These letters to Mrs. Bronson reveal Browning the man as do no other records in literature. The consciousness of being perfectly understood, and the realization of the delicacy and beauty of the character of Mrs. Bronson made this choice companionship one of the greatest joys in Browning’s life. It may, perhaps, as well be interpolated here that a large package of the fascinating letters from Robert Browning to Mrs. Bronson, from which these extracts are made, were placed at the disposal of the writer of this volume by the generous kindness of Mrs. Bronson’s daughter, the Contessa Rucellai, and with the slight exception of a few paragraphs used by Mrs. Bronson herself (in two charming papers that she wrote on Browning), they have never before been drawn upon for publication.
Under the date of January 4, 1889, the poet writes to Mrs. Bronson:
No, dearest friend, I can well believe you think of me sometimes, even oft-times, for in what place, or hour, or hour of the day, can you fail to be reminded of some piece of kindness done by you and received by me during those memorable three months when you cared for me and my sister constantly, and were so successful in your endeavor to make us perfectly happy. Depend on it, neither I nor she move about this house (which has got to be less familiar to us through our intimate acquaintance with yours),—neither of us forget you for a moment, nor are we without your name on our lips much longer, when we sit quietly down at home of an evening, and talk over the pleasantest of pleasant days....
The sole invitation I can but accept this morning is to the Farewell dinner about to be given by the Lord Mayor to Mr. Phelps; that I am bound to attend. I have not seen him or Mrs. Phelps yet; but they receive this afternoon, and if I am able I shall go. You will wish to know that all our articles have arrived safely, and more expeditiously than we had expected. The tables, lanterns, etc., are very decidedly approved of, and fit into the proper corners very comfortably; so that everywhere will be an object reminding us, however unnecessarily, of Venice. Your ink-stand brightens the table by my hand; the lamp will probably stand beside it; while Tassini tempts me to dip into him every time I pass the book-case. I may never see the loved city again, but where in the house will not some little incident of the then unparalleled months, wake up memories of the gondola, and the stopping, here and there, and the fun at Morchio’s; the festive return home, behind broad-backed Luigi; then the tea, and the dinner, and Gargarin’s crusty old port flavor, and the Dyers, and Ralph Curtis, and O, the delightful times! Of Edith I say nothing because she has herself, the darling! written to me, the surprise and joy of that! And I mean to have a talk with her on paper, alas! my very self, and induce her not to let me have the last word. Oh, my two beloveds I must see Venice again; it would be heart-breaking to believe otherwise. Of course I entered into all your doings, the pretty things you got, and prettier, I am sure, you gave. And I was sorry, so sorry, to hear that naughty Edith, no darling, for half a second, now I think of it,—did not figure in the tableaux. I hope and believe, however, she did dance in the New Year. Bid her avoid this cold-catching and consequent headache. Do write, dearest friend, keep me au courant of everything. No minutest of your doings but is full of interest to me and Sarianna. But I am at the paper’s extreme edge. Were it elephant folio (is there such a size?) it would not hold all I have in my heart, and head, too, of love for you and “our Edie;” so, simply, God bless you, my beloveds!
Robert Browning.
Princess Montenegro sent me by way of a New Year’s card,—what do you think? A pretty photograph of the Rezzonico. The young lady was equally mindful of Sarianna.
R. B.
To Miss Edith Bronson the poet wrote, as follows:
Dearest Edie,—I did not reply to your letter at once for this reason; an immediate answer might seem to imply I expected such a delightful surprise every day, or week, or even month; and it was wise economy to let you know that I can go on without a second piece of kindness till you again have such a good impulse and yield to it—by no means binding yourself to give me regularly such a pleasure. You shall owe me nothing, but be as generous as is consistent with justice to other people.... I did not go out except to the complimentary farewell dinner our Lord Mayor gave to Mr. Phelps which nobody could be excused from attending. We all grieved at the loss, especially of Mrs. Phelps, who endeared herself to everybody. Both of them were sorry to go from us....
The next letter reveals anew Browning’s always thoughtful courtesy in bespeaking kindness for mutual friends, as he writes: