1880-1888
"Moreover something is or seems,
That touches me with mystic gleams,
Like shadows of forgotten dreams."
"Alas! our memories may retrace
Each circumstance of time and place,
Season and change come back again,
And outward things unchanged remain;
The rest we cannot re-instate;
Ourselves we cannot re-create;
Nor set our souls to the same key
Of the remembered harmony!"
"LES CHARMETTES"--VENETIAN DAYS--DR. HIRAM CORSON--THE BROWNING SOCIETY--
OXFORD HONORS BROWNING--KATHERINE DEKAY BRONSON--HONORS FROM
EDINBURGH--VISIT TO PROFESSOR MASSON--ITALIAN RECOGNITION--NANCIONI--
THE GOLDONI SONNET--AT ST. MORITZ--IN PALAZZO GIUSTINIANI--
"FERISHTAH'S FANCIES"--COMPANIONSHIP WITH HIS SON--DEATH OF MILSAND--
LETTERS TO MRS. BRONSON--DEVERE GARDENS--PALAZZO REZZONICO--SUNSETS
FROM THE LIDO--ROBERT BARRETT BROWNING'S GIFT IN PORTRAITURE.
Twenty-five years after Robert Browning had visited the famous haunts of
Rousseau with his wife, he again made a little sojourn with his sister in
lovely Chambery, making various excursions in all the picturesque region
about, and again visiting "Les Charmettes," which Miss Browning had not
before seen; as before, Browning sat down to the old harpsichord,
attempting to play "Rousseau's Dream," but only two notes of the antique
instrument responded to his touch. Through all the wonderful scenery of
the Mont Cenis pass they proceeded to Turin and thence to Venice, where
they arrived in the midst of the festivities of the Congress Carnival in
September of 1881. The Storys, whom Browning had anticipated meeting in
Venice, had gone to Vallombrosa, where their daughter (the Marchesa
Peruzzi di' Medici) had a villa, to which the family retired in summer
from their stately old palace in Florence. Mr. Story's two sons, the
painter and the sculptor, both had studios in Venice at this time, and Mr.
Browning often strolled into these. Among other friends Browning and his
sister visited the Countess Mocenigo, who was ensconced in the same palace
that Byron had occupied. She showed her guests through all the rooms with
their classic associations, and Browning sat down to the desk at which
Byron had written the last canto of "Childe Harold." To the satisfaction
of the Brownings, Venice soon regained her usual quiet,--that wonderful
silence broken only by the plash of water against marble steps, and the
cries of the gondoliers,--and he resumed his long walks, often accompanied
by Miss Browning, exploring every curious haunt and lingering in shops and
squares. The poet familiarized himself with the enchanting dream city, as
no tours in gondolas alone could ever do. To him Venice came to be dear
beyond words, and soon after he made all arrangements to purchase the
Palazzo Manzoni, an ancient Venetian palace of the fifteenth century,
whose facade was a faint glow of color from its medallions of colored
marbles, and whose balconies and arched windows seemed especially designed
for a poet's habitation. But the ancient structure was found to be in a
too perilous condition, and Browning, with never-failing regret, resigned
the prospect; nor was he ever consoled, it is said, until, some years
later, his son became the owner of the noble Palazzo Rezzonico.
Every day the poet saw Venice transformed into new splendor. "To see these
divine sunsets is the joy of life," he would say, as a city, flushed with
rose, reflected itself in pale green waters, and the golden sunset filled
with liquid light every narrow street and passage, contrasting sharply
with the dense black shadows. Browning had a love of the sky that made its
glorious panorama one of the delights of his life.
One of the crowning honors of the poet's life invested these days for him
with renewed vitality of interest,--that of the formation of the Browning
Society in London for the study and promulgation of his poetic work. This
was, indeed, a contrast to the public attitude of thirty years before.
Once, in a letter to Mrs. Millais (dated January 7, 1867) he had described
himself to her as "the most unpopular poet that ever was." The Browning
Society was due, in its first inception, to Dr. Furnivall and to Miss
Emily Hickey, and its founding was entirely without Browning's knowledge.
Although the poet avowed himself as "quite other than a Browningite," he
could not fail to be touched and gratified by such a mark of interest and
appreciation.
Dr. Hiram Corson, Professor of Literature at Cornell University, had,
however, formed a Browning Club, composed of professors and their wives
and many eminent scholars, some four or five years before the formation of
the Browning Society in London, and the notable Browning readings which
Professor Corson had given continually in many of the large cities and
before universities, had been of incalculable aid in making Robert
Browning's poetry known and understood in the United States. As an
interpreter of Browning, Dr. Corson stood unrivaled. His aim was to give
to his audience the spiritual meaning of the poem read. His rich voice had
the choral intonation without which no poem can be vocally interpreted.
His reading gave not only the articulated thought, but the spiritual
message of the poet. It is hardly too much to say that no one has ever
fully realized the dramatic power of Browning who has not listened to the
interpretation of Dr. Corson. Of his own part in the creation of the
Browning Society in London, Dr. Corson kindly contributed this record:
"I was stopping with my wife at the Inns of Court Hotel, on High
Holborn. A day or two before receiving Mr. Browning's invitation, Dr.
Frederick James Furnivall dined with us, and after dinner we went over
to the Inns of Court Gardens, just back of the hotel. There we walked
about during the long evening twilight, and talked over the founding
of a Society which Dr. Furnivall and Miss Emily Henriette Hickey, the
poetess, had been contemplating, for the study of Browning's poetry. I
told him of what I had done at Cornell University, the previous four
or five years, in a Browning Club composed of Professors and their
wives, and in my University classes. It was decided that the London
Browning Society should be organized in October; and I engaged to go
over to England the following June, and read a paper before the
Society; which I did at its eighth meeting, on the 23d of June, the
subject of the paper being 'The Idea of Personality as embodied in
Robert Browning's Poetry, and of Art as an intermediate Agency of
Personality.'"
Another source of joy to Browning, and one that far exceeded that of any
recognition of himself, was the increasing recognition of his son's
achievements in art. Barrett Browning was at this time a pupil of Rodin in
Paris, devoting himself to sculpture with the same ardor that he gave to
his painting. As to which expression in art was the more his metier, _chi
lo sa_? The young man was the child of the muses, and all forms of art
were to him a temperamental inheritance.
