5865. RB to Seymour Stocker Kirkup
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 32, 166–169.
19. Warwick Crescent,
Upper Westbourne Terrace.
Feb: 19. ’67.
My dear Friend,
You will almost think I have forgotten you,—not so, at all. I had a long letter from you in the Spring last year, and a packet of Landor’s letters also,—these I gave to Forster, [1] who wished himself to thank you and, no doubt, did so. Just as I [had] in mind to write, my poor Father died; he had been ailing—rather than absolutely ill—for some few years, with an internal complaint, I hardly know what, except that a sort of varicose vein in the bladder used to burst at intervals and heal itself, without any treatment beyond a little taking “tisanes,” [2] and a little cooling medicine; the doctor said it was hardly to be regretted, as being in some degree a natural prevention of worse evils attending old age in florid health, and that the occasional loss of blood was of no great consequence: nor was it, at first—but afterward it grew considerable, occurred oftener, and interfered with the walking exercise which was necessary to him: yet the autumn before (in ’65) he made the usual journey with me to Brittany, a good three days’ business, and enjoyed his daily walks pretty much as usual: but on the following Easter, I found a great change in him,—that the continual loss of blood was making an undue demand on his strength. The intellect, always very extraordinarily active, was quite unaffected: he continued his studies to the very last—and, on my requesting him to investigate the history of one of the Popes [3] —(I did it to interest him, mainly) he sent me, a few weeks before the end, a regular book of researches, and a narrative of his own, exhausting the subject. His sight, hearing, memory,—all were absolutely as I remember them thirty years ago—even his appearance was singularly unchanged. I was summoned by telegram, reached Paris on the 13 June, and found him dying—in full possession of his faculties. He had no more fear about death than I have in penning this paragraph: he assured me so, most emphatically. He had been violently seized by a fresh attack of his malady and, two days before, compelled to keep his bed for the first time in his life. Vigla, [4] the head-surgeon of the Hôtel-Dieu was called in, and pronounced the case hopeless,—my father never took the trouble to ask what he said—wondering what was the use of “consulting” about so clear a case. When my sister proposed to send for me, he asked “Why trouble him? He knows what I feel for him.” But I was sent for and came, and was by him till he died, twenty four hours after. He suffered most painfully—his great strength having to be subdued by main force, as it were. But he was sensible to the last, and utterly kind and considerate of others, as he had always been. He wanted a fortnight of completing his eighty-fourth year. He was a perfectly unworldly, good man,—not so much disinterested as without the notion of self-interest. With a touch of ambition, even a spice of vanity, he would assuredly have won a reputation in more ways than one,—but he loved whatever he loved for its own sake only, and, had he discovered the longitude, would have given his discovery to the first stranger, quite content to let him get all the credit, and profit too. He was an unhesitating believer in Christianity: and I tell you all about a man who would have stared to hear himself mentioned as remarkable, knowing your sympathy with me and mine. My sister (my only one, I never had a brother) is come to live with me here. She has always been perfect in her relation to everyone she was naturally a help to. I returned to London—we then went to France for the autumn,—not to Pornic, as before, but to a delicious place in Brittany, Le Croisic—glorified to me long ago by the Beatrix of Balzac, which I used to devour as it came out in feuilletons in the “Siècle” of those days. [5] Croisic is the old head-seat of Druidism in France, probably mentioned by Strabo: [6] the people were still Pagan a couple of hundred years ago, despite the priests’ teaching & preaching, and the women used to dance round a phallic stone still upright there with obscene circumstances enough,—till the general civilization got too strong for this. Close by, is the strange, solitary Bourg de Batz—a Saxon colony of stalwart men who retain exactly the dress of their forefathers, three hundred years ago—white tunic, baggy breeches, stockings, even shoes, all white, but a great black flap-hat with red fringes. These are the paludiers [7] who collect the salt from the salines, [8] which forms the staple produce of the place. Still farther on, is the delicious old city of Guerande, intact with its moat, wall, towers and gates: it is the old seat of all the genuine Bretagne noblesse, who live on in the old way and with the old ideas. The whole district is wild, strange and romantic, with a fine fierce sea, and driving sands. I lived at Croisic in a fine old