Correspondence

4801.  RB to Reuben Browning

As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 28, 260.

Rome

December 29, 1860

<***> My wife’s poor dear sister died the day we arrived in Rome; the irregularity of the post and other delays kept her in dreadful suspense for a long time, and the fact was really less insupportable than the expectation of it. She suffered greatly, nevertheless, and will continue to do so, being far more remarkable for her affectionateness than for any other quality—pretty uncommon as some of these are. She has not been able to see anybody, nor leave the house yet—the greater pity, inasmuch as the weather is literally as warm as an English May or June day, though wet. While I write there is brilliant sun, however. I write to Michael myself. My wife desires her kind love to you, and feels grateful, as I do, for all your kindness. Best love to you all. Pen is quite well, grows, rides, plays capitally on the piano, learns Latin, German, and French—Italian being his native tongue. <***>

Text: Literature, vol. 4 (12 August 1899), p. 159.

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