There are, in literary history, few scènes de la vie privée more affecting than that of the greatest of English poetesses, in the maturity1 of her first poetic2 period, lying, like a fading flower, for hours, for days continuously, in a darkened room in a London house. So ill was Miss Elizabeth Barrett, early in the second half of the forties, that few friends, herself even, could venture to hope for a single one of those Springs which she previsioned so longingly3. To us, looking back at this period, in the light of what we know of a story of singular beauty, there is an added pathos5 in the circumstance that, as the singer of so many exquisite6 songs lay on her invalid7's sofa, dreaming of things which, as she thought, might never be, all that was loveliest in her life was fast approaching--though, like all joy, not without an equally unlooked-for sorrow. "I lived with visions for my company, instead of men and women ... nor thought to know a sweeter music than they played to me."
This is not the occasion, and if it were, there would still be imperative8 need for extreme concision9, whereon to dwell upon the early life of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The particulars of it are familiar to all who love English literature: for there is, in truth, not much to tell--not much, at least, that can well be told. It must suffice, here, that Miss Barrett was born on the 4th of March 1809, and so was the senior, by three years, of Robert Browning.
By 1820, in remote Herefordshire, the not yet eleven-year-old poetess had already "cried aloud on obsolete10 Muses11 from childish lips" in various "nascent12 odes, epics13, and didactics." At this time, she tells us, the Greeks were her demi-gods, and she dreamt much of Agamemnon. In the same year, in suburban14 Camberwell, a little boy was often wont15 to listen eagerly to his father's narrative16 of the same hero, and to all the moving tale of Troy. It is significant that these two children, so far apart, both with the light of the future upon their brows, grew up in familiarity with something of the antique beauty. It was a lifelong joy to both, that "serene17 air of Greece." Many an hour of gloom was charmed away by it for the poetess who translated the "Prometheus Bound" of ?schylus, and wrote "The Dead Pan": many a happy day and memorable18 night were spent in that "beloved environment" by the poet who wrote "Balaustion's Adventure" and translated the "Agamemnon."
The chief sorrow of her life, however, occurred in her thirty-first year. She never quite recovered from the shock of her well-loved brother Edward's tragic19 death, a mysterious disaster, for the foundering20 of the little yacht La Belle21 Sauvage is almost as inexplicable22 as that of the Ariel in the Spezzian waters beyond Lerici. Not only through the ensuing winter, but often in the dreams of after years, "the sound of the waves rang in my ears like the moans of one dying."
The removal of the Barrett household to Gloucester Place, in Western London, was a great event. Here, invalid though she was, she could see friends occasionally and get new books constantly. Her name was well known and became widely familiar when her "Cry of the Children" rang like a clarion23 throughout the country. The poem was founded upon an official report by Richard Hengist Horne, the friend whom some years previously24 she had won in correspondence, and with whom she had become so intimate, though without personal acquaintance, that she had agreed to write a drama in collaboration26 with him, to be called "Psyche27 Apocalypté," and to be modelled on "Greek instead of modern tragedy."
Horne--a poet of genius, and a dramatist of remarkable28 power--was one of the truest friends she ever had, and, so far as her literary life is concerned, came next in influence only to her poet-husband. Among the friends she saw much of in the early forties was a distant "cousin," John Kenyon--a jovial30, genial31, gracious, and altogether delightful32 man, who acted the part of Providence33 to many troubled souls, and, in particular, was "a fairy godfather" to Elizabeth Barrett and to "the other poet," as he used to call Browning. It was to Mr. Kenyon--"Kenyon, with the face of a Bendectine monk34, but the most jovial of good fellows," as a friend has recorded of him; "Kenyon the Magnificent," as he was called by Browning--that Miss Barrett owed her first introduction to the poetry of her future husband.
Browning's poetry had for her an immediate35 appeal. With sure insight she discerned the special quality of the poetic wealth of the "Bells and Pomegranates," among which she then and always cared most for the penultimate volume, the "Dramatic Romances and Lyrics37." Two years before she met the author she had written, in "Lady Geraldine's Courtship"--
"Or from Browning some 'Pomegranate' which, if cut deep down
the middle,
Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity."
