Correspondence

3303.  EBB & RB to Sarianna Browning

As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 20, 31-35.

Decr 19. ’53.

Dearest–

Yours came safely a day or two ago: we are all well, thank God, & hope the worst is past in all matters. The little girl [1] was moved two days ago to her own house, & barring unforseen relapses, is out of danger. The governess in much the same state, or not quite so well perhaps: the father & mother going about their old life much in the old way, but effectually struck, of course. We have done nothing all this while, nor desired to do much—but shall begin to go out. We know Fanny Kemble & others. Thackeray & daughters arrived, called on us, were very genial & kind, took tea next night or so, & are lodging close by. He became very ill suddenly—of obstruction in the stomach, & was smartly treated—but is now well again (—don’t say a word to his mother,—who is apt, the girls say, to frighten herself to death.) I go to take them out (the girls at least) to walk this morning. We find things very much dearer than at Florence, with the exception of game which is very cheap,—much more so than common meat: this suits us exactly, and it is a fact that we have lived for the last three weeks on nothing else—woodcocks & snipes being cheapest—two woodcocks cost 14d—a hare 18d &c: we like least, paying for lodging—instead of getting it for next to nothing—never mind however. So many thanks for the “album”—too good by far for Pennini, but he won’t give it up. I was glad to see your drawings in it. He is quite well, quite good. Ba is very well, goes out—the weather being very mild—I hear this mg. it is cold at Florence—& what in London, I wonder, to say nothing of the “fogs” reported in “Galignani.” [2] I got a long letter from Mr K. the other day—he has not thrown up Wimbledon, as I feared,—only taken a small house in the I. of Wight—one in a row of seven building[s] by his friend Sir C. Fellowes, [3] & has thoughts of letting Wimbledon—finding I hardly understand what faults with it, or the neighbourhood rather. I see Murray is going to reprint an American book of travels in Italy by Mr Hillard we knew a few years ago [4] —it having had a great success in the U. States—so much the worse for them, for it is really a very poor commonplace affair, far beneath what I should have judged the author capable of producing—see it however, if you can, for the sake of the flaming account of “the Brownings” [5] —very kindly meant of course. We don’t hear that our house is let in Florence, which is provoking. I am most happy that Papa has got thro’ his cold—& that you have done the same. This will reach you about the day after Xtmas day, I suppose– I would have written yesterday, but no post leaves this place on Sundays. We shall be obliged to see some of the Xtmas sights, I suppose,—midnight mass, &c. All the city will be illuminated with gas for the first time,—I don’t care a straw about such things. The Thackeray girls find everything delightful—“better than in Paris.” My own indifference will go off, no doubt—but if you knew what a deal of sad business there was, you would wonder I stay at all—indeed, I do think that if I had been able to afford such a step, I should have gone back again to Florence. We found Mrs Brotherton (Mrs Carml Smith’s friend) not the miserable woman she supposes but quite happy & content with her great bearded husband—perhaps, however, you know nothing about the matter: it was supposed she was attached to Mr Morton [6] —if so, she has got over, remarkably well, what Mrs S. declared would “Kill her”—& so much the wiser she. I am glad Jane is going to marry, as I was sure she would. [7] I conjecture by Aunt[’]s leaving the place that it is sold or what is equivalent,—poor old place! [8] What do you lose by being out of all the sad work! I dont write more, wishing you to get the letter at once. Love to dearest Papa—best regards to the dear Corkrans– I will write to Milsand when I can. The table turning at Florence, writing, &c was wholly unsatisfactory to me, to Story, & to Lytton—to all almost. The names were spelt imperfectly and (foolishly) repeated rightly to see if they were the names .. which then, of course they proved to be. God bless you,

RB

[Continued by EBB]

Robert brings me this sheet just as we are going out on an engagement & bids me write– Now I cant fill it in ten minutes, and it is really a shame to send an empty sheet all the way to Paris. Dearest Sarianna, I am quite vexed with him .. because it seems impossible to keep the letter a day longer. Certainly you will be uneasy as it is. Nevertheless we are all well, & by God’s goodness I hope likely to continue so. The weather is exquisite, & I am able to go out every day as if it were summer. When I complained of the cold at the beginning, I dare say it was the cold of the soul working outwards. Our rooms are so flooded with sunshine that we have to dam it out with shutters half the morning .. while even you talk of fogs .. and Arabel says that London has lived in a dense fog for a month, & that it is many weeks since they have seen the sun. Certainly you dont encourage us much about Paris, & sometimes I feel afraid that I shall never find it tenable for two winters together. One must try, however. You dont mean to say that you have had to light a candle to write by– I call that writing in a fog. You know in London you cant pass a winter (I never did) without a “total ecclipse .. nor sun nor moon” [9]  .. of the kind. I have seen a few days fog in Paris—but it was rather a mist than a fog. Not palpable after the legitimate fog-fashion! not a thing to touch, taste, & smell, & be suffocated by–

