ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. - IAPSOP

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A STUDYOFELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.BYL IL IA N W H IT IN G ,AUTHOR OF “ THE WORLD BEAUTIFUL,” “ FROM DREAM LAND SENT,” “ AFTER HER DEATH,” AND“ KATE F IE L D : A RECORD.” . . For the book is in my heart.Lives in me, wakes in me, and dreams in me.BOSTON:LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.1899.

Copyright, 1899,B y L it t l e , B row n ,andC ompany .A ll rights reserved.Qlnibt&ttg Jjtoss:J ohn W ilsonandSon, Cambridge, U .S. A.

TOKATE FIE L D ,WHOSE PRESENCE, THOUGH UNSEEN, IS FELT THROUGHTHE BEAUTIFUL EXPERIENCES OF EVERYRADIANT DAY,This study o f the poet she loved is inscribed byLILIAN WHITING. u Known and unknown; human, divine.Sweet human hand and lip and eye;Dear heavenly Mend that canst not die.Mine, mine, fo r ever, ever mine.*’

CONTENTS.3Ltfa(nS HKttf) Vizion*.P ageMusic-F low of P in d a r .4“ Summer Snow of Apple Blossoms ” . .5Companions in the Un s e e n . 18ILofcg of tfje Poet*.T he P refigured F r i e n d .29V ita N u o v a .37“ One Day, my Sir e n ” . 48In fflJjat Nefo TOotlfe,P isa and P o e t r y . 53I n Casa Gu i d i .68F lorentine Da y s .W alter Savage L a n d o r . 8781

3rt anil Italjj.P ageI ndividuality of Ch a r a c t e r . 97T he “ Clasped H ands ” .102K a t e F ield ’s R e c o r d s .I l lMrs. Browning’s De a t h . 118Mies of jFlorence*P oetic R a n k .127Spiritual La w s .152Modern Scientific T h o u g h t .161T he Consecration of Ge n iu s . 183I N D E X .185

TO THE READER.They said, “ He feeds himself on visions,” and Idenied not; for visions are the creators and feeders ofthe world.George E liot .a brilliant August day of 1895,while engaged in assorting somepapers, there fell upon me out ofthe air, so to speak, a suggestionto go to Europe and visit the scenes of Mrs.Browning’s life and write of her. W ith thatdisregard of terrestrial condition and limita tion that invests one’s dreams, the instantdecision to do so came and was mentally regis tered as a matter to be accomplished. A t thattime nothing seemed less probable than anyimmediate trip to Europe; but wishes becomewingfed sometimes, and so apparently did thisstrong desire to present, as best one might,some kind of personal interpretation of the

greatest of women poets. There lingered forme in the atmosphere echoes of Mrs. Brown ing’s poems as I had listened to their readingmany a time during a dreaming childhood,by a voice now silent on earth forevermore.Again I heard the thrilling cadence, —11Nor mourn, 0 living One, because her part in lifewas mourning;Would she have lost the poet’s fire for anguish of itsburning ? ”The touch of a vanished hand came back, andabout me in the air I seemed to hear“ The sound of a voice that is still.”Pictured hours rose before me from years gonefrom all save memory, and stanzas from thesepoems were again repeated in that vibrantvoice.“ And there evermore was music, both of instrumentand singing;Till the finches in the shrubberies grew restless inthe dark.But the cedars stood up motionless each in a moon light’s ringing,And the deer, half in the glimmer, strewed the hol lows of the park.”

I t is a curiously interesting fact that astrong determination once implanted in themind seems to germinate and grow and de velop its own fulfilment; and so the swiftdecision made that August day found itsfruition the next summer, and after a May time in London the June days dawned in agolden glory in Venice, with her towers andpalaces rising from the water wraith-like intheir unreality. Venice is a dream of thesea, and one can only recall his days thereas —u A life lived somewhere, — I know notOn what diviner shore.”The Browning palace in Venice is theValhalla of Robert and Elizabeth BarrettBrowning. His grave is in the Poets’ Comerof Westminster Abbey, and hers under thewhite lilies of the Florence that she loved;but in this palace (which dates from 1679)are the memorials of their lives. In its splen dor it far eclipses those built by Sansovino.Its lines and profiles are grand in architecturaleffect, and the rich carving of its columns, thebaroque ornaments of its keystones, the classiccornices, and the tripartite loggias make it

