[October, 1875.]
Dear Mrs. Kemble,
My last Letter asked you how and where I could get at your Papers; this is to say, I have gotthem, thanks to the perseverance of our Woodbridge Bookseller, who would not be put off by his London Agent, and has finally procured me the three Numbers[84]which contain your ‘Gossip.’ Now believe me; I am delighted with it; and only wish it might run on as long as I live: which perhaps it may. Of course somewhat of my Interest results from the Times, Persons, and Places you write of; almost all more or less familiar to me; but I am quite sure that very few could have brought all before me as you have done—with what the Painters call, so free, full, and flowing a touch. I suppose this ‘Gossip’ is the Memoir you told me you were about; three or four years ago, I think: or perhaps Selections from it; though I hardly see how your Recollections could be fuller. No doubt your Papers will all be collected into a Book; perhaps it would have been financially better for you to have so published it now. But, on the other hand, you will have the advantage of writing with more freedom and ease in the Magazine, knowing that you can alter, contract, or amplify, in any future Re-publication. It gives me such pleasure to like, and honestly say I like, this work—and—I know I’m right in such matters, though I can’t always give the reason why I like, or don’t like, Dr. Fell: as much wiser People can—who reason themselves quite wrong.
I suppose you were at School in the Rue d’Angoulêmenear about the time (you don’t give dates enough, I think—there’s one fault for you!)—about the time when we lived there: I suppose you were somewhat later, however: for assuredly my Mother and yours would have been together often—Oh, but your Mother was not there, only you—at School. We were there in 1817-18—signalised by The Great Murder—that of Fualdès—one of the most interesting events in all History to me, I am sorry to say. For in that point I do not say I am right. But that Rue d’Angoulême—do you not remember the house cornering on the Champs Elysées with some ornaments in stone of Flowers and Garlands—belonging to a Lord Courtenay, I believe? And do you remember a Pépinière over the way; and, over that, seeing that Temple in the Beaujon Gardens with the Parisians descending and ascending in Cars? And (I think) at the end of the street, the Church of St. Philippe du Roule? Perhaps I shall see in your next Number that you do remember all these things.
Well: I was pleased with some other Papers in your Magazine: as those on V. Hugo,[85a]and Tennyson’s Queen Mary:[85b]I doubt not that Criticism on English Writers is likely to be more impartial over the Atlantic, and not biassed by Clubs, Coteries, etc. I always say that we in the Country are safer Judges than those of even better Wits in London: not being prejudiced so much, whether by personal acquaintance,or party, or Fashion. I see that Professor Wilson said much the same thing to Willis forty years ago.
I have written to Donne to tell him of your Papers, and that I will send him my Copies if he cannot get them. Mowbray wrote me word that his Father, who has bought the house in Weymouth Street, was now about returning to it, after some Alterations made. Mowbray talks of paying me a little Visit here—he and his Wife—at the End of this month:—when what Good Looks we have will all be gone.
Farewell for the present; I count on your Gossip: and believe me (what it serves to make me feel more vividly)
Your sincere old FriendE. F.G.
[Nov. 1875.]
Dear Mrs. Kemble,
The Mowbray Donnes have been staying some days[86]with me—very pleasantly. Of course I got them to tell me of the fine things in London: among the rest, the Artists whose Photos they sent me, and I here enclose. The Lady, they tell me—(Spedding’s present Idol)—is better than her Portrait—which would not have so enamoured Bassanio. Irving’s, they say, is flattered. But ’tis a handsome face, surely; and one that should do for Hamlet—if it were not for that large Ear—do you notice? Iwas tempted to send it to you, because it reminds me of some of your Family: your Father, most of all, as Harlowe has painted him in that famous Picture of the Trial Scene.[87a]It is odd to me that the fine Engraving from that Picture—once so frequent—is scarce seen now: it has seemed strange to me to meet People who never even heard of it.
I don’t know why you have a little Grudge against Mrs. Siddons—perhaps you will say you have not—all my fancy. I think it was noticed at Cambridge that your Brother John scarce went to visit her when she was staying with that Mrs. Frere, whom you don’t remember with pleasure. She did talk much and loud: but she had a fine Woman’s heart underneath, and she could sing a classical Song: as also some of Handel, whom she had studied with Bartleman. But she never could have sung the Ballad with the fulness which you describe in Mrs. Arkwright.[87b]
Which, together with your mention of your American isolation, reminds me of some Verses of Hood, with which I will break your Heart a little. They are not so very good, neither: but I, in England as I am, and like to be, cannot forget them.
‘The Swallow with SummerShall wing o’er the Seas;The Wind that I sigh toShall sing in your Trees;The Ship that it hastensYour Ports will contain—But for me—I shall neverSee England again.’[88a]
‘The Swallow with SummerShall wing o’er the Seas;The Wind that I sigh toShall sing in your Trees;
The Ship that it hastensYour Ports will contain—But for me—I shall neverSee England again.’[88a]
It always runs in my head to a little German Air, common enough in our younger days—which I will make a note of, and you will, I dare say, remember at once.
I doubt that what I have written is almost as illegible as that famous one of yours: in which however only [paper] was in fault:[88b]and now I shall scarce mend the matter by taking a steel pen instead of that old quill, which certainly did fight upon its Stumps.
Well now—Professor Masson of Edinburgh has asked me to join him and seventy-nine others in celebrating Carlyle’s eightieth Birthday on December 4—with the Presentation of a Gold Medal with Carlyle’s own Effigy upon it, and a congratulatory Address. I should have thought such a Measure would be ridiculous to Carlyle; but I suppose Masson must have ascertained his Pleasure from some intimate Friend of C.’s: otherwise he would not have known of my Existence for one. However Spedding and Pollock tell me that, after some hesitation like my own, they judged best to consent. Our Names are even to be attached somehow to a—White Silk, or Satin, Scroll! Surely Carlyle cannot be aware of that? I hope devoutly that my Name come too latefor its Satin Apotheosis; but, if it do not, I shall apologise to Carlyle for joining such Mummery. I only followed the Example of my Betters.
