Life and Letters of Robert Browning [58]
==
Mr. and Mrs. Browning must have remained in Florence,
instead of merely passing through it; this is proved
by the contents of the two following letters:
==
Aug. 20 ('47).
`. . . We have spent one of the most delightful of summers
notwithstanding the heat, and I begin to comprehend the possibility
of St. Lawrence's ecstasies on the gridiron. Very hot certainly
it has been and is, yet there have been cool intermissions,
and as we have spacious and airy rooms, as Robert lets me sit all day
in my white dressing-gown without a single masculine criticism,
and as we can step out of the window on a sort of balcony terrace
which is quite private, and swims over with moonlight in the evenings,
and as we live upon water-melons and iced water and figs
and all manner of fruit, we bear the heat with an angelic patience.
We tried to make the monks of Vallombrosa let us stay with them
for two months, but the new abbot said or implied that Wilson and I
stank in his nostrils, being women. So we were sent away
at the end of five days. So provoking! Such scenery, such hills,
such a sea of hills looking alive among the clouds -- which rolled,
it was difficult to discern. Such fine woods, supernaturally silent,
with the ground black as ink. There were eagles there too,
and there was no road. Robert went on horseback, and Wilson and I
were drawn on a sledge -- (i.e. an old hamper, a basket wine-hamper --
without a wheel) by two white bullocks, up the precipitous mountains.
Think of my travelling in those wild places at four o'clock in the morning!
a little frightened, dreadfully tired, but in an ecstasy of admiration.
It was a sight to see before one died and went away into another world.
But being expelled ignominiously at the end of five days,
we had to come back to Florence to find a new apartment cooler than the old,
and wait for dear Mr. Kenyon, and dear Mr. Kenyon does not come after all.
And on the 20th of September we take up our knapsacks and turn our faces
towards Rome, creeping slowly along, with a pause at Arezzo,
and a longer pause at Perugia, and another perhaps at Terni.
Then we plan to take an apartment we have heard of, over the Tarpeian rock,
and enjoy Rome as we have enjoyed Florence. More can scarcely be.
This Florence is unspeakably beautiful . . .'
==
==
Oct. ('47).
`. . . Very few acquaintances have we made in Florence,
and very quietly lived out our days. Mr. Powers, the sculptor,
is our chief friend and favourite. A most charming, simple, straightforward,
genial American -- as simple as the man of genius he has proved himself to be.
He sometimes comes to talk and take coffee with us, and we like him much.
The sculptor has eyes like a wild Indian's, so black and full of light --
you would scarcely marvel if they clove the marble without
the help of his hands. We have seen, besides, the Hoppners,
Lord Byron's friends at Venice; and Miss Boyle, a niece of the Earl of Cork,
an authoress and poetess on her own account, having been introduced to Robert
in London at Lady Morgan's, has hunted us out, and paid us a visit.
A very vivacious little person, with sparkling talk enough . . .'
==
In this year, 1847, the question arose of a British mission to the Vatican;
and Mr. Browning wrote to Mr. Monckton Milnes begging him
to signify to the Foreign Office his more than willingness to take part in it.
He would be glad and proud, he said, to be secretary to such an embassy,
and to work like a horse in his vocation. The letter is given
in the lately published biography of Lord Houghton, and I am obliged
to confess that it has been my first intimation of the fact recorded there.
When once his `Paracelsus' had appeared, and Mr. Browning
had taken rank as a poet, he renounced all idea of more active work;
and the tone and habits of his early married life would have seemed
scarcely consistent with a renewed impulse towards it.
But the fact was in some sense due to the very