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.
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