Dearest Mrs. Bronson,—This dull morning grew to near blackness itself, when, at breakfast, my sister said once again, “No news of her from Venice,”—and I once again calculated and found by this time it was a month and a full half since we heard from you. Why should this be? If I had simply and rationally written a line, instead of thinking a thought, I should have known, as your dear goodness will let me know, as soon as you receive this, how you are, how Edith is, now that the winter is over and gone with the incentives to that cough which was still vexatious when we had your last letter.
Do not let us mind high-days and holidays: be sure of this, that every day will be truly festal that brings us a word from you, for other clouds than the material ones make us melancholy just now; and how this turbid element about us contrasts with the golden hours near the beloved friends,—perhaps more vivid,—certainly more realized as valuable, than ever! I do not mean to write much because what I want to impress on your generosity is that just a half sheet, with mere intelligence about you, will be a true comfort and sustainment to me and to my sister,—the barest account of yourself, and what we appreciate with you; and, for our part, you shall hear, at least, that we are well, or ailing, stationary, or about to move.
In the early spring Browning again writes to Mrs. Bronson:
19, Warwick Crescent, W.
April 8, ’85.
Dearest Friend,—This is not a letter, for I have this minute returned from a funeral, in pitiful weather, and am unable either in body or soul to write one, much as I hope to do, with something of my warm self in it. But I find Burne Jones’s pretty and touching letter, and want this leaf to serve as an envelope to what may please you, who deserve so thoroughly that it should. I will write in a day or two. I heard from Pen this morning, who is at Dinard, being too ill to remain in Paris, but finds himself already better. He told me and re-told me how good you had been to him. How I trust all is going well with you,—certainly you need no assurance of,—enough that I love you with all my heart. Bless you and your Edith. It is an Edith,—Proctor’s (Barry Cornwall’s) daughter, whom I have been following to her grave. Some fifty years ago her father said to me while caressing her, “Ah, Browning, this is the Poetry.” “I know it.” “No, you know nothing about it.” Well, if I was ignorant then, I am instructed now. So, dear Two Poems, long may I have you to read and to enjoy!
Yours affectionately Ever,
Robert Browning.
In the following autumn Mr. Barrett Browning, who had not seen Venice since his infancy, joined his father, and was “simply infatuated” with the dream city. It was for his sake that Browning had wished to purchase the Manzoni Palace, “to secure for him a perfect domicile, every facility for his painting and sculpture.”
The autumn of 1886 brought to Browning a great sadness in the death of Milsand, and Miss Browning being out of health, and unequal to a continental journey, they both passed a part of the autumn at Llangollen, where Sir Theodore and Lady Martin (Helen Faucit) were their near neighbors, with whom they had tea every Sunday, and renewed one of the most delightful friendships.
On the publication of Dr. Corson’s “Introduction to the Poetry of Browning,” he sent a copy to the poet who thus replied:
19. Warwick Crescent.
W.
Dec. 28. ’86.