a state of siege. One morning M. Milsand came to them in anxious haste, and insisted on their starting that very day. An order, he said, had been issued that no native should leave the country, and it only needed some unusually thick-headed Maire for Mr. Browning to be arrested as a runaway Frenchman or a Prussian spy. The usual pa.s.senger boats from Calais and Boulogne no longer ran; but there was, he believed, a chance of their finding one at Havre. They acted on this warning, and discovered its wisdom in the various hindrances which they found on their way. Everywhere the horses had been requisitioned for the war. The boat on which they had relied to take them down the river to Caen had been stopped that very morning; and when they reached the railroad they were told that the Prussians would be at the other end before night. At last they arrived at Honfleur, where they found an English vessel which was about to convey cattle to Southampton; and in this, setting out at midnight, they made their pa.s.sage to England.

Some words addressed to Miss Blagden, written I believe in 1871, once more strike a touching familiar note.

'... But _no_, dearest Isa. The simple truth is that _she_ was the poet, and I the clever person by comparison--remember her limited experience of all kinds, and what she made of it. Remember on the other hand, how my uninterrupted health and strength and practice with the world have helped me... .'

'Balaustion's Adventure' and 'Prince Hohenstiel-Schw.a.n.gau' were published, respectively, in August and December 1871. They had been preceded in the March of the same year by a ballad, 'Herve Riel', afterwards reprinted in the 'Pacchiarotto' volume, and which Mr.

Browning now sold to the 'Cornhill Magazine' for the benefit of the French sufferers by the war.

The circ.u.mstances of this little transaction, unique in Mr. Browning's experience, are set forth in the following letter:

Feb. 4, '71.

'My dear Smith,--I want to give something to the people in Paris, and can afford so very little just now, that I am forced upon an expedient.

Will you buy of me that poem which poor Simeon praised in a letter you saw, and which I like better than most things I have done of late?--Buy,--I mean,--the right of printing it in the Pall Mall and, if you please, the Cornhill also,--the copyright remaining with me. You remember you wanted to print it in the Cornhill, and I was obstinate: there is hardly any occasion on which I should be otherwise, if the printing any poem of mine in a magazine were purely for my own sake: so, any liberality you exercise will not be drawn into a precedent against you. I fancy this is a case in which one may handsomely puff one's own ware, and I venture to call my verses good for once. I send them to you directly, because expedition will render whatever I contribute more valuable: for when you make up your mind as to how liberally I shall be enabled to give, you must send me a cheque and I will send the same as the "Product of a Poem"--so that your light will shine deservedly. Now, begin proceedings by reading the poem to Mrs. Smith,--by whose judgment I will cheerfully be bound; and, with her approval, second my endeavour as best you can. Would,--for the love of France,--that this were a "Song of a Wren"--then should the guineas equal the lines; as it is, do what you safely may for the song of a Robin--Browning--who is yours very truly, into the bargain.

'P.S. The copy is so clear and careful that you might, with a good Reader, print it on Monday, nor need my help for corrections: I shall however be always at home, and ready at a moment's notice: return the copy, if you please, as I promised it to my son long ago.'

Mr. Smith gave him 100 guineas as the price of the poem.

He wrote concerning the two longer poems, first probably at the close of this year, and again in January 1872, to Miss Blagden.

'... By this time you have got my little book ('Hohenstiel') and seen for yourself whether I make the best or worst of the case. I think, in the main, he meant to do what I say, and, but for weakness,--grown more apparent in his last years than formerly,--would have done what I say he did not.* I thought badly of him at the beginning of his career, _et pour cause_: better afterward, on the strength of the promises he made, and gave indications of intending to redeem. I think him very weak in the last miserable year. At his worst I prefer him to Thiers' best. I am told my little thing is succeeding--sold 1,400 in the first five days, and before any notice appeared. I remember that the year I made the little rough sketch in Rome, '60, my account for the last six months with Chapman was--_nil_, not one copy disposed of! ...

* This phrase is a little misleading.

'... I am glad you like what the editor of the Edinburgh calls my eulogium on the second empire,--which it is not, any more than what another wiseacre affirms it to be "a scandalous attack on the old constant friend of England"--it is just what I imagine the man might, if he pleased, say for himself.'

Mr. Browning continues:

'Spite of my ailments and bewailments I have just all but finished another poem of quite another kind, which shall amuse you in the spring, I hope! I don't go sound asleep at all events. 'Balaustion'--the second edition is in the press I think I told you. 2,500 in five months, is a good sale for the likes of me. But I met Henry Taylor (of Artevelde) two days ago at dinner, and he said he had never gained anything by his books, which surely is a shame--I mean, if no buyers mean no readers... .'

'Prince Hohenstiel-Schw.a.n.gau' was written in Scotland, where Mr.

Browning was the guest of Mr. Ernest Benzon: having left his sister to the care of M. and Madame Milsand at St.-Aubin. The ailment he speaks of consisted, I believe, of a severe cold. Another of the occurrences of 1871 was Mr. Browning's election as Life Governor of the London University.

A pa.s.sage from a letter dated March 30, '72, bears striking testimony to the constant warmth of his affections.