Square, and never allowed her servants to wear anything but the
undress of the royal household; the scarlet livery being, of course,
out of the question. On one or two occasions I dined with her
_tete-a-tete_, and took no notice of the fact, which I remembered
afterwards, that she invariably sent the servant out of the room,
and helped herself and me with her own hands; but once, when the
Duchess of B---- dined with us, and Mademoiselle d'Este had a
dumb-waiter placed beside her, and, sending the man-servant out of
the room, performed all the table service (except, indeed, bringing
in the dishes), with our assistance only, the duchess assured me
afterwards that this was simply because, in her own house,
Mademoiselle d'Este would not submit to the unroyal indignity of
being waited upon after her guests at her own table by her own
servants.
When the preparations for the fancy ball at the Palace were turning
half the great houses in London into milliners' shops, filled with
stuffs, and patterns, and pictures, and materials for fancy dresses,
and drawings of costumes, and gabbling, shrieking, distracted women,
Mademoiselle d'Este consulted me about her dress, and we passed a
whole morning looking over a huge collection of plates of historical
personages and picturesque portraits of real or imaginary heroines.
Among these I repeatedly put aside several that I thought would be
especially becoming to her dark beauty and fine figure; and as often
was surprised to find that among those I had thus selected she had
invariably rejected a certain proportion, among which were two or
three particularly beautiful and appropriate, one or other of which
I should certainly have chosen for her above the rest. I couldn't
imagine upon what theory of selection she was guiding her
examination of the prints until, upon closer examination, I
perceived that the only portraits from which she had determined to
make her choice of a costume were those of princesses of blood
royal. Poor woman!
I once saw a curious encounter between her and the Marchioness of
L----, in which the most insolent woman of the London society of
that day was worsted with her own peculiar weapon, by the princess
"claimant," and ignominiously beaten from the field.
The occasion of my being presented to the Queen Dowager was this: I
had been dining one day with Mademoiselle d'Este, when the
Marchioness of Londonderry came in, and read me a note she had
received from the Duke of Rutland, in which the latter said that the
Queen had asked him why I had not been presented at Court. After
Lady Londonderry was gone, I expressed some surprise at this
unexpected honor, and some dismay at finding that it was considered
a matter of course that, under these circumstances, I should go to
the Drawing-room. I felt shy about the ceremony, and sordidly
reluctant to spend the sum of money upon my dress which I knew it
must cost me. All this I discussed with Mademoiselle d'Este, and
expressing my surprise at the Queen's having condescended to ask why
I didn't have myself presented, Mademoiselle d'Este exclaimed, "Oh,
my dear, those people are so curious!" meaning the Queen and Prince
Albert, towards whom she had a great feeling of sore dislike; but
whether she meant by "curious" inquisitive or singular--_queer_--I
didn't ask her, being rather astonished at this "singular" mode of
speaking of our liege lady and her illustrious consort.
Poor Mademoiselle d'Este's feeling of bitterness against the Queen
arose, I have since been told, from various small slights which her
sensitive pride conceived she had received from her. Mademoiselle
d'Este's determination to assert her right to be considered a royal
personage had, perhaps, met with some other rebuffs from the Queen,
besides the one which she herself told me of with great irritation.
On the occasion of Queen Adelaide's Drawing-rooms, she had always
permitted Mademoiselle d'Este to make her entrance by the same
approach, and at the same time, with other members of the royal
family. After the accession of Queen Victoria, Mademoiselle d'Este
claimed the same privilege, which, however, was not granted her. She
told me this with many passionate, indignant comments, and
apparently desirous that I should be impressed by the superior charm
and graciousness of Queen Adelaide, whom she called "her Queen," and
of whom she spoke with the most affectionate regard and respect, she
said, "You must come with me and see _my_ Queen," and accordingly
she solicited permission to present me to the Queen Dowager, which
was granted, and I went with her one morning to pay my respects to
that great and good lady, and was to have done so a second time, but
was prevented by our departure from town.
