SD2658. Sarianna Browning to Joseph Milsand
Published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 30, 363–364 (in part).
Ste Marie près Pornic.
Loire Inférieure.
Sept. 25th [1863] [1]
My dear Mr Milsand,
Many thanks for your long and pleasant letter. The view of your house reached me quite safely, and I was very pleased to have it,—it is remarkably beautiful. I hope you received the Athenæum, despatched a day or two after the Spectator: unfortunately this week’s Ath: (19th Sept) has not yet arrived, and I begin to fear it is lost.
How very unlucky that Mr Stillman has again missed us! I really want to see him, and particularly begged him to let me know when he would call, that I might stay at home,—instead of which, he does not even leave the name of his hôtel. I forget whether I had received a letter from Miss Church when I last wrote to you, but I think it arrived just after. She tells me that her mother is now staying with her,—she sailed from New York to Marseilles in a sailing-vessel, and landed there after forty six days’ voyage– Miss Church went to meet her at Marseilles—they returned over Mont Cenis, and through Florence, to Rome, and will remain together during the remainder of Miss Church’s sojourn in Europe. She tells us that Mrs Mackenzie is much better, and able to resume work: she sends her kindest regards to you– Of Mr Stillman she does not say one word. I confess I am considerably mystified by your allusion to reports about her. I never met any one who appeared to me less liable to get herself talked of—but we will discuss the matter when next we settle down for a gossip. I had also a letter from Mrs Corkran: she gives a good account of William, and says he has never had any symptom of a fit since he returned home– I regret that she is going to recall Henrietta, especially as I have no faith in the porcelain painting for which she destines her. I had a note, took from Miss Blackwell, who is returned to Paris, and hunting for an apartment with so little success that she is half frantic, and dreams of rope and poison.
Our own doings are of such an insignificant character, that they would make but little show in a descriptive novel. We had ten days of uninterrupted sunshine, and delighted in the glorious weather,—but on Sunday it suddenly changed, and we have ever since been under the dominion of heavy gales of wind, violent showers of rain, and a chilly atmosphere. I regret not having brought warmer clothing with me. My waterproof cloak is my greatest comfort, as I am sometimes wet through half a dozen times a day. Between the showers, the sun often shines brightly, and we are courageous walkers. The great event to Robert since our stay here, has been his adventure with a lizard: he always had a strong love for the race, who are said on their side, to like men, provided you never attempt to catch or touch them. One morning as he was walking on the coast, he saw a very large green lizard, of the Italian kind, basking in the sun, and Robert lay down on the grass beside it, and put forth all his powers of attraction. At first, he whistled to it in a low tone, and the lizard began to listen, turning its head when he changed the notes; then he stretched out his hand and coaxed it in a gentle voice, and at last the lizard crawled up to the open palm and nestled its head in his sleeve,—it allowed Robert to put it to his face, his cheeks and his lips, lying so still in his hand while he caressed it, that he would have thought it dead but for the beating of its heart. Very reluctantly at length Robert was obliged to put it down and come away, returning home as much delighted as if he had captivated the Queen of the Fairies. Unfortunately the weather changed the next day, and I suppose the lizard stays indoors in rough weather, for Robert has never seen it again.
I went to the vintage on Monday, the first I had ever seen. Pen and Willy were up at six in the morning with their breakfast of bread in their pockets, and really worked as well as anybody in the field,—they fairly earned the grapes they consumed, which is saying a great deal. The pelting showers which fell at intervals rather added to Pen’s delight, as it gave him an opportunity of wearing his water proof costume to the great admiration of the villagers. He is very popular among the peasants here, with whom he is always ready to fraternize. He can swim, if the sea is calm, for twenty one or two minutes, but the waves lately have been too violent to let him go far. The sea is so rough that I have not been able myself to go in sometimes. Still, Pen is not so good a swimmer as Willy in bad weather: he has a constitutional shrinking from cold which makes the first plunge an effort, and shivers when he comes out of the water. Robert himself is the most ardent bather of us all; he has never once missed. Mme Louis is suffering from lumbago,—scarcely able to turn in bed: however, a large mustard poultice has done her great good, and I hope she will soon be well—she has a very nice woman who comes to help, and we manage comfortably enough, if poor Mme Louis had but a little more courage, but she gets so easily disheartened, and fancies she is going to die.
We continue to take in the Opinion Nationale. There is a feuilleton in it, a novel by Paul Féval, with which we are delighted. Robert, especially, thinks it charming.
Don’t despise my Breton costume– The cap I bought for its supreme ugliness; the fichu, to go with the cap,—a corsage because it was pretty, and a jacket because it was comfortable. The two latter articles are intended for useful winter wear. We leave this place on the 3rd Oct: reaching Paris the next evg. I delayed writing till I could fix the date. Address to me in Paris, and tell me where to direct to you. Remember me very sincerely to your mother. We are all delighted to hear of her good health.
Robert’s best love, and Pen’s, and my father’s, go with mine. I must not forget Mrs Bracken and Willy.
The missing Ath: has just reached us, and you shall have it when we have read it. Rt says the article in the Spectator signed a Gaul is by Louis Blanc. Good bye and God bless you.
Ever yours, S.B.
1. Year provided by postmark.
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