A little earlier she had even, unwittingly on either side, been a collaborateur with "the author of 'Paracelsus.'" She gave Horne much aid in the preparation of his "New Spirit of the Age," and he has himself told us "that the mottoes, which are singularly happy and appropriate, were for the most part supplied by Miss Barrett and Robert Browning, then unknown to each other." One thing and another drew them nearer and nearer. Now it was a poem, now a novel expression, now a rare sympathy.
An intermittent38 correspondence ensued, and both poets became anxious to know each other. "We artists--how well praise agrees with us," as Balzac says.
A few months later, in 1846, they came to know one another personally. The story of their first meeting, which has received a wide acceptance, is apocryphal39. The meeting was brought about by Kenyon. This common friend had been a schoolfellow of Browning's father, and so it was natural that he took a more than ordinary interest in the brilliant young poet, perhaps all the more so that the reluctant tide of popularity which had promised to set in with such unparalleled sweep and weight had since experienced a steady ebb40.
And so the fates brought these two together. The younger was already far the stronger, but he had an unbounded admiration41 for Miss Barrett. To her, he was even then the chief living poet. She perceived his ultimate greatness; as early as 1845 had "a full faith in him as poet and prophet."
As Browning admitted to a friend, the love between them was almost instantaneous, a thing of the eyes, mind, and heart--each striving for supremacy42, till all were gratified equally in a common joy. They had one bond of sterling43 union: passion for the art to which both had devoted44 their lives.
To those who love love for love's sake, who se passionnent pour la passion, as Prosper45 Merimée says, there could scarce be a more sacred spot in London than that fiftieth house in unattractive Wimpole Street, where these two poets first met each other; and where, in the darkened room, "Love quivered, an invisible flame." Elizabeth Barrett was indeed, in her own words, "as sweet as Spring, as Ocean deep." She, too, was always, as she wrote of Harriet Martineau, in a hopeless anguish46 of body and serene triumph of spirit. As George Sand says, of one of her fictitious47 personages, she was an "artist to the backbone48; that is, one who feels life with frightful49 intensity50." To this too keen intensity of feeling must be attributed something of that longing4 for repose51, that deep craving52 for rest from what is too exciting from within, which made her affirm the exquisite appeal to her of such Biblical passages as "The Lord of peace Himself give you peace," and "He giveth His Beloved Sleep," which, as she says in one of her numerous letters to Miss Mitford, "strike upon the disquieted53 earth with such a foreignness of heavenly music."
Nor was he whom she loved as a man, as well as revered54 as a poet, unworthy of her. His was the robustest poetic intellect of the century; his the serenest55 outlook; his, almost the sole unfaltering footsteps along the perilous56 ways of speculative58 thought. A fair life, irradiate with fairer ideals, conserved59 his native integrity from that incongruity60 between practice and precept61 so commonly exemplified. Comely62 in all respects, with his black-brown wavy63 hair, finely-cut features, ready and winsome64 smile, alert luminous65 eyes, quick, spontaneous, expressive66 gestures--an inclination67 of the head, a lift of the eyebrows68, a modulation69 of the lips, an assertive70 or deprecatory wave of the hand, conveying so much--and a voice at that time of a singular penetrating71 sweetness, he was, even without that light of the future upon his forehead which she was so swift to discern, a man to captivate any woman of kindred nature and sympathies. Over and above these advantages, he possessed72 a rare quality of physical magnetism73. By virtue74 of this he could either attract irresistibly75 or strongly repel76.
I have several times heard people state that a hand-shake from Browning was like an electric shock. Truly enough, it did seem as though his sterling nature rang in his genially77 dominant78 voice, and, again, as though his voice transmitted instantaneous waves of an electric current through every nerve of what, for want of a better phrase, I must perforce call his intensely alive hand. I remember once how a lady, afflicted79 with nerves, in the dubious80 enjoyment81 of her first experience of a "literary afternoon," rose hurriedly and, in reply to her hostess' inquiry82 as to her motive83, explained that she could not sit any longer beside the elderly gentleman who was talking to Mrs. So-and-so, as his near presence made her quiver all over, "like a mild attack of pins-and-needles," as she phrased it. She was chagrined84 to learn that she had been discomposed not by 'a too exuberant85 financier,' as she had surmised86, but by, as "Waring" called Browning, the "subtlest assertor of the Soul in song."
