BROWNING

The Joseph Severn Memoirs

To William Sharp, as to many others, the closing days of 1899 brought a deep personal sorrow in the death of Robert Browning. The younger man had known him for several years, and had always received a warm welcome from the Poet in his house in Warwick Crescent which, with its outlook on the water of broad angle of the canal with its little tree clad island, he declared laughingly, reminded him of Venice. And kindly he was too, when, coming to the first of our “At Homes” in South Hampstead, he assured me with a genial smile “I like to come, because I know young people like to have me.”

“It is needless to dwell upon the grief everywhere felt and expressed for the irreparable loss” (W. S. wrote in his monograph on Browning). The magnificent closing lines of Shelley’s “Alastor” have occurred to many a mourner, for gone indeed was “a surpassing Spirit.” The superb pomp of the Venetian funeral, the solemn grandeur of the interment in Westminster Abbey, do not seem worth recording: so insignificant are all these accidents of death made by the supreme fact itself. Yet it is fitting to know that Venice has never in modern times afforded a more impressive sight than those of craped processional gondolas following the high flower-strewn famous barge through the thronged water-ways and out across the lagoon to the desolate Isle of the Dead: that London has rarely seen aught more solemn than the fog-dusked Cathedral spaces, echoing at first with the slow tramp of the pall-bearers, and then with the sweet aerial music swaying upward the loved familiar words of the “Lyric Voice” hushed so long before. Yet the poet was as much honoured by those humble friends, Lambeth artificers and a few working-women, who threw sprays of laurel before the hearse—by that desolate, starving, woe-weary gentleman, shivering in his thread-bare clothes, who seemed transfixed with a heart-wrung though silent emotion, ere he hurriedly drew from his sleeve a large white chrysanthemum, and throwing it beneath the coffin as it was lifted upward, disappeared in the crowd, which closed again like the sea upon this lost wandering wave.”

But it was nevertheless difficult to realise that the stimulating presence had passed away and the cheerful voice was silent: “It seems but a day or two that I heard from the lips of the dead poet a mockery of death’s vanity—a brave assertion of the glory of life. ‘Death, death! It is this harping on death I despise so much,’” he remarked with emphases of gesture as well as of speech—the inclined head and body, the right hand lightly placed upon the listener’s knee, the abrupt change in the inflection of the voice, all so characteristic of him—“this idle and often cowardly as well as ignorant harping! Why should we not change like everything else? In fiction, in poetry, in so much of both, French as well as English, and, I am told, in American art and literature, the shadow of death—call it what you will, despair, negation, indifference—is upon us. But what fools who talk thus! Why, amico mio, you know as well as I that death is life, just as our daily, our momentarily dying body is none the less alive and ever recreating new forces of existence. Without death, which is our crapelike churchyardy word for change, for growth, there could be no prolongation of what we call life. Pshaw! it is foolish to argue upon such a thing even. For myself, I deny death as an end of everything. Never say of me that I am dead!”

On the 4th January, 1890, W. S. wrote to Mr. Thomas A. Janvier:

London.

Many thanks for the Aztec Treasure House, which opens delightfully and should prove a thrilling tale. I don’t know how you feel, but for myself I shall never again publish serially till I have completed the story aforehand. You will have seen that I have been asked and have agreed to write the critical monograph on Browning for the Great Writer’s Series. This involves a harassing postponement of other work, and considerable financial loss, but still I am glad to do it.

The Harlands spent New Year’s Day with us, and the Champagne was not finished without some of it being quaffed in memory of the dear and valued friends oversea. You, both of you, must come over this spring.

Ever yours,

William Sharp.

With each New Year a Diary was begun with the intention of its being carefully continued throughout the months, an intention however that inevitably was abandoned as the monotony of the fulfilment palled upon the writer.

The Diary for 1890 begins with a careful record of work and events, noted daily till mid February when it ceases, to be resumed more fitfully in September and October. The year is prefaced with the motto:

“C’est À ce lendemain sevÈre que tout artiste sÉrieux doit songer.”—Sainte Beuve.

The following more important entries tell where and how the monograph was written and what other work he had on hand:

There is darkness everywhere;
Scarce is the city limned

In shadow on the lagoon.

No wind in the heavy air.
The stars themselves are dimmed,

And a mist veils the moon.

“After lunch took T. Mavor to Alfred East’s to see his Japanese pictures. Then I took T. M. to John M. Swan’s Studio. Then we went to spend half an hour with Stepniak and his wife at 13 Grove Gardens.”

“Jan. 13th.—Late in settling down, and then disinclined to write except in verse. Wrote the second and final part of the Elegaic Browning Poem for Belford’s Magazine. It is not often that I indulge in inversions: but the gain is sometimes noticeable. I think it is in this stanza:

Alas, greatness is not, nor is
There aught that is under the sun,

Nor any mortal thing,

Neither the heights of bliss
Nor the depths of evil done,

Unshadowed by Death’s wing.”

