DEATH OF DR. MITFORD
The terrible calamity which marred Miss Barrett’s health-seeking
sojourn in Torquay so unnerved her that it was feared her reason
would give way and that she would succumb to her grief. Under these
circumstances it was decided to remove her without delay back to
Wimpole Street, the long journey, by road, being undertaken in a
specially-constructed carriage in which a number of contrivances had
been embodied in order to avoid any jarring or other inconvenience to
the invalid. From that date onward numberless letters passed between
the two friends—Miss Barrett with her burden of sorrow and Miss
Mitford with her load of care and poverty.
The friendship was of such a character that each wrote to the other
with the greatest freedom and there can be no doubt that this
interchange of ideas and outpouring of heart afforded a blessed
relief to both, and especially to Miss Mitford, who had so few
intimates among women. Indeed we may safely affirm that it was to
only two people—William Harness and Miss Barrett—that Miss Mitford
ever really laid bare her true self. Thus in the letters of 1842, a
year destined to rank as the most trying and painful in the whole of
Miss Mitford’s life, we find her telling out frankly the full tale of
her miseries.
“It will help you to understand how impossible it is for me to earn
money as I ought to do, when I tell you that this very day I received
your dear letter, and sixteen others; that then my father brought
the newspaper to hear the ten or twelve columns of news from India.
By that time there were three parties of people in the garden; eight
others arrived soon after—some friends, some acquaintances, some
strangers. My father sees me greatly fatigued—much worn—losing
my voice even in common conversation; and he lays it all to the
last walk or drive—the only thing that keeps me alive—and tells
everybody he sees that I am killing myself by walking or driving; and
he hopes that I shall at last take some little care of myself and not
stir beyond the garden. Is not this the perfection of self-deception?
And yet I would not awaken him from this dream—no, not for all the
world—so strong a hold sometimes does a light word take of his
memory and his heart—he broods over it—cries over it!” This was
written to excuse herself from accepting an invitation to town.
Later she details how, when her father was at last got to sleep,
she stole out of the house at night with Flush, the spaniel, and
the puppies, for a scamper round the meadows. “How grateful I am,”
she added, “to that great, gracious Providence who makes the most
intense enjoyment the cheapest and the commonest!”—truly she was
thankful for the small mercies—“And my father tells me I am killing
myself—as if that which is balm and renovation were poison and
suicide.
“It is now half-past one and my father has only this very moment gone
into his room to bed. He sleeps all the afternoon in the garden,
and then would sit up all night to be read to.” Then, as if the
cares of the household were not enough, the Doctor invited “that
gander feast, the Reading Whist Club, out to dine; and then, between
helping to cook, and talking and waiting upon the good folks, we
got the stiffness rubbed out of our bones in a wonderful manner.”
The stiffness alluded to was occasioned by being caught in a storm
while out driving, but it will be noticed there is no mention of
the expense of this “gander feast,” arranged, as it was, simply in
order to satisfy that father, whom to cross might result in his
prostration and tears! “I am content to die,” she wrote, “if only
preserved from the far bitterer misery of seeing my dear, dear father
want his accustomed comforts; content, ay, happy, if that far deeper
wretchedness be spared.” It was indeed fortunate, in a sense, that
Miss Barrett was willing to read all this and never question the
attitude adopted by her friend to this selfish father. Possibly it
was patent to all who knew Miss Mitford intimately that to attempt
to question the wisdom of her self-sacrifice could only result in
adding pain to a heart already over-full with grief. Happily, too,
there were occasional breaks to this almost incessant gloom. In July
she wrote to say how gratified she had been at learning from a friend
that, while travelling in Spain, and being laid up with illness,
longing for “some English or English-like book, he received a Spanish
translation of _Our Village_. A real compliment, and I tell you of
it, just as I told my father, because I know that it will please your
dear heart.”
Then in September she was greatly gratified by receiving a respectful
invitation to lay the foundation stone of a new reading-room in
Reading. The invitation was accepted and the pleasure enhanced by the
insistence of the “dear papa” that he should make one of the party.