With the same quick insight as she had perceived Robert Browning's poetic greatness, Elizabeth Barrett discerned his personal worth. He was essentially87 manly88 in all respects: so manly, that many frail89 souls of either sex philandered90 about his over-robustness. From the twilight91 gloom of an ?esthetic92 clique93 came a small voice belittling94 the great man as "quite too 'loud,' painfully excessive." Browning was manly enough to laugh at all ghoulish cries of any kind whatsoever95. Once in a way the lion would look round and by a raised breath make the jackals wriggle96; as when the poet wrote to a correspondent, who had drawn97 his attention to certain abusive personalities98 in some review or newspaper: "Dear Sir--I am sure you mean very kindly99, but I have had too long an experience of the inability of the human goose to do other than cackle when benevolent100 and hiss101 when malicious102, and no amount of goose criticism shall make me lift a heel against what waddles103 behind it."
Herself one whose happiest experiences were in dreamland, Miss Barrett was keenly susceptible104 to the strong humanity of Browning's song, nor less keenly attracted by his strenuous105 and fearless outlook, his poetic practicality, and even by his bluntness of insight in certain matters. It was no slight thing to her that she could, in Mr. Lowell's words, say of herself and of him--
"We, who believe life's bases rest
Beyond the probe of chemic test."
She rejoiced, despite her own love for remote imaginings, to know that he was of those who (to quote again from the same fine poet)
". . . wasted not their breath in schemes
Of what man might be in some bubble-sphere,
As if he must be other than he seems
Because he was not what he should be here,
Postponing106 Time's slow proof to petulant107 dreams;"
that, in a word, while 'he could believe the promise of to-morrow,' he was at the same time supremely108 conscious of 'the wondrous110 meaning of to-day.'
Both, from their youth onward111, had travelled 'on trails divine of unimagined laws.' It was sufficient for her that he kept his eyes fixed112 on the goal beyond the way he followed: it did not matter that he was blind to the dim adumbrations of novel byways, of strange Calvarys by the wayside, so often visible to her.
Their first meeting was speedily followed by a second--by a third--and then? When we know not, but ere long, each found that happiness was in the bestowal113 of the other.
The secret was for some time kept absolutely private. From the first Mr. Barrett had been jealous of his beloved daughter's new friend. He did not care much for the man, he with all the prejudices and baneful114 conservatism of the slave-owning planter, the other with ardent115 democratic sentiments and a detestation of all forms of iniquity116. Nor did he understand the poet. He could read his daughter's flowing verse with pleasure, but there was to his ear a mere117 jumble118 of sound and sense in much of the work of the author of "The Tomb at St. Praxed's" and "Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis." Of a selfishly genial but also of a violent and often sullen119 nature, he resented more and more any friendship which threatened to loosen the chain of affection and association binding120 his daughter to himself.
Both the lovers believed that an immediate marriage would, from every point of view, be best. It was not advisable that it should be long delayed, if to happen at all, for the health of Miss Barrett was so poor that another winter in London might, probably would, mean irretrievable harm.
Some time before this she had become acquainted with Mrs. Jameson, the eminent121 art-writer. The regard, which quickly developed to an affectionate esteem122, was mutual123. One September morning Mrs. Jameson called, and after having dwelt on the gloom and peril57 of another winter in London, dwelt on the magic of Italy, and concluded by inviting124 Miss Barrett to accompany her in her own imminent125 departure for abroad. The poet was touched and grateful, but, pointing to her invalid sofa, and gently emphasising her enfeebled health and other difficult circumstances, excused herself from acceptance of Mrs. Jameson's generous offer.
In the "Memoirs126 of Mrs. Jameson" that lady's niece, Mrs. Macpherson, relates how on the eve of her and her aunt's departure, a little note of farewell arrived from Miss Barrett, "deploring127 the writer's inability to come in person and bid her friend good-bye, as she was 'forced to be satisfied with the sofa and silence.'"
