SD2860. Sarianna Browning to Joseph Milsand
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 32, 354 (in part).
[London]
Wednesday Mg [Postmark: 19 December 1866]
My dear Friend, Your letter reached me on Monday mg but I delayed writing for a day because I purposed going to call on the Corkrans, and thought I should like to tell you how I found them. Mrs C. looked well, and in good spirits—poor C. himself appeared terribly dejected. I can hardly tell you how it cut me to the heart—he has given up all the attempts at cheerfulness which he preserved so long, and seems to abandon himself to despondency. I spoke of the visit to Paris—he said it was like every thing else—the moment he supposed he held it, it slipped from his grasp. I have the gloomiest fears for his future—I fear his reason may break down– God avert it– His wife was cheerful and talkative. What courage she has! there are noble elements in the woman—but chaotic. Sutton is returned from his visit to Ireland, very discontented, the mother says, with his home. I did not see any of the girls, though I heard Henriette’s voice: she is going to Paris after Christmas. She dined with us last Christmas Day—it was the last time she ever was in our house, or ever saw my poor father. I know you will think of us when the day comes—so will poor Me Louis—of our many dinners together—of the old times that will never return. But he is happier now, dear good man, and I wish I were with him, as I hope to be in God’s appointed time.
“When the shore is won at last,
Who will count the billows past?”—
Minnie Thackeray is going to be married to Leslie Stephens, brother of a Stephens who seems to be somebody celebrated—a writer on Law, I believe. I should have preferred Annie—but I am not a man. There again, how provoking! I hoped the Corkran girls would be sure to marry when they got to England where lack of money is no obstacle—but there seems now little chance of it—they are not getting a good social standing. Foolish girls cannot understand (though to be sure, one only knows it at the end of one’s life)—how much more help they can get from one respectable woman’s sanction and good word, than from all their flirtations with men—they think if they are popular with men they will get on, whereas the very reverse is the case. At all events, it is so in England, where every body falls down and worships “respectability.” We are all going on well—Robert out almost every night, spite of the season not having begun. Two nights this week he has dined with Lady Wm Russell, where of course he gets the freshest political news of Italy—she receives a letter every day from her son at Rome. You can well imagine Robt’s delight and thankfulness to Napoleon, for these late events—the strict fulfilment of the convention. Robt proclaims with a pardonable pride, how well his wife did justice to the emperor—there was an article in the Times calling Napoleon by the highest of praises for his kindness to Italy—but how was it some years ago? As Robt says, his wife’s genius and good feelings came to the right conclusion when the whole stream was against her.
Pen is recovering—but he had a severe attack—the first day he left the house, last Thursday, he went in a deluge of rain to row on the river. Strange to say, he did not kill himself. He has taken to shaving! Not before it was required. I have sent all the P.Ms. up to yesterday. Tell me if you receive them. Sometimes I take off a sheet of advertisements to keep within post-bounds. My own cold is better. I am grieved that you have been suffering.
Forgive me if what I said of Me Louis was uncalled for. I was afraid that your kind heart might make you act against your judgement.
There have been a quantity of Barretts at their sister’s. Your old acquaintance Harry, with his wife—now expanded into a very full blooming matron, yet still handsome, and beaming all over with happiness and good nature. They took Pen to the play. By the bye, he saw Mr William Bracken the other day, who said that since last Jany he had lost upwards of thirty thousand pounds. He was one of the most generous of men—many a poor person will miss his fortune.
I am late and must leave off. Don’t forget me.
Ever yours. Give my kind love to Claire. Pen & Robert send theirs. Owly is wonderful in tameness—he plays like a kitten on Robt’s knee with his watch-chain, dragging it out of his waistcoat pocket, and pecking at his shirt buttons. Once more, remember us.
Ever yours again
S.B.
Address: France. / Monsieur Milsand, / Perronet / Neuilly. près Paris.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library, Joseph Milsand Archive.
___________________
