(No date)
Ah, my dearest Mr. Fields, how inimitably good and kind you are to
me! Your account of Rachel is most delightful, the rather that it
confirms a preconceived notion which two of my friends had taken
pains to change. Henry Chorley, not only by his own opinion, but by
that of Scribe, who told him that there was no comparison between
her and Viardot. Now if Viardot, even in that one famous part of
Fides, excels Rachel, she must be much the finer actress, having the
horrible drawback of the music to get over. My other friend told me
a story of her, in the modern play of Virginie; she declared that
when in her father's arms she pointed to the butcher's knife,
telling him what to do, and completely reversing that loveliest
story; but I hold to your version of her genius, even admitting that
she did commit the Virginie iniquity, which would be intensely
characteristic of her calling,--all actors and actresses having a
desire to play the whole play themselves, speaking every speech,
producing every effect in their own person. No doubt she is a great
actress, and still more assuredly is Louis Napoleon a great man, a
man of genius, which includes in my mind both sensibility and charm.
There are little bits of his writing from Ham, one where he speaks
of "le repos de ma prison," another long and most eloquent passage
on exile, which ends (I forget the exact words) with a sentiment
full of truth and sensibility. He is speaking of the treatment shown
to an exile in a foreign land, of the mistiness and coldness of
some, of the blandness and smoothness of others, and he goes on to
say, "He must be a man of ten thousand who behaves to an exile just
as he would behave to another person." If I could trust you to
perform a commission for me, and let me pay you the money you spent
upon it, I would ask you to bring me a cheap but comprehensive life
of him, with his works and speeches, and a portrait as like him as
possible. I asked an English friend to do this for me, and fancy his
sending me a book dated on the outside 1847!!!! Did I ever tell you
a pretty story of him, when he was in England after Strasburg and
before Boulogne, and which I know to be true? He spent a twelvemonth
at Leamington, living in the quietest manner. One of the principal
persons there is Mr. Hampden, a descendant of John Hampden, and the
elder brother of the Bishop. Mr. Hampden, himself a very liberal and
accomplished man, made a point of showing every attention in his
power to the Prince, and they soon became very intimate. There was
in the town an old officer of the Emperor's Polish Legion who,
compelled to leave France after Waterloo, had taken refuge in
England, and, having the national talent for languages, maintained
himself by teaching French, Italian, and German in different
families. The old exile and the young one found each other out, and
the language master was soon an habitual guest at the Prince's
table, and treated by him with the most affectionate attention. At
last Louis Napoleon wearied of a country town and repaired to
London; but before he went he called on Mr. Hampden to take leave.
After warm thanks for all the pleasure he had experienced in his
society, he said: "I am about to prove to you my entire reliance
upon your unfailing kindness by leaving you a legacy. I want to ask
you to transfer to my poor old friend the goodness you have lavished
upon me. His health is failing, his means are small. Will you call
upon him sometimes? and will you see that those lodging-house people
do not neglect him? and will you, above all, do for him what he will
not do for himself, draw upon me for what may be wanting for his
needs or for his comforts?" Mr. Hampden promised. The prophecy
proved true; the poor old man grew worse and worse, and finally
died. Mr. Hampden, as he had promised, replaced the Prince in his
kind attentions to his old friend, and finally defrayed the charges
of his illness and of his funeral. "I would willingly have paid them
myself," said he, "but I knew that that would have offended and
grieved the Prince, so I honestly divided the expenses with him, and
I found that full provision had been made at his banker's to answer
my drafts to a much larger amount." Now I have full faith in such a
nature. Let me add that he never forgot Mr. Hampden's kindness,
sending him his different brochures and the kindest messages, both
from Ham and the Elysée. If one did not not admire Louis Napoleon, I
should like to know upon whom one could, as a public man, fix one's
admiration! Just look at our English statesmen! And see the state to
which self-government brings everything! Look at London with all its
sanitary questions just in the same state as ten years ago; look at
all our acts of Parliament, one half of a session passed in amending
the mismanagement of the other. For my own part, I really believe
that there is nothing like one mind, one wise and good ruler; and I
verily believe that the President of France is that man. My only
doubt being whether the people are worthy of him, fickle as they
are, like all great masses,--the French people, in particular. By
the way, if a most vilely translated book, called the "Prisoner of
Ham," be extant in French, I should like to possess it. The account
of the escape looks true, and is most interesting.