marked in sumptuous effect even in Venice,a city of palaces. Two large and stately en trances open upon the marble flight of stepsthat run down to the Grand Canal. On thearchitraves are carved river-gods.In the marble court stands the statue ofDryope, by Robert Barrett Browning, theson of the poets. On this first floor isthe room that used to be occupied by Mr.Browning in his morning writing. It is em panelled with the most exquisite decoratedalabaster, panels of which also form the twodoors. Back of this was his sleeping-room,which is also beautiful in decoration and fur nishing. Ascending the lofty flight of marblestairs, one is ushered into an apartment whosenoble proportion and richness of effect arebeyond description. The floor is of red mar ble, a soft Byzantine red. The ceiling isin mural paintings ranking among the mostbeautiful in Venetian art. From this, throughold Venetian doors carved in the utmostsplendor, one passes to a series of salons, eachholding portraits, sketches, and portrait bustsof the poets, besides many other works of art.There is Story’s bust of Elizabeth Browning,

— an exquisite creation. There is the origi nal oil painting of her from which manyinadequate engravings have been made. Theoriginal is a clear and striking portrait; butthe reproductions give little hint of itsbeauty.There are several portraits of Robert Brown ing, among them one representing the poetstanding with a picturesque cloak falling overhis shoulders. One portrait of Mrs. Browningshows her as a child, — it was painted whenshe was about nine years old, when the familylived at Hope End, — and reveals a lovelygirl with brown hair and blue eyes and rosetouched fairness of face, holding up an apronfull of flowers as she stands in the garden,with the dog “ Flush,” made famous in herpoems, standing by her. In one of thesestately, noble rooms there is a recessed alcoveof white and gold. On either side a Venetianwindow is draped in the palest green plush.In it stand tall gold vases, with incrustationsof green. On the white wall facing the roomis an inscription in large gold letters sur rounded by gold tracing and arabesques inscrollwork and lovely designs, — an inscription

that is from the Italian of Niccolo Tommaseo,and which will be found elsewhere in thisvolume. Robert Browning, writing to a rela tive from Asolo in Italy under date of Oct.22, 1889 — only two months before his death— thus referred to this recessed chapel in thepalace: —“ W e have a valued friend here, Mrs. Bronson,who for years has been our hostess at Venice, andnow is in possession of a house here (built intothe old city wall) — she was induced to choose itthrough what I have said about the beauties ofthe place: and through her care and kindness weare comfortably lodged close by. W e think ofleaving in a week or so for V enice— guests ofPen and his w ife; and after a short stay withthem we shall return to London. Pen came tosee us for a couple of days: I was hardly preparedfor his surprise and admiration, which quiteequaled my own and that of my sister. A ll ishappily well with them — their palazzo excites thewonder of everybody, so great is Pen’s clevernessand extemporized architectural knowledge, as ap parent in all he has done there; why, w hy w illyou not go and see him there ? H e and his wifeare very hospitable and receive many visitors.

H ave I told you that there was a desecrated chapelwhich he has restored in honour of his mother —putting up there the inscription by Tommaseo nowabove Casa Guidi ? ”Mrs, Browning’s little writing-desk, one tohold in the hand, with her pen and the lastmanuscript that she touched, are kept sacredlyin this room. The dining-room, with itsvaulted ceiling; the vast apartment with itsfloor of black Italian marble, its ceiling ofmural frescoes, and its stately carving wherethe last rites of service were held over RobertBrowning, — hold their supreme interest. Inthe one have been entertained many of thefamous people of his age; in the other gathered ‘that memorable assemblage which followed thecasket containing his form as the fleet of funeralgondolas rowed down the Grand Canal. Wasever poet more poetically borne to his lastrest?In the palace is kept an autograph-book forthe visitors who make their pilgrimage tothis poetic shrine. Writing in it my name,residence, and date of visit, I added thelines: —

E. B. B .—“ Albeit softly in our ears her silver song was ringing.The footfall of her parting soul was softer than hersinging.”In one room on a table lay a German trans lation of “ Aurora Leigh/' and on its flyleaf Ifound written (and was permitted to copy)these lines:—"T his translation of ‘ Aurora L eigh,9 ‘ foundone happy m an9 at the house of Leonard andKate Courtney during a W hitsun holiday, and isto their singular felicity presented to R . B ., untilnow, as he informs them, unaware of its existence,June 3, 1888.”From Venice to Florence! It was a moon light evening, and between Bologna and Flor ence the route lay amid the purple peaksswimming in a sea of silver m ist; and thehaunting memories of Venice, the thrillinganticipations of Florence, were equally com mingled. The days in Venice prefigured them selves as an enchanted dream. It was as ifone had been caught up into paradise andheard words for which there was neitherearthly speech nor language. I t was an ex-

