3247. RB to Henry Fothergill Chorley
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 19, 215–217.
Bagni di Lucca,
Aug. 11. ’53.
Indeed I was vexed, my dear Chorley, to hear of your mischance from Mr Kenyon [1] —nor was there any better intelligence in your note. Anybody who is wanting in consideration or delicacy to you is sure to be ungrateful besides—and if he is plainly ungrateful on any obvious point,—I should know there were infinite out-of-the-way matters in which he was equally regardless of such kindness & forethought as every one must experience in a relation with you. Your part is the better, & happier, after all; besides the nobler, and you will go on so, I know,—looking for reward to your own feeling, if you resolve not to take it, where—such as it is—it is always ready for you,—in the affection & sympathy of your friends. Few things annoyed me more the last time I was in London than that I saw you so poorly & ineffectually—said so little of what had been accumulating for years,—but I did you no wrong, nor myself, had you known all. When I next return, that shall all be repaired, I trust & seem to know–
I am very glad you like Powers’ papers: [2] I reproached myself a little—(when I fancied you were disapproving) for having so written, after my awkward fashion, as to give you a notion, perhaps, that I was indifferent to it—all thro’ a foolish fear of seeming to thrust the thing on you: the case is thus—Powers is much given to meditate on his art, and not disinclined to put down the result, in rough sculptor’s—(half artisan’s, you know)—language—what he thinks is well worth knowing, however—and it struck me,—that he might be induced to give you from time to time these bits of study, the vein growing richer as it is worked,—and that such contributions might relieve your own work at times, you who work too hard now & ever; he said “I have American papers open to me—but this would be better”—so it would, indeed. The new, mistaken trick of coloring statues is much in favor, increasingly so, in Italy at least—and being altogether wrong cannot be stopped too soon. If I don’t mistake, there is more than one conclusive word on the subject in Fuseli’s aphorisms. [3]
We are here again, and like the place better than ever—the crowd of “good company” disturbs little or nothing. I met the “sovereign” by himself on the mountain-side, (just now) looking shabby & conscious. [4] Did you hear of a concert given in Florence, some time ago now, made up of Rossini’s music exclusively? It was fresh & satisfying indeed—but there was one sad disappointment—the bill had announced a “m.s. Chorus of Soprani”—“conceived by the author.” On the day of performance, the chorus styled itself, “of Bayadères” moreover: one wondered and hoped—alas, a fatal triangle-accompaniment began, and then the old style of Auber-like [5] thing, one has seen so many shawls wave to, & toes point at– “Very good, had it come twenty years ago, but now quite of another quality.” Next day the secret was out—“the m.s.” was just an old subject from the “Maometto II”, left out when that opera was subsequently recast as “L’Assedio di Corinto”—and since then, unpublished enough. [6] So little does the man care for a whole city full of friends & lovers being sorry for his declining faculty for four & twenty hours! I see him laughing & conversing at the corner of streets every now & then– Poor Döhler [7] is here, by the way, dying apparently. I always liked his delicate & sensitive music,—did not you?
I never hear anything of the Arnoulds—my fault it is, I know. The Storys are here—whom you knew & liked in London. We had a letter from Mrs Jameson this morning—she had been to Ireland,—but you will know all I would tell you, which is little enough. Our own days go quietly by; the year is turned already; we shall stay, I suppose, & see the chestnuts fall, & the planes turn scarlet & yellow,—and then get to Rome, if we can,—and then, Spring in Paris, Summer in London,—you must wish these good things for us and help us weak ones. My wife is quite well now. —And your sister? I can only give you—or continue to give you, the truest sympathy– The horrible weather of which all English letters speak must try her dreadfully. My wife will have said something for herself—will you give my kindest regards & best wishes?
God bless you—dear Chorley. Don’t let these crosses spoil you—there ought to come much work & good to us all out of so much real stuff as we all know is in you. Why is “Pomfret” the last of your novels so long? [8]
Ever yours affectionately,
RB.
Publication: Charles T. Dougherty, “Browning Letters in the Vatican Library,” Manuscripta, 4 (October 1960), 166–169.
Manuscript: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana.
3. A search through “Aphorisms” in volume three of The Life and Writings of H. Fuseli, “the former written and the latter edited by John Knowles” (3 vols., 1831), fails to reveal any such “conclusive word.”
4. Evidently, RB met the Grand Duke of Tuscany, who, along with his family, was staying in the Brownings’ former residence, Casa Valeri, Bagni Caldi.
5. A reference to Daniel François Esprit Auber (1782–1871), French composer of opéras comiques.
6. Rossini’s L’Assedio di Corinto or Le Siège de Corinthe, a revision of Maometto II (1820), was first performed in 1826.
7. Theodor Döhler (1814–56), Austrian pianist and composer, had settled in Florence in 1848 after having been ennobled by the Duke of Lucca.
8. Pomfret was published in 1845. Chorley’s next novel, Rocabella, did not appear until 1859.
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