He soon found that it was impossible to write the monograph in London—with its ceaseless demands and distractions. Under the pressure of much work he became so unwell that we realised he could not finish the book under existing conditions, therefore arranged that he should leave me in charge of work at home and he should go to Hastings and devote himself mainly to his Browning. On the 18th he records, from rooms overlooking the sea “Blew a gale at night. The noise of the sea like a vast tide in a hollow echoing cavern: and a shrill screaming wail in the wind. Began my Life of Browning. To bed at 12.”

Then follows a record of the work done day by day: on the 19th, twelve printed pages: on the 20th ten pages: on the 21st four only because he lunched with Coventry Patmore who was then residing at Hastings. On the 22nd, thirteen pages; on the 23rd, eleven pages, and five letters.

Jan. 26th has this note: “We can no more predict Browning’s place in literature as it will be esteemed by posterity than we can specify the fauna and flora of a planet whose fires have not yet sufficiently cooled to enable vegetation to grow.”

His stay at Hastings was rendered pleasant by the neighbourliness of Coventry Patmore with whom he had many long talks, and by occasional visits to Miss Betham Edwards who had a house on the hill beyond the old castle.

He returned to town at the beginning of February.

On the 4th he wrote “the first scene of a Play (to be called either “The Lover’s Tragedy,” or “The Tower of Silence”) which was afterward rewritten and published in Vistas as “A Northern Night.”

The Diary continues:

Here the Diary abruptly ends. I do not recollect on what date the Browning was finished, but it was published in the early autumn. And I have no recollection as to what became of The Ordeal of Basil Hope, whether or not it ever appeared serially, but I think not. It never was issued in book form—and from the time we gave up the house in Goldhurst Terrace he never gave it a thought. It was characteristic of him that when a piece of work was finished or discarded, it passed wholly out of his mind, for his energies were always centred on his work on hand and on that projected.

He was a careful student of the progress of contemporary literatures—especially French (including Belgian) Italian and American—and during the spring and summer he wrote a long article on American literature for The National Review, an article on D’Annunzio for The Fortnightly. He also prepared a volume in English of selected Essays of St. Beuve for which he wrote a careful critical Preface.

The three years at Hampstead had been happy and successful. William had regained health; and had a command of work that made the ways of life pleasant. We had about us a genial sympathetic group of friends, and were in touch with many keen minds of the day. Temperamentally he could work or play with equal jest and enjoyment; he threw himself whole-heartedly into whatever he did. Observant, keenly intuitive, he cared to come into contact with all kinds and types of men and women; cared continually to test the different minds and temperaments he came across, providing always that they had a vital touch about them, and were not comatosely conventional. Curious about life, he cared incessantly to experiment; restless and never satisfied (I do not mean dissatisfied) he constantly desired new fields for this experimentation. Therefore, happy though he had been at Wescam, successful as that experiment had proved, he felt it had served its turn and he longed for different circumstances, different environment, new possibilities in which to attempt to give fuller expression of himself. He realised that nothing more would happen under the then existing conditions, satisfactory though they seemed externally; that indeed the satisfactoriness was a chain that was winding round him and fettering him to a form of life that was becoming rigid and monotonous, and, therefore, paralysing to all those inner impulses. His visit to America had re-awakened the desire to wander. So we gave up our house, stored our furniture, and planned to go abroad for the first winter and leave the future “in the lap of the Gods”; for was he not “of the unnumbered clan that know a longing that is unquiet as the restless wave ...” the “deep hunger for experience, even if it be bitter, the longing for things known to be unattainable, the remembrance that strives for rebirth.” That summer he wrote to Mr. Stedman:

“ ... You will ere this have received the copy of the little book of Great Odes: English and American which I sent to you. I think I told you that your own beautiful ‘Ode to Pastoral Romance’ has appealed to many people, and will, I hope and believe, send new readers to you, among the new generation, as a poet. Well, we are breaking up our home, and are going to leave London for a long time—probably for ever as a fixed ‘residentz platz.’ Most of my acquaintances think I am very foolish thus to withdraw from the ‘thick of the fight’ just when things are going so well with me, and when I am making a good and rapidly increasing income—for I am giving up nearly every appointment I hold, and am going abroad, having burned my ships behind me, and determined to begin literary life anew. But, truly enough, wisdom does not lie in money making—not for the artist who cares for his work at any rate. I am tired of so much pot-boiling, such increasing bartering of literary merchandise: and wish to devote myself entirely—or as closely as the fates will permit—to work in which my heart is. I am buoyant with the belief that it is in me to do something both in prose and verse far beyond any hitherto accomplishment of mine: but to stay here longer, and let the net close more and more round me, would be fatal. Of course I go away at a heavy loss. My income will at once drop to zero, and even after six months or so will scarce have risen a few degrees above that awkward limit—though ultimately things may readjust themselves. Yet I would rather—I am ready—I should say we are ready—to live in the utmost economy if need be. We shall be none the less happy: for my wife, with her usual loving unselfishness and belief in me, is as eager as I am for the change, despite all the risks. Among the younger writers few have the surely not very high courage necessary to give up something of material welfare for the sake of art. As for us, we are both at heart Bohemians—and are well content if we can have good shelter, enough to eat, books, music, friends, sunshine and free nature—all of which we can have with the scantiest of purses. Perhaps I should be less light-hearted in the matter if I thought that our coming Bohemian life might involve my wife in hard poverty when my hour comes, but fortunately her future is assured. So henceforth, in a word, I am going to take down the board