I have been exceedingly struck, since I last wrote to you, by some
extracts from Edgar Poe's writings; I mean a book called "The
Readable Library," composed of selections from his works, prose and
verse. The famous ones are, I find, The Maelstrom and The Raven;
without denying their high merits, I prefer that fine poem on The
Bells, quite as fine as Schiller's, and those remarkable bits of
stories on circumstantial evidence. I am lower, dear friend, than
ever, and what is worse, in supporting myself on my hand I have
strained my right side and can hardly turn in bed. But if we cannot
walk round Swallowfield, we can drive, and the very sight of you
will do me good. If Mr. Bentley send me only one copy of that
engraving, it shall be for you. You know I have a copy for you of
the book. There are no words to tell the letters and books I receive
about it, so I suppose it is popular. I have lost, as you know, my
most accomplished and admirable neighbor, Sir Henry Russell, the
worthy successor of the great Lord Clarendon. His eldest daughter is
my favorite young friend, a most lovely creature, the ideal of a
poet. I hope you will see Beranger. Heaven bless you!
Ever yours, M.R.M.
Saturday Night.
Ah, my very dear friend, how can I ever thank you? But I don't want
to thank you. There are some persons (very few, though) to whom it
is a happiness to be indebted, and you are one of them. The books
and the busts are arrived. Poor dear Louis Napoleon with his head
off--Heaven avert the omen! Of course _that_ head can be replaced, I
mean stuck on again upon its proper shoulders. Beranger is a
beautiful old man, just what one fancies him and loves to fancy him.
I hope you saw him. To my mind, he is the very greatest poet now
alive, perhaps the greatest man, the truest and best type of perfect
independence. Thanks a thousand and a thousand times for those
charming busts and for the books. Mrs. Browning had mentioned to me
Mr. Read. If I live to write another book, I shall put him and Mr.
Taylor and Mr. Stoddard together, and try to do justice to Poe. I
have a good right to love America and the Americans. My Mr. Lucas
tells me to go, and says he has a mind to go. I want you to know
John Lucas, not only the finest portrait-painter, but about the very
finest mind that I know in the world. He might be.... for talent and
manner and heart; and, if you like, you shall, when I am dead, have
the portrait he has just taken of me. I make the reserve, instead of
giving it to you now, because it is possible that he might wish (I
know he does) to paint one for himself, and if I be dead before
sitting to him again, the present one would serve him to copy. Mr.
Bentley wanted to purchase it, and many have wanted it, but it shall
be for you.
Now, my very dear friend, I am afraid that Mr. ---- has said or done
something that would make you rather come here alone. His last
letter to me, after a month's silence, was _odd_. There was no
fixing upon line or word; still it was not like his other letters,
and I suppose the air of ---- is not genial, and yet dear Mr.
