you have repeated every word I said about my brother John, just as if
you had invented it yourself. You are like Ariel, very; and I am like
Prospero, very ("Dull thing! I said so"); or, no, I am like Falstaff, to
be sure, and you like Prince Hal, with "damnable iteration." ...
Various of my London men friends threaten coming down to Manchester
during my engagement there; Charles and Henry Greville, Chorley, and
even Moxon, who declared, if my play was brought out, he must be in the
pit the first night to see it. [This was my play called "An English
Tragedy," which there was some talk of bringing out at Manchester.] I
dare say the courage of all of them will give out before this bitter
cold, and I shall not be sorry if it does, for I want no sympathizers to
make me pitiful over myself.
I am tolerably well just now, and really believe that when once I am
fairly out of the fangs of the dressmakers I shall gather strength
rapidly.
The crudest fact in my fate at present is that I have actually not been
able to get all my things made here, and am taking the materials for my
Juliet and Queen Katharine dresses to be made up at Manchester; and this
is horrid, because, but for this, my off evenings would have really been
seasons of rest and quiet. However, it is of no use lamenting over any
one detail of such a whole as this business....
Give my love to dear Dorothy. She is half my good angel, by her own
voluntary assumption of the character....
Do not be troubled overmuch for or about me, my dearest friend; but
commend me, as I do you and myself, to God, and believe me
Ever yours,
FANNY.
10, PARK PLACE, Saturday Evening.
MY DEAR HAL,
I never did, and I never shall, offer anything I write to anybody. If my
friends ask me for anything I write, I will get it for them, just as I
would anything else they ask me to get or to do for them; but I have no
idea of volunteering such a bestowal upon anybody. Emily asked me for a
copy of my "Year of Consolation," and I have promised her one, and I
will certainly give you one if you wish for it. As for accounting, by
any process of reasoning of mine, for your desire to have my book, I am
quite unable to do so.
My love for my friends would never make me wish to read their books,
unless I thought their book likely to be worth reading. Now, I cannot
assume this with regard to my own, especially as I don't believe it.
Our friends' characters, their love for us, and ours for them, is the
stuff of which our adhesion is made; and unless I had a genius for a
friend, I should care little for any other mental exhibitions from those
I loved than those their daily intercourse afforded me. In personal
intercourse, unless a person is a genius, you really get that which is
best intellectually, as well as every other way, from your friend. Even
in the case of a great genius, I should think his daily intercourse
likely to be more valuable in an intellectual point of view than his
best works; but then, of such a mind one would naturally wish to
possess all and every product that one could obtain. If I thought
myself a genius, I might offer you my books unasked--perhaps.
I shall be at the Albion at Manchester, and if you wish to hear from me,
you will do well to write to me there....
I have had a most terrible day of fatigue and worry, breaking my back
with packing my things, and my heart with paying my bills.
Dear Henry Greville goes to within fifty miles of Manchester with me
to-morrow, and stays at a friend's house, whence he and Alfred Potocki
purpose coming on for the play on Tuesday evening. After all, I am not
sorry he is coming; his regard for me is not of a sort to make me dread
the weakening effect of his sympathy, and it will be comfortable to know
that among that strange audience I have just such a kind well-wisher as
he is, to keep up whatever courage I have.
Perhaps you may yet see me in Dublin, for the manager wishes me to renew
my engagement after the first six nights; and, of course, if he pays me
my terms, I shall be glad to remain there as long as he likes.
Give my dear love to dear Dorothy. I am thoroughly worn out, and feel
quite unwell; and oh, how cold it will be in that railroad carriage
to-morrow!
God bless you, dear.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
ALBION HOTEL, MANCHESTER, Monday, 15th.
