第58章 Chapter 12(5)

'The old man shuffled out at the door.No sooner had he disappeared than the woman turned to Browning,winked,and putting down her arm leaned it on his shoulder.When Kirkup returned she resumed her position and rigid look.

'"Here is the book,"said Kirkup."Isn't it wonderful?"he added,pointing to the woman.

'"Wonderful,"agreed Browning as he left the room.

'The woman and her family made a good thing of poor Kirkup's spiritualism.'

Something much more remarkable in reference to this subject happened to the poet himself during his residence in Florence.

It is related in a letter to the 'Spectator',dated January 30,1869,and signed J.S.K.

'Mr.Robert Browning tells me that when he was in Florence some years since,an Italian nobleman (a Count Ginnasi of Ravenna),visiting at Florence,was brought to his house without previous introduction,by an intimate friend.

The Count professed to have great mesmeric and clairvoyant faculties,and declared,in reply to Mr.Browning's avowed scepticism,that he would undertake to convince him somehow or other of his powers.

He then asked Mr.Browning whether he had anything about him then and there,which he could hand to him,and which was in any way a relic or memento.

This Mr.Browning thought was perhaps because he habitually wore no sort of trinket or ornament,not even a watchguard,and might therefore turn out to be a safe challenge.But it so happened that,by a curious accident,he was then wearing under his coat-sleeves some gold wrist-studs which he had quite recently taken into wear,in the absence (by mistake of a sempstress)of his ordinary wrist-buttons.

He had never before worn them in Florence or elsewhere,and had found them in some old drawer where they had lain forgotten for years.

One of these studs he took out and handed to the Count,who held it in his hand a while,looking earnestly in Mr.Browning's face,and then he said,as if much impressed,"C'equalche cosa che mi grida nell'orecchio 'Uccisione!uccisione!'"("There is something here which cries out in my ear,'Murder!murder!'")'"And truly,"says Mr.Browning,"those very studs were taken from the dead body of a great uncle of mine who was violently killed on his estate in St.Kitt's,nearly eighty years ago....

The occurrence of my great uncle's murder was known only to myself of all men in Florence,as certainly was also my possession of the studs."'

A letter from the poet,of July 21,1883,affirms that the account is correct in every particular,adding,'My own explanation of the matter has been that the shrewd Italian felt his way by the involuntary help of my own eyes and face.'The story has been reprinted in the Reports of the Psychical Society.

A pleasant piece of news came to brighten the January of 1858.

Mr.Fox was returned for Oldham,and at once wrote to announce the fact.

He was answered in a joint letter from Mr.and Mrs.Browning,interesting throughout,but of which only the second part is quite suited for present insertion.

Mrs.Browning,who writes first and at most length,ends by saying she must leave a space for Robert,that Mr.Fox may be compensated for reading all she has had to say.The husband continues as follows:

...'A space for Robert'who has taken a breathing space --hardly more than enough --to recover from his delight;he won't say surprise,at your letter,dear Mr.Fox.But it is all right and,like you,I wish from my heart we could get close together again,as in those old days,and what times we would have here in Italy!

The realization of the children's prayer of angels at the corner of your bed (i.e.sofa),one to read and one (my wife)to write,and both to guard you through the night of lodging-keeper's extortions,abominable charges for firing,and so on.(Observe,to call oneself 'an angel'in this land is rather humble,where they are apt to be painted as plumed cutthroats or celestial police --you say of Gabriel at his best and blithesomest,'Shouldn't admire meeting HIM in a narrow lane!')

I say this foolishly just because I can't trust myself to be earnest about it.

I would,you know,I would,always would,choose you out of the whole English world to judge and correct what I write myself;my wife shall read this and let it stand if I have told her so these twelve years --and certainly I have not grown intellectually an inch over the good and kind hand you extended over my head how many years ago!

Now it goes over my wife's too.

How was it Tottie never came here as she promised?Is it to be some other time?Do think of Florence,if ever you feel chilly,and hear quantities about the Princess Royal's marriage,and want a change.

I hate the thought of leaving Italy for one day more than I can help --and satisfy my English predilections by newspapers and a book or two.

One gets nothing of that kind here,but the stuff out of which books grow,--it lies about one's feet indeed.Yet for me,there would be one book better than any now to be got here or elsewhere,and all out of a great English head and heart,--those 'Memoirs'

you engaged to give us.Will you give us them?

Goodbye now --if ever the whim strikes you to 'make beggars happy'

remember us.

Love to Tottie,and love and gratitude to you,dear Mr.Fox,From yours ever affectionately,Robert Browning.

In the summer of this year,the poet with his wife and child joined his father and sister at Havre.It was the last time they were all to be together.