WILLIAM SHARP
Literary Manufacturer
(All kinds of jobs undertaken)

and substitute:

WILLIAM SHARP
Given up Business: Moved to Bohemia.
Publishers and Editors Need not Apply.
Friends can write to W. S. % “Drama” “Fiction” or “Poetry,”
Live-as-you-will Quarter, Bohemia.

This day week we leave our house for good. My wife and I then go into Hampshire to breathe the hay and the roses for a week at a friend’s place, 7 miles across the Downs north of Winchester: then back to London to stay with our friend, Mrs. Mona Caird, till about the 20th of July. About that date we go to Scotland, to my joy, till close on the end of September. Thereafter we return to London for a week or so, and then go abroad. We are bound first for the lower Rhineland, and intend to stay at Heidelberg (being cheap, pretty, thoroughly German, with good music and a good theatre) for about two months. Then, about the beginning of December, we go to Rome, where we intend to settle: climatic, financial, and other considerations will decide whether we remain there longer than six months, but six ideal months at least we hope for. Mihi sex menses satis sunt vitÆ septimum Orco spondeo.

That summer we went to Clynder on the Gareloch, Argyll, in order to be near my husband’s old friend, Dr. Donald Macleod, who, as he records in his diary “sang to me with joyous abandonment a Neapolitan song, and asked me to send him a MS. from Italy for Good Words.” While we were in the West we made acquaintance with the poet-editor of The Yorkshire Herald, George Cotterell, who became a dear and valued friend. I cannot recall if it were in the early summer of 1889 or 1890 that my husband was first approached on the subject of the Joseph Severn Memoirs, but I remember the circumstance. We spent a week-end in Surrey with some old friends of my mother, Sir Walter and Lady Hughes, and one morning Mr. Walter Severn, the painter, walked over to luncheon. He spoke about my husband’s Life of Rossetti, then of the quantity of unpublished MSS. he and his family had written by and relating to his father, Joseph Severn, “the friend of Keats.” Finally he proposed that his listener should take over the MSS., put them in form and write a Life of Severn, with, as the special point of literary interest, his father’s devoted friendship with and care of the dying poet. After considerable deliberation, W. S. agreed to undertake the work, and arrangements were made with Messrs. Samson Low to publish it. The preparing of this Memoir brought him into pleasant relationship not only with Mr. Walter Severn, and with Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Severn, but also with Ruskin, who he visited later at Coniston, where he was delighted, among other things, with the fine collection of minerals and stones that was one of Ruskin’s hobbies.

The preparation of The Joseph Severn Memoirs necessarily entailed correspondence with members and friends of that family, among others with W. W. Story, the sculptor, who sent him the following information:

“I knew Mr. Severn at Rome and frequently met and saw him but I can recall nothing which would be of value to you. He was, as you know, a most pleasant man—and in the minds of all is associated with the memory of Keats by whose side he lies in the Protestant Cemetery at Rome. When the bodies were removed, as they were several years ago, and laid side by side, there was a little funeral ceremony and I made an address on the occasion in honour and commemoration of the two friends. I remember we then had hoped that Lord Houghton would have been able to be present as he had promised. But he was taken ill in the East, where he was then journeying, and I had to express the fear lest the ceremony might be a commemoration not only of two but of the three friends so intimately associated together. However, Houghton did recover from the attack and came afterward to Rome, sadly broken.”

Early in October my husband and I crossed to Antwerp and stopped at Bonn. The Rhine disappointed William’s expectations. He wrote to a friend: “The real charm of the Rhine, beyond the fascination that all rivers and riverine scenery have for most people, is that of literary and historical romance. The Rhine is in this respect the Nile of Europe: though probably none but Germans feel thus strongly. For myself I cannot but think it ought not to be a wholly German river, but from every point of view be the Franco-German boundary.... Germany has much to gain from a true communion with its more charming neighbour. The world would jog on just the same if Germany were annihilated by France, Russia and Italy: but the disappearance of brilliant, vivacious, intellectual France would be almost as serious a loss to intellectual Europe, as would be to the people at large the disappearance of the Moon.”

From Rome he wrote to Mrs. Janvier:

Dec., 1890.

These various schemes planned mentally were never realised. William constantly projected and of the roughly drafted out possible work that absorbed him during its conception, but was put aside when a more dominating idea demanded full expression. “Bacchus in India” remained a fragment. Neither the tragedy nor that prose play was finished, and the philosophical work was never begun. A new impulse came, new work grew out of the impressions of that Roman winter which swept out of his mind all other cartooned work.