I drove with Mademoiselle d'Este to Marlborough House in the
morning, and we were ushered through several apartments into a
small-sized sitting-room, where we were left. After a few moments a
lady entered, to whom Mademoiselle d'Este presented me. The Queen
Dowager was then apparently between fifty and sixty years old; a
thin, middle-sized woman, with gray hair and a long face, discolored
by the traces of some eruption. She looked in ill health, and was
certainly very plain, but her manner and the expression of her face
were very gentle and gracious, and her voice, with its German
accent, sweet and agreeable. She asked Mademoiselle d'Este if she
was going to the Duchess of Sutherland's ball, and on her replying
that she was not going, and giving some trifling reason for not
doing so, I couldn't help laughing, because on our way to
Marlborough House she had told me, with what appeared to me very
superfluous wrath and indignation, that she had received an
invitation to the duchess's ball, but that as it was coupled with an
intimation that it was hoped the persons who had been at the Queen's
great fancy ball, given a week before, would wear the same costumes
at Stafford House, Mademoiselle d'Este chose to consider this an
impertinent dictation, and said first "she would go in a plain white
satin gown," then "in a white muslin petticoat," finally, that "she
wouldn't go at all;" and working herself up by degrees into more
fury as she talked, she abused the Duchess of Sutherland vehemently,
mimicking her in a most ludicrous manner, and saying that she always
reminded her of "a great fat, white, trussed turkey," which
comparison and the ridiculous rage in which she made it made me
laugh till I cried, in spite of my admiration for the Duchess of
Sutherland, whose beauty and gracious sweetness of manner always
seemed to me very charming. When therefore, Mademoiselle d'Este
assigned another reason for not going to the Stafford House ball, in
answer to the Queen's inquiry, I couldn't help laughing, and told
the Queen the truth was that Mademoiselle d'Este's pride was hurt at
being requested to come in the fancy dress she had worn at the
Palace; and so, for this imaginary absurd offence, she was going to
give up a very fine and pleasant _fete_. The Queen laughed, and,
turning to Mademoiselle d'Este, said, "Your friend is right. You are
very foolish; you will lose a pleasant evening for nothing."
After this the conversation fell on the French plays and the
performances of Mademoiselle Dejazet, who was then acting at the St.
James's Theatre. The Queen having asked my opinion of these
representations, I said I was unwilling to enter upon the subject,
as I did not know how far the forms of etiquette would permit me to
express what I thought in her Majesty's presence. Upon her pressing
me, however, to state my opinion upon the subject, I reiterated what
I had said in a previous conversation with Mademoiselle d'Este upon
the matter, objecting to the extreme immorality of the pieces, and
expressing my astonishment at seeing decent Englishwomen crowd to
them night after night, since they certainly would not tolerate such
representations on the English stage.
Mademoiselle d'Este replied that that was because, on the English
stage, they would be coarse and vulgar. I denied that the difference
of language made any essential difference in the matter, though she
was certainly right in saying that the less refined style of English
acting might make the offensiveness of such pieces more unpleasantly
obtrusive; but that in looking round the assembly of fine ladies at
Dejazet's performances, I comforted myself by feeling very sure that
half of them did not understand what they were listening to; but I
think it must have been "nuts" to the clever, cynical, witty,
impudent Frenchwoman to see these _dames trois fois respectables_
swallow her performances _sans sourcilliez_.
After some more conversation on general subjects, the Queen Dowager
rose, saying she hoped Mademoiselle d'Este would bring me to visit
her again; and so we received our _conge_.
Mentioning the appearance of some eruption on the good Queen's face
reminds me of a painful circumstance which took place one day when,
meeting a beautiful child of about four years old, the daughter of
one of the ladies of the Court, who was going into the Palace
gardens under the escort of her nurse, the Queen stopped the child,
and, attracted by her beauty, stooped to kiss her, when the little
thing drew back with evident disgust, exclaiming, "No, no; you have
a red face! Mamma says I must never kiss anybody with a red face."
The poor Queen probably seldom received such a plain statement of
facts in return for her condescension. Her unostentatious goodness
and amiable character have now become matter of history. One of the
most characteristic traits of her life was her ordering of her own
funeral with a privacy and simplicity more touching than any royal
pomp, specifying that her coffin should be carried to the grave by
four sailors--a last tribute of affection to her husband's memory.
