From this place where I am writing my way through the summer, in the
midst of rosy gardens and sea airs, I cannot forbear writing to tell you
with what uncommon pleasure I received your interesting letter, and how
sensible I always am of your kindness and generosity. You were always in
the mind of my household during your illness; and to have so beautiful,
and fresh, and manly an assurance of your recovery from it, under your
own hand, is a privilege and delight that I will say no more of.
I am so glad you like Flora. It came into my head one day that we have
all had our Floras, and that it was a half-serious, half-ridiculous
truth which had never been told. It is a wonderful gratification to me
to find that everybody knows her. Indeed, some people seem to think I
have done them a personal injury, and that their individual Floras (God
knows where they are, or who!) are each and all Little Dorrit's.
We were all grievously disappointed that you were ill when we played Mr.
Collins's "Lighthouse" at my house. If you had been well, I should have
waited upon you with my humble petition that you would come and see it;
and if you had come I think you would have cried, which would have
charmed me. I hope to produce another play at home next Christmas, and
if I can only persuade you to see it from a special arm-chair, and can
only make you wretched, my satisfaction will be intense. May I tell you,
to beguile a moment, of a little "Tag," or end of a piece, I saw in
Paris this last winter, which struck me as the prettiest I had ever met
with? The piece was not a new one, but a revival at the Vaudeville--"Les
Memoires du Diable." Admirably constructed, very interesting, and
extremely well played. The plot is, that a certain M. Robin has come
into possession of the papers of a deceased lawyer, and finds some
relating to the wrongful withholding of an estate from a certain
baroness, and to certain other frauds (involving even the denial of the
marriage to the deceased baron, and the tarnishing of his good name)
which are so very wicked that he binds them up in a book and labels them
"Memoires du Diable." Armed with this knowledge he goes down to the
desolate old chateau in the country--part of the wrested-away
estate--from which the baroness and her daughter are going to be
ejected. He informs the mother that he can right her and restore the
property, but must have, as his reward, her daughter's hand in marriage.
She replies: "I cannot promise my daughter to a man of whom I know
nothing. The gain would be an unspeakable happiness, but I resolutely
decline the bargain." The daughter, however, has observed all, and she
comes forward and says: "Do what you have promised my mother you can do,
and I am yours." Then the piece goes on to its development, in an
admirable way, through the unmasking of all the hypocrites. Now, M.
Robin, partly through his knowledge of the secret ways of the old
chateau (derived from the lawyer's papers), and partly through his going
to a masquerade as the devil--the better to explode what he knows on the
hypocrites--is supposed by the servants at the chateau really to be the
devil. At the opening of the last act he suddenly appears there before
the young lady, and she screams, but, recovering and laughing, says:
"You are not really the ----?" "Oh dear no!" he replies, "have no
connection with him. But these people down here are so frightened and
absurd! See this little toy on the table; I open it; here's a little
bell. They have a notion that whenever this bell rings I shall appear.
Very ignorant, is it not?" "Very, indeed," says she. "Well," says M.
Robin, "if you should want me very much to appear, try the bell, if only
for a jest. Will you promise?" Yes, she promises, and the play goes on.
At last he has righted the baroness completely, and has only to hand
her the last document, which proves her marriage and restores her good
name. Then he says: "Madame, in the progress of these endeavours I have
learnt the happiness of doing good for its own sake. I made a necessary
bargain with you; I release you from it. I have done what I undertook to
do. I wish you and your amiable daughter all happiness. Adieu! I take my
leave." Bows himself out. People on the stage astonished. Audience
astonished--incensed. The daughter is going to cry, when she looks at
the box on the table, remembers the bell, runs to it and rings it, and
he rushes back and takes her to his heart; upon which we all cry with
pleasure, and then laugh heartily.
This looks dreadfully long, and perhaps you know it already. If so, I
will endeavour to make amends with Flora in future numbers.
Mrs. Dickens and her sister beg to present their remembrances to your
Grace, and their congratulations on your recovery. I saw Paxton now and
then when you were ill, and always received from him most encouraging
accounts. I don't know how heavy he is going to be (I mean in the
scale), but I begin to think Daniel Lambert must have been in his
family.
Ever your Grace's faithful and obliged.
[Sidenote: Mr. W. C. Macready.]
VILLA DES MOULINEAUX, BOULOGNE,
_Tuesday, July 8th, 1856._