SD2861. Sarianna Browning to Joseph Milsand
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 32, 355 (in part).
[London]
Thursday Mg Dec. 27. ’66
My dear Friend,
Your kind letter reached me on Christmas Eve, and gave me great pleasure—candidly, I will confess my fault and acknowledge that I did answer it at once, as I might have done because I felt very low-spirited and depressed. I had not courage to write. But this wrong feeling I have struggled with and overcome, and am now quite prepared to send you a full & particular account of all our doings– First, however, let me send my true good wishes for you & yours this approaching New Year. I hope you will all enjoy yourselves merrily and thoroughly. Give my best love to Me Louis—it was very kind of you to let her make your Christmas pudding—I am sure she was very proud of her office—and hope it turned out well—pray tell me all about it. I remember what trouble I had to teach her what I had never learned myself, and how responsible I felt on the occasion. Now, I have nothing to do but to say, Cook, make a pudding, and take no further interest in the matter. By the way, Cook is developing her capabilities—(I kept her at first to the strictly simple) and is really an excellent hand—her mincemeat, stuffings, sauces, jellies, cakes &c are capital. Well—on Monday (Christmas eve) I stayed at home all day, refusing all invitations. Robert, Pen & Willy (for whom they got an invitation, as Pen can enjoy nothing without his friend) went to the Benzons’ grand Christmas tree. It was as usual, a most magnificent affair, upwards of six feet high, lighted with 144 candles in the branches, and loaded with articles of the costliest description, gold watches, chains, trinkets &c you know their wealth & how they lavish it. There was a grand supper. Willy was enchanted—but Pen said he should hate that sort of thing too often. On Christmas Day we dined at Forster’s—he was overflowing with kindness, but so very unwell he could scarcely breathe. Pen had and has a horrid cold in his head. I believe he caught it rowing, on Thursday in one of the heaviest rains, and on Saturday in one of the densest fogs I ever saw. He is unfortunate in his weather, for to-day when it is fine and clear, he cannot leave the house.
I am very sorry that the P. Malls never reach you—as you bid me, I have discontinued sending them since I received your letter—did the last no. on Saty reach you? it had two such good articles—one, a portrait of Robt’s admirer the Archbishop of York—the other on Boys—capital: it is a pity to lose them.
On Christmas morning Mrs Cameron sent Rob. a present of twelve magnificent photographs—five, his own head, and the rest, different subjects from life—you know how beautiful they are. I am longing to show them to you—and she most kindly said in her letter that one of them was for my acceptance. I was to choose which– I had taken a study of King David—the head, I believe, of Henry Taylor (Van Artevelde) Mrs Cameron’s intimate friend who sits for half her pictures—is it not strange that a lady amateur beats all professionals—at least, to my taste. The young female head she so often takes, is that of one of her maids in the isle of Wight, where she lives, whom she literally bought when a child of some strolling beggars who had stolen it or picked it up—at all events, she never could find out if it had any parents: being struck by its face she rescued it and brought it up, and the girl is now on the point of being married. Tennyson is going to leave the isle of Wight, being tired to death of proprietorship & popularity. I see there has been a terrible railway accident near Dijon. I thought of you & yours. There was a horrible accident last Tuesday morning on the underground railway just a couple of hours before Pen was on the same line—as you have read, an iron girder fell & crushed a carriage, killing four persons—fortunately, it was almost an empty train.
It will be a sad Christmas for poor Holman Hunt,—he married a sister of Woolner’s in the early spring, and set out on a tour to Italy & Palestine. She was confined a short time ago at Florence, low fever set in afterwards, and she died—the infant is living. So ends nine months of married life, poor man.
This evening Arabel gives a grand entertainment to the Refuge children. There is to be a Christmas tree, a conjuror, and other delights. Yesterday we had our own Christmas dinner & pudding. Willy & Alessandro dined here. I called on the Corkrans—saw Mary & Alice. I am very glad to hear that the little Rothschild, former pupil of Mrs Corkran’s, is come over from Paris for six weeks on account of the death in childbirth, of the aunt—and is staying at Gunningsbury Park, the Rothschilds seat. Mrs Corkran is to go to her every day during the time for the whole morning, I believe. I was delighted to hear it, for she will be liberally paid. Henriette is going to Paris, they say, next week. I asked no questions.
Do you know whether Gustave Doré’s sketches from Spain, in the Tour du Monde, published by Hachette, have been resumed? If so, I wish you would kindly secure the numbers for me as I wish to complete my set. Keep them for me till we meet. When will that be? I heard that Miss Haworth’s brother Frederick (not her favourite brother) had lost the whole of his fortune by some Bank failures. I have not heard from Miss Haworth herself for some time. Don’t let me forget to tell you that last week my uncle wrote to Robt to say that there was a probability that every half year the holders of Italian stock would be obliged to get their coupons verified in Paris (you remember when you were here) and recommended Robert to apply himself to the Italian Ambassador d’Azeglio on the subject, as he (Robt) would be more likely to be influential there. Robt accordingly wrote to d’Azeglio, and received the next day a polite note saying that if he took his coupons to the consul in town, instructions had been given that they should be attended to. So Robt will have no further trouble, and I daresay the same boon will be extended to others. We always get the freshest Italian news from Lady William whose son writes to her every day—she said beforehand that Odo thought the Pope would not leave Rome—only he can never be trusted, being an irresolute and false old man, capable of doing anything to annoy Napoleon.
Now do write soon. Poor Miss Ryan—I have written to her. By the bye what a pity it was, only It was no use saying so—that when Me Louis was moving she did not take the larger apartment in the same house, on the second-floor, where she could have had a second room for twenty francs more,—I would have paid the extra money gladly—but it is of no use saying so now, and the opportunity is not likely to occur again. It would have been so much more convenient for me when staying in Paris. Good bye. Robt. & Pen send best love & good New Year’s wishes.
Ever yours–
S.B.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library, Joseph Milsand Archive.
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