Her characteristic modesty.
The resemblance between the Brownings, although many exist, are often more fancied than real. They did not revise each other’s writings. Neither knew what the other had been doing until it was done. ‘Aurora Leigh’ was two-thirds written before her husband saw a word of it. Nor did he know of the existence of the ‘Portuguese Sonnets’ till a considerable time after the marriage, when she showed them to him for the first time, and he, in his delight, persuaded her to put them in print. Otherwise they might never have been published; for with her characteristic modesty she at first thought them unworthy even of his reading, to say nothing of the whole world’s. She felt so doubtful of the merit of ‘Aurora Leigh’ that at one time she laid even that aside with the idea never to publish it.
Method of writing.
Her method of writing was to seize the moment when the mood was upon her, and to fix her thought hurriedly on the nearest slip of paper. She was sensitive to interruption while composing, but was too shy to permit even her friendsto see her engaged at her work. When the servant announced a visitor, the busy poet suddenly hid her paper and pen, and received her guest as if in perfect leisure for the visit. Giving her mornings to the instruction of her little son, and holding herself ready after twelve o’clock to give welcome to any comer, it was a wonder to many how she could find the needed time to study or write.
Her revisions.
She made many and marked changes in her poems in successive editions. These show her fastidious taste. She was never satisfied to let a stanza remain as it was. Most of these amendments are for the better, but some for the worse, as orators who correct their printed speeches sometimes spoil the best parts. In many cases she substituted not only new rhymes but new thoughts, turning the verses far out of their old channels; in others she struck out whole lines and passages as superfluous; in others she made fitter choice of single words, so adding vividness to the expression.
Theodore Tilton:Memorial Prefaceto ‘Last Poems of Mrs. Browning’.
How ‘Aurora Leigh’ was written.
I am still too near ‘Aurora Leigh’ to be quite able to see it all; my wife used to write it, and lay it down to hear our child spell, or when a visitor came,—it was thrust under a cushion then. At Paris, a year ago last March, she gave me the first six books to read, I never having seen a line before. She then wrote the rest, and transcribed them in London, where I read them also. I wish, in one sense, that I had written and she had read it.
Robert Browning:Letter to Leigh Hunt. ‘Correspondence of Leigh Hunt,’ edited by his son.
Landor’s delight in ‘Aurora Leigh.’
I am reading a poem full of thought and fascinating with fancy—Mrs. Browning’s ‘Aurora Leigh.’ In many pages there is the wild imagination of Shakespeare. I had no idea that any one in this age was capable of so much poetry. I am half drunk with it. Never did I think I should have a good hearty draught of poetry again: the distemper had got into the vineyard that produced it. Here are indeed, even here, some flies upon the surface, as there always will be upon what is sweet and strong.
Walter Savage Landor:Letter to J. Foster, 1857. ‘Walter Savage Landor: A Biography,’ by John Forster. Boston: Fields, Osgood & Co., 1869.
George Eliot’s enjoyment.
We are reading ‘Aurora Leigh,’ for the third time, with more enjoyment than ever. I know no book that gives me a deeper sense of communion with a large as well as beautiful mind.
Marian Evans Lewes:Letter to Sara Hennell, 1857. ‘George Eliot’s Life,’ edited by J. W. Cross. New York: Harper & Bros., 1885.
Sympathetic criticism of the ‘Portuguese Sonnets.’