Bennoch breathes it often! You must know that I never could have
meant for one instant to impose him upon you as a companion. Only in
the autumn there had been a talk of his joining your party. He knows
Mr. Bennoch.... He has been very kind and attentive to me, and is, I
verily believe, an excellent and true-hearted person; and so I was
willing that, if all fell out well, he should have the pleasure of
your society here,--the rather that I am sometimes so poorly, and
always so helpless now, that one who knows the place might be of
use. But to think that for one moment I would make your time or your
wishes bend to his is out of the question. Come at your own time, as
soon and as often as you can. I should say this to any one going
away three thousand miles off, much more to you, and forgive my
having even hinted at his coming too. I only did it thinking it
might fix you and suit you. In this view I wrote to him yesterday,
to tell him that on Wednesday next there would be a cricket-match at
Bramshill, one of the finest old mansions in England, a Tudor Manor
House, altered by Inigo Jones, and formerly the residence of Prince
Henry, the elder son of James the First. In the grand old park
belonging to that grand old place, there will be on that afternoon a
cricket-match. I thought you would like to see our national game in
a scene so perfectly well adapted to show it to advantage. Being in
Mr. Kingsley's parish, and he very intimate with the owner, it is
most likely, too, that he will be there; so that altogether it
seemed to me something that you and dear Mr. and Mrs. Bennoch might
like to see. My poor little pony could take you from hence; but not
to fetch or carry you, and if the dear Bennochs come, it would be
advisable to let the flymen know the place of destination, because,
Sir William Cope being a new-comer, I am not sure whether he (like
his predecessor, whom I knew) allows horses and carriages to be put
up there. I should like you to look on for half an hour at a
cricket-match in Bramshill Park, and to be with you at a scene so
English and so beautiful. We could dine here afterwards, the Great
Western allowing till a quarter before nine in the evening. Contrive
this if you can, and let me know by return of post, and forgive my
_mal addresse_ about Mr. ----. There certainly has something come
across him,--not about you, but about me; one thing is, I think, his
extreme politics. I always find these violent Radicals very
unwilling to allow in others the unlimited freedom of thought that
they claim for themselves. He can't forgive my love for the
President. Now I must tell you a story I know to be true. A lady of
rank was placed next the Prince a year or two ago. He was very
gentle and courteous, but very silent, and she wanted to make him
talk. At last she remembered that, having been in Switzerland twenty
years before, she had received some kindness from the Queen
Hortense, and had spent a day at Arenenburg. She told him so,
speaking with warm admiration of the Queen. "Ah, madame, vous avez
connu ma mère!" exclaimed Louis Napoleon, turning to her eagerly and
talking of the place and the people as a school-boy talks of home.
She spent some months in Paris, receiving from the Prince every
attention which his position enabled him to show; and when she
thanked him for such kindness, his answer was always: "Ah, madame,
vous avez connu ma mère!" Is it in woman's heart not to love such a
man? And then look at the purchase of the Murillo the other day, and
the thousand really great things that he is doing. Mr. ---- is a
goose.
I send this letter to the post to-morrow, when I send other
letters,--a vile, puritanical post-office arrangement not permitting
us to send letters in the afternoon, unless we send straight to
Reading (six miles) on purpose,--so perhaps this may cross an answer
from Mr. ---- or from you about Bramshill; perhaps, on the other
hand, I may have to write again. At all events, you will understand
that this is written on Saturday night. God bless you, my very dear
and kind friend.
Ever faithfully yours, M.R.M.
May 24, 1852.
Ah, dearest Mr. Fields, how much too good and kind you are to me
always! ... I wish I were better, that I might go to town and see
more of you; but I am more lame than ever, and having, in my weight
and my shortness and my extreme helplessness, caught at tables and
chairs and dragged myself along that fashion, I have now so strained
the upper part of the body that I cannot turn in bed, and am full of
muscular pains which are worse than the rheumatism and more
disabling, so that I seem to cumber the earth. They say that summer,
when it comes, will do me good. How much more sure that the sight of
you will do me good, and I trust that, when your business will let
you, you will give me that happiness. In the mean while will you
take the trouble to send the enclosed and my answer, if it be fit
and proper and properly addressed? I give you this office, because
really the kindness seems so large and unlimited, that, if the
letter had not come enclosed in one from Mr. Kenyon, one could
hardly have believed it to be serious, and yet I am well used to
kindness, too. I thank over and over again your glorious poets for
their kindness, and tell Mr. Hawthorne I shall prize a letter from
him beyond all the worlds one has to give. I rejoice to hear of the
new work, and can answer for its excellence.
I trust that the English edition of Dr. Holmes will contain the
"Astraea," and the "Morning Visit," and the "Cambridge Address." I
am not sure, in my secret soul, that I do not prefer him to any
American poet. Besides his inimitable word-painting, the charity is
so large and the scale so fine. How kind in you to like my
book,--some people do like it. I am afraid to tell you what John
Ruskin says of it from Venice, and I get letters, from ten to twenty
a day. You know how little I dreamt of this! Mrs. Trollope has sent
me a most affectionate letter, bemoaning her ill-fortune in missing
you. I thank you for the Galignani edition, and the presidential
kindness, and all your goodness of every sort. I have nothing to
give you but as large a share of my poor affection as I think any
human being has. You know a copy of the book from me has been
waiting for you these three months. Adieu, my dear friend.
Ever yours,