It is easy to understand, therefore, with what amazement128 Mrs. Jameson, shortly after her arrival in Paris, received a letter from Robert Browning to the effect that he and his wife had just come from London, on their way to Italy. "My aunt's surprise was something almost comical," writes Mrs. Macpherson, "so startling and entirely129 unexpected was the news." And duly married indeed the two poets had been!
From the moment the matter was mooted130 to Mr. Barrett, he evinced his repugnance131 to the idea. To him even the most foolish assertion of his own was a sacred pledge. He called it "pride in his word": others recognised it as the very arrogance132 of obstinacy133. He refused to countenance134 the marriage in any way, refused to have Browning's name mentioned in his presence, and even when his daughter told him that she had definitely made up her mind, he flatly declined to acknowledge as even possible what was indeed very imminent.
Nor did he ever step down from his ridiculous pinnacle135 of wounded self-love. Favourite daughter though she had been, Mr. Barrett never forgave her, held no communication with her even when she became a mother, and did not mention her in his will. It is needless to say anything more upon this subject. What Mr. and Mrs. Browning were invariably reticent136 upon can well be passed over with mere mention of the facts.
At the last moment there had been great hurry and confusion. But nevertheless, on the forenoon of the 12th of September 1846, Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett had unceremoniously stepped into St. Maryle-bone Church and there been married. So secret had the matter been kept that even such old friends as Richard Hengist Horne and Mr. Kenyon were in ignorance of the event for some time after it had actually occurred.
Mrs. Jameson made all haste to the hotel where the Brownings were, and ultimately persuaded them to leave the hotel for the quieter pension in the Rue29 Ville d'Evêque, where she and Mrs. Macpherson were staying. Thereafter it was agreed that, as soon as a fortnight had gone by, they should journey to Italy together.
Truly enough, as Mrs. Macpherson says, the journey must have been "enchanting137, made in such companionship." Before departing from Paris, Mrs. Jameson, in writing to a friend, alluded138 to her unexpected companions, and added, "Both excellent: but God help them! for I know not how the two poet heads and poet hearts will get on through this prosaic139 world." This kindly friend was not the only person who experienced similar doubts. One acquaintance, no other than the Poet-Laureate, Wordsworth, added: "So, Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett have gone off together! Well, I hope they may understand each other--nobody else could!"
As a matter of fact they did, and to such good intent that they seem never to have had one hour of dissatisfaction, never one jar in the music of their lives.
What a happy wayfaring140 through France that must have been! The travelling had to be slow, and with frequent interruptions, on account of Mrs. Browning's health: yet she steadily141 improved, and was almost from the start able to take more exercise, and to be longer in the open air than had for long been her wont. They passed southward, and after some novel experiences in diligences, reached Avignon, where they rested for a couple of days. Thence a little expedition, a poetical142 pilgrimage, was made to Vaucluse, sacred to the memory of Petrarch and Laura. There, as Mrs. Macpherson has told us, at the very source of the "chiare, fresche e dolce acque," Browning took his wife up in his arms, and, carrying her across through the shallow curling waters, seated her on a rock that rose throne-like in the middle of the stream. Thus, indeed, did love and poetry take a new possession of the spot immortalised by Petrarch's loving fancy.
Three weeks passed happily before Pisa, the Brownings' destination, was reached. But even then the friends were unwilling143 to part, and Mrs. Jameson and her niece remained in the deserted144 old city for a score of days longer. So wonderful was the change wrought145 in Mrs. Browning by happiness, and by all the enfranchisement146 her marriage meant for her, that, as her friend wrote to Miss Mitford, "she is not merely improved but transformed." In the new sunshine which had come into her life, she blossomed like a flower-bud long delayed by gloom and chill. Her heart, in truth, was like a lark147 when wafted148 skyward by the first spring-wind.