Oxford again honored Browning, this time in the June of 1882, with the
degree of D.C.L. "I never saw my father happier than on this occasion,"
Mr. Barrett Browning said to the writer of this volume when questioned
regarding it; and another observer who was present speaks of Browning's
distinction in his red Oxford gown, his shoulders thrown back, and his
swift, light step. One of the humors of the occasion was the dangling of a
red cotton night-cap over his head by one of the undergraduates, who was
in danger of a not ill-merited rebuke, but Browning interceded with the
Vice-Chancellor not to be too hard "on the harmless drolleries of the
young man." It was in this Oxford gown, holding in his hand "the square
old yellow book," that Robert Barrett Browning painted the portrait of his
father, which he presented to Oxford, and which now hangs, a treasured
possession, in Balliol Hall, to which portrait some allusion has already
been made.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF ROBERT BROWNING, BY HIS SON.
Painted in 1882, and presented to Oxford University by the artist.]
One of the most beautiful of the friendships of the last decade of the
poet's life was that with Mrs. Arthur Bronson, a very cultivated and
charming American woman who for more than twenty years made her home in
Venice. Casa Alvisi, on the Grand Canal, opposite Santa Maria della
Salute, came to be such a delightful center of social life for the choice
circle that Mrs. Bronson gathered around her, that its records fairly
enter into the modern history of Venice. Adjoining Casa Alvisi was the old
Giustiniani Palace, in which Mrs. Bronson had taken a suite of rooms that
she might use them in dispensing her hospitalities. No one who has been
the privileged guest of Mrs. Bronson can ever lose the grateful
appreciation of her genius as a hostess. Her lovely hospitality was
dispensed with the quality that entitled it to be considered as absolutely
a special gift of the gods, and when she invited Browning and his sister
to occupy these rooms in the Palazzo Giustiniani Recanti, it was with a
grace that forestalled any refusal. At first Miss Browning did a little
housekeeping on their own account, except that they dined and passed
the evening with Mrs. Bronson; later on, for several seasons, they were
her house-guests in Casa Alvisi,--that unique and dream-enchanted interior
crowded with lovely Venetian things, and bibelots and bric-a-brac picked
up the world over. But the brother and sister always occupied the rooms in
the palace. It was after the first one of this series of annual visits
that Browning wrote to Mrs. Bronson the following letter after his return
to London:
19, WARWICK CRESCENT, W.
Nov. 18, '81.
I would not write at first arriving, Dear Friend, because I fancied
that I might say too much all at once, and afterward be afraid of
beginning again till some interval; this fortnight since I saw you,
however, must pass for a very long interval indeed, I will try to tell
you as quietly as possible that I never shall feel your
kindness,--such kindness!--one whit less than I do now; perhaps I feel
it "now" even more deeply than I could, at all events, realize that I
was feeling.
You have given Venice an appreciation that will live in my mind with
every delight of that dearest place in the world. But all the same you
remain for me a dearest of friends, whether I see you framed by your
Venice, or brightening up our bleak London, should you come there. In
Venice, however, should I live and you be there next autumn, it will
go hard with me if I do not meet you again.
What a book of memories, and instigations to get still more memories,
does your most beautiful and precious book prove to me! I never
supposed that photographers would have the good sense to use their art
on so many out-of-the-way scenes and sights, just those I love
most....
You--you have lost Lowell, and Field, and the rest of the good
fellowship, but you will be sure of a succession of the sort.
On the poet's seventieth birthday he received, from the Browning Societies
of Oxford, Cambridge, Cornell University, and others, a gift of a
complete set of his own works, bound in olive green morocco, in a
beautifully carved oak case, with this inscription:
"To Robert Browning on his seventieth birthday, May 7th, 1882, from
some members of the Browning Societies. These members having
ascertained that the works of a Great Modern Poet are never in Robert
Browning's house, beg him to accept a set of these works which they
assure him will be found worthy of his most serious attention."
Dr. Corson has related that when he visited the poet at one time Browning
showed him this case, placed against the wall of the drawing-room, with an
almost boyish delight.
In August of 1882, on their leisurely way to Venice, Browning and his
sister lingered at Saint-Pierre la Chartreuse and at Gressoney Saint-Jean,
where his enchanting outlook upon Monte Rosa was a continual joy, Mr.
Browning spent one night in the monastery of the Grand Chartreuse, in
order to hear the midnight mass; while Miss Browning, denied hospitality
in the monastery, received that of the convent near at hand, where she was
cordially entertained by the Mother Superior.
The Prologue of "Ferishtah's Fancies," published the next year, is dated
from Gressoney, Val d'Aosta, and the lines,
"A fancy-freak by contrast born of thee,
Delightful Gressoney!"
will recall themselves to the memory. Miss Browning was an ideal companion
in these mountain wanderings. She was equal to endless walks, and she had
the accomplishment of being able to ride a mule or a donkey as one to the
manor born. From Gressoney they looked up to the glaciers of Monte Rosa,
almost overhanging, and from Saint-Pierre Browning wrote to a friend that
they were in the roughest and most primitive inn, "but my sister bears it
bravely."
Italian recognition of Browning was stimulated and extended, if not
primarily inspired, by Il Signor Dottore Nancioni, who had the Chair of
Literature in the University of Florence, and whom the Brownings had first
met in the old Siena days. As Milsand first made Browning known in France,
through his critical papers in the _Revue_, so Nancioni published, in the
_Nuova Antologia_, and in the _Fanfulla della Domenica_ of Rome, several
papers devoted to serious and critical study and interpretation of
Browning's work; and he made the journey from Rome to Venice to meet the
poet again. The recital of poetry was by no means ended in Italy in the
days of the _Improvvisatori_, and Professor Nanciani frequently gave
readings from Browning before cultivated Italian audiences.
When Venice honored Goldoni with a statue, Browning was invited to
contribute to that wonderful "Album" of letters, with which Italy
characteristically commemorates all scholarly events, with contributions
from literary men. The sonnet so pleased the Venetians that they gave it
the place of honor in the album.
The London seasons during all these years were of unrivaled brilliancy.
