3876. EBB & RB to Joseph Milsand
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 23, 78-80.
| [In RB’s hand] | London, 39. Devonshire Place, |
Oct. 7. ’56.
My dear Milsand,
I know that Sarianna has told you how we have been engaged this long while, and why I did not write. At our friend’s in the Isle of Wight it was difficult—and afterward, impossible—that is, of course, in the true spirit of pleasure with which I turn to you in my thoughts. Mr Kenyon is much better, however, you will like to know, and this very morning we have a letter from him of the most satisfactory kind. Well, I have your criticism, [1] —and here also will speak simply in assurance of your understanding the few words and the silences as well: I am happier, and, in a good sense, prouder to have drawn out such a declaration from you than of any effect of a kind at all comparable to it, ever produced by anything of mine—I weigh my words and say this—considering that this notice is the continuation of the former one in the “Revue”: [2] you know what deductions I cannot but make for your partialities, and friendship, and willingness to take the hints of things for accomplished things—but still, even these partialities and over-lookings of yours arise somehow,—never mind how indirectly,—from what I have tried to do,—and looking merely at this present result, and the relation in which you stand to me, I cheerfully confess myself rewarded for having directed my life this way,—were yours the only reward. That is something for a man to say as honestly as I can. What will please you more,—your confirmation must have great influence on what I yet hope to do—I shall always have it in my thoughts. And yet,—should you less approve of any future work, I shall love you all the same.
Putting myself aside,—how well you have written,—I should have been honoured by finding my name referred to, and no more, in such a piece of writing. And this is you who have talked of writing no more! Do go on,—do not let the thread break absolutely again, however moderately you walk in holding by it. I shall hear to-morrow Ruskin’s opinion of it—he called yesterday and took it away to read diligently—and Mrs Jameson writes this morning “that she is most delighted with the profound estimate of modern English poetry in it”—(I lent her a second copy.) My wife will say a word for herself.
It will be sad to find ourselves soon at Paris, though but for a day or two, and to miss you. Our plans are uncertain: we hesitate between wintering at Florence, Rome, or—Algeirs [sic]! There would be many advantages in choosing this last—so cheap, so warm,—near Paris, and new besides! But I suppose the chances incline to Florence. We shall remain here perhaps another fortnight: the poem is fast getting to completion, and there is nothing else to detain us. You know my Father & Sarianna are returned to Paris: if we could but pass another winter there! But my wife’s cough is more troublesome than it should be at this early time of the year—though otherwise her health is satisfactory. I estimate highly the four weeks we passed by the sea—our child’s improvement is remarkable: After the I. of Wight we proceeded to Taunton in Somersetshire—a very English, green and lovely place. We went to see a married sister of my wife’s. One visit that we paid was a striking one. We went to a vast, ancient house on a famous estate: the last possessor was extravagant, and killed himself: it was necessary for his daughter [3] to pay £20,000—or, at her death, the estate would go into alien hands—yet what matter to her, unmarried, and the last of her race? It did matter, however: by the most rigid economy she passed her youth in paying off this debt—and now the estate is hers to leave at her death to any cousin thrice-removed that she may remember. A life spent so, for just that! Think of the old theory that man always acts for his material interest! She has the exact appearance of a kitchen-maid,—and not a particularly engaging nor clean one. I leave myself no room to say more—and what have I said? May we meet again soon. God bless <yo>u, my dear friend.
Your affectionate
R.B.
[Continued by EBB]
Dear M. Milsand, I have a crevice to write in, while friends talk. But I must thank you, thank you from my heart. You have done noble justice—& the article is magnificent in itself. Ever affectionately yrs EBB.
Address, in RB’s hand: M. Milsand, / Rue des Forges 38. / Dijon. Redirected: Maurey [sic, for Morey] / Gevrey / France Cote D’or.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library, Joseph Milsand Archive.
2. Milsand’s notice of Poems (1849) and Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day in Revue des Deux Mondes, 15 August 1851 (pp. 661–689). For the full text of this review, see vol. 17, pp. 381–394.
3. Elizabeth Maria Tyndale Warre (1790–1872), of Hestercombe, nr. Taunton, only child of John Tyndale Warre (1756–1819) and his wife, Elizabeth (née Farell), was a friend of Henrietta and Surtees Cook. Surtees writes in his journal, at the time of Miss Warre’s death, that she “was left in 1820 I think—alone—her father having died a sad death—deeply in debt—in an extravagant age. Miss Warre resolved to pay off all. The old place was sold to the Barings, now Lord Ashburton, she retaining a life interest, with privilege of redeeming if she married—so they say. For upwards of fifty years she has lived in her grand old mansion alone. I hear a quantity of money has been found hid about. It is said £14,000! and chests of plate and of family jewels” (Surtees, 27 March 1872). Probate records show that her effects were administered by a first cousin “Elinor Frances Eagles of Newcastle House[,] Bridgend[,] in the county of Glamorgan” (London Probate Registry).
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