Life and Letters of Robert Browning [61]
at Sadler's.
Of course putting the request was mere form, as he had every right
to act the play -- only it made ME anxious till we heard the result --
and we both of us are very grateful to dear Mr. Chorley,
who not only made it his business to be at the theatre the first night,
but, before he slept, sat down like a true friend to give us
the story of the result, and never, he says, was a more legitimate success.
The play went straight to the hearts of the audience, it seems,
and we hear of its continuance on the stage, from the papers.
You may remember, or may not have heard, how Macready brought it out
and put his foot on it, in the flush of a quarrel between manager and author;
and Phelps, knowing the whole secret and feeling the power of the play,
determined on making a revival of it in his own theatre.
Mr. Chorley called his acting "fine". . . .'
==
Chapter 10
1849-1852
Death of Mr. Browning's Mother -- Birth of his Son --
Mrs. Browning's Letters continued -- Baths of Lucca -- Florence again --
Venice -- Margaret Fuller Ossoli -- Visit to England -- Winter in Paris --
Carlyle -- George Sand -- Alfred de Musset.
On March 9, 1849, Mr. Browning's son was born. With the joy
of his wife's deliverance from the dangers of such an event
came also his first great sorrow. His mother did not live
to receive the news of her grandchild's birth. The letter which conveyed it
found her still breathing, but in the unconsciousness of approaching death.
There had been no time for warning. The sister could only break
the suddenness of the shock. A letter of Mrs. Browning's
tells what was to be told.
==
Florence: April 30 ('49).
`. . . This is the first packet of letters, except one to Wimpole Street,
which I have written since my confinement. You will have heard how
our joy turned suddenly into deep sorrow by the death of my husband's mother.
An unsuspected disease (ossification of the heart) terminated in a fatal way
-- and she lay in the insensibility precursive of the grave's
when the letter written with such gladness by my poor husband
and announcing the birth of his child, reached her address.
"It would have made her heart bound," said her daughter to us.
Poor tender heart -- the last throb was too near. The medical men
would not allow the news to be communicated. The next joy she felt
was to be in heaven itself. My husband has been in the deepest anguish,
and indeed, except for the courageous consideration of his sister
who wrote two letters of preparation, saying "She was not well"
and she "was very ill" when in fact all was over, I am frightened to think
what the result would have been to him. He has loved his mother
as such passionate natures only can love, and I never saw a man so bowed down
in an extremity of sorrow -- never. Even now, the depression is great --
and sometimes when I leave him alone a little and return to the room,
I find him in tears. I do earnestly wish to change the scene and air --
but where to go? England looks terrible now. He says
it would break his heart to see his mother's roses over the wall
and the place where she used to lay her scissors and gloves --
which I understand so thoroughly that I can't say "Let us go to England."
We must wait and see what his father and sister will choose to do,
or choose us to do -- for of course a duty plainly seen
would draw us anywhere. My own dearest sisters will be painfully disappointed
by any change of plan -- only they are too good and kind not to understand
the difficulty -- not to see the motive. So do you, I am certain.
It has been very, very painful altogether, this drawing together
of life and death. Robert was too enraptured at my safety
and with his little son, and the sudden reaction was terrible. . . .'
==
==
Bagni di Lucca.
`. . . We have been wandering in search of cool air and a cool bough
among all the olive trees to build our summer nest on.
My husband has been
Of course putting the request was mere form, as he had every right
to act the play -- only it made ME anxious till we heard the result --
and we both of us are very grateful to dear Mr. Chorley,
who not only made it his business to be at the theatre the first night,
but, before he slept, sat down like a true friend to give us
the story of the result, and never, he says, was a more legitimate success.
The play went straight to the hearts of the audience, it seems,
and we hear of its continuance on the stage, from the papers.
You may remember, or may not have heard, how Macready brought it out
and put his foot on it, in the flush of a quarrel between manager and author;
and Phelps, knowing the whole secret and feeling the power of the play,
determined on making a revival of it in his own theatre.
Mr. Chorley called his acting "fine". . . .'
==
Chapter 10
1849-1852
Death of Mr. Browning's Mother -- Birth of his Son --
Mrs. Browning's Letters continued -- Baths of Lucca -- Florence again --
Venice -- Margaret Fuller Ossoli -- Visit to England -- Winter in Paris --
Carlyle -- George Sand -- Alfred de Musset.
On March 9, 1849, Mr. Browning's son was born. With the joy
of his wife's deliverance from the dangers of such an event
came also his first great sorrow. His mother did not live
to receive the news of her grandchild's birth. The letter which conveyed it
found her still breathing, but in the unconsciousness of approaching death.
There had been no time for warning. The sister could only break
the suddenness of the shock. A letter of Mrs. Browning's
tells what was to be told.
==
Florence: April 30 ('49).
`. . . This is the first packet of letters, except one to Wimpole Street,
which I have written since my confinement. You will have heard how
our joy turned suddenly into deep sorrow by the death of my husband's mother.
An unsuspected disease (ossification of the heart) terminated in a fatal way
-- and she lay in the insensibility precursive of the grave's
when the letter written with such gladness by my poor husband
and announcing the birth of his child, reached her address.
"It would have made her heart bound," said her daughter to us.
Poor tender heart -- the last throb was too near. The medical men
would not allow the news to be communicated. The next joy she felt
was to be in heaven itself. My husband has been in the deepest anguish,
and indeed, except for the courageous consideration of his sister
who wrote two letters of preparation, saying "She was not well"
and she "was very ill" when in fact all was over, I am frightened to think
what the result would have been to him. He has loved his mother
as such passionate natures only can love, and I never saw a man so bowed down
in an extremity of sorrow -- never. Even now, the depression is great --
and sometimes when I leave him alone a little and return to the room,
I find him in tears. I do earnestly wish to change the scene and air --
but where to go? England looks terrible now. He says
it would break his heart to see his mother's roses over the wall
and the place where she used to lay her scissors and gloves --
which I understand so thoroughly that I can't say "Let us go to England."
We must wait and see what his father and sister will choose to do,
or choose us to do -- for of course a duty plainly seen
would draw us anywhere. My own dearest sisters will be painfully disappointed
by any change of plan -- only they are too good and kind not to understand
the difficulty -- not to see the motive. So do you, I am certain.
It has been very, very painful altogether, this drawing together
of life and death. Robert was too enraptured at my safety
and with his little son, and the sudden reaction was terrible. . . .'
==
==
Bagni di Lucca.
`. . . We have been wandering in search of cool air and a cool bough
among all the olive trees to build our summer nest on.
My husband has been