Browning was seen in all the great houses, and often for two weeks he
would dine out every consecutive night. Dr. Corson, whose first visit to
Browning was made in the early eighties, gave to a friend in a personal
letter this little transcription of his first meeting with the poet, with
whom he had long been in correspondence:
"He received me in the drawing-room, on the second floor. After a few
minutes' conversation, he showed me various interesting things, in the
drawing-room, busts and portraits and mementoes of Mrs. Browning,
keeping up a rapid and meandering current of talk. Something was said,
I forget what, which caused me to allude to 'the Book,' the 'square
old yellow book,' with 'crumpled vellum covers,' which he picked out
of the market-day trumpery in the Piazza San Lorenzo, in Florence, and
which led to the composition of his masterpiece, 'The Ring and the
Book,' 'I'll take you down in a few minutes,' he said, 'to the
library, and show it to you.' When we left the drawing-room and were
at the top of the stairway, he, with an apparent unconsciousness, and
as if I were a younger brother, put his arm over my off shoulder, and
so descended with me, talking all the while at his usual rapid rate. I
tell this little incident, as I observed later, on several occasions,
such an expression of unconscious cordiality and good fellowship was a
characteristic of him.
"Beside his chair, at the writing table, stood Mrs. Browning's
low-seated, high and straight-backed, black haircloth covered chair,
on which were piled books almost to the top of the back, which most
effectually excluded any one from the honor of sitting in it.
"When showing me 'The Book,' he called my attention to passages in the
Latin portion of it--the arguments of the two lawyers, Bottinius and
Hyacinthus de Archangelis, and I was struck with the way in which he
translated them, the rapid and close recasting of the thought in
English, a rare gift even with the best Latin scholars. I had
occasions to discover, in subsequent visits, that he read the Greek in
a genial way and with less grammatical consciousness than do many
Greek professors. His scholarship was extensive and, I would add,
_vital_, it not having been imposed upon him at a public school and a
university, and he having had what must have been Shakespeare's power
of acquiring and absorbing knowledge of all kinds. On some subsequent
visit, I don't remember what we had been talking about that led to the
remark, he said to me, in his rapid mode of speech, 'I never could
have done much at a public school,' meaning, of course, an endowed
foundation school, such as Eton and others, in which there is a
special preparation for the Universities. After a pause, he added,
'no, nor at a university either. Italy was _my_ university.' In his
'De Gustibus----' he says:
'Open my heart and you will see
Graved inside of it, Italy.'
"While he was showing me 'The Book,' I asked him about a passage in
'The Ring and the Book.' He replied, 'I don't remember the passage. It
has been some time since I read the poem, and I haven't a copy of it
in my house!'
"He showed me many of Mrs. Browning's books--nearly all of them 24mo
editions--said she couldn't hold big books--English, French, Italian,
Latin, and Greek books; a Hebrew Bible which had belonged to a
distinguished English bishop, whose name I've forgotten. 'Did Mrs.
Browning read Hebrew?' I asked. 'Oh, yes,' he replied, and added with
a sigh, 'she was a wonderful woman.'"
[Illustration: CHURCH OF SAN LORENZO, FLORENCE
"_June was the month, Lorenzo named the Square._"
The Ring and the Book.]
The succeeding summer found the Corsons again in London, and the following
invitation from Browning particularly pleased them in its assurance that
"nobody else" would be present.
DEAR PROFESSOR CORSON,--Could Mrs. Corson and yourself do my sister
and me the great pleasure of taking luncheon with us--and nobody
else--next Tuesday (27th) at one o'clock?
Believe me, dear Professor Corson,
Yours Truly Ever,--
ROBERT BROWNING.
On Browning's return to England in 1861, after his wife's death, he had
entered into a most brilliant and congenial social life. Thackeray died
soon after his return; but there were Carlyle, Ruskin, Jowett, Millais,
Rossetti, Proctor, Matthew Arnold, Woolner, Leighton, Tennyson (whose
companionship, as we have seen, was one of his keenest enjoyments), and
his publisher, George Murray Smith, of the head of the house of Smith,
Elder, and Company, who was one of his chosen friends. Carlyle died in
1881, but many of this group well outlived Browning. On New Year's Day of
1884 Miss Browning wrote to Mrs. Bronson:
The very first word I write this year is to you, dearest friend,
wishing you every good gift the earth below, and Heaven above, can
offer. If Robert does not write his own share in these kind feelings,
it is only because we have mutually agreed that we shall come more
constantly before you if we keep our letters apart.
... You cannot think how incessantly we dwell on the memories of the
pleasant past. We are in Casa Alvisi in spirit daily, and I picture to
myself all that is going on in the well-loved rooms. I hope Edith
works at her guitar. She will find that it will repay the trouble.
Give our kindest love to her, and take yourself our loving hearts.
God bless you this year.
Ever Yours Affectionately,
SARIANNA BROWNING.
In a letter to Mrs. Bronson Browning alludes to the purchase of the new
house in DeVere Gardens:
"... I am really in treaty--not too deeply _in_ it for extrication at
need--with the land-owner who proposes to build me the house I
want,--freehold, if you please! so that it can be Pen's after me; my
notion is to contract just what Sarianna and I require now, leaving it
in the said Pen's power to add and alter according to future
advisability."
Portions of other letters from Browning to Mrs. Bronson are as follows.
The first refers to the little daughter of Princess Melanie Metternich.
"First and worst of all, dear friend, how truly grieved I am to hear
of the sad end of the poor little girl I remember so well. Do you
remember how she, with her sister, walked before us on our way
homeward from the Piazza on nearly our last evening? And how prettily
she asked me at her own house to write in her Birthday Book! All this
sudden extinction of light in the gay Ca' Bembo, where I saw the silks
bespread before your knowledge and my ignorance!
"It is needless to say how much I pity the Princess, and her kindly
husband, too, and I am sorry, very sorry, for you also, Dear Friend of
mine, well knowing how you must have suffered in degree."
Mrs. Bronson had a talent for the writing of drawing-room comedies, and to
one of these the poet alludes:
"DEAR FRIEND,--I kept your Comedietta by me a whole week that I might
taste of it again and again; how clever it is, who can know better
than I, who furnished the bare framework which your Virginia creeper
has over-flourished so charmingly? It is all capitally done; quite as
much elaborated as the little conception was worth; but its great
value to me is the proof it really gives what really good work you
might do on a larger scale....
"... I dined last evening at John Murray's, in the room where used to
meet Byron, Scott, Moore, all those famous men of old, whose portraits
still adorn the walls. Murray told me he well remembered Byron and his
ways; could still in fancy see him and Scott, and also hear them, as
they stamped heavily (lame as both were) down the somewhat narrow
stairs. Sociability may well come to the relief of people who cannot
amuse themselves at home, for the weather, mild, and too mild, is
gray, sunless and spiritless, altogether. To-day it rains, a rare
occurrence...."