The arrival of the Mitfords was not less imposing than the ceremony
itself, the four persons absolutely necessary to help the Doctor in
and out of his very low carriage being sent on beforehand to await
his arrival, amid the cheers of the assembled crowd. The function was
followed by a tea-party and concert, to which the visitors stayed.
“If ever I am ungrateful enough to bemoan my isolated position, I
ought to think over the assemblage in order to feel the thankfulness
that thrilled through my very heart at the true and honest kindness
with which I was received. It was an enthusiasm of man, woman, and
child—hundreds—thousands—such as I can hardly venture to describe,
and it lasted all the time I stayed. Indeed, the pleasure amounted
to pain, so confusing was it to hear the over-praise of which I felt
myself unworthy. But it was not the praise that was so touching,
it was the kindness, the affection. My father cried, K——[29]
cried, Dora Smith cried, I think more than all, at the true, honest,
generous heartiness of the people.”
And there was yet another event to be recorded, something so
wonderful that news of it must, perforce, be sent to the friend in
London. The Doctor, dining with a friend off a brace of grouse sent
by another friend, “took three glasses of claret, and afterwards two
glasses more; enjoying them, not taking them, as he does the gravy,
medicinally; but feeling the pleasure, the strange pleasure, that
gentlemen do feel in the scent and taste of fine wine, especially
when shared with a friend. _And he called me again, ‘my treasure,’_
always his favourite word for his poor daughter. It rejoices my
heart. _Of course its previous omission was accidental._ I feel sure
now that he was not angry; but before, I had _so_ feared it; and it
had _so_ grieved me—grieved me to the very bottom of my heart. So
that, if it had pleased God to take him _then_, I do believe that
I should have died of very grief. I thought that I must have said
something, or done something, or left something unsaid or undone,
that had displeased him. _Now_, so far as that goes, my heart is at
ease, and it is the taking off of a great load.”
This was written on November 20. A day or two afterwards the Doctor
grew suddenly worse, so bad indeed that his daughter feared for his
life. The days were spent in watching and praying by his bedside,
with reading from St. John’s Gospel, “which he and I both prefer,”
and with frequent visits from the Shinfield clergyman, who must have
noted what was, possibly, hidden from the daughter’s eyes, that the
old man was sinking fast. By the last day of November his condition
was most alarming, so much so that as Dr. May from Reading had
not arrived, Miss Mitford set off with Ben, the gardener, in the
pony-chaise to fetch him. It was a Sunday evening, pitch-dark, and
they had to trust to the pony’s instinct to find their way. Dr. May
was not at home when they arrived, and, after a fruitless wait for
him, and receiving some advice from the physician’s partner, they
set off home again at seven o’clock. The darkness was still intense,
so that they could see little before them, and they had just reached
a spot half-way to home when two footpads sprung at them from the
hedge on either side the road. One wrenched the reins from Ben, the
other seized Miss Mitford’s umbrella; the pony, plunging from the
tug at the reins, caused one of the miscreants to swerve in the act
of aiming a blow with a bludgeon at Ben. The blow descended on the
pony’s flanks, making it dart forward with a terrific plunge and then
tear madly off home. The suddenness of the whole thing threw off both
the men, one of whom fell beneath the chaise and was run over. By a
merciful Providence no vehicle or other person was met on the road,
for Ben could not control the pony until the cottage was neared,
when the sagacious creature slowed up of its own accord and stopped
quietly at the door.
No hint of this adventure reached Dr. Mitford, lest the shock should
make him worse, although, naturally enough, Miss Mitford would gladly
have told him, so shaken and unnerved was she. Weak and ill, the
brave and unselfish woman watched by her parent, tending and nursing
him, allowing no one to take the principal duties from her; rarely
sleeping, and then only when forced to do so from sheer exhaustion,
until at last, early on the morning of December 11, the death of her
father released her from the long vigil.
“All friends are kind and very soothing,” wrote the stricken woman
to Miss Barrett, “but not half so soothing as your sweet kindness,
my dearest. Oh! let me think of you as a most dear friend—almost
a daughter, for such you have been to me.... Everybody is so kind!