MY DEAR HAL,
I cannot tell you exactly _all_ why I dislike writing letters, because
my dislike is made up of so many elements. One reason is that the limits
of a letter do not permit of one's saying satisfactorily what one has to
say upon any subject. I think frequently that my letters must be highly
unsatisfactory because of my tendency to discussion, which makes them
more like imperfect essays than letters, the chief charm and use of
which is to tell of daily events, interests, and occurrences; how one
is, what one does, where one goes, etc. Now, while I fear my letters
must be unsatisfactory to my friends because they seldom contain details
of this sort, they are still more so to me, because I have neither room
nor time in them to say anything about anything as I wish to say it.
Then, I have an indescribable impatience of the mere mechanical process.
You say that I talk, though I do not write, willingly to my friends,
but whenever I get upon any subject that interests me, with anybody whom
I am not afraid of wearying, I talk till I have said all I have to say;
and though I never spoke about anything that I cared for without
afterwards perceiving that I had left unsaid many important things upon
the subject while I spoke, I spoke all that came into my mind at the
time. In writing this is never the case, and fast as my pen flies, it
seems to me to stick to the paper; while in speaking, what with my
voice, my face, and my whole body, I manage to convey an immensity of
matter (stuff, you know, I mean) in an incredibly short time. Impatience
of all my limitations, therefore, is one cause of my dislike to
letter-writing.
You say that I do not object to conversation, though I do to
correspondence: and it is quite true that I sometimes have great
pleasure in talking; but if I had to talk, even upon the subjects that
interest me most, as much as I have to write in the discharge of my
daily correspondence, I should die of exhaustion, and fancy, too, that I
was guilty of a reprehensible waste of time. That I am doing what gives
my friends pleasure, and is but their due, alone prevents my thinking my
letter-writing a waste of time. As therefore it is not to me, as to you,
a pleasurable occupation in itself, I do not think it can be compared
with "reading Shakespeare, Schiller," or indeed any book worth reading.
The exercise of justice towards, and consideration for, others is a form
of virtue, and _therefore_ letter-writing is, in some cases, a good
employment of time.
I have a desire for mental culture, only equalled by my sense of my
profound ignorance, and the feeling of how little knowledge is attained,
even by scholars leading the most active and assiduously studious
existences.
My delight in my own superficial miscellaneous reading is not so much
for the information I retain (for I forget, or at least seem to do so,
much of what I read), as for the sense of mental activity produced at
the time, by reading; and though I forget much, something doubtless
remains, upon the whole.
Knowledge, upon any subject, is an enchanting _curiosity_ to me; fine
writing on elevated subjects is a source of the liveliest pleasure to
me; in all kinds of good poetry I find exquisite enjoyment; and not
having a particle of satisfaction in letter-writing for its own sake, I
cannot admit any parallel between reading and writing (whatever I might
think of arithmetic). I have sometimes fancied, too, that but for the
amount of letter-writing I perform, I might (perhaps) write carefully
and satisfactorily something that might (perhaps) be worth reading,
something that might (perhaps) in some degree approach my standard of a
tolerably good literary production--some novel or play, some work of
imagination--and that my much letter-writing is against this; but I dare
say this is a mistaken notion, and that I should never, under any
circumstances, write anything worth anything.
I have always desired much to cultivate the accomplishment of drawing;
it is an admirable sedative--a soothing, absorbing, and satisfactory
pursuit; but I have never found time to follow it up steadily, though
snatching at it now and then according as opportunity favored me. I give
but little time to my music now (though some every day, because I will
not let go anything I have once possessed); for I shall never be a
proficient in it, and I already have as much of it at my command as
answers my need of it as a recreation. Any of these occupations is more
agreeable to me than letter-writing; so is needlework, so is walking
out, so is--almost anything else I could do. Now, as Shylock says, "Are
you answered yet?"
I should be sorry my brother Henry went to the trouble or expense of
coming over to Manchester or Liverpool to see me, as there is every
probability of my being in Dublin early in March, where I shall act till
the 22nd, and perhaps longer.
I have the privilege of sitting with an engraving of Lord Wilton, in his
peer's robes, _hung_ opposite to me--enough surely for any reasonable
woman's happiness....
