ability. You wanted to know how I felt at acting "The Hunchback" again.
Why, so horribly nervous the first night that the chair shook under me
while my hair was being dressed. I trembled to such a degree from head
to foot, and the rustling of the curl-papers as the man twisted them in
my hair almost drove me distracted, for it sounded like a forest
cracking and rattling in a storm. After the performance, my limbs ached
as if I had been beaten across them with an iron bar, and I could
scarcely stand or support myself for exhaustion and fatigue. This,
however, was only the first night, and I suppose proceeded from the
painful uncertainty I felt as to whether I had not utterly forgotten how
to act at all. This one representation over, I had neither fright,
nervousness, nor the slightest fatigue, and it is singular enough that
no recollections or associations whatever of past times were awakened by
the performance. I was fully engrossed by the endeavor to do the part
as well as I could, and, except in the particular of copying, as well as
I could recollect it, my dress of former days, the Julia of nine years
ago did not once present herself to my thoughts. The first time I played
it, I rather think I was worse than formerly, but after that probably
much the same....
How does this dreadfully hot weather agree with you, my dear? For my own
part, I am parboiled and stupid beyond all expression. I hate heat
always and everywhere, and it seems to me that in our damp climate it is
even more oppressive than under the scorching skies of August in
Pennsylvania. However, of that I won't be sure, for the present is, with
me, always better or worse than the absent.
I think I have nothing more to tell you about "The Hunchback." ...
Beyond doing it as well as I could, I cared very little about it; it
seemed a sort of routine business, just as it used to be, except for the
inevitable unwholesome results of its being amusement instead of
business; the late hours--three o'clock in the morning--and champagne
and lobster salad suppers, instead of my former professional decent tea
and to bed, after my work, before twelve o'clock.
Adelaide acted Helen charmingly, without having bestowed the slightest
pains upon it. Had she condescended to give it five minutes' careful
study, it would have been a perfect performance of its kind; but as it
was, it was delightfully droll, lively, and graceful, and certainly
proved her natural powers of comic acting to be very great....
You ask me about my play. I have not touched it since I wrote to you
last, and really do not know when I shall have a minute in which to do
so, unless, indeed, in this coming week at Oatlands,--and a great deal
may be done in a week; but I am altogether quite down about it. Our last
representation of "The Hunchback" was, as in duty bound, the best, and
everybody was, or pretended to be, in ecstasies with it. Our time and
attention have been so engrossed with the dresses, rehearsals, and
performances that we absolutely seemed to experience a sudden _lull_ in
our daily lives after it was all over.
I shall probably not be in town till the 24th. I am going down to Mrs.
Grote's with my sister on the 21st, and as S---- is of the party, it
will not, I suppose, be according to "received ideas" that I should
leave her there. On the 24th, however, she must be back in town; and as
for my departure for America, dear Hal, you do well not to grieve too
much beforehand about that.... Therefore, my dear Hal, lament not over
my departure, for Heaven only knows when we shall depart, or if indeed
we shall depart at all.
Good-bye.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
OATLANDS, June 14th, 1842.
MY DEAREST HAL,
... I return to town this evening in order to go to a party at Mrs.
Grote's, to which we have been engaged for some time past, and remain in
town all to-morrow, because we dine at Harness's.... The quiet of this
place, and very near twelve hours' sleep, and, above all, a temporary
relief from all causes of nervous distress, have done me all the good in
the world.... I cannot but think mine, in one respect, a curious fate;
and perhaps, with the magnifying propensity of egotism, I exaggerate
what seems to me its peculiarity. But to be placed for years together
out of the reach of all society; to be left day after day to the
solitude of an absolutely lonely life; to be deprived of all stimulus
from without; to hear no music; to see no works of art; to hear no
intellectually brilliant or even tolerably cultivated or interesting
conversation; indeed, often to pass days without exchanging a thought or
even a word with any grown person but my servants; to ride for hours
every day alone through lonely roads and paths, sit down daily to a
solitary dinner, and pass most of my evenings listening to the ticking
of the clock, or wandering round and round the dark garden-walks;--to
lead, I say, such a life for a length of time, and then be plunged into
the existence, the sort of social Maelstrom we are living in here now,
is surely a great trial to a person constituted like myself, and would
be something of one, I think, to a calmer mind and more equable
temperament than mine....