At last to her there had come something of that peace she had longed for, and though, in the joy of her new life, her genius "like an Arab bird slept floating in the wind," it was with that restful hush149 which precedes the creative storm. There is something deeply pathetic in her conscious joy. So little actual experience of life had been hers that in many respects she was as a child: and she had all the child's yearning150 for those unsullied hours that never come when once they are missed. But it was not till love unfastened the inner chambers151 of her heart and brain that she realised to the full, what she had often doubted, how supreme109 a thing mere life is. It was in some such mood that she wrote the lovely forty-second of the "Sonnets152 from the Portuguese153," closing thus--
"Let us stay
Rather on earth, Belovèd,--where the unfit
Contrarious moods of men recoil154 away
And isolate155 pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it."
As for Browning's love towards his wife, nothing more tender and chivalrous156 has ever been told of ideal lovers in an ideal romance. It is so beautiful a story that one often prefers it to the sweetest or loftiest poem that came from the lips of either. That love knew no soilure in the passage of the years. Like the flame of oriental legend, it was perennially157 incandescent158 though fed not otherwise than by sunlight and moonshine. If it alone survive, it may resolve the poetic fame of either into one imperishable, luminous ray of white light: as the uttered song fused in the deathless passion of Sappho gleams star-like down the centuries from the high steep of Leucadoe.
It was here, in Pisa, I have been told on indubitable authority, that Browning first saw in manuscript those "Sonnets from the Portuguese" which no poet of Portugal had ever written, which no man could have written, which no other woman than his wife could have composed. From the time when it had first dawned upon her that love was to be hers, and that the laurel of poetry was not to be her sole coronal, she had found expression for her exquisite trouble in these short poems, which she thinly disguised from 'inner publicity159' when she issued them as "from the Portuguese."
It is pleasant to think of the shy delight with which the delicate, flower-like, almost ethereal poet-wife, in those memorable Pisan evenings--with the wind blowing soundingly from the hills of Carrara, or quiescent160 in a deep autumnal calm broken only by the slow wash of Arno along the sea-mossed long-deserted quays--showed her love-poems to her husband. With what love and pride he must have read those outpourings of the most sensitive and beautiful nature he had ever met, vials of lovely thought and lovelier emotion, all stored against the coming of a golden day.
"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely161, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after Death!"
Even such heart-music as this cannot have thrilled him more than these two exquisite lines, with their truth almost too poignant162 to permit of serene joy--
"I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My near sweet view of heaven for earth with thee!"
Their Pisan home was amid sacred associations. It was situate in an old palazzo built by Vasari, within sight of the Leaning Tower and the Duomo. There, in absolute seclusion163, they wrote and planned. Once and again they made a pilgrimage to the Lanfranchi Palace "to walk in the footsteps of Byron and Shelley": occasionally they went to Vespers in the Duomo, and listened, rapt, to the music wandering spirally through the vast solitary164 building: once they were fortunate in hearing the impressive musical mass for the dead, in the Campo Santo. They were even reminded often of their distant friend Horne, for every time they crossed one of the chief piazzas165 they saw the statue of Cosimo de Medici looking down upon them.
In this beautiful old city, so full of repose as it lies "asleep in the sun," Mrs. Browning's health almost leapt, so swift was her advance towards vigour166. "She is getting better every day," wrote her husband, "stronger, better wonderfully, and beyond all our hopes."
That happy first winter they passed "in the most secluded167 manner, reading Vasari, and dreaming dreams of seeing Venice in the summer." But early in April, when the swallows had flown inland above the pines of Viareggio, and Shelley's favourite little Aziola was hooting168 silverly among the hollow vales of Carrara, the two poets prepared to leave what the frailer169 of them called "this perch170 of Pisa."
But with all its charm and happy associations, the little city was dull. "Even human faces divine are quite rococo171 with me," Mrs. Browning wrote to a friend. The change to Florence was a welcome one to both. Browning had already been there, but to his wife it was as the fulfilment of a dream. They did not at first go to that romantic old palace which will be for ever sociate with the author of "Casa Guidi Windows," but found accommodation in a more central locality.
When the June heats came, husband and wife both declared for Ancona, the picturesque173 little town which dreams out upon the Adriatic. But though so close to the sea, Ancona is in summer time almost insufferably hot. Instead of finding it cooler than Florence, it was as though they had leapt right into a cauldron. Alluding174 to it months later, Mrs. Browning wrote to Horne, "The heat was just the fiercest fire of your imagination, and I seethe175 to think of it at this distance."
