Letters of Edward FitzGerald to Fanny Kemble (1871-1883) Part 23

I think I once knew why the two Cities in Egypt and Boeotia were alike named Thebes; and perhaps could now find out from some Books now stowed away in a dark Closet which affrights my Eyes to think of. But any of your learned friends in London will tell you, and probably more accurately than Paddy. I cannot doubt but that Sphinx and heaps more of the childish and dirty mythology of Greece came from Egypt, and who knows how far beyond, whether in Time or s.p.a.ce!

Your Uncle, the great John, did enact OEdipus in some Tragedy, by whom I know not: I have a small Engraving of him in the Character, from a Drawing of that very clever artist De Wilde; {210} but this is a heavy Likeness, though it may have been a true one of J. K. in his latter years, or in one of his less inspired--or more asthmatic--moods. This portrait is one of a great many (several of Mrs. Siddons) in a Book I have--and which I will send you if you would care to see it: plenty of them are rubbish such as you would wonder at a sensible man having ever taken the trouble to put together. But I inherit a long-rooted Affection for the Stage: almost as real a World to me as Jaques called it. Of yourself there is but a Newspaper Sc.r.a.p or two: I think I must have cut out and given you what was better: but I never thought any one worth having except Sir Thomas', which I had from its very first Appearance, and keep in a large Book along with some others of a like size: Kean, Mars, Talma, d.u.c.h.esnois, etc., which latter I love, though I heard more of them than I saw.

Yesterday probably lighted you up once again in London, as it did us down here. 'Richard' thought he began to feel himself up to his Eyes again: but To-day all Winter again, though I think I see the Sun resolved on breaking through the Snow clouds. My little Aconites--which are sometimes called 'New Year Gifts,' {211a} have almost lived their little Lives: my Snowdrops look only too much in Season; but we will hope that all this Cold only r.e.t.a.r.ds a more active Spring.

I should not have sent you the Play till Night had I thought you would sit up that same night to read it. Indeed, I had put it away for the Night Post: but my old Hermes came in to say he was going into Town to market, and so he took it with him to Post.

Farewell for the present--till next Full Moon? I am really glad that all that Atlantic worry has blown over, and all ended well so far as you and yours are concerned. And I am always your ancient

LITTLE G.

Lx.x.xIX. {211b}

[_March_, 1881.]

MY DEAR LADY,

It was very, very good and kind of you to write to me about Spedding.

Yes: Aldis Wright had apprised me of the matter just after it happened--he happening to be in London at the time; and but two days after the accident heard that Spedding was quite calm, and even cheerful; only anxious that Wright himself should not be kept waiting for some communication which S. had promised him! Whether to live, or to die, he will be Socrates still.

Directly that I heard from Wright, I wrote to Mowbray Donne to send me just a Post Card--daily if he or his wife could--with but one or two words on it--'Better,' 'Less well,' or whatever it might be. This morning I hear that all is going on even better than could be expected, according to Miss Spedding. But I suppose the Crisis, which you tell me of, is not yet come; and I have always a terror of that French Adage--'_Monsieur se porte mal_--_Monsieur se porte mieux_--_Monsieur est_'--Ah, you know--or you guess, the rest.

My dear old Spedding, though I have not seen him these twenty years and more--and probably should never see him again--but he lives--his old Self--in my heart of hearts; and all I hear of him does but embellish the recollection of him--if it could be embellished--for he is but the same that he was from a Boy--all that is best in Heart and Head--a man that would be incredible had one not known him.

I certainly should have gone up to London--even with Eyes that will scarce face the lamps of Woodbridge--not to see him, but to hear the first intelligence I could about him. But I rely on the Postcard for but a Night's delay. Laurence, Mowbray tells me, had been to see him, and found him as calm as had been reported by Wright. But the Doctors had said that he should be kept as quiet as possible.

I think, from what Mowbray also says, that you may have seen our other old Friend Donne in somewhat worse plight than usual because of his being much shocked at this Accident. He would feel it indeed!--as you do.

I had even thought of writing to tell you of all this, but could not but suppose that you were more likely to know of it than myself; though sometimes one is greatly mistaken with those 'of course you knows, etc.'--But you have known it all: and have very kindly written of it to me, whom you might also have supposed already informed of it: but you took the trouble to write, not relying on 'of course you know, etc.'

I have thought lately that I ought to make some enquiry about Arthur Malkin, who was always very kind to me. I had meant to send him my Crabbe, who was a great favourite of his Father's, 'an excellent companion for Old Age' he told--Donne, I think. But I do not know if I ever did send him the Book, and now, judging by what you tell me, it is too late to do so, unless for Compliment.

The Sun, I see, has put my Fire out--for which I only thank him, and will go to look for him himself in my Garden--only with a Green Shade over my Eyes. I must get to London to see you before you move away to Leamington; when I can bear Sun or Lamp without odious blue Gla.s.ses, etc.

I dare to think those Eyes are better, though not Sun-proof: and I am ever yours

LITTLE G.

XC. {214}

20 _March_, [1881.]