Now I must shut up, for Photos and a Line of Music is to come in. I was so comforted to find that your Mother had some hand in Dr. Kitchener’s Cookery Book,[89]which has always been Guide, Philosopher, and Friend in such matters. I can’t help liking a Cookery Book.
Ever yoursE. F.G.
No: I never turned my tragic hand on Fualdès; but I remember well being taken in 1818 to the Ambigu Comique to see the ‘Château de Paluzzi,’ which was said to be founded on that great Murder. I still distinctly remember a Closet, from which came some guilty Personage. It is not only the Murder itself that impressed me, but the Scene it was enacted in; the ancient half-Spanish City of Rodez, with its River Aveyron, its lonely Boulevards, its great Cathedral, under which the Deed was done in the ‘Rue des Hebdomadiers.’ I suppose you don’t see, or read, our present Whitechapel Murder—a nasty thing, not at all to my liking. The Name of the Murderer—as no one doubts he is, whatever the Lawyers may disprove—is the same as that famous Man of Taste who wrote on the Fine Arts in the London Magazine under the name of Janus Weathercock,[90a]and poisoned Wife, Wife’s Mother and Sister after insuring their Lives. De Quincey (who was one of the Magazine) has one of his Essays about this wretch.
Here is another half-sheet filled, after all: I am afraid rather troublesome to read. In three or four days we shall have another Atlantic, and I am ever yours
E. F.G.
Woodbridge:Decr.29/75.
Dear Mrs. Kemble,
You will say I am a very good Creature indeed, for beginning to answer your Letter the very day it reaches me. But so it happens that this same day also comes a Letter from Laurence the Painter, who tells me something of poor Minnie’s Death,[90b]which answers to the Query in your Letter. Laurence sends me Mrs. Brookfield’s Note to him: from which I quote to you—no!—I will make bold to send you her Letter itself! Laurence says he is generally averse to showing others a Letter meant for himself (the little Gentleman that he is!), but he ventures in this case, knowing me to be an old friend of the Family. And so I venture to post it over the Atlanticto you who take a sincere Interest in them also. I wonder if I am doing wrong?
In the midst of all this mourning comes out a new Volume of Thackeray’s Drawings—or Sketches—as I foresaw it would be, too much Caricature, not so good as much [of] his old Punch; and with none of the better things I wanted them to put in—for his sake, as well as the Community’s. I do not wonder at the Publisher’s obstinacy, but I wonder that Annie T. did not direct otherwise. I am convinced I can hear Thackeray saying, when such a Book as this was proposed to him—‘Oh, come—there has been enough of all this’—and crumpling up the Proof in that little hand of his. For a curiously little hand he had, uncharacteristic of the grasp of his mind: I used to consider it half inherited from the Hindoo people among whom he was born.[91]
I dare say I told you of the Proposal to congratulate Carlyle on his eightieth Birthday; and probably someNewspaper has told you of the Address, and the Medal, and the White Satin Roll to which our eighty names were to be attached. I thought the whole Concern, Medal, Address, and Satin Roll, a very Cockney thing; and devoutly hoped my own illustrious name would arrive too late. I could not believe that Carlyle would like the Thing: but it appears by his published Answer that he did. He would not, ten years ago, I think. Now—talking of illustrious names, etc., oh, my dear Mrs. Kemble, your sincere old Regard for my Family and myself has made you say more—of one of us, at least—than the World will care to be told: even if your old Regard had not magnified our lawful Deserts. But indeed it has done so: in Quality, as well as in Quantity. I know I am not either squeamishly, or hypocritically, saying all this: I am sure I know myself better than you do, and take a juster view of my pretensions. I think you Kembles are almost Donnes in your determined regard, and (one may say) Devotion to old Friends, etc. A rare—a noble—Failing! Oh, dear!—Well, I shall not say any more: you will know that I do not the less thank you for publickly speaking of [me] as I never was spoken of before—onlytoowell. Indeed, this is so; and when you come to make a Book of your Papers, I shall make you cut out something. Don’t be angry with me now—no, I know you will not.[92]
The Day after To-morrow I shall have your new Number; which is a Consolation (if needed) for the Month’s going. And I am ever yours
E. F.G.
Oh, I must add—The Printing is no doubt the more legible; but I get on very well with your MS. when not crossed.[94]
Donne, I hear, is fairly well. Mowbray has had a Lift in his Inland Revenue Office, and now is secure, I believe, of Competence for Life. Charles wrote me a kindly Letter at Christmas: he sent me his own Photo; and then (at my Desire) one of his wife:—Both of which I would enclose, but that my Packet is already bulky enough. It won’t go off to-night when it is written—for here (absolutely!) comes my Reader (8 p.m.) to read me a Story (very clever) in All the Year Round, and no one to go to Post just now.
Were they not pretty Verses by Hood? I thought to make you a little miserable by them:—but you take no more notice than—what you will.
Good Night! Good Bye!—Now for Mrs. Trollope’s Story, entitled ‘A Charming Fellow’—(very clever).
Woodbridge:Febr: 2/76.