The principal farmers are striving who shall carry the coffin.
Surely this is not common—to an impoverished man—one long
impoverished—one whose successor is utterly powerless! This is
disinterested, if anything were so, and therefore very touching,
very dear. Perhaps I have shed more tears for the gratitude caused
by this kindness and other kindnesses than for the great, great
grief! That seems to lock up the fountain; this to unseal it.
Bless you, my beloved, for all your inimitable kindness! Oh! how
_he_ loved to bless you! He seldom spoke the dear name without the
benediction—‘Miss Barrett! dear Miss Barrett! Heaven bless her!’ How
often has he said that! I seem to love the name the better for that
recollection.... I am resigned—indeed I am. I know that it is right,
and that it is His will.”
The funeral was an imposing affair; “the chief gentry of the country
sent to request to follow his remains to the grave; the six principal
farmers of the parish begged to officiate as his bearers; they came
in new suits of mourning, and were so deeply affected that they
could hardly lift the coffin. Every house in our village street was
shut up; the highway was lined with farmers and tradesmen, in deep
mourning, on horseback and in phaetons, who followed the procession;
they again were followed by poor people on foot. The church and
churchyard were crowded, and the building resounded with tears and
sobs when the coffin was lowered into the vault. The same scene
recurred on the ensuing Sunday, when every creature in the crowded
congregation appeared in black to hear the sermon—even the very
poorest wearing some sign of the mourning that was so truly felt.”
This was, as may be easily inferred, Miss Mitford’s own account
of the proceedings, but, as Mr. H. F. Chorley pointed out in his
published volume of her letters, although one cannot doubt the
sincerity of the report, it was one “utterly baseless on anything
like fact, or the feelings of those who knew the whole story. Dr.
Mitford was tolerated because she was beloved. The respect paid to
his remains was not so much to them as to her.”
When all was over, there came the inevitable day of reckoning, and
Miss Mitford had to face an appalling list of debts accumulated
by her father’s extravagance, liabilities amounting to close upon
£1,000. The sum seems incredible in view of Miss Mitford’s earnings
and of the help which had been periodically obtained from William
Harness in addition to the State pension. How can such a condition
of affairs be accounted for? A clue is, we think, to be found in a
letter which Miss Mitford wrote to a friend some six months before
her father died. “At eighty, my father is privileged to dislike
being put out of his way in the smallest degree, as company always
does, so that I make it as unfrequent as possible, and the things
that weigh upon me are not an occasional bottle or two of port or
claret or champagne, but the keeping two horses instead of one, the
turning half a dozen people for months into the garden, which ought
to be cultivated by one person, and even the building—as I see he
is now meditating—a new carriage, when we have already two, but
too expensive. These _are_ trials, when upon my sinking health and
overburdened strength lies the task of providing for them;—when,
in short, I have to provide for expenses over which I have no more
control than my own dog, Flush.... It is too late now for the
slightest hope of change; and his affection for me is so great, that
to hint at the subject would not only shock him, but perhaps endanger
his health.”
Thus, with a heritage of liabilities, Miss Mitford came back from her
father’s funeral to think out some scheme of personal effort which
would not only give her something upon which to exist but remove the
stigma attaching to her father’s name. When the true state of affairs
became public property her friends decided to raise a subscription
in the hope of clearing the whole amount. Nothing short of complete
satisfaction to all creditors would content Miss Mitford, who
determined that “everybody shall be paid, if I have to sell the gown
off my back, or pledge my little pension.”
