Robert Browning: How to Know Him | Page 8

the many. _Pauline, Paracelsus,
Pippa Passes, A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, Christmas-Eve, Men and
Women_--each of these volumes was greeted enthusiastically by men
and women whose own literary fame is permanent. But the world knew
him not. How utterly obscure he was may be seen by the fact that so
late as 1860, when the publisher's statement came in for _Men and
Women_, it appeared that during the preceding six months not a single
copy had been sold! The best was yet to be. _The Dramatis Personæ_
was the first of his books to go into a genuine second edition. Then four
years later came _The Ring and the Book_, which a contemporary
review pronounced to be the "most precious and profound spiritual

treasure which England has received since the days of Shakespeare."
Fame, which had shunned him for thirty years, came to him in
extraordinary measure during the last part of his life: another exact
parallel between him and the great pessimist Schopenhauer. It was
naturally sweet, its sweetness lessened only by the thought that his wife
had not lived to see it. Each had always believed in the superiority of
the other: and the only cloud in Mrs. Browning's mind was the (to her)
incomprehensible neglect of her husband by the public. At the time of
the marriage, it was commonly said that a young literary man had
eloped with a great poetess: during their married life, her books went
invariably into many editions, while his did not sell at all. And even to
the last day of Browning's earthly existence, her poems far outsold his,
to his unspeakable delight. "The demand for my poems is nothing like
so large," he wrote cheerfully, in correcting a contrary opinion that had
been printed. Even so late as 1885, I found this passage in an account
of Mrs. Browning's life, published that year, It appears that "she was
married in 1846 to Robert Browning, who was also a poet and dramatic
writer of some note, though his fame seems to have been almost totally
eclipsed by the superior endowments of his gifted wife." This reminds
us of the time when Mr. and Mrs. Schumann were presented to a
Scandinavian King: Mrs. Schumann played on the piano, and His
Majesty, turning graciously to the silent husband, enquired "Are you
also musical?"
The last summer of Browning's life, the summer of 1889, was passed at
Asolo: in the autumn he moved into his beautiful house in Venice, the
Palazzo Rezzonico, which had the finest situation of all Venetian
residences, built at an angle in the Grand Canal. Although
seventy-seven years old, he was apparently as vigorous as ever: no
change had taken place in his appearance, manner or habits. One day he
caught a bad cold walking on the Lido in a bitter wind; and with his
usual vehement energy declined to take any proper care of his throat.
Instead of staying in, he set out for long tramps with friends, constantly
talking in the raw autumn air. In order to prove to his son that nothing
was the matter with him, he ran rapidly up three flights of stairs, the
son vainly trying to restrain him. Nothing is more characteristic of the

youthful folly of aged folk than their impatient resentment of proffered
hygienic advice. When we are children, we reject with scorn the
suggestions of our parents; when we are old, we reject with equal scorn
the advice of our children. Man is apparently an animal more fit to give
advice than to take it. Browning's impulsive rashness proved fatal.
Bronchitis with heart trouble finally sent him to bed, though on the last
afternoon of his life he rose and walked about the room. During the last
few days he told many good stories and talked with his accustomed
eagerness. He died at ten o'clock in the evening of the twelfth of
December, 1889, A few moments before his death came a cablegram
from London announcing that his last volume of poems had been
published that day, and that the evening papers were speaking in high
terms of its contents. "That is very gratifying," said he.
Browning's life was healthy, comfortable, and happy. With the
exception of frequent headaches in his earlier years, he never knew
sickness or physical distress. His son said that he had never seen him in
bed in the daytime until the last illness. He had a truly wonderful
digestion; it was his firm belief that one should eat only what one really
enjoyed, desire being the infallible sign that the food was healthful.
"My father was a man of _bonne fourchette_" said Barrett Browning to
me; "he was not very fond of meat, but liked all kinds of Italian dishes,
especially with rich sauces. He always ate