SD2506. Sarianna Browning to Joseph Milsand
Published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 29, 308–309 (in part).
Chez M. Chauvin–
St Enogat,
près Dinard,
Ile et Vilaine.
Aug 26th [1861] [1]
My dear Mr Milsand,
Have you forgotten me that you do not write to me, or what is the reason? It is a fortnight since I heard any tidings of you, and I am wondering where you are, and what you are doing. Are you returned from the seaside, and have you enjoyed your holiday?
As for ourselves, we went first to Rennes, thence to St Malo in a private carriage on account of the poney, our companion, who trotted behind,—thence to Dinard, or rather to St Enogat, a small place about a mile from Dinard, in the most perfect solitude. We are close to the coast, which is exquisitely beautiful. A succession of small bays among rocks, with such gold and silver sands, and a sea of the deepest blue. The inland scenery is very lovely, green lanes between fields, and it is difficult to wander out of reach of a glimpse of the sea,—best of all, in our present state of feeling, we may roam for hours without meeting a human being, except perchance an old woman tied to a cow, and you may guess how completely we have the glorious bays to ourselves when I tell you the people of the house cannot comprehend my fastidiousness in walking over to Dinard for a bath, when I could so easily bathe in the nearest bay.
But what will please you most is to know that my poor Robert is much better: he is more delighted with the place than I had dared to hope, and it has the advantage of being utterly unlike Italy—(except that Robt says it reminds him of the Bay of Naples)– At first, his dejection almost made me despair; but gradually, the quiet life, and the fresh sea breeze, and having me always at hand to pour out his heart to, have soothed and calmed him—he is more his old self—and as his natural vitality is enormous, I believe he will regain his strength in time. We walk together for hours; sometimes in profound silence, which I never interrupt; but more frequently, he talking as of old. He tells me that before her death, she was growing fatter and looking younger; and the last time the doctor saw her he remarked “she is so strong!.” He attributes her death to an ulcer breaking in the windpipe. Her Italians paid her due honour. A battalion of the National Guard was ordered to attend her funeral, and a petition, signed by the first names in Italy, has been made for a tablet to her memory, in Santa Croce. Just now, Robt is going through the trial of receiving the American papers, teeming with accounts of her: they are all edged with deep black. I never read anything more touching and affectionate than the letter of one of the editors. Letters of sympathy come pouring in from England. Robert’s reputation is just now very high in his native land. He is right to wish Peni to be English: already the child thinks in Italian, and hesitates for an english word. I myself urge his going to England: but we shall see plenty of them, for Robert promises to pay us a visit every month, and though I shall not quite keep him to that, we shall have him often with us.
Much as I long to see you, I will not ask you to come down here—the journey is too long and expensive– We have four bedrooms and a sitting-room, all of the roughest description, for which we pay 200 fs a month– A country Bretoune girl is engaged as our servant. Our provisions come from St Malo—butter and meat are cheaper than in Paris, but all other articles of food quite as dear. Unluckily my father cannot get shaved except by crossing over in a steamer to St Malo, and Robert cannot find a riding-horse, so he is obliged to walk by the side of Pen, who gallops backwards and forwards. Strange to say, the time passes very quickly; I have scarcely a minute to myself. Pen is taking lessons in swimming,—we bathe together at Dinard, where there is no invidious distinctions of Sex– My father is quite well, and enjoys the sea-air. Robert bids me give his kindest love, and say it was a great shame of you not to send him sooner your article on Tennyson; he would have liked dearest Ba to have seen it,—she would have enjoyed it. I must tell you, Miss Blagden (his kind friend) told me that since Ba’s death, Robert had never looked into any book, or even newspaper. I, at our house, showed him your article, hoping to interest him; he bade me bring it; and since we have been here, he has read it twice with great delight,—says it is one of the best things you ever wrote, and almost the only thing he ever paid the compliment of reading twice over.
I don’t know how long we shall stay here,—not long, because the sea-air is already sharp for our Italians.
We think of coming home by Avranches, and staying to see St Michel. I am so glad to see poor Robert enjoy the scenery– God’s beautiful Nature seems doing its healing work. I trust you will see him in the winter, looking like himself. His friends in England are all most kind– Letter after letter comes, offering houses, services, all that could be desired. He tells me he has bought his own grave in Florence close to hers, and wishes me to bury him there.
Dearest friend, do I weary you by all this talk?—I think not; for I know you could not weary me by any thing you might relate of your own affairs,—and Robt belongs to you also, by reason of his love for you. Pen is strong and rosy. Tell me how your mother is– You must answer this directly, or I will quarrel with you ferociously. Are the Miss Darleys gone? I regret that this painful loss prevented me from seeing as much of them as I should otherwise have done,—for I thought them very charming women. But I was crushed for the moment by my grief, and could not recover myself. Forgive me. I am now more subdued, and submissive to His will, who does all things well.
Once more, write to me. And ever believe me, most affectionately
Your friend,
Sarianna Browning.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library, Joseph Milsand Archive.
1. Year provided by reference to St. Enogat, where RB stayed in the late summer of 1861.
___________________