Now, my dear Mrs. Kemble, I have done you a little good turn. Some days ago I was talking to my Brother John (I dared not show him!) of what you had said of my Family in your Gossip. He wasextremely interested: and wished much that I [would] convey you his old hereditary remembrances. But, beside that, he wished you to have a Miniature of your Mother which my Mother had till she died. It is a full length; in a white Dress, with blue Scarf, looking and tending with extended Arms upward in a Blaze of Light. My Brother had heard my Mother’s History of the Picture, but could not recall it. I fancy it was before your Mother’s Marriage. The Figure is very beautiful, and the Face also: like your Sister Adelaide, and your Brother Henry both. I think you will be pleased with this: and my Brother is very pleased that you should have it. Now, how to get it over to you is the Question; I believe I must get my little Quaritch, the Bookseller, who has a great American connection, to get it safely over to you. But if you know of any surer means, let me know. It is framed: and would look much better if some black edging were streaked into the Gold Frame; a thing I sometimes do only with a strip of Black Paper. The old Plan of Black and Gold Frames is much wanted where Yellow predominates in the Picture. Do you know I have a sort of Genius for Picture-framing, which is an Art People may despise, as they do the Milliner’s: but you know how the prettiest Face may be hurt, and the plainest improved, by the Bonnet; and I find that (like the Bonnet, I suppose) you can only judge of the Frame, by trying it on. I used to tell some Picture Dealers they had better hire me for suchMillinery: but I have not had much Scope for my Art down here. So now you have a little Lecture along with the Picture.
Now, as you are to thank me for this good turn done to you, so have I to thank you for Ditto to me. The mention of my little Quaritch reminds me. He asked me for copies of Agamemnon, to give to some of his American Customers who asked for them; and I know from whom they must have somehow heard of it. And now, what Copies I had being gone, he is going, at his own risk, to publish a little Edition. The worst is, hewillprint it pretentiously, I fear, as if one thought it very precious: but the Truth is, I suppose he calculates on a few Buyers who will give what will repay him. One of my Patrons, Professor Norton, of Cambridge Mass., has sent me a second Series of Lowell’s ‘Among my Books,’ which I shall be able to acknowledge with sincere praise. I had myself bought the first Series. Lowell may do for English Writers something as Ste. Beuve has done for French: and one cannot give higher Praise.[97a]
There has been an absurd Bout in the Athenæum[97b]between Miss Glyn and some Drury Lane Authorities. She wrote a Letter to say that she would not have played Cleopatra in a revival of Antony and Cleopatra for £1000 a line, I believe, so curtailed and mangled was it. Then comes a Miss Wallis, who played thePart, to declare that ‘the Veteran’ (Miss G.) had wished to play the Part as it was acted: and furthermore comes Mr. Halliday, who somehow manages and adapts at D. L., to assert that the Veteran not only wished to enact the Desecration, but did enact it for many nights when Miss Wallis was indisposed. Then comes Isabel forward again—but I really forget what she said. I never saw her but once—in the Duchess of Malfi—very well: better, I dare say, than anybody now; but one could not remember a Word, a Look, or an Action. She speaks in her Letter of being brought up in the grand School and Tradition of the Kembles.
I am glad, somehow, that you liked Macready’s Reminiscences: so honest, so gentlemanly in the main, so pathetic even in his struggles to be a better Man and Actor. You, I think, feel with him in your Distaste for the Profession.
I write you tremendous long Letters, which you can please yourself about reading through. I shall write Laurence your message of Remembrance to him. I had a longish Letter from Donne, who spoke of himself as well enough, only living by strict Rule in Diet, Exercise, etc.
We have had some remarkable Alternations of Cold and Hot here too: but nothing like the extremes you tell me of on the other side of the Page.
Lionel Tennyson (second Son), who answered my half-yearly Letter to his father, tells me they hadheard that Annie Thackeray was well in health, but—as you may imagine in Spirits.
And I remain yours alwaysE. F.G.
How is it my Atlantic Monthly is not yet come?
Woodbridge:Febr: 17/76.
Dear Mrs. Kemble,
I ought to have written before to apprise you of your Mother’s Miniature being sent off—by Post. On consideration, we judged that to be the safest and speediest way: the Post Office here telling us that it was not too large or heavy so to travel: without the Frame. As, however, our Woodbridge Post Office is not very well-informed, I shall be very glad to hear it has reached you, in its double case: wood within, and tin without (quite unordered and unnecessary), which must make you think you receive a present of Sardines. You lose, you see, the Benefit of my exalted Taste in respect of Framing, which I had settled to perfection. Pray get a small Frame, concaving inwardly (Ogee pattern, I believe), which leads the Eyes into the Picture: whereas a Frame convexing outwardly leads the Eye away from the Picture; a very good thing in many cases, but not needed in this. I dare say the Picture (faded as it is) will look poor to you till enclosed and set off by a proper Frame.And the way is, as with a Bonnet (on which you know much depends even with the fairest face), to try one on before ordering it home. That is, if you choose to indulge in some more ornamental Frame than the quite simple one I have before named. Indeed, I am not sure if the Picture would not look best in a plain gold Flat (as it is called) without Ogee, or any ornament whatsoever. But try it on first: and then you can at least please yourself, if not the Terrible Modiste who now writes to you. My Brother is very anxious you should have the Picture, and wrote to me again to send you his hereditary kind Regards. I ought to be sending you his Note—which I have lost. Instead of that, I enclose one from poor Laurence to whom I wrote your kind message; and am as ever
YoursE. F.G.
You will let me know if the Picture has not arrived before this Note reaches you?
Lowestoft:March16/76.
Dear Mrs. Kemble,
Directly that you mentioned ‘Urania,’ I began to fancy I remembered her too.[100]And we are bothright; I wrote to a London friend to look out for the Engraving: and I post it to you along with this Letter. If it do not reach you in some three weeks, let me know, and I will send another.