It was a memorable journey all the same. They went to Ravenna, and at four o'clock one morning stood by Dante's tomb, moved deeply by the pathetic inscription176 and by all the associations it evoked177. All along the coast from Ravenna to Loretto was new ground to both, and endlessly fascinating; in the passing and repassing of the Apennines they had 'wonderful visions of beauty and glory.' At Ancona itself, notwithstanding the heat, they spent a happy season. Here Browning wrote one of the loveliest of his short poems, "The Guardian178 Angel," which had its origin in Guercino's picture in the chapel179 at Fano. By the allusions180 in the sixth and eighth stanzas182 it is clear that the poem was inscribed183 to Alfred Domett, the poet's well-loved friend immortalised as "Waring." Doubtless it was written for no other reason than the urgency of song, for in it are the loving allusions to his wife, "my angel with me too," and "my love is here." Three times they went to the chapel, he tells us in the seventh stanza181, to drink in to their souls' content the beauty of "dear Guercino's" picture. Browning has rarely uttered the purely personal note of his inner life. It is this that affords a peculiar184 value to "The Guardian Angel," over and above its technical beauty. In the concluding lines of the stanzas I am about to quote he gives the supreme expression to what was his deepest faith, his profoundest song-motive.
"I would not look up thither185 past thy head
Because the door opes, like that child, I know,
For I should have thy gracious face instead,
Thou bird of God! And wilt186 thou bend me low
Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together,
And lift them up to pray, and gently tether
Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread?
. . . . . . . . . . . .
"How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired!
I think how I should view the earth and skies
And sea, when once again my brow was bared
After thy healing, with such different eyes.
O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:
And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.
What further may be sought for or declared?"
After the Adriatic coast was left, they hesitated as to returning to Florence, the doctors having laid such stress on the climatic suitability of Pisa for Mrs. Browning. But she felt so sure of herself in her new strength that it was decided187 to adventure upon at least one winter in the queen-city. They were fortunate in obtaining a residence in the old palace called Casa Guidi, in the Via Maggiore, over against the church of San Felice, and here, with a few brief intervals188, they lived till death separated them.
On the little terrace outside there was more noble verse fashioned in the artist's creative silence than we can ever be aware of: but what a sacred place it must ever be for the lover of poetry! There, one ominous189 sultry eve, Browning, brooding over the story of a bygone Roman crime, foreshadowed "The Ring and the Book," and there, in the many years he dwelt in Casa Guidi, he wrote some of his finer shorter poems. There, also, "Aurora190 Leigh" was born, and many a lyric36 fresh with the dew of genius. Who has not looked at the old sunworn house and failed to think of that night when each square window of San Felice was aglow191 with festival lights, and when the summer lightnings fell silently in broad flame from cloud to cloud: or has failed to hear, down the narrow street, a little child go singing, 'neath Casa Guidi windows by the church, O bella libertà, O bella!
Better even than these, for happy dwelling192 upon, is the poem the two poets lived. Morning and day were full of work, study, or that pleasurable idleness which for the artist is so often his best inspiration. Here, on the little terrace, they used to sit together, or walk slowly to and fro, in conversation that was only less eloquent193 than silence. Here one day they received a letter from Horne. There is nothing of particular note in Mrs. Browning's reply, and yet there are not a few of her poems we would miss rather than these chance words--delicate outlines left for the reader to fill in: "We were reading your letter, together, on our little terrace--walking up and down reading it--I mean the letter to Robert--and then, at the end, suddenly turning, lo, just at the edge of the stones, just between the balustrades, and already fluttering in a breath of wind and about to fly away over San Felice's church, we caught a glimpse of the feather of a note to E.B.B. How near we were to the loss of it, to be sure!"
Happier still must have been the quiet evenings in late spring and summer, when, the one shrouded194 against possible chills, the other bare-headed and with loosened coat, walked slowly to and fro in the dark, conscious of "a busy human sense" below, but solitary on their balcony beyond the lamplit room.
"While in and out the terrace-plants, and round
One branch of tall datura, waxed and waned195
The lamp-fly lured196 there, wanting the white flower."
