THE NEW M.P. AND THE CLUB
Thackeray and the Reform Club—The popular M.P.—The Assassination
of Lincoln—Marriage.
[Sidenote: Thackeray as Champion.]
As Fawcett was often in London, his friends were anxious for him to
belong to a club. He was put up for membership at the Reform Club, but
to the chagrin of his friends, the committee was loath to admit a blind
man. It felt that he would be helpless and in the way. It delegated a
member to tell Fawcett tactfully the feeling in the matter. He received
the news with entire good humour and calmness, remarking quietly that
‘every club has a perfect right to elect, or to refuse to elect,
whomever it chooses on whatever ground it pleases.’ But the attitude of
Thackeray, who was a member of the club, was quite different; he felt
the ruling was outrageous, and said so, exclaiming ‘It is ridiculous—if
Mr. Fawcett is only brought into the dining-room or the library every
one of us there will forget that he is blind, and he will find his way
about without any difficulty.’ Vigorously taking up the cudgels,
Thackeray routed all prejudice against his friend, and Fawcett was
enthusiastically elected a member of the Reform Club. He received this
news of success with the same genial calm with which he had before
received that of failure.
It was a great disappointment to him that Thackeray, whom he had asked
to the Christmas dinner at Trinity Hall in 1863, was unable to come
owing to illness. Lady Ritchie remembers her father’s desire to go to
Cambridge for the famous festivity, and his regretful shake of the head
as he said, ‘No, I must give it up.’ Lady Ritchie adds, ‘We were so
sorry for him, and also because he admired Mr. Fawcett very much.’
Overwhelmed with invitations, he had a tremendously good time wherever
he went. If he was dining out, he would sometimes arrive at his host’s a
little before dinner, and ask to be shown to the dining-room and to have
the places where each guest was to sit pointed out to him; he never
forgot his lesson, so that during dinner he was able to speak quite
naturally, turning as if he saw to any one at the table, addressing them
by name. His conversation was delightful, and he had a marvellous
faculty of putting people at their ease. On one occasion his hostess was
absent when her guests arrived; a general formality and stiffness
pervaded the circle until Fawcett arrived and at once broke up the ice
and substituted a genial and comfortable glow of friendliness.
[Sidenote: The popular M.P.]
We have noted how he remembered people instantly by their voices, even
if many years had elapsed since an only hearing. To him every woman
seemed both charming and unforgettable. A friend tells how his wife, who
had not seen Fawcett for many years, entered the drawing-room at a large
reception. Although Fawcett was at the other end of the large room, he
at once disentangled the lady’s voice from the web of the general
conversation, and threaded his way through the crowd to speak with her.
It is worth pausing a moment to think what an exquisite sense of hearing
this story implies. What must the roar of a political mob have been to
an ear of such delicacy?
At this time, all who saw Fawcett were not only drawn to him by his
delightful and frank personality, but arrested by his strikingly
interesting appearance. Like Saul, his fine head towered far above the
people, his commanding height dominated any gathering. A great shock of
blond hair at this time added picturesqueness to his strong face, and
his vibrant voice roused all by its very earnestness; in intimate talk
he spoke rapidly, riveting attention by his complete sincerity.
Though truly a mighty talker, Fawcett had the rare accompanying grace of
absorbing himself in the conversation and interests of others.
Furthermore, his blindness, by quickening all his remaining faculties,
enabled him to hear without effort everything going on around him.
[Sidenote: The Lure within.]
The chatter in the brilliant drawing-rooms, the swish of silks, the
trailing of velvets on silken carpets, the rustle of starch and frills
on the parquet floor, the perfume used by the women, the smell of furs,
candles, lamps and the warm air heavy with fragrant flowers, the murmur
of distant fountains and music—everything touched the sensitive nervous
organism. Transmitting quickly hundreds of impressions to his swift
brain and wonderful imagination, they created for the blind man vividly
the scenes in which he moved, and in which he delighted with greater
keenness than the usual seeing person, and probably even more intensely
than if he had seen them actually with his bodily eye.
[Sidenote: Lincoln’s Assassination.]
He must have been in a listening mood one evening at a reception in
London, when he suddenly heard a girlish voice, vibrant with tense
emotion, say, ‘Oh, it would have been better if every crowned head in
Europe had been shot, than Lincoln!’ The voice belonged to Miss
Millicent Garrett, a girl of eighteen, who had just heard of Lincoln’s
assassination. Fawcett, too, was deeply moved by this news, and asked to
meet Miss Garrett. He found himself at once with her on a common ground
of sympathy, not only in the loss of the great emancipator, but in a
deep admiration for the lofty principles of liberty for which Lincoln
had given his life.
