SD2386. Kate Field to Cordelia Riddle Sanford
Published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 28, 354 (in part).
[Florence]
[mid-June 1860]
I have seen a photograph of Story’s bust of Theodore Parker, which I do not like in the least. Young Hart, the sculptor here, is, they say, making a much better likeness of him. Miss Cobbe has a cameo medallion of Parker, and Mr. Trollope one in plaster. The Brownings have returned, looking well and like angels. What think you, dear? They brought me a beautiful pair of Roman gold sleeve buttons, a copy of “Poems before Congress,” and photographs of themselves, also a large one taken from Hamilton Wild’s pretty painting of Penini on his little pony. Is this not dear of them? They have received mother very kindly, and last night we took tea with them in company with Mr. Landor. Mr. Landor, they say, was quite cross until I came. They also say I always put him into a good humor. In going to the table he came up to me and said, “Now were I a young man, I should offer you my arm.” “Why cannot you as it is?” I asked. “With delight, if you will accept it.” And so we marched to the table. In taking our seats, Mr. Chapman came forward to occupy the place next me, whereupon Mr. Landor exclaimed, “Don’t come between me and Paradise,” and down he sat. It’s the first time I was ever told I was Elysium Field. Do you take? Dear Mrs. Browning whispered, “I hope you appreciate the compliment, Kate,” The old man, speaking of years, said, “I wish I were dead and buried.” “Buried or not, Mr. Landor, you will always live,” cried I, very much to his amusement. Miss Blagden and I noticed that his beard was cut. “Yes, I cut it myself. Ah, willingly would I exchange my hair for yours,” said he to me, mine being curled. “Most willingly would I exchange the outside on my head for the inside of yours, Mr. Landor,” retorted I, and again he laughed heartily. “Pray tell me, Mr. Landor, how many times does a man fall in love during his life?” “Well, every time he sees a pretty woman,” and at this witticism he shouted lustily, then resuming, “Not that I ever was as fickle as that. Oh, no, I never loved but twice. I married to get rid of love, but found this did not answer at all.” Once speaking of women, he said, “Women are all good. I never knew but two bad women in all my life—ah, stop, stop,—I mean three—I forgot my wife.” …
Text: Lilian Whiting, Kate Field: a Record (Boston, 1899), pp. 103–104.
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