An American friend has put on record his impressions of the two poets, and their home at this time. He had been called upon by Browning, and by him invited to take tea at Casa Guidi the same evening. There the visitor saw, "seated at the tea-table of the great room of the palace in which they were living, a very small, very slight woman, with very long curls drooping197 forward, almost across the eyes, hanging to the bosom198, and quite concealing199 the pale, small face, from which the piercing inquiring eyes looked out sensitively at the stranger. Rising from her chair, she put out cordially the thin white hand of an invalid, and in a few moments they were pleasantly chatting, while the husband strode up and down the room, joining in the conversation with a vigour, humour, eagerness, and affluence200 of curious lore172 which, with his trenchant201 thought and subtle sympathy, make him one of the most charming and inspiring of companions."
In the autumn the same friend, joined by one or two other acquaintances, went with the Brownings to Vallombrosa for a couple of days, greatly to Mrs. Browning's delight, for whom the name had had a peculiar fascination202 ever since she had first encountered it in Milton.
She was conveyed up the steep way towards the monastery203 in a great basket, without wheels, drawn by two oxen: though, as she tells Miss Mitford, she did not get into the monastery after all, she and her maid being turned away by the monks204 "for the sin of womanhood." She was too much of an invalid to climb the steeper heights, but loved to lie under the great chestnuts205 upon the hill-slopes near the convent. At twilight they went to the little convent-chapel, and there Browning sat down at the organ and played some of those older melodies he loved so well.
It is, strangely enough, from Americans that we have the best account of the Brownings in their life at Casa Guidi: from R.H. Stoddart, Bayard Taylor, Nathaniel Hawthorne, George Stillman Hillard, and W.W. Story. I can find room, however, for but one excerpt:--
"Those who have known Casa Guidi as it was, could hardly enter the loved rooms now, and speak above a whisper. They who have been so favoured, can never forget the square anteroom, with its great picture and pianoforte, at which the boy Browning passed many an hour--the little dining-room covered with tapestry206, and where hung medallions of Tennyson, Carlyle, and Robert Browning--the long room filled with plaster-casts and studies, which was Mrs. Browning's retreat--and, dearest of all, the large drawing-room where she always sat. It opens upon a balcony filled with plants, and looks out upon the iron-grey church of Santa Felice. There was something about this room that seemed to make it a proper and especial haunt for poets. The dark shadows and subdued207 light gave it a dreary208 look, which was enhanced by the tapestry-covered walls, and the old pictures of saints that looked out sadly from their carved frames of black wood. Large bookcases constructed of specimens209 of Florentine carving210 selected by Mr. Browning were brimming over with wise-looking books. Tables were covered with more gaily-bound volumes, the gifts of brother authors. Dante's grave profile, a cast of Keats's face and brow taken after death, a pen-and-ink sketch211 of Tennyson, the genial face of John Kenyon, Mrs. Browning's good friend and relative, little paintings of the boy Browning, all attracted the eye in turn, and gave rise to a thousand musings. A quaint25 mirror, easy-chairs and sofas, and a hundred nothings that always add an indescribable charm, were all massed in this room. But the glory of all, and that which sanctified all, was seated in a low arm-chair near the door. A small table, strewn with writing-materials, books, and newspapers, was always by her side.... After her death, her husband had a careful water-colour drawing made of this room, which has been engraved212 more than once. It still hangs in his drawing-room, where the mirror and one of the quaint chairs above named still are. The low arm-chair and small table are in Browning's study--with his father's desk, on which he has written all his poems."--(W.W. Story.)
To Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne, Mr. Hillard, and Mr. Story, in particular, we are indebted for several delightful glimpses into the home-life of the two poets. We can see Mrs. Browning in her "ideal chamber," neither a library nor a sitting-room213, but a happy blending of both, with the numerous old paintings in antique Florentine frames, easy-chairs and lounges, carved bookcases crammed214 with books in many languages, bric-a-brac in any quantity, but always artistic215, flowers everywhere, and herself the frailest216 flower of all.