perience that detached itself from all othersand evaded test or comparison. As thetowers and domes of Venice vanished frommy view apparently sinking into the sea, Icould only think of the city as a brief miragewhich had momentarily dawned on my sight,or as “ the airy fabric of a dream,” in whichI had gone through a succession of imaginaryexperiences.The hills towered still higher, and the purplepeaks gleamed above seas of palpitating silvermists shot through with the rose and amberand violet of the Italian sunset; and later, asthe June moon rose, both the mountains andvalleys were flooded with a golden — not asilvery — light. In Italy, moonlight is golden,and the moon herself seemed, half the time,in the trees that crowned the purple peaks,rather than in the sky.Florence, lying fair in the wide Val d’Arno,the colossal Duomo towering over the city,made a picture never to be forgotten as thetrain drew near. I t was only U p . m ., butthe city was hushed and still. The talltower of the Palazzo Vecchio silhouetteditself against the sky. The peaks of the

Apennines stood guard around. This, then,was Florence!The first day in this “ Flower of all Citiesand City of all Flowers ” I passed largely sit ting near the grave of Mrs. Browning in theEnglish cemetery, with the graves of W alterSavage Landor, the Trollope family, and hernearest and dearest friend, Isabella Blagden,almost within touch. On the way I hadbought great masses of the lilies of Florence— lilies whose whiteness and purity and fra grance are unequalled by anything we knowin America — and reverently I laid my tributeon the grave of E. B. B. The tall dark cy press-trees of Italy stood about, silent assentinels. Only the chirping of birds brokethe intense stillness. I could only remember:11Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birdssang west,Toll slowly!And I smiled to think Glod’s greatness flowed aroundour incompleteness,Bound our restlessness, His rest.H er friend, Miss Isa Blagden (born June30, 1816), died in Florence on Jan. 26, 1875,and on her tomb is a cross and a wreath, withthe words, “ Thy will be done.”

The grave of Arthur Hugh Clough is near,too, with its inscription: —ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH,Sometime F e llo wopO riel College , Oxford ,D ied at F lorenceNov. 13, MDCCLX.,T his Memorial is P laced bt H isS orrowing W if e and S ister .In this cemetery, also, lies Theodore Parker.The grave of Walter Savage Landor has acurious memorial, — the sculptured form of awoman kneeling at the top of a flight ofsteps.In Florence I was domiciled in Villina Trol lope,— the famous house where TheodosiaTrollope held her salons, those brilliant even ings when among the guests were the Brown ings, George Eliot and Mr. Lewes (thenvisiting the Trollopes), Frances Power Cobbeand Mrs. Somerville, — who were sojourningin Florence, — James Jackson Jarves, MissBlagden, and the young girl then under hercare, Kate Field. The great marble balconyoverlooking the garden, where this brilliantb

galaxy used to assemble to eat ices and talkof poetry and art, opened from my room bymeans of a French window; and here I woulddraw my chair out on the gleaming marble,while the full moon shone down on the plash ing fountain and dark greenery of the gardenbelow, and the place was peopled with thosefigures of the p ast Each and all were to me,in one way or another, strongly individualized.I had read and dreamed of this villa. Its in terior was familiar to me before I had everseen it, — the great white marble staircase,the balconied room of George Eliot, over looking Piazza Independenza, the wide marbleterrace overlooking the garden. I t is a placefor dreams and memories.On this balcony, in the silvery light ofmidnight hours, with faint echoes of musicfrom some open casement floating on the air,I could not but recall Mrs. Browning’s allu sion to the Trollopes in a letter to a friend:“ I have not seen the Trollopes yet; but wehave spent two delicious evenings at villas onthe outside the gates, one with young Lytton, SirEdward’s son. I like him, we both do, from thebottom of our hearts. Then our friend Frederic

Tennyson, the new poet, we are delighted to seeagain. Mrs. Howe's poems I have read since Iwrote last. Some of them are good — many ofthe thoughts striking, and all of a certain eleva tion. . . . Of the ordinary impotencies and pretti nesses of women poets she does not partake." . .Mrs. Trollope, as Theodosia Garrow, beforeher marriage had known Mrs. Browning—then Miss Barrett — at Torquay. Mr. Trol lope, in his delightful “ Reminiscences,” speaksof their pleasure in meeting again, and he dwellson “ the immaculate purity of thought ” thatcharacterized Mrs. Browning. “ I mean,” hesays, “ the purity of the upper spiritual atmos phere in which she habitually dwelt.”The reader who has chanced to see a littlebook of mine entitled “ After Her D eath: theStory of a Summer ” will readily divine how,through all these Florentine days, there ran anundertone of sadness, “ making all the musicm u te; ” how my days and dreams were filledwith me presence, the beloved friend whosedeath in Honolulu had occurred on the daythat I had landed in Liverpool. Kate Field —who literally gave her life in her devotion toher great work in Hawaii — was as intimately

