My dear Dr Corson,
I waited some days after the arrival of your Book and Letter thinking I might be able to say more of my sense of your goodness: but I can do no more now than a week ago. You “hope I shall not find too much to disapprove of”: what I ought to protest against, is “a load to sink a navy—too much honor”: how can I put aside your generosity, as if cold justice—however befitting myself,—would be in better agreement with your nature? Let it remain as an assurance to younger poets that, after fifty years’ work unattended by any conspicuous recognition, an over-payment may be made, if there be such another munificent appreciator as I have been privileged to find—in which case let them, even if more deserving, be equally grateful.
I have not observed anything in need of correction in the notes. The “little tablet” was a famous “Last Supper,” mentioned by Varwn, (page. 232) and gone astray long ago from the Church of S. Spirito: it turned up, according to report, in some obscure corner, while I was in Florence, and was at once acquired by a stranger. I saw it,—genuine or no, a work of great beauty. (Page 156.) A “canon,” in music, is a piece wherein the subject is repeated—in various keys—and being strictly obeyed in the repetition, becomes the “Canon”—the imperative law—to what follows. Fifty of such parts would be indeed a notable peal: to manage three is enough of an achievement for a good musician.
And now,—here is Christmas: all my best wishes go to you and Mrs. Corson—those of my sister also. She was indeed suffering from grave indisposition in the summer, but is happily recovered. I could not venture, under the circumstances, to expose her convalescence to the accidents of foreign travel—hence our contenting ourselves with Wales rather than Italy. Shall you be again induced to visit us? Present or absent, you will remember me always, I trust, as
Yours most affectionately
Robert Browning.
The year of 1887 was an eventful one in that the “Parleyings” were published in the early spring; that Browning removed from Warwick Crescent to 29 DeVere Gardens; and that the marriage of his son to Miss Coddington of New York was celebrated on October 4 of that year, an event that gave the poet added happiness. To a stranger who had asked permission to call upon him Browning wrote about this time:
“... My son returns the day after to-morrow with his wife, from their honeymoon at Venice, to stay with me till to-morrow week only, when they leave for Liverpool and America—there to pass the winter. During their short stay, I am bound to consult their convenience, and they will be engaged in visiting, or being visited by friends, so as to preclude me from any chance of an hour at my own disposal. If you please—or, rather, if circumstances permit you to give me the pleasure of seeing you at twelve on Saturday morning, the first day when I shall be at liberty, I shall be happy to receive you.”