You ask if my father has been told of our intended return to America. I
have told him, but neither he nor any one else appears to believe in it;
and from what I wrote you in my last letter, I think you will agree that
they are justified in their incredulity.
You ask how Adelaide is. Flourishing greatly; the annoyance and
vexation of the late difficulties with the theatre being past, she has
recovered her spirits, and seems enjoying to the full her present hopes
of future happiness....
God bless you, my dear Hal.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
OATLANDS, June 16th, 1842.
MY DEAR T----,
An hour's railroading from London has brought me into a lovely country,
a perfect English landscape of broad lawns, thick tufted oaks, and
placid waters, under my windows. But an hour from that glare, confusion,
din, riot, and insanity, to the soothing sights and sounds of this rural
paradise! And after looking at it till my spirits have subsided into
something like kindred composure and placidity, I open my letter-case,
and find your last unanswered epistle lying on the top of it. "If Cunard
and Harnden have proved true," you must have received by this time our
reply to your proposition touching the Coster business. Thus far on
Monday last; and having proceeded thus far, I fell fast asleep, with the
pen in my hand, the sound of the rustling trees in my ears, and the
smell of the new-mown grass in my nose. Since that noonday nap of mine,
I have been back to town for a party at Mrs. Grote's and a dinner at
Harness's. I mention names because these worthies are known to Catherine
and Kate; and here I am, thanks to the railroad, back again among all
these lovely sights and sounds and smells, and pick up my pen forthwith
to renew my conversation with you. And first, as in duty bound,
business. I wrote you word that we did not disdain the compromise
offered by Mr. Coster, and we now further beg that you will receive and
keep for us the sum proposed by that gentleman as payment of his debt.
Thank you very much for your kindness to H-----. Kate wrote me a most
ludicrous account of the poor singer's first experiment on his voice in
your presence. I have not the least idea what his merits really are,
having never heard or, to the best of my knowledge, seen him; but, as a
pupil of the Royal Academy, his acquirements ought certainly to be those
of a competent teacher. However, I need not, I am sure, tell you that,
in recommending him to you, I did not contemplate laying the slightest
stress upon your conscience, and having heard him you must recommend him
or not according to that....
My sister thanks you for your zeal on her behalf, and so do I; but you
will not be called upon for any further, or rather, I should say, nearer
demonstration of it; for the young lady has lately come to the
conclusion that marrying and staying at home is better than wandering
singing over the face of the earth; and I suppose by next Christmas she
will be married. I have no room for more.
Ever yours,
F. A. B.
[My correspondence with my friend Miss S---- was interrupted by a
visit of several weeks which she paid us, and not resumed on my part
until the month of August, when I was on my way back from Scotland,
and she was travelling on the Continent with her friend Miss W----.]
LIVERPOOL, Wednesday, August 10th, 1842.
MY DEAREST HARRIET,
You bid me write to you immediately upon receiving your letter of the
24th of July, dated from Ulm, but I only received that letter last night
on my arrival here from Scotland, and I know not how long its rightful
delivery to me has been delayed. I fear, in consequence of this
circumstance, this answer to it may miscarry; for perhaps you will have
left Munich by the time it gets there. However, I can but do as you bid
me, and so I do it, and hope this, for me, rare exercise of the virtue
of obedience may find its reward in my letter reaching you.
I am glad your meeting with the Combes was so pleasant. I can bear
witness to the truth of their melancholy account of dear Dr. Combe, whom
I went to see while I was in Edinburgh. He is so emaciated that the
point of his knee-bone, through his trousers, perfectly fascinated me; I
couldn't keep my eyes off it, it looked so terribly and sharply
articulated that it seemed as if it were coming through the cloth. His
countenance, however, was the same as ever, or, if possible, even
brighter, sweeter, and more kindly benevolent. I have always had the
most affectionate regard and admiration for him, and think him in some
respects superior to his brother.
