4930. RB to Sarah Jane Cust
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 29, 181–183.
Florence,
17 July, 1861.
Certainly,—dear Mrs Cust, dear friend. I shall not take such a letter from you, take so much comfort from its affectionateness and love of her, and not try to say a word of thanks when my heart is full of them. You would know that (what thanks I have) whether I wrote or no—but I can give you pleasure by telling you there was no pain, no conscious separation—she believed there was nothing to distinguish this attack from the many old ones—and tho’ the Physician [1] looked seriously on the case, she seemed to know better: the last evening, we talked over our projects & she bade me take a Villa we knew “for three years”– There was nothing to frighten me except the altered character of her sleep, something in the strange youthfulness and earnest expression of her face: I find was, I had an instinct, from and before the beginning, of what was to be—but I could not justify it by reasoning: I sate up, much against her will, for the week of her illness, but merely to be at hand with the medicines. She rose every day—& said “when the cough goes, the weakness will go, and all will be right.” On the Friday night, she three times assured Peni, whose apprehensions were excited by the servants’ talk, that she was “much better”—made her toilette without any assistance “for half an hour,” and composed herself for the night. I sent the two men servants home to their families, and made the maid go to bed,—judge whether there seemed danger! And all night there was only apparent difficulty in sleep,—she would wake, say the things that I can’t write, smilingly assure me she was “better,” and lie down again. At four o’clock there was a change– I called the maid, sent the Porter for the physician—as we bathed her feet she smiled “Well, you are making an exaggerated case of it!”. Repeated she was “much better”; “quite comfortable—if I would only come to bed!”—always smiling:—there was a little incident (I can’t write down) that made her laugh happily. She then embraced me & bade “God bless me” with an earnestness to which I remember no parallel in her life, till I made her lie down– “How are you?”– “Beautiful”! and she slept at once—presently there was a difficulty in her breathing. I took her in my arms—supported her head with mine—there was no struggle, not a sigh, only an intolerable suspense of life—then all was quiet– I thought she might have fainted & still continued to support her—when there came the least contraction of the brow—that was all—& the poor, dear Italian maid cried “The blessed Soul has passed away!”. Does it not comfort you, dear friend, to know there was no pain, no lingering, no horror of parting & that she entered God’s presence fearlessly like the dear child she was? So I have endeavored to tell you.
I have much to do, all to do for her still, thank God—our child to educate, my own life to lead in her interest. I am just as well aware of her will in all that regards these,—as if she were at my side as for the last fifteen years. I have no longer any thing to do with Italy, I only stay here to get absolutely done with my affairs and need no return for many years, before I go to England. —But I shall first pass a year in Paris, near my Father, and take my time to see clearly what is best to be done with Pen. I shall go now to London for a few days—only to see her Sister & return to Paris as I say. But whenever I go to London “for good” be sure I will go and see you—have I forgotten all your kindness & old invitations, and that happy time in Paris? She always loved you, and never forgot you. Beside, I am determined not to grow savage nor solitary: I shall never “keep house” again in any shape, but live like the bird on the branch—not bear any pretence of “domestication” now, even with my Father & Sister: but I shall do the best I can for Pen & work hard on my own account—be the better for the seventeen years’ knowledge of her. I say nothing of Pen, whom I had to wake up and tell the truth to! He has been perfect to me, acting in something of the spirit of her. He is bent, as he calls it, “on comforting me”—and that comforts him. I have met with extraordinary kindness from everybody, in England & here. The Italians honored themselves by honoring her—their newspapers “bade every one go and pay the last tribute to the great English poetess, the truest and most perspicacious friend of Italy”—& they did go, crying like children—the municipal regulation forbidding the passage of a hearse thro’ the streets by day was waived—and the coffin was covered with crowns of laurel and white flowers. And a week ago Cav: Peruzzi called on me “to hope, in the name of the Italians, that I would let her child continue a Tuscan– They wished that their friends, in the evil days, should be still with them in their better fortune, and I should find no career impossible to him”– We are English, of course, and remain so, but I shall not forget that old man’s words & looks.
How I have expanded the word, that was to be, into a piece of writing! I seemed talking to you. If you ever care to speak to me—my address will be at 151. Rue de Grenelle, Fg St Germn I suppose I shall set out in a week.
When you have an opportunity, say for me to Lady Marian [2] that I will send her the photograph which was made a few days before we left Rome, and which is very like (—you, too, shall have it—) and say—as it is just possible she might hear of my having been in London—that I shall not forget her kindness nor fail to call on her, as she was good enough to permit, at some happier day—there will never be days for me, however, like those when we saw the last of Rome. I was in treaty for a house there, and the answer to my proposal was expected up to a fortnight ago. I would have taken it on that day.
But I intend to bear up & do the best. Good bye, now—dear friend—& God bless you and yours. Remember me to your kind Husband who must not let me slip out of his mind—and, once more, take my gratitude and know me for
Yours affectionately ever
Robert Browning.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection.
1. Dr. Wilson.
2. Lady Marian Alford. See letter 4851, note 16.
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