Letter from Robert Browning to William Wetmore Story, [March 29, 1854]
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The Brownings CorrespondenceCreator
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Source: Transcript in editors’ file.
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My dear Story–
We are most happy to hear this good news of dear little Edie—all seems going on admirably and, indeed, wonderfully. You are quite right to believe in, & be grateful to, this evident skill of your Adviser—of whose zeal and kindness I was witness—and I hope we shall all have to praise him still more at the end. As for poor Pantaleoni, I have simply had one thought & care in my head whenever I either spoke or wrote about him to you,—a wish that you should avoid vexing yourself fruitlessly by recurrence to what is past and irretrievable. It is too natural, of course, that such a result of four months’ attendance should be unsatisfactory—but there is no helping it, wherever the mistake may have lain. All you have to do—(and that it is still possible is a joyful surprise when one considers how matters were but a few days ago)—is to get Edie well again. Under the circumstances, there was so shocking a charge involved in any accusation of neglect & indifference, that one is bound for your sake no less than Pantaleoni’s, to say any little that one can on the other side. I “believe” in nobody who is not plainly more instructed than I—and in that case how can I disbelieve? But every day I hear sufficient mention of his skill to induce me to conclude him not so ignorant as you suppose: take the last instance, for example, that has come under my notice. My friend Capt Aidé’s mother, an old lady in delicate health, was attacked last wednesday by fever—they were to go on the following Monday to Naples. They called in Pantaleoni. I saw Aidé two days after. He said “The remedies prescribed seem to me violent for so weak a subject as my mother: but the skill of Pantaleoni should be respected.” So it was, I suppose—for he (Capt A) called on my wife next Evening but one and said “Violent as we fancied the remedies, what can one say when the patient is recovered enough to drive out to-day and proceed on the journey on Tuesday.” I hear constantly of patients as contented. As for his manner, it is brusque and liable to misconception enough: he is overworked in fact and I heard him say last Sunday that on one day, or rather night, of the past week—he had been let blood at half past eleven,—to stay inflammatory symptoms of danger—and yet was forced to go out at half past nine the next morning. About his real feeling for Edie now at least there can be no mistake—he commends the treatment of Dr Sciamani [sic], so far as I have been able to describe it to him,—and says that he can, of course, pronounce on no case, nor new symptoms, no longer under his own eyes. He puts aside the notion of the ill effects of the bleeding, and of the possibility of knowing anything about it after four months—and says that the affection of the liver resulted from the continuance of the fever—which he was desirous of stopping by the one thing that could do it,—quinine. If Dr S. has changed the treatment on the occurrence of new symptoms, I suppose Pantaleoni might have done so too. Since when I was with you, quinine was about to be administered: and all the question is between that and nothing. Of the last letters it seems unnecessary to speak to Pantaleoni—and I shall only hope to tell him henceforth of Edie’s renewed health and strength,—which little as he expected, will delight nobody more, I honestly think. And so now let us have done with the poor Doctor and his misdeeds or mishaps.
How you mock me (to begin quarreling with you on my own account) when you talk of the trouble of a few hours jaunting “there & back again”, on a summons which would have assuredly taken me a good deal farther. I came frightened, and left relieved—and had little thought for anything else. Ba is always nervous at the very words of danger, setting off, good bye, and the like: but she was all the better sympathiser with the joy of the return. She is quite well now—our child to match. Mrs Page, too, is none the worse. I will find out how Mr Rotch’s child is presently—not having heard since he told me of the illness. I suppose your next will be from Albano. I wish it had been Frascati, I think—so beautiful did it seem last Saturday when I went there with Lockhart—whose temper got a pain in it before the day was over– I’ll tell you at Albano, where I shall go on a much lighter summons than the last. There are plenty of small news we will talk & laugh over, Baths of Lucca fashion, when we meet, if all proceeds as I trust. Chorley has brought out another play, with but dubious success I fear. Grace Greenwood has printed us flamingly in her book, it seems. But there’s only room for truest congratulations and love, to Mrs Story and yourself—from yours ever most affectionately RB.
P.S. I thought Ba would have added a line here—but on going into the other room, I find she has written on her own account– Keep us still aware of whatever happens. I got the letter written on Saturday late on Monday Evg after the Sunday one!