I am disposed to consider the ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’ as, if not the finest, a portion of the finest subjective poetry in our literature. Their form reminds us of an English prototype, and it is no sacrilege to say that their music is showered from a higher and purer atmosphere than that of the Swan of Avon. We need not enter upon cold comparison of their respective excellences; but Shakespeare’s personal poems were the overflow of his impetuous youth: his broadervision, that took a world within its ken, was absolutely objective; while Mrs. Browning’s ‘Love Sonnets’ are the outpourings of a woman’s tenderest emotions, at an epoch when her art was most mature, and her whole nature exalted by a passion that to such a being comes but once and for all. Here, indeed, the singer rose to her height. Here she is absorbed in rapturous utterance, radiant and triumphant with her own joy. The mists have risen and her sight is clear. Her mouthing and affectation are forgotten, her lips cease to stammer, the lyrical spirit has full control. The sonnet, artificial in weaker hands, becomes swift with feeling, red with a “veined humanity,” the chosen vehicle of a royal woman’s vows. Graces, felicities, vigor, glory of speech, here are so crowded as to tread each upon the other’s sceptred pall. The first sonnet, equal to any in our tongue, is an overture containing the motive of the canticle; “not Death, but Love” had seized her unaware. The growth of this happiness, her worship of its bringer, her doubts of her own worthiness, are the theme of these poems. She is in a sweet and, to us, pathetic surprise at the delight which had at last fallen to her:
“The wonder was not yet quite goneFrom that still look of hers.”
Never was man or minstrel so honored as her “most gracious singer of high poems.” In the tremor of her love she undervalued herself,—with all her feebleness of body, it was enough for any man to live within the atmosphere of such a soul! In fine, the ‘Portuguese Sonnets,’ whose title was a screen behind which the singer poured out her full heart, are the most exquisitepoetry hitherto written by a woman, and of themselves justify us in pronouncing their author the greatest of her sex.... An analogy with ‘In Memoriam’ may be derived from their arrangement and their presentation of a single analytic theme; but Tennyson’s poem, though exhibiting equal art, more subtile reasoning and comprehensive thought, is devoted to the analysis of philosophic grief, while the ‘Sonnets’ reveal to us that love which is the most ecstatic of human emotions and worth all other gifts in life.
E. C. Stedman: ‘Victorian Poets.’ Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1881.
Her timidity.
It was my privilege to live for years near by, and in intimate intercourse with, the divinity of Casa Guidi, her whose genius has immortalized the walls as well as the windows of that antique palace; for a tablet has been inserted by the grateful Italians, whose cause she so eloquently espoused, in the grand entrance hall, recording her name, deeds, and long residence there, with the tribute of their thanks and love. Yet I had not known the Brownings personally, in the more intimate sense of acquaintanceship, till that blessed day, when in the balm of a June morning, we started together in an open carriage for Pratolino, taking with us a manservant, who carried the basket containing our picnic dinner, of which only four were to partake. A larger party would have spoiled the whole. A more timid nature was never joined to a bolder spirit than in Elizabeth Browning. She fairly shrunk from observation, and could not endure mixed company, though in her heart kind and sympathetic with all. Her timidity was both instinctiveand acquired; having been an invalid and student from her youth up, she had lived almost the life of a recluse; thus it shocked her to be brought face to face with inquisitive strangers, or the world in general. On this very account, and because her health so rarely permitted her to make excursions of any kind, she enjoyed, as the accustomed do not, and the unappreciative cannot, any unwonted liberty in nature’s realm, and doubly with a chosen few sympathetic companions, to whom she could freely express her thoughts and emotions. Like most finely strung beings, she spoke through a changeful countenance every change of feeling.
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 theporte-cochereof 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 ourimprovisatricein the humor of utterance.
Mr. Browning talks of his wife.
Withdrawing a short distance, so that our mellowedvoices 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.
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 organizationreceived 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.
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 feeblephysiquenever quite recovered from the shock. Few witnessed the strong grief of that morally strongwoman. 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,’ inScribner’s Magazine, nowThe Century, December, 1870.
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 Prefaceto ‘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.
[4]‘Victorian Poets,’ by E. C. Stedman.
[4]‘Victorian Poets,’ by E. C. Stedman.
[5]Miss Mitford writes in 1851.
[5]Miss Mitford writes in 1851.
[6]Mr. Tilton writes in 1862.
[6]Mr. Tilton writes in 1862.