Mr. Hillard speaks of the happiness of the Brownings' home and their union as perfect: he, full of manly power, she, the type of the most sensitive and delicate womanhood. This much-esteemed friend was fascinated by Mrs. Browning. Again and again he alludes217 to her exceeding spirituality: "She is a soul of fire enclosed in a shell of pearl:" her frame "the transparent218 veil for a celestial219 and mortal spirit:" and those fine words which prove that he too was of the brotherhood220 of the poets, "Her tremulous voice often flutters over her words like the flame of a dying candle over the wick."
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1
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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2
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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3
longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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4
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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6
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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8
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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9
concision
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| n.简明，简洁 | |
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10
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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11
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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12
nascent
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| adj.初生的，发生中的 | |
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13
epics
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| n.叙事诗( epic的名词复数 )；壮举；惊人之举；史诗般的电影（或书籍） | |
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14
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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15
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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16
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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17
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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18
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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19
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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20
foundering
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| v.创始人( founder的现在分词 ) | |
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21
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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22
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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23
clarion
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| n.尖音小号声；尖音小号 | |
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24
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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25
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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26
collaboration
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| n.合作，协作；勾结 | |
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27
psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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28
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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29
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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30
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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31
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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32
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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33
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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34
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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35
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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36
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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37
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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38
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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39
apocryphal
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| adj.假冒的，虚假的 | |
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40
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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41
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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42
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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43
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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44
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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45
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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46
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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47
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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48
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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49
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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50
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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51
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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52
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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53
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
serenest
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| serene（沉静的，宁静的，安宁的）的最高级形式 | |
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56
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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57
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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58
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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59
conserved
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| v.保护，保藏，保存( conserve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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61
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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62
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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63
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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64
winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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65
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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66
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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67
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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68
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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69
modulation
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| n.调制 | |
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70
assertive
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| adj.果断的，自信的，有冲劲的 | |
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71
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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72
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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73
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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74
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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75
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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76
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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77
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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78
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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79
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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81
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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82
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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83
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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84
chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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86
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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87
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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88
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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89
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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90
philandered
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| v.调戏，玩弄女性( philander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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92
esthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的；悦目的，雅致的 | |
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93
clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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94
belittling
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| 使显得微小，轻视，贬低( belittle的现在分词 ) | |
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95
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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96
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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97
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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98
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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99
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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100
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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101
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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102
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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103
waddles
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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105
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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106
postponing
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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107
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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108
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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109
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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110
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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111
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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112
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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113
bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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114
baneful
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| adj.有害的 | |
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115
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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116
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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117
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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118
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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119
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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120
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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121
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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122
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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123
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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124
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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125
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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126
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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127
deploring
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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128
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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129
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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130
mooted
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| adj.未决定的，有争议的，有疑问的v.提出…供讨论( moot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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132
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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133
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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134
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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135
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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136
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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137
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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138
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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140
wayfaring
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| adj.旅行的n.徒步旅行 | |
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141
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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142
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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143
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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144
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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145
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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146
enfranchisement
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| 选举权 | |
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147
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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148
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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150
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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151
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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152
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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153
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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154
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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155
isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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156
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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157
perennially
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| adv.经常出现地；长期地；持久地；永久地 | |
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158
incandescent
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| adj.遇热发光的， 白炽的，感情强烈的 | |
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159
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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160
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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161
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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162
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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163
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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164
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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165
piazzas
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| n.广场，市场( piazza的名词复数 ) | |
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166
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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167
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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168
hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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169
frailer
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| 脆弱的( frail的比较级 )； 易损的； 易碎的 | |
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170
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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171
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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172
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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173
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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174
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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175
seethe
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| vi.拥挤，云集；发怒，激动，骚动 | |
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176
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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177
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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178
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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179
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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180
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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181
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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182
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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183
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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184
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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185
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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186
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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187
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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188
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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189
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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190
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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191
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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192
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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193
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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194
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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195
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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196
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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197
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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198
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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199
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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200
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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201
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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202
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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203
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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204
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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205
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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206
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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207
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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208
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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209
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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210
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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211
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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212
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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213
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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214
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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215
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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216
frailest
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| 脆弱的( frail的最高级 )； 易损的； 易碎的 | |
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217
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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218
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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219
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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220
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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