MY DEAR LADY,

I have let the Full Moon pa.s.s because I thought you had written to me so lately, and so kindly, about our lost Spedding, that I would not call on you too soon again. Of him I will say nothing except that his Death has made me recall very many pa.s.sages in his Life in which I was partly concerned. In particular, staying at his c.u.mberland Home along with Tennyson in the May of 1835. 'Voila bien long temps de ca!' His Father and Mother were both alive--he, a wise man, who mounted his Cob after Breakfast, and was at his Farm till Dinner at two--then away again till Tea: after which he sat reading by a shaded lamp: saying very little, but always courteous, and quite content with any company his Son might bring to the house so long as they let him go his way: which indeed he would have gone whether they let him or no. But he had seen enough of Poets not to like them or their Trade: Sh.e.l.ley, for a time living among the Lakes: Coleridge at Southey's (whom perhaps he had a respect for--Southey, I mean), and Wordsworth, whom I do not think he valued. He was rather jealous of 'Jem,' who might have done available service in the world, he thought, giving himself up to such Dreamers; and sitting up with Tennyson conning over the Morte d'Arthur, Lord of Burleigh, and other things which helped to make up the two Volumes of 1842. So I always a.s.sociate that Arthur Idyll with Basanthwaite Lake, under Skiddaw. Mrs. Spedding was a sensible, motherly Lady, with whom I used to play Chess of a Night. And there was an old Friend of hers, Mrs. Bristow, who always reminded me of Miss La Creevy, if you know of such a Person in Nickleby.

At the end of May we went to lodge for a week at Windermere--where Wordsworth's new volume of Yarrow Revisited reached us. W. was then at his home: but Tennyson would not go to visit him: and of course I did not: nor even saw him.

You have, I suppose, the Carlyle Reminiscences: of which I will say nothing except that, much as we outsiders gain by them, I think that, on the whole, they had better have been kept unpublished--for some while at least. As also thinks Carlyle's Niece, who is surprised that Mr. Froude, whom her Uncle trusted above all men for the gift of Reticence, should have been in so much hurry to publish what was left to his Judgment to publish or no. But Carlyle himself, I think, should have stipulated for Delay, or retrenchment, if publisht at all.

Here is a dull and coldish Day after the fine ones we have had--which kept me out of doors as long as they lasted. Now one turns to the Fireside again. To-morrow is Equinox Day; when, if the Wind should return to North East, North East will it blow till June 21, as we all believe down here. My Eyes are better, I presume to say: but not what they were even before Christmas. Pray let me hear how you are, and believe me ever the same

E. F.G.

Oh! I doubted about sending you what I yet will send, as you already have what it refers to. It really calls for no comment from any one who does not know the Greek; those who do would probably repudiate it.

XCI. {216a}

[_April_, 1881.]

MY DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

Somewhat before my usual time, you see, but Easter {216b} comes, and I shall be glad to hear if you keep it in London, or elsewhere. Elsewhere there has been no inducement to go until To-day: when the Wind, though yet East, has turned to the Southern side of it: one can walk without any wrapper; and I dare to fancy we have turned the corner of Winter at last.

People talk of changed Seasons: only yesterday I was reading in my dear old Sevigne, how she was with the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Chaulnes at their Chateau of Chaulnes in Picardy all but two hundred years ago; that is in 1689: and the green has not as yet ventured to show its 'nez' nor a Nightingale to sing. {217} You see that I have returned to her as for some Spring Music, at any rate. As for the Birds, I have nothing but a Robin, who seems rather pleased when I sit down on a Bench under an Ivied Pollard, where I suppose he has a Nest, poor little Fellow. But we have terrible Superst.i.tions about him here; no less than that he always kills his Parents if he can: my young Reader is quite determined on this head: and there lately has been a Paper in some Magazine to the same effect.

My dear old Spedding sent me back to old Wordsworth too, who sings (his best songs, I think) about the Mountains and Lakes they were both a.s.sociated with: and with a quiet feeling he sings, that somehow comes home to me more now than ever it did before.

As to Carlyle--I thought on my first reading that he must have been '_egare_' at the time of writing: a condition which I well remember saying to Spedding long ago that one of his temperament might likely fall into. And now I see that Mrs. Oliphant hints at something of the sort.

Hers I think an admirable Paper: {218} better than has yet been written, or (I believe) is likely to be written by any one else. Merivale, who wrote me that he had seen you, had also seen Mrs. Procter, who was vowing vengeance, and threatening to publish letters from Carlyle to Basil Montagu full of 'fulsome flattery'--which I do not believe, and should not, I am sorry to say, unless I saw it in the original. I forget now what T. C. says of him: (I have lent the Book out)--but certainly Barry Cornwall told Thackeray he was 'a humbug'--which I think was no uncommon opinion: I do not mean dishonest: but of pretension to Learning and Wisdom far beyond the reality. I must think Carlyle's judgments mostly, or mainly, true; but that he must have 'lost his head,' if not when he recorded them, yet when he left them in any one's hands to decide on their publication. Especially when not about Public Men, but about their Families. It is slaying the Innocent with the Guilty. But of all this you have doubtless heard in London more than enough. 'Pauvre et triste humanite!' One's heart opens again to him at the last: sitting alone in the middle of her Room--'I want to die'--'I want--a Mother.' 'Ah, Mamma Letizia!' Napoleon is said to have murmured as he lay. By way of pendant to this, recurs to me the Story that when Ducis was wretched his mother would lay his head on her Bosom--'Ah, mon homme, mon pauvre homme!'

Well--I am expecting Aldis Wright here at Easter: and a young London Clerk (this latter I did invite for his short holiday, poor Fellow!).

Wright is to read me 'The Two n.o.ble Kinsmen.'

And now I have written more than enough for yourself and me: whose Eyes may be the worse for it to-morrow. I still go about in Blue Gla.s.ses, and flinch from Lamp and Candle. Pray let me know about your own Eyes, and your own Self; and believe me always sincerely yours

LITTLEGRANGE.

I really was relieved that you did not write to thank me for the poor flowers which I sent you. They were so poor that I thought you would feel bound so to do, and, when they were gone, repented. I have now some gay Hyacinths up, which make my pattypan Beds like China Dishes.

XCII. {219}

[_April_, 1881.]