[Sidenote: At Patrolino.]
Never shall I forget how her face--the plain, mortal, beautiful in its immortal expression--lighted up to greet us as our carriage drove into the _porte-cochere_ of Casa Guidi on that memorable morning. Simple as a child, the honest enjoyment which she anticipated in our excursion beamed through her countenance. Those large, dark, dreamy eyes--usually like deep wells of thought--sparkled with delight; while her adored Robert’s generous capacity for pleasure showed even a happier front than ordinary; reflecting her joy, as we turned into the street and out of the city gate towards Patrolino. The woman of usually many thoughts and few words grew a talker under the stimulus of open country air; while her husband, usually talkative, became the silent enjoyer of her vocal gladness, a pleasure too rarely afforded him to be interrupted. We, of choice, only talked enough to keep our _improvisatrice_ in the humor of utterance.
[Sidenote: Mr. Browning talks of his wife.]
Withdrawing a short distance, so that our mellowed voices might not reach her, while lunch was being prepared under the trees, Robert Browning put on his talking-cap again and discoursed, to two delighted listeners, of her who slept. After expressing his joy at her enjoyment of the morning, the poet’s soul took fire by its own friction, and glowed with the brilliance of its theme. Knowing well that he was before fervent admirers of his wife, he did not fear to speak of her genius, which he did almost with awe, losing himself so entirely in her glory that one could see that he did not feel worthy to unloose her shoe-latchet, much less to call her his own. This led back to the birth of his first love for her, and then, without reserve, he told us the real story of that romance, “the course of” which “true love never did run smooth.” There have been several printed stories of the loves of Elizabeth and Robert Browning, and we had read some of these; but as the poet’s own tale differed essentially from the others, and as the divine genius of the heroine has returned to its native heaven, whilst her life on earth now belongs to posterity, it cannot be a breach of confidence to let the truth be known.
[Sidenote: The true story of her marriage.]
Mr. Barrett, the father of Elizabeth, though himself a superior man, and capable of appreciating his gifted child, was, in some sense, an eccentric. He had an unaccountable aversion to the idea of “marrying off” any of his children. Having wealth, a sumptuous house, and being a widower, he had somehow made up his mind to keep them all about him. Elizabeth, the eldest, had been an invalid from her early youth, owing partly to the great shock which her exquisite nervous organization received when she saw an idolized brother drown before her eyes, without having the power to save him. Grief at this event naturally threw her much within herself, while shattered health kept her confined for years to her room. There she thought, studied, wrote; and from her sick-chamber went forth the winged inspiration of her genius. These came into the heart of Robert Browning, nesting there, awakened love for “The Great Unknown,” and he sought her out. Finding that the invalid did not receive strangers, he wrote her a letter, intense with his desire to see her. She reluctantly consented to an interview. He flew to her apartment, was admitted by the nurse, in whose presence only could he see the deity at whose shrine he had long worshipped. But the golden opportunity was not to be lost; love became oblivious to any save the presence of the real of its ideal. Then and there Robert Browning poured out his impassioned soul into hers; though his tale of love seemed only an enthusiast’s dream. Infirmity had hitherto so hedged her about, that she deemed herself forever protected from all assaults of love. Indeed, she felt only injured that a fellow-poet should take advantage, as it were, of her indulgence in granting him an interview, and requested him to withdraw from her presence, not attempting any response to his proposal, which she could not believe in earnest. Of course he withdrew from her sight, but not to withdraw the offer of his heart and hand; _au contraire_, to repeat it by letter, and in such wise as to convince her how “dead in earnest” he was. Her own heart, touched already when she knew it not, was this time fain to listen, be convinced, and overcome. But here began the “tug of war.” As a filial daughter, Elizabeth told her father of the poet’s love, of the poet’s love in return, and asked a parent’s blessing to crown their happiness. At first, incredulous of the strange story, he mocked her; but when the truth flashed on him, from the new fire in her eyes, he kindled with rage, and forbade her ever seeing or communicating with her lover again, on the penalty of disinheritance and banishment forever from a father’s love. This decision was founded on no dislike for Mr. Browning personally, or anything in him, or his family; it was simply arbitrary. But the new love was stronger than the old in her--it conquered. On wings it flew to her beloved, who had perched on her window, and thence bore her away from the fogs of England to a nest under Italian skies. The nightingale who had long sung in the dark, with “her breast against a thorne,” now changed into a lark--morning had come--singing for very joy, and at heaven’s gate, which has since opened to let her in.