I am delighted to think of your fine weather, and the great enjoyment
it must be to you two, so happy in each other, to travel through the
lovely summer days together, filling your minds and storing your
memories with beautiful things of art and nature, which will be an
intellectual treasure in common, and a fountain of delightful
retrospective sympathy....
You must continue to direct to Harley Street, for although we were, by
our original agreement, to have left it on the 1st of August, I
conclude, as it is now the 10th, and I have heard no word of our
removing, that some arrangement has been made for our remaining there,
at least till our departure, which I understand is fixed for October
21st....
I have received a letter from Elizabeth Sedgwick, informing me that
Kate's marriage is to take place about October 10th. I shall not be at
it, which I regret very much.
In the same letter she tells me that Dr. Channing is spending the summer
at Lenox; and that he had shown her a most interesting letter he had
received from a house-builder in Cornwall, England. This man wrote to
Channing to thank him for the benefit he had derived from his writings,
particularly his lectures on the mental elevation of the working
classes. Dr. Channing answered this letter, and the poor man was so
overjoyed at this favor, as he esteemed it, that he could not refrain
from pouring out his thankfulness in another letter, in which he assured
his reverend correspondent that the influence of his writings upon his
class of the community in that part of England was and had been very
great, and instanced a fellow-artisan of his own, who said that
Channing's writings had reconciled him to being a working man. Elizabeth
said that Dr. Channing, while reading this letter, was divided between
smiles and tears. She also told me that he had talked to her a good deal
about Mrs. Child (you know, the abolitionist who wanted to publish my
Southern journal; she is a correspondent of his, and a person for whom
he has the highest esteem, regarding her as "a most highly principled
and noble-minded woman.")
I am so tired, dearest Hal, and feel such a general lassitude and
discouragement of mind and body, that I will end my letter. Give my most
affectionate love to Dorothy, whom I should love dearly if I saw her
much. I wish I was with you, seeing the Danube, that river into which
poor Undine carried her immortal soul, and her broken woman's heart,
when she faded over the boat's side, saying, "Be true, be true, oh,
misery!" God bless you, dearest Hal.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
HARLEY STREET, September 16th, 1842.
MY DEAREST HAL,
You ask me what I am doing. Flying about in every direction, like one
distracted, trying to _amuse_ myself; going to evenings at Lady
Lansdowne's, and to mornings at the Duchess of Buccleuch's; dining at
the Star and Garter at Richmond, in gay and great company, and driving
home alone between one and two o'clock in the morning....
I have undertaken to keep and to ride S----'s horse while he is away;
and I think, by means of regular exercise, I shall at any rate keep
_paroxysms_ aloof. I am going to a ball at Lord Foley's on Monday; to a
children's play at the Francis Egertons' on Tuesday; to Richmond again
to dine with the Miss Berrys and Lady Charlotte Lindsay on Wednesday; on
Thursday to dine at Horace Wilson's, etc.... Perhaps you will wonder, as
I do sometimes, that I keep the few senses I have in the life I lead;
but so it is, and so it has to be.
Good-bye. God bless you. I keep this letter till I hear from you where
to send it, and, with dearest love to Dorothy, am
Ever yours,
FANNY.
HARLEY STREET, September 30th, 1842.
MY DEAREST GRANNY [LADY DACRE],
Yesterday morning we drove down to Chesterfield Street, not without
sundry misgivings on my part that Lord Dacre would feel that we
persecute him, that he might be busy and not like being interrupted,
etc. When the door was opened, however, and while we were still
interrogating the footman, his own dear lordship came to it, and
graciously bade me alight, which of course I gladly did, and so we sat
with him a matter of half an hour, hearing his discourse, which ran at
first on you and the dear girls [his granddaughters], and then
broadened gradually from private interests to his public experience,
and all the varied observation of his honorable political career. "I
could have stayed all night to have heard good counsel," but was obliged
to drive to the theatre to fetch my sister from rehearsal, and so, most
reluctantly, came away. It seemed to me very good, and amiable, and
humane, and condescending of Lord Dacre to spare so much of his time and
attention to us young and insignificant folk; the courtesy of his
reception was as deeply appreciated by me, I assure you, as the interest
of his conversation; and so tell my lord, with my best of courtesies.
