SD2376. Sarianna Browning to Joseph Milsand
Published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 27, 350 (in part).
[Paris]
1st May– [1860]
My dear Mr Milsand,
I am glad you like the poems. My own especial favourites are the “Court Lady’[’] and “the Curse”, but there is nothing in any of them to deserve the uproar with which they have been received. Such a hornet’s nest, as she has brought down on her head! though I suspect she rather enjoys it—certainly she was prepared for the attack.
I have little to tell you in the way of gossip. Our last Saturday gathering consisted of Miss Parkes and Archer Gurney, invited expressly to meet each other. Mrs Bracken & Willy, Mr & Mrs Corkran and little Mary– Henrietta did not come because she had been at a very grand ball the night before. Mr Gurney was in his usual capital spirits, and very pleasant—I think. Mrs Corkran (between ourselves) seemed a little out of humour, and took one of her irrational dislikes to Miss Parkes whom she had been dying to see. On the contrary, I find that young lady agreeable, and by no means aggressive,—intelligent, and earnestly wishing to do right: she has been introduced to Lamartine and Rosa Bonheur, and was much shocked by the latter’s bonnet. Did I tell you (I forget) how oddly Miss Parkes was struck by what she called an extraordinary likeness between me and Ba.
Archer Gurney told me that Prince Napoleon went in himself the other day to the emperor, and pleaded warmly in behalf of the French Afternoon Service, but he could not prevail. A few days ago, I went with Henriette to Made O’Connell’s Studio—some of the paintings were well coloured, but some hideous—the Eve is the most frightful thing I ever beheld: however, there is no doubt she is capable of teaching much to Henriette, who is merely drawing from the cast of a head, and there seem only a few quiet, inoffensive girls for pupils. Alice is better—looking very well. Poor Mrs Nickle (I am not sure of the spelling) whom you used to meet at the Corkrans, is dead–
Miss Blackwell is about to start with her brother on a tour in Switzerland and Italy, before he goes to India. I am very glad to hear it, as she will enjoy it, and it will do her good,—though the long ten years’ parting that must follow will be looming in the background.
Within the last two days the long winter gives symptoms of breaking up, but we shall have no Spring—summer will come with a leap. When once the longest day is past, summer always seems to me dying—we no longer look forward. How different from the time when, merely to be one year older, was in itself a joy and a pride!
Two young men, sons of an old friend of my father’s, are in Paris, and often come to me for their tea, like forlorn Englishmen. The eldest is as warm an admirer of the emperor as my sister herself could desire. I have been scolding them, and every countryman of mine who comes in my way, for the disgraceful interest the late prize fight excited all over England,—I call it a national shame that such a brutal exhibition should stir the country from one end to the other. But though they all profess to agree with me, and declare that they wouldn’t look at such a sight for the world, yet they all manifest a deep interest in the proceedings which indicates a lurking sympathy.
One of them confessed, with some reluctance, that he had got in his pocket a low sporting paper with the fullest particulars, and on his producing it I could not help laughing to see that it was headed by a quotation from “Aurora Leigh,” which our friend had not noticed. To think of Ba being quoted by one of the Ring! Such is fame! But perhaps after all, the affair has not reached you, and I have been unnecessarily exposing my country’s sins. I suppose the difficulty there is in avoiding the police, who really did their best to prevent it, but were outwitted, adds to the enjoyment of the fight. The Chief of the London Police pledged his honour to the Home Office that it should not take place within fifteen miles of London, and it did not, but the express train conveying the culprits escaped his vigilance.
Tell me how you are, and how your mother’s health is. My father sends his kind remembrance.
Ever yours faithfully—
S. Browning.
Address: Monsieur / Milsand. / Dijon.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library, Joseph Milsand Archive.
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