[Sidenote: An unreasonable father.]
The unnatural father kept his vow, and would never be reconciled to his daughter, of whom he was not worthy; though she ceased not her endearing efforts to find her way to his heart again; ever fearing that he, or she, might die without the bond of forgiveness having reunited them. Always cherishing an undiminished love for her only parent, this banishment from him wore on her, notwithstanding the rich compensation of such a husband’s devotion, and the new maternal love which their golden-haired boy awakened. What she feared came upon her. Her father died without leaving her even his pardon, and her feeble _physique_ never quite recovered from the shock. Few witnessed the strong grief of that morally strong woman. I saw her after her first wrestling with the angel of sorrow, and perceived that with the calm token of his blessing, still she dragged a maimed life.
ELIZABETH C. KINNEY: ‘A Day with the Brownings at Patrolino,’ in _Scribner’s Magazine_, now _The Century_, December, 1870.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Her death.]
A life of suffering ended in peace. A frail body, bearing the burden of too great a brain, broke at last under the weight. After six days’ illness, the shadows of the night fell upon her eyes for the last time, and half an hour after daybreak she beheld the Eternal Vision. Like the pilgrim in the dream, she saw the heavenly glory before passing through the gate. “It is beautiful!” she exclaimed, and died; sealing these last words upon her lips as the fittest inscription that could ever be written upon her life, her genius, and her memory. In the English burial-ground at Florence lie her ashes.
THEODORE TILTON: _Memorial Preface_ to ‘Last Poems of Mrs. Browning.’
* * * * *
The memory and career of Elizabeth Barrett Browning appear to us like some beautiful ideal. Nothing is earthly, though all is human; a spirit is passing before our eyes, yet of like passions with ourselves, and encased in a frame so delicate that every fibre is alive with feeling and tremulous with radiant thought. Her genius certainly may be compared to those sensitive, palpitating flames, which harmonically rise and fall in response to every sound-vibration near them. Her whole being was rhythmic, and, in a time when art is largely valued for itself alone, her utterances were the expression of her inmost soul.
E. C. STEDMAN: ‘Victorian Poets.’
FOOTNOTES:
[4] ‘Victorian Poets,’ by E. C. Stedman.
[5] Miss Mitford writes in 1851.
[6] Mr. Tilton writes in 1862.
MARGARET FULLER (OSSOLI).
1810-1850.
MARGARET FULLER (OSSOLI).
Sarah Margaret Fuller was born at Cambridgeport, Mass., May 23, 1810. She was the eldest child of Timothy Fuller, “a lawyer and a politician,” and Margaret Crane his wife. Her education was begun at home by her father, a somewhat severe teacher. In an autobiographical fragment she relates the influence upon her young mind of the study of the Latin language and of Roman history, and of her readings in Shakespeare, Cervantes, and Molière. Another formative influence was her romantic attachment to a beautiful and accomplished English lady who spent a few months in the neighborhood, and whose companionship lifted her, she says, “into just that atmosphere of European life to which I had before been tending.” When about thirteen years old, Margaret was sent to the boarding-school of the Misses Preston, in Groton, Mass., where she remained until 1825. It is stated that she was at one time a pupil in Dr. Park’s Boston school. That she was an indefatigable student, is shown by the record of her reading during the subsequent years passed at home. Her studies in German were especially deep.