SD2522. Sarianna Browning to Joseph Milsand
Published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 29, 314–315.
151, rue de Grenelle St Germain.
Sept. 26– [1861] [1]
My dear Mr Milsand,
Now again I am alone, and can write the promised long letter without Robert’s familiar voice calling me away, or Pen rushing to me with some terrible hole in his trousers which required instant mending. It seemed so natural to be living my old daily life with Robert that I miss him strangely now he is gone, but it is right for him to settle in London, so I do not wish to detain him. We were all of us benefited by our stay in Brittany; our bodies were burnt and braced by the sun and sea, and our minds calmed by the solitude of the place. The weather was magnificent except the last week when it began to be uncertain: on our two travelling days, Saturday and Sunday, it rained heavily, and we felt rather pleased that we had not prolonged our holiday. Unfortunately, Robert’s heart sunk the moment we began packing up. The associations of so many years were too much for him, and he confessed to me his life was almost insupportable. Then on Monday he had the hard trial of opening the two boxes of her personal effects sent after him from Florence. He asked me to stay in the room with him, and you may imagine his agony as he took out article after article belonging to her, each with a memory for him; during the rest of the day he seemed scarcely conscious, till at night he roused himself to write a few lines to you about your article. By the bye, one of the things put aside in the box was a lambswool scarf worked for dear Ba by Mr Ruskin’s mother.
Yesterday Robert was better, and left us in the evening: he travels by Boulogne and the steamer that goes up the Thames, for the convenience of the pony. And now, as I said before, we are alone. Robert will arrive at Miss Barrett’s to-morrow, and remain there till he finds an apartment to suit him; he will take one somewhere in her neighbourhood, if possible, that Pen may be near his aunt. I wish I could have shown you some of the American newspapers with their tributes to her memory—foolish enough if you will, but with a fervor that was touching: they were edged with deep black. The telegram had announced that she died “just after daybreak”, and they all seized on the fact as emblematical of her having lived to see the day break on Italy. Stanzas were written on the subject, in public print and private verse. Poor Robt used to put them into my hand without a word of comment. It is in that respect I fear he will miss me—he had plenty of friends, with all sorts of offers of sympathy and service, but there is no one but myself to whom he can open his inmost heart. He was so pleased at the idea of seeing you in London next year.
I am sorry to hear that Alfred Tennyson’s wife is a confirmed invalid with a spinal complaint, and Tennyson draws her about in a chair. Did I tell you that when Ba died, Robt was in correspondence with Prince Barbarini for rooms in his palace at Rome, which Rt wanted to hire for three years. Ba was expecting and wishing for his reply, the day of her death.
I have got some photographs for you[:] Robt[,] one which he treasures as the apple of his eye, taken at Rome a fortnight before the end, and one of Pen on horseback taken at the same time; and one of the room at Casa Guidi, (taken from the picture) just as she last occupied it, with the utmost minuteness, even to a letter which she had let fall in passing from the salon to her bedroom.
Did you get the Athenæums which I sent from time to time from St Enogat? Those I left with Mme Louis I find she has never delivered; and there are three I will send to-morrow.
Miss Heaton sent me a small photograph of Ba: she alluded in terms of deep delight & humility to a charming note received from you. I put it to you, as a conscientious man, whether it is right to upset ladies’ heads and hearts in that way. I called on Mrs Corkran, and took Pen with me. She had been shocked, and Henriette also, by the sudden death of a cousin of hers with whom Henriette was staying; he had been joking with her in the evening, and at Six in the morning was dead in his bed. Major Carmichael Smyth (Thackeray’s father-in-law) died suddenly in Scotland. Mr Corkran is in England; his novel is out. Miss Blackwell sent me a note saying she was off to Florence, and perhaps Rome, for six weeks, she has orders for letters which will pay her travelling expenses.
Sept. 27. I wrote thus far yesterday, when I was obliged to leave off, and was consequently too late for the post. This morning brought me your letters. I will forward Rob’s as soon as I hear from him. I have just returned from the Banker’s. What does the Bank of France mean by not paying gold? I guessed that Miss Heaton would send you the small photograph. I gave mine to Mrs Corkran. Miss Heaton has written half a dozen letters to Robert and myself about the photographs which we have not yet answered,—Rt felt a little worried by her. She is very anxious that Chapman & Hall should publish her photograph of Ba– Chapman very properly replied that though extremely desirous of publishing the likeness, his first consideration must be to consult Robts feelings and wishes. Robert wrote to Chapman not to take any step in the matter at present. Miss Heaton has the kindest intentions, though Robert gets a little impatient with her, and I will write to her in a day or two. As soon as Robt is settled he will bring out another edition of Ba’s poems.
Now I think I have said enough about him. I am truly happy to hear that you found your mother so well. What a long time since I have seen you! and how long before I shall see you again! I should not feel lonely if you were here to take Robert’s place. Miss Blagden will be in Paris in a few days, for a short time; she will winter in London—she gave up her beautiful Villa at Bellosguardo when Ba died, not being able to endure the place without her. Ba had a deep affection for her.
My father is quite well, and delighted to see his beloved bookstalls,—as he complained, one might walk twenty miles at St Enogat without seeing a book. True; yet I should like to breathe some St Enogat air just now,—Paris seems foggy and stifling. Good-bye dear Friend. Be quite well and happy.
Ever yours, affectionately,
S.B.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library, Joseph Milsand Archive.
1. Year provided by reference to EBB’s death.
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