One of the very pleasant interludes in Mr. Browning's life came about this
time in the receipt of a letter from Professor Masson of the University of
Edinburgh, inviting the poet to be his guest the week of the coming
Tercentenary celebration of the University. It had been decided to confer
on Mr. Browning an Honorary Degree, but by some misadventure the official
letter announcing this had not reached him, and in reply to Professor
Masson he wrote that he had not received "the invitation to Edinburgh
which occasions this particularly kind one," which he thankfully
acknowledged, "but I should find it difficult if not impossible to leave
London in April," he continues, "as my son will then be with me; but had I
seen my way in so doing it would delight me, indeed, could I spend the
days in question with you and Mrs. Masson." He added that if ever he was
privileged "to see the as famous as beautiful City again," he should call
on the Massons the first thing of all, and he desired thanks to Mrs.
Masson "for associating her goodness with yours."
Apparently another letter appears from Professor Masson, but still
Browning does not receive the official invitation of the University.
"Should it follow," he writes, "I will acknowledge the distinction as
gratefully as I have done already when it was conferred by Oxford and
Cambridge." The Massons also invited Mr. Browning to bring his son with
him, and he responded:
"... So, my dear Professor Masson, I provisionally accept your
hospitality with thankfulness, and that of Mrs. Masson. For my son,
who is away, I can only say that he shall be informed of your
goodness, and I fully believe will be delighted to avail himself of
it.... As to the 'vagueness or intelligibility' of your note, I can
assure you that one thing was intelligible enough,--that you wished to
help me most kindly and pleasantly to witness an extremely interesting
ceremony, and I have written to my son and his answer you shall hear
as soon as possible.... By the way, ought I to attend in the Oxford
D.C.L. gown,--at any preliminary entertainment, for instance."
The next letter tells its own story.
19, WARWICK CRESCENT, W.
March 25th, 1884.
MY DEAR PROFESSOR MASSON,--Nothing can be kinder than all your
proposed arrangements. My son arrived two days ago, and,
unfortunately, is obliged to return to Paris next week in order to
finish work begun there--and he will be detained too long to allow of
the visit which he would otherwise delight in paying you and for the
invitation to which he desires me to offer you and Mrs. Masson his
grateful acknowledgments, being well aware of what a privilege he is
forced to deprive himself.... I shall bring the Oxford D.C.L. gown and
provide myself with a Hood in Edinburgh.
So, with repeated thanks for all your goodness, and looking forward
with much pleasure to the approaching festivities, and even more in
the opportunity to converse, believe me, my dear Professor Masson,
Yours Very Sincerely,
ROBERT BROWNING.
Miss Rosaline Masson, the Professor's daughter, has described how Browning
sat before the fire the evening of his arrival, in an armchair, his hands
resting on it, while he spoke with sympathetic pride of his son's work,
and told how the son, who had studied so much abroad, had once announced
to Millais his intention of going to Egypt to paint, and that Millais had
replied that he would not give up his months in the highlands of Scotland
for any years in Egypt.
The Massons had as their guests for this great commemoration the Count and
Countess Aurelio Saffi, the Count bringing with him his gorgeous Bologna
gown, in which he had the resplendence of a figure in a stained glass
window.
The week was a most enjoyable one to Mr. Browning. Receptions and dinners
made up a round of festivity, and when he was asked by his hostess if he
objected to all the adulation he received, he replied: "Object to it? No;
I have waited forty years for it and now--I like it."
After his return to London he sent to Mrs. Masson two manuscripts of Mrs.
Browning's, her translations of "Psyche and Pan" and of "Psyche
Propitiating Ceres," and to Professor Masson a letter from Leigh Hunt to
himself, which the Professor had wished to copy,--the original which he
sent being written on sheets of different colors held together with
colored embroidery.
Browning wrote to his host that he had read with delight his two lectures
on Carlyle, and that "the goodness of that memorable week" was never long
out of his mind.
The letters written to Mrs. Bronson offer almost a panoramic picture of
his life over all these closing years. Alluding to a studio that he had
taken for the temporary accommodation of his son's pictures and busts, Mr.
Browning resumes:
... Pen's statues and busts are in bronze now, and his large "Idyl,"
three landscapes, and whatsoever else, to arrive soon. Were you only
here to see! Well, you can bear with the talking about them you shall
undergo, for we two understand each other, don't we? I know I am ever
yours and your own Edith's affectionately,
ROBERT BROWNING.
In the late summer Browning and his sister were the guests of Mrs.
Bloomfield Moore, in her villa at St. Moritz, from which Mr. Browning thus
writes to Mrs. Bronson:
VILLA BERRY, ST. MORITZ, OBER ENGADINE.
Sept. 6, '84.
Yes, dearest friend, your pretty wreath came this morning, and
opposite this table shall it hang till I leave the house, be it
withered or no, and at present it is fresh. Now, thank you for what?
For everything, your love, and thoughts, and regrets, too. Do not we,
too, regret that Italy is closed to us; but the comfort out of the
vexation is that you will, will you not, cross to London from Paris,
and so we shall see you for all the multiplied hindrances. Now how do
you suppose it is faring with us? We are alone. Our hostess was
summoned to America last week, to her extreme regret, and after a hot
business of telegraphing and being telegraphed to, left last
Wednesday. She had taken this comfortable villa till the middle of
December, and would not hear of our quitting it, and, all things
considered, we had little inclination to do so, for you were from
home, and what would be the good of lingering out this month
elsewhere, the air and influences happening to suit us extremely. So
our plan is to stay out Sept. here, and be content with at most two
months' absence, instead of the four we utterly enjoyed last year.
Mrs. Moore was altogether as kind and considerate as possible, and has
made every possible provision for our comfort after her departure. We
are quite alone. Friends are in the place, but we only get glimpses of
them. The place is emptying fast, the pensions shut up, the walks on
the mountain-side are wholly our own. Two days ago the snow fell
thickly, and what a sight were the mountains next morning in a glowing
sun! These changes I expect will diversify the whole month, and inside
this warm, pleasant room Sarianna and I read, and don't require "the
devil to find some missing ill for idle hands to do." You have much
more to enjoy with all that good music thrown in, and I am glad for
you. We get books and papers enough, and I am correcting proofs of the
poem I was too negligent about in London. Many distractions stood in
the way of that. After all, we have attained the main object of our
journey, the complete re-establishment of Sarianna's health, who walks
twice a day, just as of old. I am cheered, too, by letters from
Robert, the last of which comes just now.
