1849-1852
Death of Mr.Browning's Mother --Birth of his Son --Mrs.Browning's Letters continued --Baths of Lucca --Florence again --Venice --Margaret Fuller Ossoli --Visit to England --Winter in Paris --Carlyle --George Sand --Alfred de Musset.
On March 9,1849,Mr.Browning's son was born.With the joy of his wife's deliverance from the dangers of such an event came also his first great sorrow.His mother did not live to receive the news of her grandchild's birth.The letter which conveyed it found her still breathing,but in the unconsciousness of approaching death.
There had been no time for warning.The sister could only break the suddenness of the shock.A letter of Mrs.Browning's tells what was to be told.
Florence:April 30('49).
'...This is the first packet of letters,except one to Wimpole Street,which I have written since my confinement.You will have heard how our joy turned suddenly into deep sorrow by the death of my husband's mother.
An unsuspected disease (ossification of the heart)terminated in a fatal way --and she lay in the insensibility precursive of the grave's when the letter written with such gladness by my poor husband and announcing the birth of his child,reached her address.
"It would have made her heart bound,"said her daughter to us.
Poor tender heart --the last throb was too near.The medical men would not allow the news to be communicated.The next joy she felt was to be in heaven itself.My husband has been in the deepest anguish,and indeed,except for the courageous consideration of his sister who wrote two letters of preparation,saying "She was not well"and she "was very ill"when in fact all was over,I am frightened to think what the result would have been to him.He has loved his mother as such passionate natures only can love,and I never saw a man so bowed down in an extremity of sorrow --never.Even now,the depression is great --and sometimes when I leave him alone a little and return to the room,I find him in tears.I do earnestly wish to change the scene and air --but where to go?England looks terrible now.He says it would break his heart to see his mother's roses over the wall and the place where she used to lay her scissors and gloves --which I understand so thoroughly that I can't say "Let us go to England."We must wait and see what his father and sister will choose to do,or choose us to do --for of course a duty plainly seen would draw us anywhere.My own dearest sisters will be painfully disappointed by any change of plan --only they are too good and kind not to understand the difficulty --not to see the motive.So do you,I am certain.
It has been very,very painful altogether,this drawing together of life and death.Robert was too enraptured at my safety and with his little son,and the sudden reaction was terrible....'
Bagni di Lucca.
'...We have been wandering in search of cool air and a cool bough among all the olive trees to build our summer nest on.
My husband has been suffering beyond what one could shut one's eyes to,in consequence of the great mental shock of last March --loss of appetite,loss of sleep --looks quite worn and altered.
His spirits never rallied except with an effort,and every letter from New Cross threw him back into deep depression.I was very anxious,and feared much that the end of it all would be (the intense heat of Florence assisting)nervous fever or something similar;and I had the greatest difficulty in persuading him to leave Florence for a month or two.He who generally delights in travelling,had no mind for change or movement.I had to say and swear that Baby and I couldn't bear the heat,and that we must and would go away.
"Ce que femme veut,HOMME veut,"if the latter is at all amiable,or the former persevering.At last I gained the victory.It was agreed that we two should go on an exploring journey,to find out where we could have most shadow at least expense;and we left our child with his nurse and Wilson,while we were absent.We went along the coast to Spezzia,saw Carrara with the white marble mountains,passed through the olive-forests and the vineyards,avenues of acacia trees,chestnut woods,glorious surprises of the most exquisite scenery.
I say olive-forests advisedly --the olive grows like a forest-tree in those regions,shading the ground with tints of silvery network.
The olive near Florence is but a shrub in comparison,and I have learnt to despise a little too the Florentine vine,which does not swing such portcullises of massive dewy green from one tree to another as along the whole road where we travelled.
Beautiful indeed it was.Spezzia wheels the blue sea into the arms of the wooded mountains;and we had a glance at Shelley's house at Lerici.It was melancholy to me,of course.
I was not sorry that the lodgings we inquired about were far above our means.
We returned on our steps (after two days in the dirtiest of possible inns),saw Seravezza,a village in the mountains,where rock river and wood enticed us to stay,and the inhabitants drove us off by their unreasonable prices.It is curious --but just in proportion to the want of civilization the prices rise in Italy.
If you haven't cups and saucers,you are made to pay for plate.
Well --so finding no rest for the soles of our feet,I persuaded Robert to go to the Baths of Lucca,only to see them.
We were to proceed afterwards to San Marcello,or some safer wilderness.