The Engraving stops short before the Feet: the Features are coarser than the Painting: which makes me suppose that it (Engraving) is from the Painting: or from some Painting of which yours is a Copy—(I am called off here to see the Procession of Batty’s Circus parade up the street)—
The Procession is past: the Clowns, the Fine Ladies (who should wear a little Rouge even by Daylight), the ‘performing’ Elephants, the helmeted Cavaliers, and last, the Owner (I suppose) as ‘the modern Gentleman’ driving four-in-hand.
This intoxication over, I return to my Duties—to say that the Engraving is from a Painting by ‘P. Jean,’ engraved by Vendramini: published by John Thompson in 1802, and dedicated to the ‘Hon. W. R. Spencer’—(who, I suppose, was the ‘Vers-de Société’ Man of the Day; and perhaps the owner of the original: whether now yours, or not. Allthis I tell you in case the Print should not arrive in fair time: and you have but to let me know, and another shall post after it.
I have duly written my Brother your thanks for his Present, and your sincere Gratification in possessing it. He is very glad it has so much pleased you. But he can only surmise thus much more of its history—that it belonged to my Grandfather before my Mother: he being a great lover of the Theatre, and going every night I believe to old Covent Garden or old Drury Lane—names really musical to me—old Melodies.
I think I wrote to you about the Framing. I always say of that, as of other Millinery (on which so much depends), the best way is—to try on the Bonnet before ordering it; which you can do by the materials which all Carvers and Gilders in this Country keep by them. I have found even my Judgment—the Great Twalmley’s Judgment—sometimes thrown out by not condescending to this; in this, as in so many other things, so very little making all the Difference. I should not think that Black next the Picture would do so well: but try, try: try on the Bonnet: and if you please yourself—inferior Modiste as you are—why, so far so good.
Donne, who reports himself as very well (always living by Discipline and Rule), tells me that he has begged you to return to England if you would make sure of seeing him again. I told Pollock of your great Interest in Macready: I too find that I amcontent to have bought the Book, and feel more interest in the Man than in the Actor. My Mother used to know him once: but I never saw him in private till once at Pollock’s after his retirement: when he sat quite quiet, and (as you say) I was sorry not to have made a little Advance to him, as I heard he had a little wished to see me because of that old Acquaintance with my Mother. I should like to have told him how much I liked much of his Performance; asked him why he would say ‘Amen stu-u-u-u-ck in my Throat’ (which was a bit of wrong, as well as vulgar, Judgment, I think). But I looked on him as the great Man of the Evening, unpresuming as he was: and so kept aloof, as I have ever done from all Celebrities—yourself among them—who I thought must be wearied enough of Followers and Devotees—unless those of Note.
I am now writing in the place—in the room—from which I wrote ten years ago—it all recurs to me—with Montaigne for my Company, and my Lugger about to be built. Now I have brought Madame de Sévigné (who loved Montaigne too—the capital Woman!) and the Lugger—Ah, there is a long sad Story about that!—which I won’t go into—
Little Quaritch seems to have dropt Agamemnon, Lord of Hosts, for the present: and I certainly am not sorry, for I think it would only have been abused by English Critics: with some, but not all, Justice. You are very good in naming your American Publisher, but I suppose it must be left at present with Quaritch,to whom I wrote a ‘Permit,’ so long as I had nothing to do with it.
Ever yoursE. F.G.
[Lowestoft,April, 1876.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble,
From Lowestoft still I date: as just ten years ago when I was about building a Lugger, and reading Montaigne. The latter holds his own with me after three hundred years: and the Lugger does not seem much the worse for her ten years’ wear, so well did she come bouncing between the Piers here yesterday, under a strong Sou’-Wester. My Great Captain has her no more; he has what they call a ‘Scotch Keel’ which is come into fashion: her too I see: and him too steering her, broader and taller than all the rest: fit to be a Leader of Men, Body and Soul; looking now Ulysses-like. Two or three years ago he had a run of constant bad luck; and, being always of a grand convivial turn, treating Everybody, he got deep in Drink, against all his Promises to me, and altogether so lawless, that I brought things to a pass between us. ‘He should go on with me if he would take the Tee-total Pledge for one year’—‘No—he had broken his word,’ he said, ‘and he would not pledge it again,’ much as he wished to go on with me. That, you see, was very fine in him; he is altogether fine—AGreat Man, I maintain it: like one of Carlyle’s old Norway Kings, with a wider morality than we use; which is very good and fine (as this Captain said to me) ‘for you who are born with a silver spoon in your mouths.’ I did not forget what Carlyle too says about Great Faults in Great Men: even in David, the Lord’s Anointed. But I thought best to share the Property with him and let him go his way. He had always resented being under any Control, and was very glad to be his own sole Master again: and yet clung to me in a wild and pathetic way. He has not been doing better since: and I fear is sinking into disorder.
This is a long story about one you know nothing about except what little I have told you. But the Man is a very remarkable Man indeed, and you may be interested—you must be—in him.
‘Ho! parlons d’autres choses, ma Fille,’ as my dear Sévigné says. She now occupies Montaigne’s place in my room: well—worthily: she herself a Lover of Montaigne, and with a spice of his free thought and speech in her. I am sometimes vext I never made her acquaintance till last year: but perhaps it was as well to have such an acquaintance reserved for one’s latter years. The fine Creature! much more alive to me than most Friends—Ishouldlike to see her ‘Rochers’ in Brittany.[105]
‘Parlons d’autres choses’—your Mother’s Miniature. You seemed at first to think it was taken from the Engraving: but the reverse was always clear to me. The whole figure, down to the Feet, is wanted to account for the position of the Legs; and the superior delicacy of Feature would not be gainedfromthe Engraving, but the contrary. The Stars were stuck in to make an ‘Urania’ of it perhaps. I do not assert that your Miniature is the original: but that such a Miniature is. I did not expect that Black next the Picture would do: had you ‘tried on the Bonnet’ first, as I advised? I now wish I had sent the Picture over in its original Frame, which I had doctored quite well with a strip of Black Paper pasted over the Gold. It might really have gone through Quaritch’s Agency: but I got into my head that the Post was safer. (How badly I am writing!) I had a little common Engraving of the Cottage bonnet Portrait: so like Henry. If I did not send it to you, I know not what is become of it.
