SD2927. Sarianna Browning to Joseph Milsand
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 32, 374 (in part).
Le Croisic,
Loire inférieure.
Aug. 19th [1867] [1]
My dear Friend,
Your letter reached me Yesterday, and this morning I wrote you rather a long epistle in reply– Unluckily, I was called out of the room (I always read & write in my own bedroom) and when I returned, a breeze of wind had blown the window-curtain across the table, and upset the inkstand—the whole of the ink went over my writing-book, and spoilt my letter—so I was not able to answer you by return of post, as I wished. You have not lost much, as the letter was very stupid, and since then the post is come in, bringing the whole packet of missing Athenæums & Illd News the non-arrival of which had been breaking all our hearts– So as soon as we have got through them, there will be plenty for you to read. I hope you explained to Claire that she was not forgotten. Dear Friend, your letter gave me pleasure, for I am wickedly incredulous sometimes as to your ever missing me or wanting me– I know the blank you have left in my daily life, but you always seem to me so away from me, and above me, and so far richer in your own sources of happiness internal and external, that it seems like an insane vanity to suppose I can be missed. Yet this is foolish, for I know my own affection and know also that true affection has always its worth. But it pains me to hear you are unwell—is it neuralgia, or the teeth themselves? I now suffer less in that way than formerly, and I cannot bear the thought that you should feel those well-known pains—they used to make me stupid enough I remember. Our weather here has been, on the whole, beautiful. A week of intense heat was broken by a thunderstorm on the evening of the 14th—the 15th was bright in the middle of the day, though we had showers morning & evening—since then, the weather has been perfect—glowing sunshine with fresh wind. In London the heat has been excessive 122° in the sun—which is an African temperature,—but there also thunder storms have brought relief. How I wish you were with us in this old place which bewitches Robt so strangely! a dull, monotonous country—not a tree—only on one side the great ocean, and on the other, large salt-marshes dotted all over with salt-heaps, like small white hay-stacks. Every thing tastes, breathes and smells of salt. The air is singularly pure and tonic. Miss Smith who knows most of the French bathing-places, and is very sensitive to atmospheric influences, says she never breathed elsewhere such beautiful air. The sea is warm. Robt swims daily—this morning he was swimming for upwards of half an hour without touching ground, but he does not swim out too far, as our coast is dangerous.
Pen goes to the éstablissement, and is a capital swimmer—he often bathes twice a day. I am glad to say he has not the slaughter of many birds on his conscience—he seems more taken up by swimming than shooting, now that the first pride of the gun is over. The other day I took it into my head to walk, alone, to Pouliguen—a small bathing town on the coast, with a very fine plage and a pretty wood behind it—but the sea is more sheltered and broken by rocks. I don’t know the distance in miles, but it took me four hours walking at a good quick pace, to go there and return. I only rested for five minutes, in the town—you see how vain I am of my performance. I do not walk much however, for the roads are sandy, and without shade, so that the sun is too powerful.
Arabel sends us word that Owly is in full plumage. Robert works at his poem, but complains that the time he gives to Pen’s reading breaks into his own labour, and still more into his energy; yet the sea is having its usual beneficial effect on his health. Did I tell you that just before we left town he had gone through several more photographings from different people? One case was odd—he was looking in at a shop-window in Oxford Street where there is always a great show of heads, when out came the master of the shop and pounced on him– “Oh, Sir, if you would but come in and be taken, it would be such a favour!” Robert, surprised at being recognised, went in to oblige him, and was taken in every possible position. Still, however, my favourite is the one by Elliot & Fry.
I shall make you read some of Anthony Trollope’s novels. The Small House at Allington is capital at the beginning, but wearisome at the end. He sketches like a daguérrotype—yet it is the perfection of the commonplace, for there is nothing really elevated in any of his characters—so far as I know them—for I have not read many of his works. Mrs Bracken also brought with her one of Mrs Gaskell’s novels. I like her as a novelist, though she is of lower rank,—she has some notion of plot and story, which so few English writers have.
How much we shall have to talk of when we meet! I look forward to having you with us with more delight than you can imagine. I am suddenly at the end and will say good bye. Our best love.
S.B.
Are the Darleys still in Paris, & where is Mrs Magee?
Address: Monsieur Milsand, / St Aubin-sur. Mer, / par Luc. / Calvados.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library, Joseph Milsand Archive.
1. Year provided by postmark.
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