Among the passages in Charles Greville's Memoirs that shocked me
most, and that I read with the most pain, were the coarse and cruel
terms in which he spoke of Queen Adelaide.
Mademoiselle d'Este, when far advanced in middle life, married Lord
Chancellor Truro. She may have found in so doing a certain
satisfaction to her pride which no other alliance with a commoner
could have afforded her, since the Lord Chancellor of England (no
matter of how lowly an origin), on certain occasions, takes
precedence of the whole aristocracy of the land.]
HARLEY STREET, Monday, May 30th, 1842.
MY DEAREST HARRIET,
I have just finished a letter to you, in which I tell you that I have
sketched out the skeleton of another tragedy; but I find Emily has been
beforehand with me. You ask me what has moved me to this mental effort.
My milliner's bill, my dear; which, being L97 sterling, I feel extremely
inclined to pay out of my own brains; for, though they received a very
severe shock, and one of rather paralyzing effect, upon my being
reminded that whatever I write is not my own legal property, but that of
another, which, of course, upon consideration, I know; I cannot,
nevertheless, persuade myself that that which I invent--_create_, in
fact--can really belong to any one but myself; therefore, if anything I
wrote could earn me L97, I am afraid I should consider that I, and no
one else, had paid my bill.
In thinking over the position of women with regard to their right to
their own earnings, I confess to something very like wrathful
indignation; impotent wrath and vain indignation, to be sure--not the
less intense for that, however, for the injustice is undoubtedly great.
That a man whose wits could not keep him half a week from starving
should claim as his the result of a mental process such as that of
composing a noble work of imagination--say "Corinne," for example--seems
too beneficent a provision of the law for the protection of male
_superiority_. It is true that, by our marriage bargain, they feed,
clothe, and house us, and are answerable for our debts (not my
milliner's bill, though, if I can prevent it), and so, I suppose, have a
right to pay themselves as best they can out of all we are or all we can
do. It is a pretty severe puzzle, and a deal of love must be thrown into
one or other or both scales to make the balance hang tolerably even.
Madame de Stael, I suppose, might have said to Rocca, "If my brains are
indeed yours, why don't you write a book like 'Corinne' with them?" You
know, though he was perfectly amiable, and she married him for love, he
was an intellectual zero; but perhaps the man who, acknowledging her
brilliant intellectual superiority, could say, "Je l'aimerai tant,
qu'elle finira par m'aimer," deserved to be master even of his wife's
brains.... I wish women could be dealt with, not mercifully, nor
compassionately, nor affectionately, but _justly_; it would be so much
better--for men.
How can you ask me if I despise, as great gossip, Emily's telling you
that I am writing another tragedy! Why, my dear, I shouldn't consider it
despicable gossip if Emily were to tell you what colored gloves I had on
the last time she saw me. Do we not all three love each other dearly?
and is not everything, no matter how trifling, of interest in that case?
But Mrs. John Kemble does not pretend to love me dearly, I flatter
myself, and therefore her writing to inquire into my proceedings, and
for minute details of my presentation at Court, did seem to me
contemptible gossip. At her age, perhaps, it is pardonable enough,
though it appears to me rather inconsistent, when one has no liking for
a person, to trouble one's head about where they go or what they do.
You ask me about the subject of my play. It is one that my father
suggested to me years ago, and which grew out of a question as to
whether the Stranger (in Kotzebue's play so called) does or does not
forgive his unfaithful wife in the closing scene. With several other
dramatic schemes, it has hovered dimly before my imagination for some
time past. The other night, however, as I was brushing my hair before
going to bed, my brain, I suppose, receiving some stimulus from the
scrubbing of my skull, the whole idea suddenly came towards me with
increasing distinctness, till it gradually stood up as it were from head
to foot before me--a very mournful figure, whose form and features were
all vividly defined. I instantly caught up S----'s copy-books--there
was no other paper at hand--and on the covers of two of them wrote out
my play, act by act and scene by scene.... The short-lived triumph of
this spirit of inspiration died away under the effect of a conversation
by which it was interrupted, and I collapsed like a fallen _omelette
soufflee_ (not to say _souffletee_).
