Robert Browning - The Complete Works of Robert Browning - Poems, Plays, Letters & Biographies in One Edition

‘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.’

Table of Contents

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-Schwangau’ — ’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.

God’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-shore — which shore 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 figtree 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 lighthouse 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 thickheaded Maire for Mr. Browning to be arrested as a runaway Frenchman or a Prussian spy. The usual passenger 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 passage 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… .’