Along with your Letter came one from Donne telling me of your Niece’s Death.[106]He said he had written to tell you. In reply, I gave him your message; that he must ‘hold on’ till next year when peradventure you may see England again, and hope to see him too.
Sooner or later you will see an Account of ‘Mary Tudor’ at the Lyceum.[107]It is just what I expected: a ‘succès d’estime,’ and not a very enthusiastic one. Surely, no one could have expected more. And now comes out a new Italian Hamlet—Rossi—whose first appearance is recorded in the enclosed scrap ofStandard. And (to finish Theatrical or Dramatic Business) Quaritch has begun to print Agamemnon—so leisurely that I fancy he wishes to wait till the old Persian is exhausted, and so join the two. I certainly am in no hurry; for I fully believe we shall only get abused for the Greek in proportion as we were praised for the Persian—in England. I mean: for you have made America more favourable.
‘Parlons d’autres choses.’ ‘Eh? mais de quoi parler,’ etc. Well: a Blackbird is singing in the little Garden outside my Lodging Window, which is frankly opened to what Sun there is. It has been a singular half year; only yesterday Thunder in rather cold weather; and last week the Road and Rail in Cambridge and Huntingdon was blocked up with Snow; and Thunder then also. I suppose I shall get home in ten days: before this Letter will reach you, I suppose: so your next may be addressed to Woodbridge. I really don’t know if these long Letters are more of Trouble or Pleasure to you: however, there is an end to all: and that End is that I am yours as truly as ever I was
E. F.G.
Woodbridge,July4, [1876.]
Dear Mrs. Kemble,
Here I am back into the Country, as I may call my suburb here as compared to Lowestoft; all my house, except the one room—which ‘serves me for Parlour and Bedroom and all’[108a]—occupied by Nieces. Our weather is temperate, our Trees green, Roses about to bloom, Birds about to leave off singing—all sufficiently pleasant. I must not forget a Box from Mudie with some Memoirs in it—of Godwin, Haydon, etc., which help to amuse one. And I am just beginning Don Quixote once more for my ‘pièce de Résistance,’ not being so familiar with the First Part as the Second. Lamb and Coleridge (I think) thought that Second Part should not have been written; why then did I—not for contradiction’s sake, I am sure—so much prefer it? Old Hallam, in his History of Literature, resolved me, I believe, by saying that Cervantes, who began by making his Hero ludicrously crazy, fell in love with him, and in the second part tamed and tempered him down to the grand Gentleman he is: scarce ever originating a Delusion, though acting his part in it as a true Knight when led into it by others.[108b]A good deal however might well be left out. If you have Jarvis’ Translation by, or near,you, pray read—oh, read all of the second part, except the stupid stuff of the old Duenna in the Duke’s Palace.
I fear I get more and more interested in your ‘Gossip,’ as you approach the Theatre. I suppose indeed that it is better to look on than to be engaged in. I love it, and reading of it, now as much as ever I cared to see it: and that was, very much indeed. I never heard till from your last Paper[109a]that Henry was ever thought of for Romeo: I wonder he did not tell me this when he and I were in Paris in 1830, and used to go and see ‘Lā Muette!’ (I can hear them calling it now:) at the Grand Opera. I see that ‘Queen Mary’ has some while since been deposed from the Lyceum; and poor Mr. Irving descended from Shakespeare to his old Melodrama again. All this is still interesting to me down here: much more than to you—over there!—
‘Over there’ you are in the thick of your Philadelphian Exhibition,[109b]I suppose: but I dare say you do not meddle with it very much, and will probably be glad when it is all over. I wish now I had sent you the Miniature in its Frame, which I had instructed to become it. What you tell us your Mother said concerning Dress, I certainly always felt: only secure the Beautiful, and the Grand, in all the Arts, whatever Chronology may say. Rousseau somewhere says that what you want of Decoration in the Theatre is, whatwill bewilder the Imagination—‘ébranler l’Imagination,’ I think:[110]only let it be Beautiful!
June5.
I kept this letter open in case I should see Arthur Malkin, who was coming to stay at a Neighbour’s house. He very kindly did call on me: he and his second wife (who, my Neighbour says, is a very proper Wife), but I was abroad—though no further off than my own little Estate; and he knows I do not visit elsewhere. But I do not the less thank him, and am always yours
E. F.G.
Pollock writes me he had just visited Carlyle—quite well for his Age: and vehement against Darwin, and the Turk.
Woodbridge,July31/76.
Dear Mrs. Kemble,
A better pen than usual tempts me to write the little I have to tell you; so that [at] any rate your Eyes shall not be afflicted as sometimes I doubt they are by my MS.
Which MS. puts me at once in mind of Print: and to tell you that I shall send you Quaritch’s Reprint of Agamemnon: which is just done after many blunders. The revises were not sent me, as I desired: so several things are left as I meant not: but ‘enfin’ here it is at last so fine that I am ashamed of it. For, whatever the merit of it may be, it can’t come near all this fine Paper, Margin, etc., which Quaritchwillhave as counting on only a few buyers, who will buy—in America almost wholly, I think. And, as this is wholly due to you, I send you the Reprint, however little different to what you had before.
