But he experienced,when the time came,more than his habitual disinclination for leaving home.A distinct shrinking from the fatigue of going to Italy now added itself to it;for he had suffered when travelling back in the previous winter,almost as much as on the outward journey,though he attributed the distress to a different cause:his nerves were,he thought,shaken by the wearing discomforts incidental on a broken tooth.
He was for the first time painfully sensitive to the vibration of the train.
He had told his friends,both in Venice and London,that so far as he was able to determine,he would never return to Italy.
But it was necessary he should go somewhere,and he had no alternative plan.
For a short time in this last summer he entertained the idea of a visit to Scotland;it had indeed definitely shaped itself in his mind;but an incident,trivial in itself,though he did not think it so,destroyed the first scheme,and it was then practically too late to form another.During the second week in August the weather broke.
There could no longer be any question of the northward journey without even a fixed end in view.His son and daughter had taken possession of their new home,the Palazzo Rezzonico,and were anxious to see him and Miss Browning there;their wishes naturally had weight.
The casting vote in favour of Venice was given by a letter from Mrs.Bronson,proposing Asolo as the intermediate stage.She had fitted up for herself a little summer retreat there,and promised that her friends should,if they joined her,be also comfortably installed.The journey was this time propitious.It was performed without imprudent haste,and Mr.Browning reached Asolo unfatigued and to all appearance well.
He saw this,his first love among Italian cities,at a season of the year more favourable to its beauty than even that of his first visit;yet he must himself have been surprised by the new rapture of admiration which it created in him,and which seemed to grow with his lengthened stay.
This state of mind was the more striking,that new symptoms of his physical decline were now becoming apparent,and were in themselves of a depressing kind.He wrote to a friend in England,that the atmosphere of Asolo,far from being oppressive,produced in him all the effects of mountain air,and he was conscious of difficulty of breathing whenever he walked up hill.He also suffered,as the season advanced,great inconvenience from cold.
The rooms occupied by himself and his sister were both unprovided with fireplaces;and though the daily dinner with Mrs.Bronson obviated the discomfort of the evenings,there remained still too many hours of the autumnal day in which the impossibility of heating their own little apartment must have made itself unpleasantly felt.
The latter drawback would have been averted by the fulfilment of Mr.Browning's first plan,to be in Venice by the beginning of October,and return to the comforts of his own home before the winter had quite set in;but one slight motive for delay succeeded another,till at last a more serious project introduced sufficient ground of detention.
He seemed possessed by a strange buoyancy --an almost feverish joy in life,which blunted all sensations of physical distress,or helped him to misinterpret them.When warned against the imprudence of remaining where he knew he suffered from cold,and believed,rightly or wrongly,that his asthmatic tendencies were increased,he would reply that he was growing acclimatized --that he was quite well.
And,in a fitful or superficial sense,he must have been so.
His letters of that period are one continuous picture,glowing with his impressions of the things which they describe.
The same words will repeat themselves as the same subject presents itself to his pen;but the impulse to iteration scarcely ever affects us as mechanical.It seems always a fresh response to some new stimulus to thought or feeling,which he has received.
These reach him from every side.It is not only the Asolo of this peaceful later time which has opened before him,but the Asolo of 'Pippa Passes'and 'Sordello';that which first stamped itself on his imagination in the echoes of the Court life of Queen Catharine,and of the barbaric wars of the Eccelini.Some of his letters dwell especially on these early historical associations:on the strange sense of reopening the ancient chronicle which he had so deeply studied fifty years before.The very phraseology of the old Italian text,which I am certain he had never glanced at from that distant time,is audible in an account of the massacre of San Zenone,the scene of which he has been visiting.To the same correspondent he says that his two hours'drive to Asolo 'seemed to be a dream;'
and again,after describing,or,as he thinks,only trying to describe some beautiful feature of the place,'but it is indescribable!'
A letter addressed to Mrs.FitzGerald,October 8,1889,is in part a fitting sequel to that which he had written to her from the same spot,eleven years before.
'...Fortunately there is little changed here:my old Albergo,--ruinous with earthquake --is down and done with --but few novelties are observable --except the regrettable one that the silk industry has been transported elsewhere --to Cornuda and other places nearer the main railway.No more Pippas --at least of the silk-winding sort!
'But the pretty type is far from extinct.