The story of my piece is a sequel to "The Stranger," the retribution
which reaches the faithless wife and mother in her children, after they
grow up; which, together with the perpetual struggle on the part of her
husband (who has taken her home again) not to wound her conscience,
which is so sick and sore that every word, breath, and look _does_ wound
it, might form, I think, an interesting dramatic picture, with
considerable elements for poetry to work upon.
I went to the Duchess of Sutherland's fancy ball in my favorite costume,
a Spanish dress, which suited my finances as well as my fancy, my
person, and my purse; for I had nothing to get but a short black satin
skirt, having beautiful flounces of black lace, high comb, mantilla,
and, in short, all things needful already in my own possession.
I have told you of Adelaide's new prospects, in which I rejoice as much
as I can rejoice in anything. She is herself very happy, poor child! and
'tis a pleasure and a positive relief to see her face, with its bright
expression of newly dawned hope upon it.
Good-night, dear. My head aches, and I feel weary and worn out; our life
just now is one of insane, incessant dissipation. Thank God, I have a
bed, and have not lost the secret of sleeping.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
[A long discussion with my wise and excellent friend and connection,
Mr. Horace Wilson, induced me to think a good deal upon the
possibility of a man, in the position of Kotzebue's "Stranger,"
receiving back his wife to the home she had deserted. Mr. Wilson
condemned the idea as absolutely inadmissible and fatally immoral.
In our Saviour's teaching it is said that a man shall put away his
wife for only _one_ cause; but is it said that he shall in every
case put her away for _that_ cause? and is the offence a wife
commits against her husband the one exception to the universal law
of the forgiveness which Christ taught? Men have so considered it;
and in the general interest of the preservation of society, a wife's
fidelity to her duties becomes one of the most important elements of
security; the protection of the family, the integrity of
inheritance, the rightful descent of property, are all involved in
it. But these are questions of social expediency, and, though based
on deep moral foundations, are not of such overwhelming moral force
as to forbid the contemplation of any possible exception to their
authority. I have heard--I know not if it is true--that in some
parts of Germany, formerly, where the practice of divorce obtained
to a degree tolerated nowhere else in Christendom, it occasionally
happened that, after a legal separation and intermediate marriages
(sanctioned also by the law), the original pair, set free once more
by death or _second divorce_, resumed their first ties--a condition
of things which appears monstrous, considered as that which we call
marriage, with the English and American branch of the Anglo-Saxon
family, the holiest of human ties; with Roman Catholic Christians,
an indissoluble bond, sacred as a sacrament of their Church.
Without being able to determine the question satisfactorily in my
own mind with reference to the supposed conclusion of the play of
"The Stranger," in which Mr. Wilson said that the husband, receiving
his repentant wife in his arms, was highly offensive to all
morality, which demanded imperatively her absolute rejection and
punishment, I began to consider what sort of escape from punishment
it might be which would probably follow the forgiveness of her
husband, her readmission to her home, and the renewal of her
intercourse with her children. In Kotzebue's play the persons are
all German, and their nationality has to be borne in mind in
contemplating Waldburg's possible forgiveness of his wife.
Steinforth, his dearest friend, and a man of the highest honor and
morality (as conceived by the author), urges upon Waldburg the
pardon of Adelaide; urges it almost as a duty, and zealously assists
Madame von Wintersen's plan of bringing the unhappy people together,
and effecting a reconciliation between them by means of the
unexpected sight of their children. Moreover, when Waldburg rejects
his friend's advice and entreaties that he will forgive his wife,
it is hardly upon the ground of any deep moral turpitude involved in
such a forgiveness, but upon the score of the insupportable
humiliation of reappearing in the great world of German society to
which they both belong with "his runaway wife on his arm," and the
"whispering, pointing, jeering" of which their reconciliation would
be the object, winding up with the irrevocable "Never! never!
never!"
Nevertheless, in Kotzebue's play he does receive his wife in his
arms as the curtain falls, and the German public go home comforted
in believing her forgiven. I do not know how the dumb-show at the
end of the English play is generally conducted; but in my father's
instance, I know he so far carried out my friend Horace Wilson's
sentiment (which was also his own on the subject) that, while his
miserable wife falls senseless at his feet, he turns again in the
act of flying from her as the curtain drops, leaving the English
public to go home comforted in the belief that he had _not_ forgiven
her.