‘Tragedy wonders at being so fine,’ which leads me to that which ought more properly to have led toit: your last two Papers of ‘Gossip,’ which are capital, both for the Story told, and the remarks that arise from it. To-morrow, or next day, I shall have a new Number; and I really do count rather childishly on their arrival. Spedding also is going over some of his old Bacon ground in the Contemporary,[111]and his writing is always delightful to me though I cannot agree with him at last. I am told he is in full Vigour: as indeed I might guess from his writing. I heard from Donne some three weeks ago: proposing a Summer Holyday at Whitby, in Yorkshire: Valentia, I think, not very well again: Blanche then with her Brother Charles. They all speak very highly of Mrs. Santley’s kindness and care. Mowbray talksof coming down this way toward the end of August: but had not, when he last wrote, fixed on his Holyday place.
Beside my two yearly elder Nieces, I have now a younger who has spent the last five Winters in Florence with your once rather intimate (I think) Jane FitzGerald my Sister. She married, (you may know) a Clergyman considerably older than herself. I wrote to Annie Thackeray lately, and had an answer (from the Lakes) to say she was pretty well—as also Mr. Stephen.
And I am ever yoursE. F.G.
P.S. On second thoughts I venture to send you A. T.’s letter, which may interest you and cannot shame her. I do not want it again.
Woodbridge:Septr.21/76.
Dear Mrs. Kemble,
Have your American Woods begun to hang out their Purple and Gold yet? on this Day of Equinox. Some of ours begin to look rusty, after the Summer Drought; but have not turned Yellow yet. I was talking of this to a Heroine of mine who lives near here, but visits the Highlands of Scotland, which she loves better than Suffolk—and she said of thoseHighland Trees—‘O, they give themselves no dying Airs, but turn Orange in a Day, and are swept off in a Whirlwind, and Winter is come.’
Now too one’s Garden begins to be haunted by that Spirit which Tennyson says is heard talking to himself among the flower-borders. Do you remember him?[113a]
And now—Who should send in his card to me last week—but the old Poet himself—he and his elder Son Hallam passing through Woodbridge from a Tour in Norfolk.[113b]‘Dear old Fitz,’ ran the Card in pencil, ‘We are passing thro’.’[113c]I had not seen him for twenty years—he looked much the same, except for his fallen Locks; and what really surprised me was, that we fell at once into the old Humour, as if we had only been parted twenty Days instead of so many Years. I suppose this is a Sign of Age—not altogether desirable. But so it was. He stayed two Days, and we went over the same old grounds of Debate, told some of the old Stories, and all was well. I suppose I may never see him again: and so I suppose we both thought as the Rail carried him off: and each returned to his ways as if scarcelydiverted from them. Age again!—I liked Hallam much; unaffected, unpretending—no Slang—none of Young England’s nonchalance—speaking of his Father as ‘Papa’ and tending him with great Care, Love, and Discretion. Mrs. A. T. is much out of health, and scarce leaves Home, I think.[114a]
I have lately finished Don Quixote again, and I think have inflamed A. T. to read him too—I mean in his native Language. For thismustbe, good as Jarvis’ Translation is, and the matter of the Book so good that one would think it would lose less than any Book by Translation. But somehow that is not so. I was astonished lately to see how Shakespeare’s Henry IV. came out in young V. Hugo’s Prose Translation[114b]: Hotspur, Falstaff and all. It really seemed to show me more than I had yet seen in the original.
Ever yours,E. F.G.
Lowestoft:October24/76.
Dear Mrs. Kemble,
Little—Nothing—as I have to write, I am nevertheless beginning to write to you, from this old Lodging of mine, from which I think our Correspondence chiefly began—ten years ago. I am in the same Room: the same dull Sea moaning before me: the same Wind screaming through the Windows: so I take up the same old Story. My Lugger was then about building:[115]she has passed into other hands now: I see her from time to time bouncing into Harbour, with her ‘244’ on her Bows. Her Captain and I have parted: I thought he did very wrongly—Drink, among other things: but he did not think he did wrong: a different Morality from ours—that, indeed, of Carlyle’s ancient Sea Kings. I saw him a few days ago in his house, with Wife and Children; looking, as always, too big for his house: but always grand, polite, and unlike anybody else. I was noticing the many Flies in the room—‘Poor things,’ he said, ‘it is the warmth of our Stove makes them alive.’ When Tennyson was with me, whose Portrait hangsin my house in company with those of Thackeray and this Man (the three greatest men I have known), I thought that both Tennyson and Thackeray were inferior to him in respect of Thinking of Themselves. When Tennyson was telling me of how The Quarterly abused him (humorously too), and desirous of knowing why one did not care for his later works, etc., I thought that if he had lived an active Life, as Scott and Shakespeare; or even ridden, shot, drunk, and played the Devil, as Byron, he would have done much more, and talked about it much less. ‘You know,’ said Scott to Lockhart, ‘that I don’t care a Curse about what I write,’[116]and one sees he did not. I don’t believe it was far otherwise with Shakespeare. Even old Wordsworth, wrapt up in his Mountain mists, and proud as he was, was above all this vain Disquietude: proud, not vain, was he: and that a Great Man (as Dante) has some right to be—but not to care what the Coteries say. What a Rigmarole!
Donne scarce ever writes to me (Twalmley the Great), and if he do not write to you, depend upon it he thinks he has nothing worth sending over the Atlantic. I heard from Mowbray quite lately that his Father was very well.
Yes: you told me in a previous Letter that you were coming to England after Christmas. I shall not be up to going to London to see you, with all your Company about you; perhaps (don’t think mevery impudent!) you may come down, if we live till Summer, to my Woodbridge Château, and there talk over some old things.
