SD2498. William Wetmore Story to Charles Eliot Norton
Published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 29, 302–305 (in part).
Hotel des Diablerets–
Vallee des Ormonts Dessus–
Vaudois.
Aug. 15th 1861–
My dear Charles
Your very pleasant & welcome letter which I received the other day deserves an immediate answer …
You have before this heard of course of the death of Mrs Browning, though the news had not reached you when you wrote. This was sudden & unexpected at the last, for though she had always been so frail that seeing her one only wondered what kept soul & body together at all but we all had become so accustomed to thinking of her as different from all others in the matter of health, that we began to think that she might even outlast us. Fifteen years ago her physicians told her that life was impossible, yet she had lived & borne a child & written immortal works and shown an amazing energy of spirit & intellect and been a power & a pen so long in this diseased condition, that she might justly be considered as exceptional to ordinary rules. The last winter I had many fears that she was failing. The death of her father had struck a hard blow.Then came a long and anxious time during which she was greatly agitated by the sad illness of her sister—then her sister’s death as it were struck her when she was down—and I feared that her vital energy, great as it was, might not withstand these heavy blows. Yet she revived—and as spring came on went out to drive—& though weak began to gather herself together again—and at one time projected a journey to Paris. This however was impossible. Yet she went to Florence by Vettura and did not suffer more than usual, and we were all hesitating at Leghorn, whether we should not abandon our scheme of Switzerland, for another summer together in Siena—when the fatal news of her death reached us. Browning was to have come down to spend Sunday with us, but on Saturday night she was attacked with her usual symptoms in case of cold, (difficulty of breathing &c), and at dead of night he was forced to run for a physician, Dr. Wilson, who remained with her all night. He took a very gloomy view of the case from the first, and this rather affected B’s mind, but she on the contrary laughed at Dr. W’s fears and greatly encouraged Browning who though really a little anxious, still thought this was nothing very serious. The morning brought relief & though weaker, she declared she was otherwise as well as ever. They talked over their plans for the future, decided to go to Siena for the summer with us—agreed to give up Casa Guidi & take a villa in Florence to return to in the spring & autumn & being in treaty for an apartment in the Pal. Barb. at Rome for 6 years, discussed the question how they should furnish it. During the subsequent days she constantly came into the salon & lay on the sofa there all day—until Friday, when Lytton stayed all the morning there talking with B., so that she could not come out. On Friday evg they had again a long talk about their future plans & she went to bed as well as she had been in general respects, though there were some few symptoms which troubled B.—such as raising now & then her hands & holding them up long before her, and also a slight wandering of the mind at intervals & as she was just about to doze. But this wandering he attributed to the morphine which by order of Dr. W. she was obliged to take in larger quantities than those she was accustomed to. At about 3 o’clock he was startled by her breathing & woke her. But she said she was better, and reasoned so quietly & justly about her case that his fears were again subdued. Yet finding her feet cold, he begged her to have a warm bath for them which she consented, saying “Well Robert, this is making an exaggerated case of it.” He brought the water & she bathed her feet. He then gave her some jelly & lemonade—and she talked with him & jested with him—and gave expression to her love for him in the tenderest words. Then feeling sleepy, he supporting her in his arms she fell into a doze—and in a few minutes, suddenly her head dropped forward. He thought she had fainted—but she had gone forever. She had passed in to the other world beyond as if she had fallen asleep—without pain, without thought of death.
After death she looked as Browning told me like a young girl—all the outlines rounded & filled up—& all traces of disease effaced & and a smile on her face so living that they could not for hours persuade themselves that she was really dead—at last, however, the black shadow came, that there is no mistaking.
We all went immediately to Florence on receiving the sad tidings—Browning we found calm & heroically resolved—and poor Penny behaved with great character, striving to comfort his Father in every way. But it was a sad house enough. There stood the table with her letters & books as usual—& her little chair beside it—& in her port-folio a half-finished letter to Mad. Matteucci, full of noble words about Italy. Yes it was for Italy that her last words were written—for her dear Italy were her last aspirations. The death of Cavour had greatly affected her. She had wept many tears for him and been a real mourner. This agitation undoubtedly weakened her—and perhaps was the last feather that broke her down. “The cycle is complete,” as Browning said—looking round the room. “Here we came 15 years ago—here Penny was born—here Ba wrote her Poems for Italy—we used to walk up and down this verandah in the summer evgs, when revived by the southern air she first again began to enjoy her out-doors life. Every day she used to walk with me or drive with me, & once even walked to Bellosguardo & back. That was when she was strongest. Little by little as I now see that distance was lessened, & the active out of doors life restricted, until walking had finally ceased. We saw from these windows the return of the Austrians, they wheeled round this corner & came down this street—with all their cannon—just as she describes it in Casa Guidi. Last week when we came to Florence—I said—Come Ba we used you know to walk here in this veranda so often. Come & walk up & down once. Oh! I cannot Robert she said—Just once Ba, I urged—& she came to the window & took two steps on it but it fatigued her too much, & she went back & lay down on the sofa. That was our last walk. Only the night she went away forever, she said she thought we must give up Casa Guidi. It was too inconvenient—& in case of illness too small. She had decided to go away & take a villa outside the gate. For years she could not give up this house, but at last and as it were suddenly she said I see Robert that this Casa Guidi is too small for us—too inconvenient—and so it was. So the cycle was completed for us here—& where the beginning was is the end– Looking back at these past years I see that we have been all the time walking over a torrent on a straw– Life must now be begun anew—all the old life cast off & the new one put on. I shall go away—break up every thing, go to England & live—& work and write.” And so on Browning talked & I listened—it was most sad most interesting & I would I could daguerotype all he said—but I am even too lazy to write it down. Once he stopped himself and said—‘Do you know that I expect to see the door open every minute & hear Ba come in. I did then. All sorts of questions came up to me, and my first impulse is—I will ask Ba about that. Writing my letters, I make mental memoranda—& say—well Ba must decide that. All seems impossible that is.[’]
The funeral was not impressive—as it ought to have been. She was buried in the Protestant cemetery where Theodore Parker lies. Many of her friends were there, but there were fewer persons than I expected & hoped to see. The services were blundered through by a fat English Parson in a brutally careless way—& she was consigned by him to the earth—as if her clay were no better than any other clay. I did what I could, but I had arrived too late to assume the arrangements, which were made by Cottrell. So I carried two wreaths (it was all I could do) one of those exquisite white Florence roses, and the other of laurel—& these I laid on her coffin.