The subscription project was taken up very heartily, appeals, signed
by many influential people, being printed in the _Times_ and _Morning
Chronicle_, and by the following March nearly a thousand pounds had
been received, with a promise of further donations amounting to
some hundreds, the final idea of the promoters being that not only
should the debts be paid but that a goodly amount should be handed
over to Miss Mitford wherewith to make a fresh start and to provide
an annuity. Writing on the subject to Miss Jephson, Miss Mitford
intimated that the Queen was among the subscribers, but desired that
her name be not mentioned, “as she gives from her private income, and
fears being subjected to solicitation (this adds to the compliment,
as it proves it is not a matter of form).” In addition to this there
were contributions from many of the nobility and notables in the
literary and artistic world, thus testifying to the great esteem in
which Miss Mitford was held. It must have been very gratifying to
her to be thus remembered in this her bitterest hour of need. Nor
was this the only evidence of goodwill, for many of the neighbouring
gentry vied with each other in paying little attentions to the
lone woman, in offers of hospitality and in a hundred small and
unostentatious ways, which touched her deeply. “I never before had
an idea of my own popularity, and I have on two or three occasions
shed tears of pure thankfulness at reading the letters which have
been written to, or about, me.... I only pray God that I may deserve
half that has been said of me. So far as the truest and humblest
thankfulness may merit such kindness, I am, perhaps, not wholly
undeserving, for praise always makes me humble. I always feel that I
am over-valued; and such is, I suppose, its effect on every mind not
exceedingly vainglorious.”
Perhaps the most touching of the many kindnesses now showered upon
her was that of Mr. George Lovejoy, the famous bookseller of Reading,
who made her free of his large and very complete circulating library
and afforded her a most lavish supply of books. The Library was
founded in the year 1832 by Mr. Lovejoy and came to be regarded as
the finest of its kind in the Provinces. He was, himself, a man of
considerable learning and possessed amiable characteristics which
endeared him to all and sundry, especially to the children, who were
in the habit of appealing to him to solve any problems which might
be bothering their small heads, whilst he was frequently besieged by
them for pieces of string in the peg-top season. And not only did the
children consult him, for he gathered about him quite a number of
literary people to whom he was indeed a counsellor and friend. His
shop was the rendezvous for the County, among the most frequent
visitors being Charles Kingsley—Eversley being but fourteen miles
distant—and Miss Mitford, with any literary friends who happened to
be calling on her at the time. “In general we can get any books we
wish at the excellent Reading library (Lovejoy’s); he, or I, have
all you mention,” wrote Miss Mitford to a friend who had suggested
certain books for perusal.
[Illustration: Mr. George Lovejoy, Bookseller, of Reading.]
“I have been too much spoiled,” she wrote later; “at this moment
I have eight sets of books belonging to Mr. Lovejoy. I have every
periodical within a week, and generally cut open every interesting
new publication—getting them literally the day before publication.”
The Lovejoy Library was noted from its earliest days for the very
fine collection of Foreign works which it contained, and this alone
would have made it invaluable to Miss Mitford, whose love for French
and Italian literature was remarkable.
Then, too, Mr. Lovejoy undertook little commissions for his friend
when she required anything obtained specially in London, getting
his London agents to enclose the goods in his book parcel and, when
received, despatching it by special messenger to the cottage at Three
Mile Cross. Throughout the letters he is frequently referred to as
“Dear Mr. Lovejoy,” or “My dear friend, Mr. Lovejoy. Nobody certainly
ever had such a friend as he is to me, and all his servants and
people are as kind as he is himself.”
So, with kind friends about her, Miss Mitford strove to forget
her sorrow and to devote herself once more to literary work.
Unfortunately, however, the cottage was once again showing itself the
worse for wear, and it was a question as to whether it should not be
given up in favour of some other habitation near at hand. It was at
length decided, at the suggestion of Mr. Blandy, of Reading—who was
at that time managing Miss Mitford’s affairs under instructions from
William Harness—that, if the rent could be adjusted to suit Miss
Mitford’s purse, the cottage should be renovated and she stay on.
This was all agreed to, and while the painters and decorators were in
possession, Miss Mitford departed to Bath for a fortnight’s holiday.
Returning somewhat unexpectedly, she found the workmen dawdling and
the maid, who had been left in charge, absent at the theatre, a state
of things which stirred her to great activity and indignation, “and
the scolding which I found it my duty to administer, quite took the
edge off my sadness.”
FOOTNOTES:
[29] Kerenhappuck, her companion.