The “new volume in type” to which he referred was his collection entitled “Asolando,” all of which, with the exception of one poem, had been written within the last two years of his life.
Mr. Barrett Browning relates that while his father was reading aloud these last proofs to himself and his wife, the poet paused over the “Epilogue,” at the stanza—
“One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
Never doubted clouds would break,
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
Sleep to wake.”
and remarked: “It almost seems like praising myself to say this, and yet it is true, the simple truth, and so I shall not cancel it.”
November, often lovely in Venice, was singularly summer-like that year. On one day Mr. Browning found the heat on the Lido “scarcely endurable,” indeed, but “snow-tipped Alps” revealed themselves in the distance, offering a strange contrast to the brilliant sunshine and the soft blue skies. Still November is not June, after all, however perfect the imitation of some of its days. One day there was a heavy fog on his favorite Lido, and the poet, who refused to be deprived of his walk, became thoroughly chilled and illness followed. The following note from Mr. Barrett Browning to Mrs. Bronson indicates the anxiety that prevailed in Palazzo Rezzonico, where the tenderest care of his son and daughter-in-law ministered to the poet. The note is undated, save by the day of the week.
Palazzo Rezzonico,
9 o’clock, Monday Evening.
Dearest Mrs. Bronson,—The improvement of last night is scarcely maintained this morning,—the action of the heart being weaker at moments. He is quite clear-headed, and is never tired of saving he feels better, “immensely better,—I don’t suppose I could get up and walk about, in fact I know I could not, but I have no aches or pains,—quite comfortable, could not be more so,”—this is what he said a moment ago.
I will let you know if there is any change as the day goes on.
My love to you.
Yours, Pen.
The delightful relations that had always prevailed between the poet and his publishers were touchingly completed when, just before he breathed his last, came a telegram from George Murray Smith with its tidings of the interest with which “Asolando” was being received in England. And then this little note written on that memorable date of December 12, 1889, from Barrett Browning to Mrs. Bronson, tells the story of the poet’s entrance on the new life.