He was anxious that his statue of "Dryope" should be seen at the
Brussels exhibition, a triennial one, and important from the
concurrence of the best foreign artists; but the "Grosvenor," where it
was shown, did not close till the first week in August, while the
Brussels Gallery was closed to (entrance of) works on the 25th of
July. Robert sent his photographs with a petition for a "delai," only
exceptionally granted; the committee conceded it unanimously, and have
given it a place where it stands by itself, and is capitally seen. He
went to see it, and so did the King and Queen, to whom he would have
been presented, had he not been in morning dress. (The father of
Robert to the mother of Edith.) You know very well how interested and
delighted I shall be to read your German translations if you send
them; do!
Again, from this invigorating mountain village Browning writes to his
Venetian friend and hostess in Casa Alvisi:
VILLA BERRY, ST. MORITZ, ENGADINE, S.
Sept. 23, '84.
For first thing, dearest friend, I am glad to know that my letter with
the poems reached you before your departure. I had some fear that you
might miss it. It is like your goodness to care so much about what
amounts to so little. I did what I could to be of use by amending; I
could have done more to the purpose if the poems were original; but I
know your translations were faithful, as they should be. When you
write out of your own dear head let me see, and try hard to improve
it, never so little. I well remember the whole book of verses you let
me read at Venice; I could not well have helped you there. And now for
a sorrow after the gladness; we do not pass through Paris this time,
but take the direct and more convenient route by Amiens and Calais.
Last year we wanted, or needed, to see Pen, who was at his Paris
studio; but now he is still in Dinard. I do not know when he means to
leave; if he finds you at Paris it will be a delight for him to see
you....
Well, yes, the king's behavior has been admirable; what a chance the
poor Pope has thrown away in not preceding him! If the "Prisoner of
the Vatican" had quietly walked out of his confinement, with a Cross
before him, and an attendant on each side, and passed on to Naples and
the hospitals "braving all danger in imitation of his Master," I
verily believe there might have happened a revolution. Such events
from much less causes being frequent enough. Where is the "wisdom of
the serpent"?
Dearest friend, my sister writes, all love to Edith, all love to you,
from your ever affectionate
ROBERT BROWNING.
On their return to London the letters to Mrs. Bronson again resume the
story of this interesting life:
"... I have got rid of my last proof-sheets, and all of a sudden it
occurs to me to ask--now that alteration is impossible, I
suppose--whether I have offended in just dating the last poem from the
place where I wrote it--the Giustiniani? The first poem was dated at
the inn, and the last seemed to belong to the beloved place where it
was penned, as I wanted to remember, or be remembered, rather. Have I
done wrong? (I hear at this moment my sister actually singing in the
next room,--so completely is she re-established in health.) By letters
we find that the admirable weather at St. Moritz was continued up to
the end of the last week; here the weather is fine, and finer than
usual, but the sparkle is off the wine, the wonderful freshness of St.
Moritz does not incline one to dance rather than walk.
"I am in absolute peace and quietude, and so thoroughly prepared to
enjoy your coming,--if that may be...."
The next letter speaks of American friends:
19, WARWICK CRESCENT, W.
Oct. 14, '84.
DEAREST FRIEND,--I waited a little before replying to your letter,
wanting to be sure when I could say that Pen would be in Paris; he
proposed to go there yesterday, and you will certainly have a visit
from him as soon as he can manage to do what I know he desires very
much.
Here are your verses which I try to be as severe about as possible,
with no success, at all, worth speaking of! You will take my
corrections (infinitesimal, this time) for what they are worth, and
continue to send me what you write, will you not?
I was surprised two days ago by a note from Mr. Lowell, inviting me
and my sister to meet the Storys at dinner to-morrow, they being his
guests during a short stay in London; and yesterday afternoon they
called on my sister, both the Storys and Mr. Lowell; the former are
flourishing, and go in a few days to Rome. Where they have passed the
summer, we were not told. Last evening at a dinner given by Sidney
Colvin, I met Mr. James, who showed great interest in hearing how you
were, and how much nearer you were likely to be. On the other hand,
there will be a sad visitor to Venice presently, Professor Huxley, in
a deplorable state of health, from over-work. I hate to speak of what
is only too present with me,--your own health,--I trust you have got
rid of that cough, (all dreadful things go with a cough in my
memory.)...
... My book, which you kindly inquire about, is out of my hands and in
print, but the publishing, the when and how, concerns the publisher. I
do not expect to see the completed thing for another month.
Yes, I felt so lovingly to the Giustinian-Reconnati that I could not
bear cutting the link allowed by the Place and Date that were appended
to the Ms., and you permit, so all is well, if you remember me as ever
affectionately yours,
ROBERT BROWNING.
Under date of October 23, 1884, Browning says in one letter:
"I saw Huxley's brother-in-law, Sir Robert Collier, last evening, at
Dr. Granville's, and inquired about the stay in Venice. It will be a
very short one as he has to return almost immediately for the marriage
of his daughter Rachel; I can hardly think he will re-return, the
ceremony at an end, yet he may; and in that case he shall be informed
of your goodness to himward, in apostolically appropriate language. He
is a thoroughly admirable person in all but his inconsiderateness in
this waste of a precious life. I duly told the Storys how much you
wanted to see them, and they probably have seen you by this time. Mrs.
Story meant to rest at Paris, and forego the Amiens route. She has
been unwell, but I thought her appearance very satisfactory. I dined
with them last week at Mr. Lowell's, and called there on Sunday. I met
Henry James the other day, and surprised as well as inspirited him by
the news that you were so near, and, as I believed, so soon to be
nearer. Now write to me, tell me all you are about to do; how is dear
Edith?...
O, no, Pen is none of mine to outward view, but wholly his
mother's--in some respects, at least. At the same age there was small
difference between Pen's face and that of the brother she lost,--to
judge by a drawing I possess...."
