of the year. I
adumbrated Browning's outlook on life, translating into Norwegian, I
well remember, the words "God's in His heaven, all's right with the
world." In fact I cannot charge myself with not having done what I
could. I can only lament that it was not enough.

When we marched into the _salone_, Browning was seated at the piano,
playing (I think) a Toccata of Galuppi's. On seeing us, he brought
his hands down with a great crash on the keyboard, seemed to reach
us in one astonishing bound across the marble floor, and clapped
Ibsen loudly on either shoulder, wishing him "the Merriest of Merry
Christmases."

Ibsen, under this sudden impact, stood firm as a rock, and it flitted
through my brain that here at last was solved the old problem of what
would happen if an irresistible force met an immoveable mass. But it
was obvious that the rock was not rejoicing in the moment of victory.
I was tartly asked whether I had not explained to Herr Browning that
his guest did not understand English. I hastily rectified my omission,
and thenceforth our host spoke in Italian. Ibsen, though he understood
that language fairly well, was averse to speaking it. Such remarks as
he made in the course of the meal to which we presently sat down were
made in Norwegian and translated by myself.

Browning, while he was carving the turkey, asked Ibsen whether he had
visited any of the Venetian theatres. Ibsen's reply was that he never
visited theatres. Browning laughed his great laugh, and cried "That's
right! We poets who write plays must give the theatres as wide a berth
as possible. We aren't wanted there!" "How so?" asked Ibsen. Browning
looked a little puzzled, and I had to explain that in northern Europe
Herr Ibsen's plays were frequently performed. At this I seemed to see
on Browning's face a slight shadow--so swift and transient a shadow as
might be cast by a swallow flying across a sunlit garden. An instant,
and it was gone. I was glad, however, to be able to soften my
statement by adding that Herr Ibsen had in his recent plays abandoned
the use of verse.

The trouble was that in Browning's company he seemed practically to
have abandoned the use of prose too. When, moreover, he did speak, it
was always in a sense contrary to that of our host. The Risorgimento
was a theme always very near to the great heart of Browning, and on
this occasion he hymned it with more than his usual animation and
resource (if indeed that were possible)