1006. Mary Russell Mitford to EBB
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 6, 73–74.
[Three Mile Cross]
[?12] [September 1842] [1]
<***> At last it occurred to me that the best for him would be to move the large articles of furniture with which our entrance-hall is filled, and restore the little parlour to its office of a sitting-room for him, put up my dear father’s bed in the hall, condemning both the front door and the one from the staircase, leaving none but that from the parlour and that from the kitchen, and going in and out myself from our back door. This has been accomplished, thank God, without disturbing him. A bed is put up in the kitchen for his nurse. I shall sit up when needful in the parlour, and the large fires of the parlour and kitchen, and the double doors and double carpets with which we have lined the hall, make that a most warm and comfortable bed-room. Heaven be praised! Now he can have his two favourite arm-chairs in the little parlour, and be moved from one to the other as he gets cramped, and Flush and I can sit at his feet. Poor Flush! how he has been watching the operations, and how thoroughly he approves them! I wish you could see him. Mr. May will be delighted to find that, besides a comfortable bed-room, we have got a nice little parlour for him—change is so essential. Now he can get up as early as he likes, and stay up as long; and instead of the stove which Mr. May suggested for the hall, he will have the nice open grate which he likes so well, and his favourite round table, and his own two chairs.
I cannot tell you the relief that this is to us all. I have been so worried, besides the anxiety and the grief and the fatigue, that this one relief is an unspeakable blessing. It seemed so hard that the discomfort of moving up and down our cottage stairs should be added to such feebleness. Now he will at least have no outward want of room or appliances; and as to visitors being forced to come in at the back door, and pass through the kitchen, why, friends will not mind it, and acquaintances I should not dream of letting in.
I do not apologize for sending you this detail, my beloved friend; you will sympathize with me, I know, and this lodging my father has been a most serious matter to me. Ever since his dear master has been so ill, poor little Flush has either slept at his door—across the door—or in my room, which he never used to do. It seems as if he could not bear to leave us, and there is a look of pity in his sweet countenance, a fellow-feeling which I cannot describe. The gentleness with which he kisses his master’s hand now is quite charming.
Poor K. is very good to me—indeed, I must say that everybody feels strongly and rightly towards my dear father. They are kind to me in a great measure for his sake. Poor as he has lately been, he has done so much good—good that mere money could not do—by uncompromising, unflinching justice. Whoever was oppressed had a friend—whoever sought aid in any proper object had a zealous, hearty advocate. Be sure, my beloved friend, that when I say a country gentleman’s life is one of wide-spreading usefulness, I speak of what I know. There is not a poor person within ten miles who does not bless my dear father—ay, and many not poor, who sought advice, and a helping hand, and a voice never silent, when it could promote the welfare, or the prosperity, or the harmless pleasure of others. Forgive me when I say this; but why should I not? All the authorship in the world would never win the love and respect that awaits upon a character so firm in the right and so full of active goodwill towards his kind. God bless him! Even in his own extreme feebleness he neither forgets those whom he could help (his last relapse was brought on by an attempt to go to the Bench last Saturday to serve a neighbour, and although forced to return without alighting, he accomplished his object by sending for his brother magistrates to the door), nor his gratitude towards those who are so good to me. Even tonight he spoke to me of “dear Miss Barrett.” Once again, beloved friend, I do not ask you to forgive this—I should not love you as I do if I could doubt your sympathy.
Text: L’Estrange (1), II, 72–75.
1. This letter falls between 1001, when Dr. Mitford was well enough to attend the stone-laying ceremony, and 1008, which is a reply to this letter.
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