house, fit to contain a dozen families, bathed daily (except when the sea was too fierce) and made excursions in the neighbourhood. On my return I found myself with plenty of work to do,—Robert has to go to Oxford next Michaelmas, and is reading hard for his matriculation at Balliol,—they exact terribly at that college. I want him to be under Jowett, Tutor there, who manages young men admirably. Robert is a fine little fellow in his way—wanting a month of being eighteen. He is strong, healthy, inordinately given to boating, quite a boy still, but good, truthful, loyal—I may safely say: all depends on the turn he may take just now. I shall enclose you the last photograph of him, [9] —you will hardly recognize the curly little creature that was. I have heard much of you lately, from various people who passed thro’ Florence,—Arthur Russell &c. And Lady Westmorland showed me parts of a letter, two days ago, you had much gratified her by writing. She often talks about you,—so does Lady William Russell, Layard—indeed, all friends. Shall I soon see you for myself, I wonder? Now that Robert will go to the University, there will be no longer an imperative reason for my presence here. I should find Florence much changed, I am told,—but there must be much left, and the rest I can supply from my heart. Yet, by an odd chance, there was a possibility, a few days ago, of my choosing to hamper myself for the next five years, by taking the Professorship of Poetry at Oxford, now vacant! A body of the young men actually came and declared they wanted me in that capacity,—whereon, no less than forty-five of the Congregation (Resident Body) signed a paper requesting the Council to propose to Convocation that I should be qualified to compete by receiving a M. A. Degree: the Council however refused to do this, on the ground that it would be unfair to the candidates long ago in the field,—Ruskin (withdrawn, however) and others of less note: now, I thought, and think, just the same,—but that was for them to consider, not me. I could only take the proposal as a compliment to a complete outsider like myself. I would have accepted the office—because it would have brought me into close relation with the University just now when Robert goes there,—and, for his sake, I would, if it might comport with a gentleman’s behaviour, black the boots, much more brighten the brains, of Oxford aforesaid. However, it is best as it is—I have acknowledged the kindness and honor, and keep my liberty all the same. But you, by the way—you are a Baron, I find! [10] Capitally thought and done of the chivalrous King, for which, and much beside, I thank him heartily. Thus comes, occasionally, honor to desert! I can easily imagine it surprised you—who would not have turned your head for it,—so it came to you—which is right and just, and reconciles one to the pomps and vanities in this kind, which have got their ill-name thro’ their habit of going after the wrong man: I congratulate them, this time.
Forster’s Life of Landor will very much interest us all: Henry Landor died a few weeks ago [11] —having long been blind and incapable of enjoying life: Robert still lives,—quite his old self, they say. He has furnished Forster with ample materials—I hope poor Landor’s unwise career won’t come out too startlingly in relief: he wasted the finest powers and abused the happiest position in the world, there is no denying. But I love his memory, poor dear grand misguided good and foolish man! His wretched sons, at least numbers one and two, are getting their deserts—Julia, too, got hers in a way she little suspects, and would be so sensible of, that I hope she will never know: Henry Landor had left her a legacy of £2000—and revoked it in consequence of her behaviour to her father. Her father was unjust to her in some respects—but was her father.
Here is a long letter, I shall not venture to re-read: can you once read the same? I did not observe the vileness of the paper till past remedy. Do write me a word, my dear friend—tell me all your news: how is Bibi? Remember me to her and assure her of my love. Robert is away—but I may dispose of his love too—knowing what he would say & send.
Ever affectionately yours,
Robert Browning.
Publication: LRB, pp. 105–108.
Manuscript: British Library.
1. For his Walter Savage Landor: A Biography (2 vols., 1869).
2. “Herbal teas.”
3. Either Formosus or Stephen VII; see letter 5684, note 6.
6. Strabo discusses the Druids of Gaul but does not place them specifically in the area of Le Croisic (see Geography, IV, 4, 4–5).
8. “Salt marshes.”
9. One of the four photographs taken at Paris in April 1866. They are reproduced facing p. 176.
10. Upon Kirkup receiving his knighthood in 1865 (see letter 5645, note 5), “Victor Emmanuel addressed him (inadvertently, it was said) not as cavaliere but as barone—which title Kirkup adopted” (ODNB).
11. Henry Eyres Landor (1781–1866) died on 29 November at Tachbrooke, Warwickshire.
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