She is a great loss to literature—to Italy—and to the world. The greatest poet among women—her heart always was true to Freedom Religion & Beauty & with her pen she fought nobly for them. There is nothing mean & low in her Life, in her principles, nor in her writings. What energy & fire there was in that little frame—what burning words were winged by her pen—with what glorious courage she attacked error however strongly entrenched in custom—how bravely she stood by her principles. Never did I see any one whose brow the world hurried & crowded so to crown, who had so little vanity—& so much pure humility. Praise gratified her when just—blame when unjust scarcely annoyed her. She could afford to let her work plead for itself. Ready to accept criticism she never feared it—but defended herself with spirit when unjustly attacked. For Public opinion she cared not a straw—& could not bear to be looked on as a lion. How Earnest she was—her faiths were rooted in the center of her being. But what am I doing. Pray excuse me. I did not mean to write an essay—but I have let myself run on too far.
These things I have thus hurriedly dotted down thinking that they would interest you—but I wrote to Apthorp a more detailed acct of her last days, which if you are desirous to see, he will I doubt not show to you, unless he has already destroyed it. I need not say to You, that of course all little details of this kind are private—but pray look out that nobody steals this letter & prints it, as any body belonging to the Press would if he could—bad as it is—and this would greatly annoy B. He is now with his sister in Paris. The house at Florence is broken up—and I have lost my best friend & daily companion in Italy. You cannot imagine how I shall miss him. For three years now we have been always together. Never a day has passed (with the exception of two months separation in the spring & autumn when he went to Florence) that we have not met—all the long summer evgs of these last summers at Siena he was with us—& we sat on our terrace night after night till 12 talking together—or we played & sang together above stairs—and all the last winter he worked with me daily for 3 hours in my studio and we met either at my house or his or at some friends nearly every evening. There is no one to supply his place—& returning to Rome I shall terribly feel his loss. There I have not one single intimate friend—acquaintances by hundreds—no friends—no one with whom I can sympathize on all points as with him—no one with whom I can walk any of the higher ranges of art & philosophy—and my dear Charles this for me is a terrible want. I must have some one to sail with over deeps that Jones Brown & Robinson ignore. But at Rome who is there—only such rubbish as Mozier Rogers & Co. among the artists—fellows whose brains are an inch deep and who are animated by all sorts of meannesses, who degrate Art into Trade and money, and lie and slander sure that some of their filth will stick. Our minister has never been a friend—friendly of course & kind & all that—but a person who cannot understand or appreciate art & to whom the higher secrets of literature are a shut Cabala. Englishmen who think are very rare. They are generally ganglions of prejudices which they call opinions and what ideas they have are generally narrow, bigoted, or developments only in a single direction. Their education is never general, but special, and outside their own specialty, they are terribly barren. There was for instance Newton, the British Consul, with whom I was in very close relation on questions of art—who thought, felt and dreamed with me most harmoniously—and with whom I had real sympathy on this plane. But he never had heard John Webster’s name—asked me who Thomas Middleton was, knew nothing & cared nothing for Poetry, music, painting, and was most curiously developed in literature—an admirable Greek scholar, who quoted & knew the Greeks—admired Æschylus & Plato—knew nothing of English poetry beyond Shakespeare or in modern Philosophy beyond Locke—never had read a word of Browning & so on. All his life had been devoted to art—and he knew Greek & Roman art historically & critically with great exactness—but his ideas needed constant illumination—and he never projected himself into Philosophy—he needed to be pushed along. You & I know hundreds of such men. They need to be electorised. They have capacity but still greater is inertiae. They are planted in their ground so cannot speculate or theorise. They say ‘Ouh! ouh!’ to you when you hazard a theory—or state a principle. The English mind is not a philosophical one. They are not of the air, but of the earth—in the good sense of the earth—but still of the earth. Of my English friends none remain in Rome. Browning, who is by nature not an Englishman & who is so eminently sympathetic with me on all points—a whole man all round facing to every point, has gone. Newton also has gone—and nobody now remains, whose conversation is above Augh! augh! by Jove. There is no American to make a friend of either. Wild is gone—and all your friends are far over the waters. Why are you not here. Art seems to be an exile for an American.
Speaking of Newton reminds me of Severn, his father in law who now has the place of Consul. You will remember him as the friend of Keats—and that is the only thing to remember him by. He is the most thoroughly goodnatured ass you ever saw—with no more brains than a pumpkin—and is constantly compromising his government by his absurd conduct in Rome. In his art, he is nowhere—coming up to the post among the ruck.
And now about my studio of which you express a desire to know something. The last thing I did before leaving Rome was to make a bust of Browning, which his wife was good enough to call “perfect.” It was made for her as a present—but alas—you see the end of that. …
Publication: Henry James, William Wetmore Story and His Friends (London, 1903), II, 60–71 (in part).
Manuscript: Harvard University.
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