To the Marchesa Peruzzi di' Medici who sent to him a translation she had
made of the "Ricordo Autobiografici" of Giovanni Dupre, Browning thus
writes:[16]
"It is not so very 'little' an affair, and in the fear that when my
sister has finished it, I may have to begin my own reading, and end it
so late as to lead you to suppose that either book or letter has gone
wrong, on this account I write at once to thank you most heartily. My
sister says the Autobiography is fascinating; I can well believe it,
for I never knew such a work to be without interest, and this of Dupre
must abound in precisely the matters that interest me most.... When I
have thoroughly gone through the book I will write you again, if you
permit me, as I know your old memories will be indulgent in the case.
We may be in Italy this autumn, and if you are within reach you will
be certain to see the old friend who always rejoices when he hears of
your well-being, and trusts it may continue.... Pen is very well; at
Dinard just now, painting landscape in the open air. I have told him
already of the book which he will take delight in reading. I am
occupied this very day in sending his statue of 'Dryope' to Brussels,
where the Exhibition will give it a chance of being judged by better
knowledge than is found here."
The following letter indicates, in Browning's own charming way, the warm
attachment that both he and his sister had for Mrs. Bronson:
19, WARWICK CRESCENT, W.
Feb. 15, '85.
DEAREST MRS. BRONSON,--This dull morning grew to near blackness
itself, when, at breakfast, my sister said once again, "No news of her
from Venice,"--and I once again calculated and found by this time it
was a month and a full half since we heard from you. Why should this
be? If I had simply and rationally written a line, instead of thinking
a thought, I should have known, as your dear goodness will let me
know, as soon as you receive this, how you are, how Edith is, now that
the winter is over and gone with the incentives to that cough which
was still vexatious when we had your last letter.
Do not let us mind high-days and holidays: be sure of this, that every
day will be truly festal that brings us a word from you, for other
clouds than the material ones make us melancholy just now; and how
this turbid element about us contrasts with the golden hours near the
beloved friends,--perhaps more vivid,--certainly more realized as
valuable, than ever! I do not mean to write much because what I want
to impress on your generosity is that just a half sheet, with mere
intelligence about you, will be a true comfort and sustainment to me
and to my sister,--the barest account of yourself, and what we
appreciate with you; and, for our part, you shall hear, at least, that
we are well, or ailing, stationary, or about to move.
In the early spring Browning again writes to Mrs. Bronson:
19, WARWICK CRESCENT, W.
April 8, '85.
DEAREST FRIEND,--This is not a letter, for I have this minute returned
from a funeral, in pitiful weather, and am unable either in body or
soul to write one, much as I hope to do, with something of my warm
self in it. But I find Burne Jones's pretty and touching letter, and
want this leaf to serve as an envelope to what may please you, who
deserve so thoroughly that it should. I will write in a day or two. I
heard from Pen this morning, who is at Dinard, being too ill to remain
in Paris, but finds himself already better. He told me and re-told me
how good you had been to him. How I trust all is going well with
you,--certainly you need no assurance of,--enough that I love you with
all my heart. Bless you and your Edith. It is an Edith,--Proctor's
(Barry Cornwall's) daughter, whom I have been following to her grave.
Some fifty years ago her father said to me while caressing her, "Ah,
Browning, this is the Poetry." "I know it." "No, you know nothing
about it." Well, if I was ignorant then, I am instructed now. So, dear
Two Poems, long may I have you to read and to enjoy!
Yours affectionately Ever,
ROBERT BROWNING.
In the following autumn Mr. Barrett Browning, who had not seen Venice
since his infancy, joined his father, and was "simply infatuated" with the
dream city. It was for his sake that Browning had wished to purchase the
Manzoni Palace, "to secure for him a perfect domicile, every facility for
his painting and sculpture."
The autumn of 1886 brought to Browning a great sadness in the death of
Milsand, and Miss Browning being out of health, and unequal to a
continental journey, they both passed a part of the autumn at Llangollen,
where Sir Theodore and Lady Martin (Helen Faucit) were their near
neighbors, with whom they had tea every Sunday, and renewed one of the
most delightful friendships.
On the publication of Dr. Corson's "Introduction to the Poetry of
Browning," he sent a copy to the poet who thus replied:
19. Warwick Crescent. W.
Dec. 28. '86.
My dear Dr Corson,
I waited some days after the arrival of your Book and Letter thinking
I might be able to say more of my sense of your goodness: but I can do
no more now than a week ago. You "hope I shall not find too much to
disapprove of": what I ought to protest against, is "a load to sink a
navy--too much honor": how can I put aside your generosity, as if cold
justice--however befitting myself,--would be in better agreement with
your nature? Let it remain as an assurance to younger poets that,
after fifty years' work unattended by any conspicuous recognition, an
over-payment may be made, if there be such another munificent
appreciator as I have been privileged to find--in which case let them,
even if more deserving, be equally grateful.
I have not observed anything in need of correction in the notes. The
"little tablet" was a famous "Last Supper," mentioned by Varwn, (page.
232) and gone astray long ago from the Church of S. Spirito: it turned
up, according to report, in some obscure corner, while I was in
Florence, and was at once acquired by a stranger. I saw it,--genuine
or no, a work of great beauty. (Page 156.) A "canon," in music, is a
piece wherein the subject is repeated--in various keys--and being
strictly obeyed in the repetition, becomes the "Canon"--the imperative
_law_--to what follows. Fifty of such parts would be indeed a notable
peal: to manage three is enough of an achievement for a good musician.
And now,--here is Christmas: all my best wishes go to you and Mrs.
Corson--those of my sister also. She was indeed suffering from grave
indisposition in the summer, but is happily recovered. I could not
venture, under the circumstances, to expose her convalescence to the
accidents of foreign travel--hence our contenting ourselves with Wales
rather than Italy. Shall you be again induced to visit us? Present or
absent, you will remember me always, I trust, as
Yours most affectionately
Robert Browning.
The year of 1887 was an eventful one in that the "Parleyings" were
published in the early spring; that Browning removed from Warwick Crescent
to 29 DeVere Gardens; and that the marriage of his son to Miss Coddington
of New York was celebrated on October 4 of that year, an event that gave
the poet added happiness. To a stranger who had asked permission to call
upon him Browning wrote about this time:
"... My son returns the day after to-morrow with his wife, from their
honeymoon at Venice, to stay with me till to-morrow week only, when
they leave for Liverpool and America--there to pass the winter. During
their short stay, I am bound to consult their convenience, and they
will be engaged in visiting, or being visited by friends, so as to
preclude me from any chance of an hour at my own disposal. If you
please--or, rather, if circumstances permit you to give me the
pleasure of seeing you at twelve on Saturday morning, the first day
when I shall be at liberty, I shall be happy to receive you."
