Through the long history of human relations, which is the history of the
life of our race, there sounds at intervals the clamour of a single voice
which has not the tone of oratory, but asks, answers, interrupts itself,
interrupts--what else? Whatever else it interrupts is silence; there are
pauses, but no answers. There is the jest without the laugh, and again
the laugh without the jest. And this is because the letters written by
Madame de Sevigne were all saved, and not many written to her; because
Swift burnt the letters that were the dearest things in life to him,
while "MD" both made a treasury of his; and because Prue kept all the
letters which Steele wrote to her from their marriage-day onwards, and
Steele kept none of hers.
In Swift's case the silence is full of echoes; that is to say, his
letters repeat the phrases of Stella's and Dingley's, to play with them,
flout them, and toss them back against the two silenced voices. He never
lets the word of these two women fall to the ground; and when they have
but blundered with it, and aimed it wide, and sent it weakly, he will
catch it, and play you twenty delicate and expert juggling pranks with it
as he sends it back into their innocent faces. So we have something of
MD's letters in the "journal," and this in the only form in which we
desire them, to tell the truth; for when Swift gravely saves us some
specimens of Stella's wit, after her death, as she spoke them, and not as
he mimicked them, they make a sorry show.
In many correspondences, where one voice remains and the other is gone,
the retort is enough for two. It is as when, the other day, the half of
a pretty quarrel between nurse and child came down from an upper floor to
the ears of a mother who decided that she need not interfere. The voice
of the undaunted child it was that was audible alone, and it replied,
"I'm not; _you_ are"; and anon, "I'll tell _yours_." Nothing was really
missing there.
But Steele's letters to Prue, his wife, are no such simple matter. The
turn we shall give them depends upon the unheard tone whereto they reply.
And there is room for conjecture. It has pleased the more modern of the
many spirits of banter to supply Prue's eternal silence with the voice of
a scold. It is painful to me to complain of Thackeray; but see what a
figure he makes of Prue in "Esmond." It is, says the nineteenth-century
humourist, in defence against the pursuit of a jealous, exacting,
neglected, or evaded wife that poor Dick Steele sends those little notes
of excuse: "Dearest Being on earth, pardon me if you do not see me till
eleven o'clock, having met a schoolfellow from India"; "My dear, dear
wife, I write to let you know I do not come home to dinner, being obliged
to attend some business abroad, of which I shall give you an account
(when I see you in the evening), as becomes your dutiful and obedient
husband"; "Dear Prue, I cannot come home to dinner. I languish for your
welfare"; "I stay here in order to get Tonson to discount a bill for me,
and shall dine with him to that end"; and so forth. Once only does
Steele really afford the recent humourist the suggestion that is
apparently always so welcome. It is when he writes that he is invited to
supper to Mr. Boyle's, and adds: "Dear Prue, do not send after me, for I
shall be ridiculous." But even this is to be read not ungracefully by a
well-graced reader. Prue was young and unused to the world. Her
husband, by the way, had been already married; and his greater age makes
his constant deference all the more charming.
But with this one exception, Steele's little notes, kept by his wife
while she lived, and treasured after her death by her daughter and his,
are no record of the watchings and dodgings of a London farce. It is
worth while to remember that Steele's dinner, which it was so often
difficult to eat at home, was a thing of midday, and therefore of mid-
business. But that is a detail. What is desirable is that a reasonable
degree of sweetness should be attributed to Prue; for it is no more than
just. To her Steele wrote in a dedication: "How often has your
tenderness removed pain from my aching head, how often anguish from my
afflicted heart. If there are such beings as guardian angels, they are
thus employed. I cannot believe one of them to be more good in
inclination, or more charming in form, than my wife."
True, this was for the public; but not so were these daily notes; and
these carry to her his assurance that she is "the beautifullest object in
the world. I know no happiness in this life in any degree comparable to
the pleasure I have in your person and society." "But indeed, though you
have every perfection, you have an extravagant fault, which almost
frustrates the good in you to me; and that is, that you do not love to
dress, to appear, to shine out, even at my request, and to make me proud
of you, or rather to indulge the pride I have that you are mine." The
correction of the phrase is finely considerate.
Prue cannot have been a dull wife, for this last compliment is a reply,
full of polite alacrity, to a letter from her asking for a little
flattery. How assiduously, and with what a civilized absence of
uncouthness, of shame-facedness, and of slang of the mind, with what
simplicity, alertness, and finish, does he step out at her invitation,
and perform! She wanted a compliment, though they had been long married
then, and he immediately turned it. This was no dowdy Prue.
Her request, by the way, which he repeats in obeying it, is one of the
few instances of the other side of the correspondence--one of the few
direct echoes of that one of the two voices which is silent.
The ceremony of the letters and the deferent method of address and
signature are never dropped in this most intimate of letter-writing. It
is not a little depressing to think that in this very form and state is
supposed, by the modern reader, to lurk the stealthiness of the husband
of farce, the "rogue." One does not like the word. Is it not clownish
to apply it with intention to the husband of Prue? He did not pay, he
was always in difficulties, he hid from bailiffs, he did many other
things that tarnish honour, more or less, and things for which he had to
beg Prue's special pardon; but yet he is not a fit subject for the
unhandsome incredulity which is proud to be always at hand with an ironic
commentary on such letters as his.
I have no wish to bowdlerize Sir Richard Steele, his ways and words. He
wrote to Prue at night when the burgundy had been too much for him, and
in the morning after. He announces that he is coming to her "within a
pint of wine." One of his gayest letters--a love-letter before the
marriage, addressed to "dear lovely Mrs. Scurlock"--confesses candidly
that he had been pledging her too well: "I have been in very good
company, where your health, under the character of the woman I loved
best, has been often drunk; so that I may say that I am dead drunk for
your sake, which is more than _I die for you_."
Steele obviously drank burgundy wildly, as did his "good company"; as did
also the admirable Addison, who was so solitary in character and so
serene in temperament. But no one has, for this fault, the right to put
a railing accusation into the mouth of Prue. Every woman has a right to
her own silence, whether her silence be hers of set purpose or by
accident. And every creature has a right to security from the banterings
peculiar to the humourists of a succeeding age. To every century its own
ironies, to every century its own vulgarities. In Steele's time they had
theirs. They might have rallied Prue more coarsely, but it would have
been with a different rallying. Writers of the nineteenth century went
about to rob her of her grace.
She kept some four hundred of these little letters of her lord's. It was
a loyal keeping. But what does Thackeray call it? His word is
"thrifty." He says: "There are four hundred letters of Dick Steele's to
his wife, which that thrifty woman preserved accurately."
"Thrifty" is a hard word to apply to her whom Steele styled, in the year
before her death, his "charming little insolent." She was ill in Wales,
and he, at home, wept upon her pillow, and "took it to be a sin to go to
sleep." Thrifty they may call her, and accurate if they will; but she
lies in Westminster Abbey, and Steele called her "your Prueship."