597. Mary Russell Mitford to EBB
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 3, 299–301.
Three Mile Cross,
Dec. 2, 1837.
My dear Love,
My book has been hindered by my ill health, by my many visitors, and lately by workmen. You can hardly imagine the demands upon my time: my father, eight or ten letters to read and answer in a day, almost as many notes, often more sets of visitors, the care of my small household, the necessity of seeing every thing done, and generally of doing that which my dear father (who, if he take a key in hand, leaves it in the door or in the drawer) is sure to leave undone.
All this, and care, and fear, and anxiety beyond measure; responsibility without power; make it wonderful that I should in a twelvemonth (being, besides, slow and barren without conception) have written “Otto,” “Country Stories,” the “Tableaux,” and a story (longer than all the “Tableaux”) lost in the road to Edinburgh, or at Edinburgh—at all events lost; a loss, first and last, of above seventy pounds. All this makes it more wonderful that I should have done so much, than that I should have not done more. Even if I have not the nausea, the other fearful suffering is sure to come on every morning, sometimes at four or five o’clock, and last till noon. Think how that incapacitates! and think what it is to feel, that more ought to be done, and yet that I can not do it! To feel incapacity as a sin! Latterly, the din and the bustle of workmen have wholly hindered all composition. I have had to move, or to see moved, all our goods (as the country people say) from one room to another, and back again, and again away; and this is likely to last for some weeks. We shall gain great comfort, and at comparatively small expense, though still far more than we can afford. But that expense was inevitable, for the house was falling in, and the cost will be less than that of moving would have been; but still far, far more than we can afford or ought to spend; and this frets and worries me past expression. I believe there is not a labourer’s wife in the parish who thinks so much of spending a shilling as I do.
By the accidental delay of a letter sent to be franked by the brother of my correspondent, the offer of a large roomy house in Wales, completely furnished, with two gardens and a large rich meadow, at a rent merely nominal, did not arrive till all was settled about this place. To this offer was added that of cows, ponies, a rick of old hay, key of cellar and storeroom, and every thoughtful attention that you can devise, and the assurance (I believe a most sincere one) that the acceptance of this proposal would make my kind friend a happy one; that it would turn a dissatisfied and melancholy life into one of cheerfulness and comfort. It would have been difficult to have resisted this offer, coming from a person in affluence and without children, to whom I felt that our society would have been an equivalent, and for whom I have myself the affection which renders obligations light; but my father—it would have been a great risk for him. Seventy-seven is too old for transplanting. I could not have moved him from his old friends and amusements without feeling that it was risking his happiness, and if any thing had happened to him, and I had even fancied that the change of place had had to do with it, I should have been miserable. As to myself, I should most certainly have gone; the beautiful country, the fine climate, the getting rid of a horde of idle acquaintances, and the cheapness, above all, would certainly have carried me away. As it is, I have only the gratification (a very true one) produced by the having been the object of so much kindness. She, too, is one of my gains by literature; her husband and herself came to Reading this spring to make my acquaintance, returned again for some weeks, after a short visit to London, and now it is certainly a friendship for life.
By-the-way, we have just had Mr. Lucas here, who painted that fine portrait of my father. He has been painting the Queen Dowager and her sister, [1] and has given so much satisfaction that they have ordered two copies of each picture. The portrait of Queen Adelaide is, he says, very interesting, in her weeds. He speaks highly of her, and says that her portraits have never done her justice—that her forehead is fine—and that there is in her eyes an intensity of expression which has never been caught by any one. Her handwriting (which he showed me) is admirable—bold, and firm, and free.
Ever yours,
M. R. M.
Address: Miss Barrett / Gloucester Place.
Text: L’Estrange (2), III, 82–84.
1. Half-length portraits of William IV’s widow, Queen Adelaide, and Ida, Duchess of Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach, painted in 1837 by John Lucas (1807–74).
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