[Illustrations: Manuscript Letter]
The stranger did so arrange that his visit should extend itself over the
magic date of "November 5th," and on that day he stood at the portal to
DeVere Gardens house.
"I was taken up to the poet's study," he writes. "There had been that
day a memorial meeting for Matthew Arnold, to which Browning had been,
and he spoke with reminiscent sadness of Arnold's life.
"'I have been thinking all the way home of his hardships,' said Mr.
Browning. 'He once told me, when I asked why he had not recently
written any poetry, that he could not afford to, but that when he had
saved enough, he intended to give up all other work, and devote
himself to poetry. I wonder if he has turned to it now?' Browning
added musingly."
One interesting incident related by this caller is that, having just been
reading and being greatly impressed by Mr. Nettleship's analysis and
interpretation of "Childe Roland," he asked the author if he accepted it.
"Oh, no," replied Mr. Browning; "not at all. Understand, I don't repudiate
it, either; I only mean that I was conscious of no allegorical intention
in writing it. 'Twas like this; one year in Florence I had been rather
lazy; I resolved that I would write something every day. Well, the first
day I wrote about some roses, suggested by a magnificent basket that some
one had sent my wife. The next day 'Childe Roland' came upon me as a kind
of dream. I had to write it, then and there, and I finished it the same
day, I believe. But it was simply that I had to do it. I did not know then
what I meant beyond that, and I'm sure I don't know now. But I am very
fond of it."
This interesting confession emboldened the visitor to ask if the poet
considered 'James Lee's wife' quite guiltless in her husband's
estrangement. "Well, I'm not sure," replied Mr. Browning; "I was always
very fond of her, but I fancy she had not much tact, and did not quite
know how to treat her husband. I think she worried him a little. But if
you want to know any more," he continued, with a twinkle in his eye, "you
had better ask the Browning Society,--you have heard of it, perhaps?"
When Robert Barrett Browning purchased the Palazzo Rezzonico, the
acquirement was a delight to his father, not unmixed with a trace of
consternation, for it is one of the grandest and most imposing palaces in
Italy. Up to 1758 it was occupied by Cardinal Rezzonico himself, when, at
that date, he became Pope under the title of Clement XIII. This palace,
built in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, commands an
unparalleled situation on the Grand Canal, and the majestic structure of
white marble, with its rich carvings, the baroque ornaments of its
key-stones, its classic cornices and tripartite loggias, its columns and
grand architectural lines, is remarked, even in Venice, the city of
palaces, for its sumptuous magnificence. As Mr. Browning had before
remarked to Mrs. Bronson, "Pen" was infatuated with Venice. It is equally
true that much of the infatuation of the ethereal city for subsequent
visitors was due in no small measure to the beautiful and reverent manner
in which Robert Barrett Browning made this palace a very Valhalla of the
wedded poets, Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Here the son gathered
every exquisite treasure associated with his mother, and when, three years
later, his father breathed his last within this noble palace, the younger
Browning added to the associations of his mother those, also, of his
father's books, art, and intimate possessions. With his characteristic
courtesy and generous consideration Mr. Barrett Browning permitted
visitors, for many years, through his entire ownership of the palace, to
visit and enjoy the significant collections, treasures which his taste and
his love had there gathered.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF ROBERT BARRETT BROWNING
("PENINI"), AS A CHILD.
Painted at Siena, by Hamilton Wild, 1859.]
On the facade of the palace two stately entrances open upon the broad
flight of marble steps that lead down to the water, and on the
architraves are carved river-gods. In the spacious court was placed his
own statue of "Dryope." Ascending one marble flight of the grand escalier,
one entered a lofty apartment whose noble proportions and richness of
effect were most impressive. The floor, of red marble, in its rich,
Byzantine hue, harmonized with a richly painted ceiling, which was one
celebrated in Venetian art. From this vast salon opened, through richly
carved doors, a series of rooms, each made vital with the portraits,
sketches, busts, and other memorials of the poets. There were Story's
busts of Browning and of his wife; there was Robert Barrett Browning's
bust of his father,--one of the most remarkable among portrait busts in
contemporary art; the portraits of Robert and Elizabeth Browning painted
by Gordigiani of Rome, about 1855; a lovely pastel of Mrs. Browning when
she was a child, representing her as standing in a garden, holding up her
apron filled with flowers; there was her little writing-desk, and other
intimate personal mementoes about. The immense array of presentation
copies from other authors to the poets made an interesting library of
themselves, as did the various translations of their own poems into many
languages. There was a portrait of Browning painted when a young man, with
a troubadour cloak falling over his shoulders; and a most interesting
portrait of Milsand, painted by Barrett Browning, as a gift to his father.
There was also a picture of himself as a lad, the "Penini" of Siena days,
mounted on his pony, and painted by Hamilton Wild (a Boston artist), in
that most picturesque of hill-towns, during one of those summers that the
Brownings and the Storys had passed in the haunts of Santa Caterina.
By Mrs. Browning's little writing tablet was placed the last manuscript
she had ever written; and on a table lay a German translation of "Aurora
Leigh," with an inscription of presentation to Browning.
From one of these salons, looking out on the Grand Canal, is an alcove,
formerly used as the private chapel of the Rezzonico. It was all white and
gold, with a Venetian window draped in the palest green plush, while on
either side were placed tall vases encrusted with green. In this alcove
Mr. Barrett Browning had caused to be inscribed, in golden letters,
surrounded with traceries and arabesques in gold, a copy of the
inscription that was composed by the poet, Tommaseo, and placed by the
city of Florence on the wall of Casa Guidi, near the grand portal:
QUI SCRISSE E MORI
ELISABETTA BARRETT BROWNING
CHE IN CUORE DI DONNA CONCILIAVA
SCIENZA DI DOTTO E SPIRITO DI POETA
E FECE DEL SUO VERSO AUREO ANELLO
FRA ITALIA E INGHILTERRA
PONE QUESTO MEMORIA
FIRENZE GRATA
1861.
On the first floor was the room in which the poet wrote when the guest of
his son in the palace; a _sala_ empaneled with the most exquisite
decorated alabaster, panels of which also formed the doors, and opening
from this was his sleeping-room, also beautifully decorated.