I went in the evening to hear my sister sing "Norma" for the last time,
and cried most bitterly, and, moreover, thought exceedingly often of
your ladyship; and why? I'll tell you; it was the _last_ time she was to
do it, and when I saw that grace and beauty and rare union of gifts,
which were adapted to no other purpose half so well as to this of
dramatic representation; when I heard the voice of popular applause,
that utterance of human sympathy, break at once simultaneously from all
those human beings whose emotions she was swaying at her absolute
will,--my heart sank to think that this beautiful piece of art (for such
it now is, and very near perfection), would be seen no more; that this
rare power (a _talent_, as it verily then seemed to me, in the solemn
sense of the word, and a precious one of its own kind) was about to be
folded in a napkin, to bear interest no more, of profit or pleasure, to
herself or others.
My dear Granny, you will well understand how I came to think of you
during that performance; for the first time, I thought _like_ you on
this subject. I caught myself saying, while the tears streamed down my
face, "If she is only happy, after all!" (But oh, that _if_!) It seemed
amazing to abdicate a secure fortune, and such a power--power to do
anything so excellently (putting its recognition by the public entirely
out of account) for that fearful risk. God help us all! 'Tis a hard
matter to judge rightly on any point whatever; and settled and firm as I
had believed my opinion on this subject to be, I was surprised to find
how terrible it was to me to see my sister, that woman most dear to me,
deliberately leave a path where the sure harvest of her labor is
independent fortune, and a not unhonorable distinction, and a powerful
hold upon the sympathy, admiration, and even kindly regard of her
fellow-creatures, while she thus not unworthily ministers to their
delight, for a life where, if she does not find happiness, what will
atone to her for all this that she will have left? However, I have need
to remember, while thinking of her and her future, what I have never
forgotten hitherto, that the soul lives neither on fortune, fame, nor
happiness; and that which is noblest in her, which is above either her
genius, grace, or beauty, and far more precious than all of them united,
will thrive, it may be, better in obscurity and the different trials of
her different life than in the vocation she is now abandoning. _Amen!_
Thank you, my dear Granny, for all your advice, and still more for the
love which dictates it; I lay both to heart. Thank you, too, for the
little book. I wish I knew the woman who wrote it; she must be a
paragon.
God bless you, dear Granny. I write you a kiss as the children do, and
am
Ever your affectionate
FANNY.
HARLEY STREET, October 2nd, 1842.
MY DEAR T----,
It is hardly of any use writing to you, because, unless I am "drowned in
the ditch," I shall see you very soon after you get this letter. I have,
however, as I believe you know, a very decided principle upon the
subject of answering letters, and therefore shall duly reply to your
epistle, though I hope to follow this in less than a fortnight.
I am sorry to say that if your ever "feeling young again" is to depend
upon your seeing a _Miss Kemble_ once more in America, you are doomed to
disappointment, and must decidedly go on, not only growing but feeling
old, as _Miss Kembles_ there are now no more--at least at my father's
house.... So you see a due regard for her fellow-creatures on the other
side of the Atlantic has not existed in my sister's heart, or she would,
of course, have postponed all personal prospects of happiness, or rather
peace and quiet, to a proper consideration for the gratification of the
American public.
I think your observations upon my projected journey to Georgia are taken
from an entirely mistaken point of view. I am utterly unconscious of
entertaining any inimical feeling towards America or the Americans; on
the contrary, I am distinctly conscious of the highest admiration for
your institutions, and an affectionate regard for the northern part of
your country (where those institutions can alone be said to be put in
practice) that is second only to the love and reverence I bear to my own
country. This being the case, I cannot think that anything I write about
America can, with any sort of propriety, be characterized as "the
lashings of a foe."