associated in my thought with Florence aswas ever the woman-poet whose footsteps Isought to trace. The story of Mrs. Browning’sgracious and beautiful friendship for the younggirl who loved her will be found in thesepages; and if I venture to allude to it here,it is because that Miss Field, too, was a factorin the chain of events that led to its writing.An unseen presence seemed to go with me asI stood amid the wonderful sculpture of SantaCroce, or gazed on gem-like Florence from thepurple heights surrounding her, or lingered inthe monks’ cells that the hand of Fra Angelicohad painted.In the first inception of the idea to writethis book I had asked Miss Field’s permissionto inscribe it to her. She was then in the farWest, about to sail for Honolulu on the jour ney from which she never returned. Shewrote declining the dedication on the groundthat another volume of mine bore her namein this way, and that it was not good literaryform to inscribe two books to the same indi vidual. Still I persisted. The whole ideaof the work was to me so linked with hername, — this gifted and exquisite woman

whose nature was only formed for the choicestcompanionships, that its undertaking did notseem possible unless I were privileged to linkwith it her beloved name. Finally she yieldeda reluctant consent.And now, —“ 0 Love! how shall I celebrate the day,The day when thy sweet angelhood began fWhen earth was all so glad its joy overranIn lilies clustering round the new-born May.”Since that fateful May Nineteenth of 1896 onwhich she passed to the “ life more abundant,”the summer suns have risen and set, and theroses that she loved have bloomed and faded.“ Thrice the lily’s chalices have knownThe morning dews, and on their petals whiteThe butterflies with wings of dazzling lightHave stooped, enthroned, and drank the drops thatshone,And then with life’s new knowledge upward flown.”Again has it fallen to me to linger throughsummer days in the golden light of Florence;to wander, half entranced, in the Eternal City;to watch the sunsets through the dense forestsof the Bois de Boulogne and gaze on the bril liant panorama of life in the Champs Elys es.

Through the two summers in Europe when itwas my privilege to visit English scenes ofMrs. Browning’s early life and those of herafter years in Florence and Rome, my friendin the Unseen to whom this volume is dedi cated, always seemed near and became a partof the experience in visiting the home andhaunts of Mrs. Browning, even as she hadbeen, in her early girlhood, one among thoseprivileged to know the great poet when bothwere on earth.A year ago came that intimate and beauti ful revelation of Mrs. Browning’s life in the“ Letters,” from which, by the generous cour tesy of the Messrs. Macmillan, I have beenpermitted to quote. The story of her life inits outer aspects has never heretofore beenmore than fragmentarily outlined, and theeffort to make a somewhat completer narra tive of a life singularly exalted and noble, hasbeen one invested with that happiness which,perchance, always attends the outer fulfilmentof an inner vision.L. W.T he Brunswick, B oston, 1899.

LIVING WITH VISIONS.I lived with visions for my company.Mrs . B rowning.Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!My spirit beats her mortal bars,As down dark tides the glory slidesAnd star-like mingles with the stars.T ennyson.I was not disobedient unto the Heavenly Vision.Saint P aul .1

A STUDY OF MRS. BROWNING,LIVING WITH VISIONS.“ Moreover, something is or seemsThat touches me with mystic gleams,Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.“ Of something felt, like something here;Of something done, I know not where;Such as no language may declare.”1HE opening line of one of Mrs.Browning's “ Sonnets from the Por tuguese ” holds in condensation thecomplete record of all her early years, — theline that runs, —“ I lived with visions for my company/*The earliest recollection that has been pre served of the dreaming child reveals her in alofty chamber with a stained glass oriel win dow where golden gleams of light camethrough, lingering on the long curls of the

little maid as she sat on a low hassock be neath it, reading Homer, when she was buteight years of a g e ; absorbed in the transcend ent visions of Shakespeare; lost in the musicflow of Pindar. The life of her girlhoodflowed on in this idyllic region, and it washere that one of the most charming portraitsever painted o

The Browning palace in Venice is the Valhalla of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. His grave is in the Poets’ Comer of Westminster Abbey, and hers under the white lilies of the Florence that she loved; but in this palace (which dates from 1679) are the memorials of their lives. In its splen dor it far eclipses those built by Sansovino.

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