The result of these discussions, as I said, led me to imagine how
far such a woman would escape her righteous punishment, even if
restored to her home; and in the sequel to "The Stranger," which I
endeavored to construct, I worked out my own ideas upon the subject.
Forgiveness of sin is not remission of punishment; and the highest
justice might rest satisfied with the conviction that God, who
forgives every sinner, punishes every sin; nor can even His mercy
remit the righteous consequence ordained by it. God's punishments
are _consequences_, the results of His all-righteous laws, _never to
be escaped from_, but leaving forever possible the blessed hope of
His forgiveness; but no one ever yet outran his sin or escaped from
its inevitable result.
The grosser human justice, however, which is obliged to execute
itself on the bodies of criminals demands the open degradation and
social ostracism of unfaithful wives as a necessary portion of its
machinery, and the well-being of the society which it maintains.]
HARLEY STREET, Friday, June 10th, 1842.
MY DEAREST HARRIET,
I finished one letter to you last night, and, finding that I cannot
obtain tackle to go on the river this morning and fish, I sit down to
write you another. And first, dear, about getting an admission for
E---- to see our play. I am sorry to say it is not in my power. Thinking
I had rather a right to one or two invitations for my own friends on
each of the nights, I asked Lady Francis to give me three tickets for
the first representation, intending to beg the same number for each
night. I gave one to Mr. S----, and another to a nephew of Talma's, a
very agreeable French naval officer, with whom we have become
acquainted, and who besought one of me. But when I had proceeded thus
far in my distribution of admissions, I was told I had committed an
indiscretion in asking for any, and that I must return the remaining
one, which I did, ... and when your request came about a ticket for
E----, I was simply assured that it was "impossible." So, dear, you must
be, as I must be, satisfied with this decision--which I am not, for I am
very sorry, ... Lady Francis would gladly, I have no doubt, have asked
any of my friends had we wished her to do so; she did send an invitation
to Horace Wilson and his wife, but that was because he was to have acted
for her, and was only prevented by being too unwell to undertake the
part.
I am very glad that Captain Seymour likes me, as the liking is very
reciprocal. Indeed, I think our whole company presents a very favorable
specimen of our young English gentlemen: they are all of them very
young, full of good spirits, amiable, obliging, good-humored,
good-tempered, and well-mannered; in short, I think, very charming.
How shall I feel, you say, acting that part again?... My dearest
Harriet, thus much at Richmond on Monday morning; it is now Thursday
evening, and I have been crying and in a miserable state of mind and
body all day long. On Monday we acted "The Hunchback" for the third
time, and on Tuesday we all went down to Cranford, and drew long breaths
as we got into the delicious air, all fragrant with hay and honeysuckle
and syringa. I left my children at what was in posting days a famous
country inn, at about half a mile from Lady Berkeley's house, but which,
since the completion of the railroad, has become much less frequented
and important, but is quiet and comfortable and pleasant enough to make
it a very nice place of deposit for my chicks.
On Wednesday afternoon, when I went over to see them, I found F----,
pale and coughing, and heard with dismay that the measles were
pervading the whole neighborhood. I went to town that evening to act
"The Hunchback" for the last time, and was haunted by horrid visions of
my child ill and suffering, and the very first thing I met on entering
London was a child's coffin and funeral. You can better judge than I can
express how this sort of omen affected my imagination; and in this frame
of mind I went through our last representation of "The Hunchback," and
did not reach home till the white face of the morning was beginning to
look down from the ends of the streets at us.
We did not get to bed till past three, and were up again at a little
after seven, in order to take the railroad to Cranford, where we had
promised to breakfast. One of our party was too late for the train, and
we posted down with four horses in order to save our time, which on the
great Ascot day was not, as you may suppose, a very economical
proceeding....
Good-bye, dear. I will answer all your questions about "The Hunchback"
another time.
Ever yours,
FANNIE.
HARLEY STREET, June 12th, 1842.
MY DEAREST HAL,