SD2191. Sarianna Browning to Joseph Milsand
Published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 25, 359–360 (in part).
151, rue de Grenelle St Gern
July 14th [1858] [1]
My dear Mr Milsand,
It is quite true that my time is much more occupied now that our wanderers are again with us,—it seems quite strange to be constantly going over to them, or to hear little Penini playing and prattling in our quiet rooms,—but if I can feel quite sure that my rambling epistles interest you, don’t doubt that I will manage to find time to write. Never suppose that because they are here I don’t miss you as much as ever,—on the contrary, I regret your absence far more than at any other time.
Let me see what I have to tell you. In the first place, our plans are not much more settled than they were a week ago. Robert is not celebrated for quickly making up his mind on such matters, you know, it is an old joke against him; but I suppose we shall all suddenly start off in a day or two for either Trouville or Fécamp. Trouville has the advantage of being prettier, with a sandy beach, while Fécamp on the other hand, contains some houses belonging to the owner of the hotel at which he is staying (hôtel de Londres, rue St Hyacinth[e]) who presses them on his notice,—no slight temptation to an irresolute man. Trouville is said to be expensive, and objectionably fashionable.
My sister suffered from the cold weather the end of last week—we had fires here (Papa & I) for several days. Now the summer is back again, she seems better, and has taken several carriage-drives to the bois de Boulogne. The day before yesterday she and I went shopping, but the result was not happy,—she was so completely exhausted that I felt frightened, but as soon as she got home she fell asleep in her chair, and that revived her. Yesterday she was looking very well; and in excellent spirits. Robert himself appears very well. Penini is delighted with Paris—its dissipations corrupt him dreadfully,—the Champs Elysées with its wooden horses and its Punches as he calls them, have turned his head. He is grown much taller, but his baby face is just the same; I can hardly imagine what he will be like when he grows up, he is still so infantine in features: he keeps, too, his defective babyish articulation which makes his English hard to be understood; his Italian is much more distinct. He does not speak much French or German, but reads both sufficiently well to be able to amuse himself with story-books. Altogether, he is a dear little fellow, even his naughtiness is of a fair complexion like himself. I was much amused with a specimen of it yesterday,—he was going with his maid, and a little friend, to play in the Champs Elysées, when his mamma said ‘you must promise to be good, and not to run away from Annunziata’,—the child stopped suddenly, and was quite silent, would not promise: his mamma, after waiting some time, said, ‘[‘]then I can’t allow you to go”,—at length, hesitating between the disagre[e]ableness of being good, and the attractions of Punch, he replied slowly “well, I’ll promise to be good if the other little boy is good too;” upon which contingency he was allowed to depart.
When we are at the sea-side, my sister will be joined by her sister (Miss Barrett) and one of her brothers,—probably other members of her family will pay her a visit. This is a much better arrangement than going to England, she will have less excitement, and fatigue.
Poor Lady Elgin is dying at last; she has had another stroke, yet seems conscious at intervals: the family have begged my sister to go and see her, which though painful, she cannot refuse—they said that when they told the poor sufferer of my brother & sister being here, her face brightened up,—Lady Augusta fancies she is anxious to see them, probably it is only an illusion.
I will send you another Athenæum soon. Did you hear the painful explanation of the mysterious letter of Dickens, which I thought alluded to his father, who, I find, has long been dead? He has separated from his wife—after twenty three years of marriage, and a large family of children eight or nine of whom are living—is it not sad? He who was always considered a model of domestic life. I only know it from the newspapers, which are full of all sorts of stories—probably the rumours he speaks of in his letter, so I don’t want to believe the worst till I have better confirmation. But at all events, it is a melancholy ending of a brilliant career, and has grieved me much.
Have I time to tell you a tale my sister told me last night? A narrow escape of Robert’s from being killed. It was last summer at the Baths of Lucca. Robert set out with an American friend on some expedition among the mountains, to see the sun rise– I forget the particulars, though I recollect he told me he intended going– Well—the road is very rugged and dangerous, owing to the brittle nature of the soil. They were on horseback, and had a guide with them– At length, they came to a mountain-pass unexpectedly difficult—the path was scarcely two feet broad, a steep rock on one side, on the other a precipice sixty feet deep with a river running below. The guide called out to stop, for it was dangerous; but the American foolishly saying he had crossed worse roads than that, Robert, who led the way, still more foolishly urged his horse on. After a few steps, the ground which had been loosened by rains, suddenly gave way beneath the animal’s feet– Robert had just time and presence of mind enough to fling himself off the horse, and against the rock, to which he clung with his wrists, while the poor horse rolled over and over, into the river, down the precipice. Robert escaped with bruised hands,—the horse was severely hurt, but not killed, as they expected,—the poor guide stood and shrieked. Was not that a narrow escape? he has had so many accidents that I fear something fatal may happen at last.
Now I am at the end of my paper, and my time. You must write to me—just as shorts notes as ever you like. I trust all is going on well, and your mother regaining strength. I make up my mind that all my letters will be lost, when we are away, so try to write before I go. What shall I do with your Coleridge. I had a deal to say of it. Spite of Mr Gurney, I have read it with great attention & great pleasure. I almost think he must have meant some other work when he forbade it, for there is nothing objectionable as we supposed. I don’t agree, quite, with some of his views, on other grounds. It has tempted me into doing what I never do, making marks as I read—but I will easily rub them out.
Good bye– All send their love–
Ever yours very truly
Sarianna Browning.
I sign my name carefully, as you forget ladies’ handwriting.
Mrs Jameson is Still in Paris.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library, Joseph Milsand Archive.
1. The Brownings were in Paris from 6–19 July 1858 and called on Lady Elgin on the 16th.
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