In one splendid _sala_, with rich mural decorations, and floor of black
Italian marble, were many choice works of art, rare souvenirs, pictures of
special claim to interest, wonderful tapestries, and almost, indeed, an
_embarras de richesse_ of beauty.
In 1906 Robert Barrett Browning sold the Rezzonico; and now, beside his
_casa_ and studios in Asolo, he has one of the old Medici villas, near
Florence,--"La Torre all' Antella," with a lofty tower, from which the
view is one of the most commanding and fascinating in all Tuscany. The
panorama includes all Florence, with her domes and campanile and towers;
and the Fiesolean hills, with the old town picturesquely revealed among
the trees and against the background of sky, and with numerous other
villages and hamlets, and a mountain panorama of changing color always
before the eye. Mr. Browning is one of the choicest of spirits, with all
that culture and beauty of spiritual life that characterized his parents.
He is a great linguist, and is one of the most interesting of men. No one
knew his father, in that wonderful inner way, as did his son. He was
twelve years old at the time of his mother's death, and from that period
he was the almost constant companion of his father, until Browning's
death, twenty-eight years later. Robert Barrett Browning has also
purchased the massive Casa Guidi, thus fitly becoming the owner of the
palace in which he was born, and that is forever enshrined in literary
history and poetic romance. It is, also, one of those poetic sequences of
life, that Casa Guidi and Palazzo Peruzzi, near each other, in the Via
Maggiore in Florence, are respectively owned by Mr. Browning and the
Marchesa Peruzzi di' Medici, under which stately title Mr. Story's
daughter Edith, the childhood friend and companion of "Penini," is now
known.
After the return to London of Browning and his sister Sarianna, from St.
Moritz, his constant letters to Mrs. Bronson again take up the story of a
poet's days.
In the early winter he thus writes to his cherished friend--the date being
December 4, 1887:
"Now let us shut the gondola glasses (I forget the technical word) and
Talk, dear Friend! Here are your dear labors of love,--the letters and
enclosures, and here is my first day of leisure this long fortnight,
for, would you believe it? I have been silly enough to sit every
morning for three hours to one painter, who took an additional two
hours yesterday, in order to get done; before which exercise of
patience I had to sit to another gentleman, who will summon me again
in due time,--all this since my return from Venice and the _youthful
five_! However, when, two days ago, there was yet another application
to sit, the bear within the 'lion' came out, and I declined, as little
gruffly as I was able. And so the end is I can talk and enjoy
myself--even at a distance--with a friend as suddenly dear as all
hands from the clouds must needs be. I will not try and thank you for
what you know I so gratefully have accepted,--and shall keep forever,
I trust.
"Well, here is the Duke's letter; he is a man of few words, and less
protestation; but feels, as he should, your kindness, and will gladly
acknowledge it, should you come to England, and it seems that you may.
But what will Venice be without you next year, if we return there as
we hope to do?
"... Mrs. Bloomfield Moore passed through London some three weeks ago,
and at once wrote to me about what pictures of Robert's might be
visible? She at once bought the huge 'Delivery to the Secular Arm,'
for the Philadelphia Academy of Fine Arts, and the 'Dinard Market
Woman' for herself, and this so spontaneously, and I did hear in a day
or two that she was convinced I had not asked half enough for the
pictures! She had inquired at the Gallery where the larger one was
exhibited, and they estimated its value at so much. I told her their
estimate was not mine, and that Robert was thoroughly remunerated--to
say nothing of what he would think of all this graciousness; and since
her departure I have had an extremely gratifying letter full of
satisfaction at her purchases,..."
On the death of Lord Houghton, Mr. Browning had been prevailed upon to
accept the office of Foreign Correspondent to the Royal Academy; he was
much beloved by the Academicians, many of whom were among his familiar
friends, and that his son was an artist endeared to him all art.
To Mrs. Bronson Browning once remarked: "Do you know, dear friend, if the
thing were possible, I would renounce all personal ambition and would
destroy every line I ever wrote, if by so doing I could see fame and
honors heaped on my Robert's head." Mrs. Bronson's comment on this was
that in his son he saw the image of his wife, whom he adored,--"literally
adored," she added.
At the Academy banquets Browning was always an honored guest, and his
nomination by the President to the post of Foreign Correspondent was
promptly ratified by the Council.
On the removal to DeVere Gardens, Mr. Browning took great pleasure in the
arrangement of his home. His father's library of six thousand books was
now unpacked, and, for the first time, he had space for them; many of the
beautiful old carvings, chests, cabinets, bookcases, that he had brought
from Florence, could in the new home be placed to advantage. The visitor,
to-day, to Mr. Barrett Browning's Florentine villa will see many of these
rich and elaborate furnishings, and the younger Browning will point out an
immense sofa (that resembles a catafalque), with amused recollection of
having once seen his father and Ruskin sitting side by side on it, "their
feet dangling." From Venice the poet had brought home, first and last,
many curious and beautiful things,--a silver lamp, old sconces from
churches, and many things of which he speaks in his letters to Mrs.
Bronson.
The initial poem in "Asolando," entitled "Rosny," was written at the
opening of the year 1888, and it was soon followed by "Beatrice Signorini"
and "Flute-Music." In February he writes to George Murray Smith, his
publisher, of his impulse to revise "Pauline," which had lain untouched
for fifty years,--an impulse to "correct the most obvious faults ...
letting the thoughts, such as they are, remain exactly as at first." It
seems that the portrait, too, that is to accompany the volume does not
quite please him, and he suggests slight changes. "Were Pen here," he
says, "he could manage it all in a moment."
This confidence was not undeserved. Richly gifted in many directions, a
true child of the gods, Robert Barrett Browning has an almost marvelous
gift in portraiture. He seems to be the diviner, the seer, as well as the
artist, when transferring to canvas a face that interests him. The
portrait of Milsand, to which allusion has before been made, and that of
his father, painted in his Oxford robes, with "the old yellow book in his
hand," which is in Balliol, are signal illustrations of his power in
portraying almost the very mental processes of thought and feeling and
kindling imagination,--all that goes to make up the creative life of art.
He is fairly a connoisseur in literature, as well as in his own
specialties of painting and sculpture; and the poetry of the elder
Browning has no more critically appreciative reader than his son. Some
volume of his father's is always at hand in his traveling; and he, like
all Browning-lovers, can never open any volume of Robert Browning's
without finding revealed to him new vistas of thought, renewed aspiration
and resolve for all noble living, and infinite suggestiveness of spiritual
achievement.