At the time of its publication its success was immediate.  The subjects touched on were largely such as always attract interest, because they are open to much controversy; and the freshness of style and originality of conception (for almost the only other novel-poem in the language is ‘Don Juan,’ which can hardly be regarded as of the same type as ’Aurora Leigh’) attracted a multitude of readers.  A second edition was required in a fortnight, a third in a few months—­a success which must have greatly pleased the authoress, who had put her inmost self into her work, and had laboured hard to leave behind her an adequate representation of her poetic art.

This natural satisfaction was darkened, however, by the death, on December 3, of Mr. Kenyon, in whose house the poem had been completed, and to whom it had been dedicated.  Readers of these letters do not require to be told how near and dear a friend he had been to both Mrs. Browning and her husband.  During his life his friendship had taken the practical form of allowing them 100_l._ a year, in order that they might be more free to follow their art for its own sake only, and in his will he left 6,500_l._ to Robert Browning and 4,500_l._ to Mrs. Browning.  These were the largest legacies in a very generous will—­the fitting end to a life passed in acts of generosity and kindness to those in need.

* * * * *

To Miss Browning

[Florence.  November 1856.]

Robert says he will wait for me till to-morrow, but I leave my other letters rather and write to you, so sure I am that we oughtn’t to put that off any longer.  Dearest Sarianna, I am very much pleased that you like the poem, having feared a little that you might not.  M. Milsand will not, I prophesy; ‘seeing as from a tower the end of all.’  The ‘Athenaeum’ is right in supposing that it will be much liked and much disliked by people in general, although the press is so far astonishing in its goodwill, and although the extravagance of private letters might well surprise the warmest of my friends.  But, patience!  In a little while we shall have the other side of the question, and the whips will fall fast after the nosegays.  Still, I am surprised, I own, at the amount of success; and that golden-hearted Robert is in ecstasies about it—­far more than if it all related to a book of his own.  The form of the story, and also something in the philosophy, seem to have caught the crowd.  As to the poetry by itself, anything good in that repels rather.  I am not as blind as Romney, not to perceive this.  He had to be blinded, observe, to be made to see; just as Marian had to be dragged through the uttermost debasement of circumstances to arrive at the sentiment of personal dignity.  I am sorry, but indeed it seemed necessary.

You tantalise me with your account of ‘warm days.’  It is warmer with us to-day, but we have had snow on all the mountains, and poor Isa has been half-frozen at her villa.  As for me, I have suffered wonderfully little—­no more than discomfort and languor.  We have piled up the wood in this room and the next, and had a perpetual blaze.  Not for ten years has there been in Florence such a November!  ‘Is this Italy?’ says poor Fanny Haworth’s wondering face.  Still, she likes Florence better than she did....