With regard to Dickens, I do not know exactly what proceedings of his
you refer to as exhibiting want of taste or want of temper towards your
country-people.... But small counterweights may surely be allowed to
such admirable qualities of both head and heart as he possesses. He sent
me, on his return to England, a printed circular, which was distributed
among all his literary acquaintances and friends, and which set forth
his views with regard to the question of international copyright; but
except this, I know of nothing that he has publicly put forth upon the
matter. His "Notes" upon America come out, I believe, immediately; and I
shall be extremely curious to see them, and sorry if they are
unfavorable, because his popularity as a writer is immense, and whatever
he publishes will be sure of a wide circulation. Moreover, as it is very
well known that, before going to America, he was strongly prepossessed
in favor of its institutions, manners, and people, any disparaging
remarks he may make upon them will naturally have proportionate weight,
as the deliberate result of experience and observation. M---- told me,
after dining with Dickens immediately on his return, that one thing that
had disgusted him was the almost universal want of conscience upon money
matters in America; and the levity, occasionally approaching to
something like self-satisfaction, for their "sharpness," which he had
repeated occasions of observing, in your people when speaking of the
present disgraceful condition of their finances and deservedly degraded
state of their national credit.... But I do hope (because I have a
friend's and not a "foe's" heart towards your country) that Dickens will
not write unfavorably about it, for his opinion will influence public
opinion in England, and deserves to do so.
As for Lord Morpeth, you need not be afraid of his "booking" you; he is
the kindliest gentleman alive, and moreover, I think, far too prudent a
person for such a proceeding....
Lord Ashburton's termination of the boundary question is vehemently
abused by the Opposition, but that is of course. Some old-school Whigs,
sound politicians, and great friends of mine, were agreeing quietly
among themselves the other day that _anyhow_ they were heartily glad
that there was to be no war between the countries.
I perceive, however, that the question of the right of search (_question
brulante_, as the French say) is still untouched, or rather unsettled;
yet in my opinion it contains more elements of danger than the other.
But I suppose your great diplomatists think one question settled in
twenty years is quite enough for the rapid pace at which our Governments
pant and puff after public opinion in these steam-speed-thinking times.
We have been in the country till within the last fortnight, but have
come up to town to prepare for our departure. London is almost empty,
but the only topics that keep alive the sparse population of the
club-houses are the dismissal of Baroness L---- from Court and her
departure for Germany, and a terrible _esclandre_ in a very high circle,
including royal personages.... I treat you to the London scandal, and my
doing so is ridiculous enough; but there is nothing I would not sooner
write about than myself and my own thoughts, feelings, and concerns,
just now. How thankful I shall be when this month is over!...
Believe me yours most truly,
F. A. B.
HARLEY STREET, Saturday, 8th, 1842.
MY DEAR GRANNY,
I dined yesterday at Charles Greville's, where dined also Mr. Byng; both
of them, I believe, were your fellow-guests lately, at the Duke of
Bedford's. Among other Woburn talk, there is no little discourse about
B----. Westmacott, too (the sculptor), who is a very old friend of ours,
chimed in, and we had a very pretty chorus on the argument of her fine
countenance, striking appearance, intelligence, etc., which I listened
to and joined in with great pleasure, because I love the child;
thinking, at the same time, how many qualities, of which perhaps her
gentlemen eulogists took no cognizance, went to make up the charm of
the outward appearance which they admired--the candor, truth, humility,
and moral dignity, the "inward and spiritual grace," of which what they
praised is but "the outward and visible sign." As I know this, the
commendation of her superficial good gifts, by superficial observers,
was very agreeable to me.
You ask me if I think you are going to keep up a correspondence with me
at this rate. I do not know exactly what that means; but be sure of one
thing, that as long as I can succeed in drawing an answer out of you, I
shall _persewere_.
My father has a violent lumbago; so, I am sorry to say, has the theatre,
which, in spite of my sister's exertions, can hardly keep upon its legs.
Her success has to compensate for the deplorable houses on the nights
when she does not appear. But great as her success is, it will not make
the nights pay on which she does not sing, when the theatre is
absolutely empty. What they will do when she goes I cannot in the
smallest degree conceive. _We_ are just being sucked into the Maelstrom
of bills, parcels, packages, books, pictures, valuables, trumpery,
rummaging, heaping together, throwing apart, selecting, discarding, and
stowing away that precedes an orderly departure after a two years'
disorderly residence; in the midst of all which I have neither leisure
nor leave to attend to the heartache which, nevertheless, accompanies
the whole process with but little intermission.