Rome is horribly saddened to us both– The associations are distorted. The cup is rubbed at the brim with aloes, &, for the sweet wine inside, who cares? That’s just my feeling even now. But one must struggle to get out of the sphere of such feelings, & in time we shall succeed perhaps. Our apartment is very comfortable, & the horrible fright I was in about Robert & Penini is beginning to subside. Still, I feel more at ease when they are both close by me—& when either of them is out in the damp, or in the sun, or in the wind, a half hour too long I perform my celebrated process of “losing my head” forthwith–

Penini is as bright as an angel, in the body & in the soul, so far. He is going to write a letter in text-hand to Nonno one of these days—as he began to learn a week ago, & has produced two surprising pages of “dear papas” already. In the meanwhile the print-hand being a little out of use through the idleness at Lucca, & he being plainly in a state of transition, he means to wait a little, he says. Robert was instructing him the other day (in an access of national vain-glory) how the Duke of Wellington on his medal had “beat Napoleon”. We, neither of us, could help laughing at the reply– “Well– I sint lis Dute muss be velly naughty. What! he beat Napoleon wiz a stit–?” He & Ferdinando are learning French together. I dont think it’s very likely to be Parisian French.

I asked him why he did’nt stay in the room when somebody was calling here. —“Betause I said I would go to see the Padrona—and gentle Jesus not lites it when I not teep mine words.”

Dearest Sarianna your book, the dear Nonno book, brought by the Thackerays, is a pleasure for us all. We turn it over & over and admire it– How clever it all is– And do you know there is a sketch of a shepherd-boy keeping sheep which is yours I am sure, & which Penini dreams over—it perfectly enchants him. He holds his head on first one side, then another, smiling for joy—— “Oh how velly pretty this is!”

Poor Mrs Story having wept & spoken out her deep grief, is wonderfully well, I think, as is generally the case with such expansive natures—quite composed & even cheerful. Robert will have told you that Edith has been removed, & that the other case of Roman fever in this house has passed into convalescence. Rome has been unusually unhealthy, but with the advancing season will improve every day. Yes—but I believe in contagion: I lose my head! I am not philosophical a bit! Only the physicians swore to us that Penini might sleep in the room with these patients & not suffer– It seemed a strange coincidence of illnesses notwithstanding—they had all exposed themselves to some malignant air-stroke or sun-stroke, it was said.

How you can read what I write lies among other mysteries– I run rather than write– God bless you. Best of loves to the best of nonnos– Love us & pray for us—and take care of yourselves—do.

Your ever affectionate Ba.

How we shall think of you at Christmas–

We have to live on game because of the high prices. Mr Cass the American chargé d’affaires has just come from Paris, & calls it much cheaper than Rome is.

Address, in RB’s hand, on integral page: France. / Mademoiselle Browning, / Avenue des Champs Elysées 138. / Paris.

Publication: NL, pp. 67–70 (in part).

Manuscript: Lilly Library.

1. Edith Story. The “governess,” mentioned in the next sentence, is doubtless Jane Cartwright, elsewhere referred to as a “maid” and an “English nurse.”

2. The 8 December 1853 issue of Galignani’s Messenger contained the following item: “This morning, from a very early hour, a fog of intense density shrouded the river [Thames] in a darkness of the most opaque nature. … The fog cleared away about half-past eight o’clock” (p. 2). In the issue of 15 December it was noted: “The dense fogs that have prevailed in London extended to a great distance at sea, and occasioned many fatal shipwrecks” (p. 2).

3. According to the Post Office Directory of Hampshire, Wiltshire, and Dorsetshire (1855), the archaeologist Charles Fellows (1799–1860) owned property in West Cowes, including “a beautiful Terrace … on the Parade” (p. 192). John Kenyon’s house was at 3 Parade. Fellows lived at Prospect House, just outside the town. “Wimbledon” refers to Lime Cottage, Kenyon’s house in the southeast corner of Wimbledon Common.

4. Six Months in Italy (Boston, 1853) by George Stillman Hillard (1808–79) was reprinted and published by Murray in 1853.

5. The passage relating to the Brownings is reprinted in vol. 14, pp. 408–409.

6. We have been unable to confirm an attachment between Mary Brotherton and the late Savile Morton (1811–52), who was murdered by fellow journalist Harold Bower over the latter’s wife; see letter 3143, note 5.

7. The widow of James Silverthorne (1809–52), Jane Street Silverthorne (see letter 3045, notes 3 and 5), married William Leppard (1824–97), a Croydon linen draper, on 25 February 1854.

8. Probably a reference to the Silverthorne family brewery at Portland Place, Peckham Road, in Camberwell. It was sold in 1853 (see John Maynard, Browning’s Youth, Cambridge, Mass., 1977, p. 459). The aunt is Christiana Matilda Silverthorne (née Wiedeman).

9. Cf. Milton, Samson Agonistes, 81ff.

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