SD2467. Kate Field to Cordelia Riddle Sanford
Published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 29, 292–293.
[Florence]
[6–27 July 1861] [1]
<***> Mr. Browning has a very severe cold, and the other night he thought he was dying, being attacked by a fit of strangulation. Miss Blagden says the change in his face is marvellous. God help him! I love him more now for her sake. He has just written a reply to my note of sympathy, which I copy for you. “God bless you and yours for all your kindness, which I shall never forget. I cannot write now except to say this,—and, besides, that I have had great comfort from the beginning. I know you are truth itself in all you profess to feel about her. She also loved you, as you felt. I shall see you soon and talk to you; meantime and ever remember me as your affectionate R.B.” It is a great comfort to have this note,—to be told again that she loved me. Oh, Aunt Corda! hers was such a beautiful spirit that the tears flood up from my heart whenever I think of her, which is very, very often. We went to her grave two days ago. I could not feel that she was there. I hope she will think of me sometimes in the other world, and out of her love for humanity influence me for good. I did worship her as a glorious type of womanhood,—unselfish, suffering, loving, grand. She is not dead to me; but the absence of her dear face is hard to bear. I am trying to write upon her, but feel how unworthy I am for such a task. We shall probably go up to Miss Blagden to-day. She is very gloomy, of course. To me Florence is one vast Campo Santo; my hopes in it are dead. It seems as though there was to be a break up of everything.
We passed several evenings at Villa Brichieri before coming away. Mr. Browning is very subdued, very dear, and has been more than kind to us. He gave mother a favorite shawl that belonged to dear Mrs. Browning, and me a locket that she had before she was married, and of which she was very fond. In the centre is a crystal, in which is her hair shaped in two hearts. The gold around it is a serpent emblem of eternity. I cannot tell you how much I value this souvenir. We went to Casa Guidi to take a last farewell of it. Everything was just as she had left it,—the half-opened fan, the last “Nazione” that she had read, the open desk on which she had written all her poems. It was sad, very, very sad! I felt far worse than when standing at her grave. An artist here has sketched the drawing-room in oils, and has made a most satisfactory picture, not as a painting, but on account of the minute detail. He has put in everything, and the sketch brings the dear room right before you. Mr. Browning is to have it photographed, and has promised me a copy of it. He, Penini, and Miss Blagden leave to-day [sic, for Thursday] for Paris if all the furniture of Casa Guidi can be packed or sold in time. Miss Blagden has gotten release from her villa, stored her furniture with Mr. Trollope, and intends to pass a year at least in England. Mr. Browning does not think he shall ever return to Italy,—at least not to Florence. He says he shall never have a home again, but rove about the world. He said he might come to America some time or other. So there is nobody left in Florence but the Trollopes. You can fancy how changed the place must be to me. Dr. Grisanowsky, however, returns in the fall. I have met Lytton, the poet, several times. He talks exceedingly well, and is by no means a snob. I like to hear him converse, for there is no doubt about his being exceedingly intellectual, and he puts forth his best powers before Mr. Browning, whom he adores; but I don’t like the man as a man. Although under thirty, he has the broken-down appearance of a blasé man of fifty. You can read dissipation in his face and in his stooping figure and shuffling gait. He is weak in character, and this one sees most readily in his poetry. There is nothing vigorous about him, nor is there anything lofty in his aspirations. There never was greater contrast in persons, as well as mind, as between him and Mr. Browning. I pity Mr. Lytton, for he has misused his life; but there is an inherent want of truth and candor about him that prevents him from ever obtaining the respect of honest, earnest natures. He has lately written a review on Mr. Browning. <***>
Text: Lilian Whiting, Kate Field: a Record (Boston, 1899), pp. 141–143.
1. The opening date is provided by Miss Field’s reference to RB’s letter of that day. The closing date is based on her reference to RB’s leaving “to-day.” The poet originally planned to leave Florence on the 27th, but was unable to settle matters until later, leaving 1 August, by which time Miss Field had left.
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