“There is arranged to be a sort of expedition [to Venice] of young Toynbee Hall men, headed by Alberto Ball, the son of our common friend, for the purpose of studying, not merely amusing, themselves with,—the beloved city. Well as the Balls are entitled to say that they know you, still, the young and clever Ball chooses to wish me to beg your kind notice; and I suppose that his companions are to be noticed also,—of what really appears to be a praiseworthy effort after self-instruction. Will you smile on him when he calls on you? for his father’s sake, who is anxious about the scheme’s success? I have bespoken Pen’s assistance, and he will do the honors of the Rezzonico with alacrity, I have no doubt.”

Miss Edith Bronson,
(now Contessa Rucellai)
From a Water-Color by Passini, Venice, 1883.

In almost every life that is strongly individualized those who look back after it has passed from visible sight cannot but recognize how rhythmic are the sequences that have characterized its last months on earth. If the person in question had actually known the day on which he should be called away, he would hardly have done other than he did. It is as if the spirit had some prescience, not realized by the ordinary consciousness, but still controlling its conduct of the last time allotted here. With this last year of Robert Browning’s life, this unseen leading is especially obvious. In the spring he had revised his poetic work; he had passed Commemoration week at Oxford, as he loved to do; he had passed much of the time with his friend, the Master of Balliol, and among his last expressions on leaving Oxford was “Jowett knows how I love him.” He was also in Cambridge, and Edmund Gosse has charmingly recalled the way in which he dwelt, retrospectively, on his old Italian days.

In June, also, he paid his usual visit to Lord Albemarle (the last survivor of those who fought at Waterloo), and in that month he wrote to Professor Knight, who was about to exchange the Chair of Philosophy at the University of Glasgow for that of Literature at St. Andrews, saying: “It is the right order; Philosophy first, and Poetry, which is its highest outcome, afterward, and much harm has been done by reversing the usual process.”

The letters to Mrs. Bronson tell much of the story of these days. In one, dated June 10, 1899, he gives this reminiscence of Asolo:

Dearest Friend,—It was indeed a joy to get your letter. I know that a change of place would be desirable for you, darling Edie told me so, but I fancied you would not leave Venice so soon....

... One thing is certain, that if I do go to Venice, and abide at the Rezzonico, every day during the visit I shall pass over to the beloved Alvisi and entirely beloved friends there, who are to me in Venice what San Marco is to the Piazza. Enough of this now, and something about Asolo.

When I first found out Asolo, I lodged at the main hotel in the Square,—an old, large inn of the most primitive kind. The ceiling of my bed-room was traversed by a huge crack, or rather cleft, caused by the earthquake last year; the sky was as blue as blue could be, and we were all praying in the fields, expecting the town to tumble in. On the morning after my arrival, I walked up to the Rocca; and on returning to breakfast I mentioned it to the land-lady, wherein a respectable middle-aged man, sitting by, said: “You have done what I, born here, never thought of doing.” I took long walks every day, and carried away a lively recollection of the general beauty, but I did not write a word of ‘Pippa Passes’—that idea struck me when walking in an English wood, and I made use of Italian memories.

I used to dream of seeing Asolo in the distance and making vain attempts to reach it—repeatedly dreamed this for many a year. And when I found myself once more in Italy, with Sarianna, I went there straight from Venice. We found the old inn lying in ruins, a new one (being) built, to take its place,—I suppose that which you see now. We went to a much inferior albergo, the best then existing, and were roughly, but pleasantly, entertained for a week, as I say. People told me the number of inhabitants had greatly increased, and things seemed generally more ordinary and life-like. I am happy that you like it so much. When I got my impression, Italy was new to me....