I make a kind of Summer in my Room here with Boccaccio. What a Mercy that one can return with a Relish to these Books! As Don Quixote can only be read in his Spanish, so I do fancy Boccaccio only in his Italian: and yet one is used to fancy that Poetry is the mainly untranslateable thing. How prettily innocent are the Ladies, who, after telling very loose Stories, finish with ‘E così Iddio faccia [noi] godere del nostro Amore, etc.,’ sometimes,Domeneddio, more affectionately.[117a]
Anyhow, these Ladies are better than the accursed Eastern Question;[117b]of which I have determined to read, and, if possible, hear, no more till the one question be settled of Peace or War. If war, I am told I may lose some £5000 in Russian Bankruptcy: but I can truly say I would give that, and more, to ensure Peace and Good Will among Men at this time. Oh, the Apes we are! I must retire to my Montaigne—whom, by the way, I remember reading here, when the Lugger was building! Oh, the Apes, etc. Butthere was A Man in all that Business still, who is so now, somewhat tarnished.—And I am yours as then sincerely
E. F.G.
Lowestoft:December12/76.
Dear Mrs. Kemble,
If you hold to your Intention of coming to Europe in January, this will be my last Letter over the Atlantic—till further Notice! I dare say you will send me a last Rejoinder under the same conditions.
I write, you see, from the Date of my last letter: but have been at home in the meanwhile. And am going home to-morrow—to arrange about Christmas Turkeys (God send we haven’t all our fill of that, this Year!) and other such little matters pertaining to the Season—which, to myself, is always a very dull one. Why it happens that I so often write to you from here, I scarce know; only that one comes with few Books, perhaps, and the Sea somehow talks to one of old Things. I have ever my Edition of Crabbe’s Tales of the Hall with me. How pretty is this—
‘In a small Cottage on the rising GroundWest of the Waves, and just beyond their Sound.’[118]
‘In a small Cottage on the rising GroundWest of the Waves, and just beyond their Sound.’[118]
Which reminds me also that one of the Books I have here is Leslie Stephen’s ‘Hours in a Library,’ reallydelightful reading, and, I think, really settling some Questions of Criticism, as one wants to be finally done in all Cases, so as to have no more about and about it. I think I could have suggested a little Alteration in the matter of this Crabbe, whom I probably am better up in than L. S., though I certainly could not write about it as he does. Also, one word aboutClarissa. Almost all the rest of the two Volumes I accept as a Disciple.[119a]
Another Book of the kind—Lowell’s ‘Among my Books,’ is excellent also: perhaps with moreGeniusthan Stephen: but on the other hand not so temperate, judicious, or scholarly intaste. It was Professor Norton who sent me Lowell’s Second Series; and, if you should—(as you inevitably will, though in danger of losing the Ship) answer this Letter, pray tell me if you know how Professor Norton is—in health, I mean. You told me he was very delicate: and I am tempted to think he may be less well than usual, as he has not acknowledged the receipt of a Volume[119b]I sent him with some of Wordsworth’s Letters in it, which he had wished to see. The Volume did not need Acknowledgment absolutely: but probably would not have been received without by so amiable and polite a Man, if he [were] not out of sorts. I should really be glad to hear that he has only forgotten, or neglected, to write.
Mr. Lowell’s Ode[120a]in your last Magazine seemed to me full of fine Thought; but it wanted Wings. I mean it kept too much to one Level, though a high Level, for Lyric Poetry, as Ode is supposed to be: both in respect to Thought, and Metre. Even Wordsworth (least musical of men) changed his Flight to better purpose in his Ode to Immortality. Perhaps, however, Mr. Lowell’s subject did not require, or admit, such Alternations.
Your last Gossip brought me back to London—but what Street I cannot make sure of—but one Room in whatever Street it were, where I remember your Mr. Wade, who took his Defeat at the Theatre so bravely.[120b]And your John, in Spain with the Archbishop of Dublin: and coming home full of Torrijos: and singing to me and Thackeray one day in Russell Street:[120c]
Music score for Si un Elio conspiro alevo. . .
All which comes to me west of the waves and just within the sound: and is to travel so much farther Westward over an Expanse of Rollers such as we see not in this Herring-pond. Still, it is—The Sea.
Now then Farewell, dear Mrs. Kemble. You will let me know when you get to Dublin? I will add that, after very many weeks, I did hear from Donne, who told me of you, and that he himself had been out to dine: and was none the worse.
And I still remain, you see, your long-winded Correspondent
E. F.G.
12Marine Terrace,Lowestoft,February19/77.
Dear Mrs. Kemble,
Donne has sent me the Address on the cover of this Letter. I know you will write directly you hear from me; that is ‘de rigueur’ with you; and, at any rate, you have your Voyage home to England to tell me of: and how you find yourself and all in the Old Country. I suppose you include my Old Ireland in it. Donne wrote that you were to be there till this Month’s end; that is drawing near; and, if that you do not protract your Visit, you will [be] very soon within sight of dear Donne himself, who, I hear from Mowbray, is very well.
Your last Gossip was very interesting to me. I see in it (but not in the most interesting part)[122a]that you write of a ‘J. F.,’ who tells you of a Sister of hers having a fourth Child, etc. I fancy this must be a Jane FitzGerald telling you of her Sister Kerrich, who would have numbered about so many Children about that time—1831. Was it that Jane? I think you and she were rather together just then. After which she married herself to a Mr. Wilkinson—made him very Evangelical—and tiresome—and so they fed their Flock in a Suffolk village.[122b]And about fourteen or fifteen years ago he died: and she went off to live in Florence—rather a change from the Suffolk Village—and there, I suppose, she will die when her Time comes.