This meeting was the beginning of a rare understanding between two
strangely harmonious and independent natures, and in the autumn of 1866
Fawcett became engaged to Miss Garrett, whom he married on April 23,
1867. Mrs. Fawcett was the daughter of Mr. Newson Garrett of Aldeburgh.
The following notice of the event is taken from the _Suffolk Mercury_ of
the day:
‘The commanding figure of the bridegroom, which towered above the
surrounding gentlemen, bespoke him one of the tallest as well as one of
the most distinguished of his countrymen.
‘Amongst the most interesting of the wedding presents were a massive
repeating chronometer, sent by the Fellows of Cambridge University, and
a beautiful silver inkstand, the gift of one of Mr. Fawcett’s
constituents at Brighton.’
[Illustration: HENRY FAWCETT AND MRS. FAWCETT]
[Sidenote: Marriage.]
The marriage of Fawcett did more to help him realise his ambitions and
develop his intellectual abilities than any other event in his life. He
used to say that he fell in love with his wife’s mind, but from this we
must not imagine that she lacked personal charm and a vivacious sense of
humour. Their affection rested on a strong foundation of common
principles and interests and of the love of freedom and justice.
A vivid impression of this unique and romantic couple is sketched for us
in the accompanying story told by Lord Avebury.[1]
Sir John Lubbock, as he then was, was waiting at the Railway Station on
his way to Wiltshire, when his attention was called to a reserved
compartment decorated gaily with flowers. On asking the station-master
to explain this unusual phenomenon, he was informed that the compartment
was reserved for Professor Fawcett and his bride, who were about to
start on their wedding trip.
[Sidenote: A Trio and a Wedding Trip.]
Just then Fawcett loomed in sight, his little girlish bride hanging on
his arm. Sir John tried to vanish, but Fawcett’s marvellous intuition
had already detected his presence, and the blind man cried out in that
voice which scorned concealment: ‘Hello, Sir John, I want you to meet my
wife. We are going on our wedding trip; you must come along!’
Willy nilly, Sir John was seized by the giant and hustled after the
bride into the beflowered compartment. Much embarrassed, he protested as
best he could, and tried to extricate himself, but Fawcett would not
hear of it, and insisted on his accompanying them upon their wedding
trip. Sir John made another heroic effort for flight, but just then the
guard slammed the door, and he was forced to form a third for a part of
the honeymoon.
This cordiality to his friends on all occasions was one of Fawcett’s
chief characteristics. He could not imagine any one whom he liked being
in the way; and his wife’s sense of fun always managed to make what
might have been otherwise a difficult situation amusing and acceptable.
For the honeymoon Fawcett had taken a small cottage at Alderbury. The
country had been familiar to him when he was there as a schoolboy. Each
day he took his bride on some new and lovely drive, stopping on the way
to show her the views which he loved and so well remembered.
[Sidenote: Mrs. Fawcett.]
Mrs. Fawcett had been before her marriage deeply interested in the
questions of social interest which absorbed Fawcett. She had his entire
sympathy both in her independent work as a political economist and in
her championship of woman suffrage.
After their marriage, they published together a collection of essays and
lectures. Mrs. Fawcett’s _Political Economy for Beginners_ appeared
shortly after, and quickly won its way to popularity. Fawcett was always
eager in acknowledging his wife’s help, and not only as his literary
critic and editor. He valued her judgment in political matters more than
his own, and would leave important questions unsettled until he had
discussed them with her.
He gave a touching proof of his devotion and belief in her ability when
a sudden accident threatened Mrs. Fawcett’s life, and shook him out of
his usual reserve. They had been riding together at Brighton, when Mrs.
Fawcett was thrown violently from her horse. The fall knocked her
senseless, and she did not regain consciousness for some time. The blind
man could not be convinced that her stupor was not death, and that his
friends, were not deceiving him. The grief and uncontrollable weeping of
the big man were infinitely touching. He was so completely overcome that
he had to give up an election meeting which he had expected to attend in
the evening. On the following day, at a great assembly, he referred to
his absence, and thanked the constituency for its previous support,
saying that whatever difficulties he had met had been surmounted with
the aid of others, and because he had ‘a help-mate whose political
judgment was much less frequently at fault than his own.’ This was his
attitude to his wife and her opinions throughout his life.
Footnote 1:
The above was given to the writer by the late Lord Avebury at his home
in London in 1911; it is taken directly from the notes made at the
time.