SD2787. Sarianna Browning to Joseph Milsand
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 32, 338–339 (in part).
chez M. Laraison.
Maire de Ste. Marie.
près Pornic.
Loire Inférieure.
Sept. 21st [1865] [1]
My dear Mr Milsand,
I was glad to get your letter yesterday afternoon, though I had easily understood your silence, knowing how impossible it is to write when one is whirling from one spot to another—railways are antagonistic to the old proprieties of “I take up my pen to inform you” &c (if this Pornickian ink does not turn blacker before it reaches you—you will never be able to read my letter—I can’t.) There is no danger of our Atlantic cable ever breaking on my side. Your friendship has too long been one of the comforts of my life for me to let it go. I cling to it spite of all storms. There is not much to be said of ourselves—we lack variety. Robert is quite well, and feels in such robust physical and mental health that he says it is impossible for him to be idle a moment; he has finished the portion of his poem that he brought down with him. He delights more and more in this place, and its expanse of ocean: he swims very well, but a spasmodic affection of the throat to which he is subject makes him afraid of venturing out too far. Pen swims beautifully—quietly and steadily—he looks to me in the water like a Newfoundland dog. He can swim with an open umbrella in his hand for more than half an hour, and bring it back without a spot of water, or swim with his arms folded. He is a dear good boy, though occasionally a plague like the rest of his sex: he is going on very well with his classics. Willy is a nice lad, but more idle and not quite so considerate as Pen. The weather here is magnificent—for three weeks we have had an unclouded blazing sun—the heat is too great to be quite pleasant, (though Robert enjoys it) for it is impossible to take a long walk in the day-time. Every evening, at about seven o’clock, Robt[,] Mrs Bracken & I set off for a long walk along the cliffs to a favourite bay, where we sit on the rock for half an hour, and then return home, admiring the brilliant stars and their reflexion in the sea. Jupiter casts a broad light on the water like a young moon. During this excessive heat the boys generally bathe twice a day and are all the better for it,—we are obliged to sleep with our windows open, and owing to that, or some exposure to drafts, my father has had a swollen face—it is subsiding this morning, and he is otherwise very well; he grieves over the destruction of the old Pornic church which existed in the times of the Carlovingiens, and laments over the improvements in our old Ste Marie church, which consist in smoothing down the ruined sculptured ornaments.
I suppose you have concluded your bargain for the house at St Aubin; it must be very cheap—unless indeed it requires repairs, and then you will be on the high road to ruin: but I have too much faith in your wisdom. You have the advantage of knowing whether the place suits you; here provisions are not particularly cheap—that is to say, we don’t like the meat, and live principally on poultry and game: small fowls are cheap—(Mme Louis buys four or five at a time, and fattens them for a few days before killing them, on the express condition that they are to be kept out of my sight, or Robt’s, as we don’t like eating our acquaintance–) game is dear—they ask fifteen sous apiece for quails, and thirty sous for partridges—they began by charging two frc for a partridge, but we resisted. Now as we consume a great deal it comes rather expensive. Fish is scarce, and dear. Of course we visitors get plucked—they ask 2 francs a pound for shrimps, so I never allow them to be bought: the boys often fish very fine ones. The worst thing is the washing horribly bad, and horribly dear. I believe you told me that at St Aubin you paid nothing for the bathing cabins; if so, you are lucky. Here our expenses at the establishment which we shall pay at the end of our two months’ stay, will probably, at a rough guess, amount to a hundred and fifty francs: but we will compare notes in Oct. The vintages here are nearly over; the quality is not considered fine, but so abundant that wine will be sold for less than the casks cost. I had some idea of buying a cask of wine, and drinking it from the cask, as we have a good cellar, only I would sooner have it from a better wine-country. What do you say to it? I am not a clever marchande. I am very sorry to hear of your brother’s indisposition; how is he? It is a pity he does not try sea-air.
Your account of your visit to Fontainebleau is very saddening—the best wish for the poor dying woman is that God may soon take her to Himself—poor thing. She has sinned deeply, but God has loved her too well to let her be happy and careless in her sin—an old divine says truly “whoever may prosper in their sins, be sure God’s people never shall.” Unhappily, there is the poor child left to suffer through its parents’ fault. If Mr F’s new wife were worth anything she would take her home to her father’s house, though probably she will be more happy where she is.
I am glad you get the Aths & Pall Malls. I will send a large batch of them with this. Did you see the whole of Gurney’s article? I will bring it with me to Paris, and the Quarterly—and many other materials for our looked-for chats. By the bye—I must not forget at Robert’s particular request, to rectify a strange blunder that he once made—he told you that he had met Elmore at the R.A. Dinner, who was wondrously flattering—it was a mistake for Poole the Academician. I don’t know how the two got confounded in his mind, but I believe under the wrong impression, he paid Poole some compliments on his paintings which he intended for Elmore. He wished me to explain this error of his, liking to be accurate even in unimportant matters.
Poor dear Mrs Corkran! She had always a great charm for me physically and intellectually. I used to watch the lines in her beautiful face, and listen to her impulsive outpourings– You ask me for advice about Henriette– I always shrink from the responsibility of advising—but since you ask me, I will speak the truth openly, as I think it ought always to be spoken—and confidentially from one old friend to another. I do not advise you to recommend her to your cousins for several reasons: in the first place, Mrs C. was most anxious to keep from her children the knowledge of the circumstances relating to your marriage, and strictly charged me not to allude to them in my letters lest they might fall in the hands of the young people; and though I thought the prohibition injudicious as they must eventually discover the facts, still a mother’s feelings on those points have a right to be respected. Now in your cousin’s family it will be the first thing Henriette will find out. Another reason is this: however agreeable and good your cousins may be, H. is pretty sure to be self-willed and capricious and find something that does not suit her—certainly her temper is not her best point,—and with her caustic and satirical tongue will describe her imaginary grievances so cleverly that Mrs C. with Irish wrongheadedness is quite capable of quarrelling with you if your cousins and Henriette do not get on together, just as she quarrelled with me because dearest Ba did not like her apartment. At the same time, the sum offered is too small to make it any particular advantage to your cousins which might counterbalance possible unpleasantnesses. Mrs C & Alice have plenty of friends in Paris who could find something to suit without either you or I taking the responsibility upon ourselves. For myself, I shall be very glad to see H. and will shew her every kindness in my power; but to continue my confidential frankness, I am very sorry she is coming: it seems to me very like a determination to come and live in Paris. I know how she hates the dullness of her London life with its conventional restraints, and the limited means of her parents—and I suspect that, with her resolute temper, she has taken good care that the orders shall be from pictures in Paris. I am sorry to see her begin this artist’s life alone. I believe the girl to be utterly incapable of doing anything seriously wrong; she has too much of her mother’s blood in her for that,—but she has a restless craving for excitement, for admiration and compliments, for flirting, which to my mind is incompatible with strict womanly delicacy or dignity. She is not the sort of girl to be left without control. There is my candid opinion, in all its length and breadth.
I must leave off, or I shall not be in time for the post. Claire is quite a little water-nymph. I always feel frightened to death the moment I am off my feet. Papa[’s] first question is always after your little girl. We shall probably leave on the 1st Oct. but I am not quite sure. Much depends on the weather.
Pen informed me the other day with more force than elegance that it was beastly his seeing you so seldom.
Robert sends his best love.
Ever yours affectionately,
S. Browning.
Address: Monsieur / Milsand. / Dijon / Côte d’Or. Redirected: villers les pots / Auxonne.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library, Joseph Milsand Archive.
1. Year provided by postmark.
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