Now you have read Harold, I suppose; and you shall tell me what you think of it. Pollock and Miladi think it has plenty of Action and Life: one of which Qualities I rather missed in it.
Mr. Lowell sent me his Three Odes about Liberty,Washington, etc. They seemed to me full of fine Thought, and in a lofty Strain: but wanting Variety both of Mood and Diction for Odes—which are supposed to mean things to be chanted. So I ventured to hint to him—Is he an angry man? But he wouldn’t care, knowing of me only through amiable Mr. Norton, who knows me through you. I thinkhemust be a very amiable, modest, man. And I am still yours always
E. F.G.
12Marine Terrace,Lowestoft,March15, [1877.
Dear Mrs. Kemble,
By this time you are, I suppose, at the Address you gave me, and which will now cover this Letter. You have seen Donne, and many Friends, perhaps—and perhaps you have not yet got to London at all. But you will in time. When you do, you will, I think, have your time more taken up than in America—with so many old Friends about you: so that I wish more and more you would not feel bound to answer my Letters, one by one; but I suppose you will.
What I liked so much in your February Atlantic[123]was all about Goethe and Portia: I think,finewriting,in the plain sense of the word, and partly so because not ‘fine’ in the other Sense. You can indeed spin out a long Sentence of complicated Thought very easily, and very clearly; a rare thing. As to Goethe, I made another Trial at Hayward’s Prose Translation this winter, but failed, as before, to get on with it. I suppose there is a Screw loose in me on that point, seeing what all thinking People think of it. I am sure I have honestly tried. As to Portia, I still think she ought not to have proved her ‘Superiority’ by withholding that simple Secret on which her Husband’s Peace and his Friend’s Life depended. Your final phrase about her ‘sinking into perfection’ is capital. Epigram—without Effort.
You wrote me that Portia was yourbeau-idealof Womanhood[124a]—Query, ofLady-hood. For she had more than £500 a year, which Becky Sharp thinks enough to be very virtuous on, and had not been tried. Would she have done Jeanie Deans’ work? She might, I believe: but was not tried.
I doubt all this will be rather a Bore to you: coming back to England to find all the old topics of Shakespeare, etc., much as you left them. You will hear wonderful things about Browning and Co.—Wagner—and H. Irving. In a lateTemple Barmagazine[124b]Lady Pollock says that her Idol Irving’s Reading of Hood’s Eugene Aram is such that anyone among his Audience who had a guilty secret in his Bosom ‘must either tell it, or die.’ These are her words.
You see I still linger in this ugly place: having a very dear little Niece a little way off: a complete little ‘Pocket-Muse’ I call her. One of the first Things she remembers is—you, in white Satin, and very handsome, she says, reading Twelfth Night at this very place. And I am
Yours everE. F.G.
(I am now going to make out a Dictionary-list of the People in my dear Sévigné, for my own use.)[125a]
Little Grange:Woodbridge.May5/77.
Dear Mrs. Kemble,
I am disappointed at not finding any Gossip in the last Atlantic;[125b]the Editor told us at the end of last Year that it was to be carried on through this:perhaps you are not bound down to every month: but I hope the links are not to discontinue for long.
I did not mean in my last letter to allude again to myself and Co. in recommending some omissions when you republish.[126]That—viz., about myself—I was satisfied you would cut out, as we had agreed before. (N.B. No occasion to omit your kindly Notices about my Family—nor my own Name among them, if you like: only not all about myself.) What I meant in my last Letter was, some of your earlier Letters—or parts of Letters—to H.—as some from Canterbury, I think—I fancy some part of your early Life might be condensed. But I will tell you, if you will allow me, when the time comes: and then you can but keep to your own plan, which you have good reason to think better than mine—though I am very strong in Scissors and Paste: my ‘Harp and Lute.’ Crabbe is under them now—as usual, once a Year. If one lived in London, or in any busy place, all this would not be perhaps: but it hurts nobody—unless you, who do hear too much about it.
Last night I made my Reader begin Dickens’ wonderful ‘Great Expectations’: not considered one of his best, you know, but full of wonderful things, and even with a Plot which, I think, only needed less intricacy to be admirable. I had only just read the Book myself: but I wanted to see what my Readerwould make of it: and he was so interested that he re-interested me too. Here is another piece of Woodbridge Life.
Now, if when London is hot you should like to run down to this Woodbridge, here will be my house at your Service after July. It may be so all this month: but a Nephew, Wife, and Babe did talk of a Fortnight’s Visit: but have not talked of it since I returned a fortnight ago. June and July my Invalid Niece and her Sister occupy the House—not longer. Donne, and all who know me, know that I do not like anyone to come out of their way to visit me: but, if they be coming this way, I am very glad to do my best for them. And if any of them likes to occupy my house at any time, here it is at their Service—at yours, for as long as you will, except the times I have mentioned. I give up the house entirely except my one room, which serves for Parlour and Bed: and which I really prefer, as it reminds me of the Cabin of my dear little Ship—mine no more.
Here is a long Story about very little. Woodbridge again.
A Letter from Mowbray Donne told me that you had removed to some house in—Connaught Place?[127a]—but he did not name the number.
Valentia’s wedding comes on: perhaps you will be of the Party.[127b]I think it would be one more ofSorrow than of Gladness to me: but perhaps that may be the case with most Bridals.
It is very cold here: ice of nights: but my Tulips and Anemones hold up still: and Nightingales sing. Somehow, I don’t care for those latter at Night. They ought to be in Bed like the rest of us. This seems talking for the sake of being singular: but I have always felt it, singular or not.
And I am yours always
E. F.G.