God bless you, dear; give my love to dear Dorothy. I rejoice for her
that the cold is gone.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
My kind friend Henry Greville, and that very charming young Alfred
Potocki, brother of the Austrian Ambassadress, Madame de Dietrichstein,
and a great friend of Henry's, came down with me half way, yesterday;
they stopped at a friend's house about fifty miles from Manchester, and
come up to-morrow to see the play, so that I shall have the comfort of
people that I like, and not the trial of people that I love, near me on
that occasion.
I am not very nervous about my _plunge_; the only thing that I dread is
the noise (noise of any sort being what my nerves can no longer endure
at all) which I am afraid may greet me. I wish I could avoid my
"reception," as it is called, because any loud sound shakes me now from
head to foot; this is the one thing that I do dread--I have gained some
self-possession and strength in these past years, and I hope my acting
itself, as well as my comfort in acting, may benefit by my increased
self-command. Poor Hayes (my maid) says that the peace of being alone
with me, after our late lodging, is like having left _Hell_; we shall
see what she says to-morrow night at the theatre,--poor thing. Farewell.
ALBION HOTEL, MANCHESTER, Wednesday, 17th.
MY DEAR LADY DACRE,
I acted Julia in "The Hunchback" last night (the first time for thirteen
years); got up this morning with a dreadful cough and sore throat, the
effect of over-exertion and exposure; went to rehearsal after breakfast,
rehearsed Lady Macbeth and Juliana in "The Honeymoon" (a _dancing_
part!); have written to three managers, from whom I have received
"proposals;" have despatched accounts of myself to my father and sundry
of my friends; have corrected forty pages of proof of my Italian
journal; have prepared all my dresses for to-morrow; have received
sundry visits (among others, that of a doctor, whom I was obliged to
send for), and have wished that I had not had so much to do.
I am so far satisfied with my last night's experiment, that I think it
has proved that my strength will serve to go through this sort of labor
for a couple of years; and I hope during that time, by moving from one
place to another, that my attraction may hold out sufficiently to enable
me to secure the small capital upon which I can contrive to live
independently.
The theatre here is beautiful; the company very fair; the plays are well
and carefully got up. The audience were most exceedingly kind and
cordial to me, and I think I have every reason to be thankful, and
grateful, and more than satisfied. The manager wants me to renew my
engagement, which is a sign, I suppose, that he is satisfied too.
With affectionate respects to my lord, believe me, my dear Lady Dacre,
Ever yours,
FANNY.
MANCHESTER, Thursday, 18th.
I cannot tell how many books have been written by geniuses, dear Hal,
and therefore, being unable to answer the first question in your letter,
pass on to the next.
The people that I have to deal with here seem to me very much like all
other people everywhere else. The proprietor and manager of the theatre
is an active, enterprising, intelligent man, who knows the _value_ of
liberality, and that generosity is sometimes the most remunerative as
well as amiable and popular line of action. He is a shrewd man of
business, a little rough in his manner, but kindly and good-natured
withal, and extremely civil and considerate to me. He is anxious that I
should renew my engagement, and I shall be very willing to do so, on my
return from Dublin.
My stage-manager is a brother of James Wallack, well bred, and pleasant
to deal with, and also very kind and courteous to me. Everybody in the
theatre is civil and good to me, and I am heartily grateful to them all.
As for my good host and hostess of the Albion, they really look after me
in the most devoted and affectionate manner, so that I am quite of my
poor maid's opinion, that this is a paradise of peace and comfort
compared with Mrs. ----'s lodging-house.
My dressing-room at the theatre is wretched in point of size and
situation, being not much larger than this sheet of paper, and up a sort
of steep ladder staircase: in other respects, it is tidy enough, and
infinitely better than the dark barrack-room you remember me dressing in
when I was in Manchester years ago, when I was a girl--alas! I don't
mean a pun! It is not the same theatre, but a new one, built by the Mr.
Knowles who engaged me to act here, and one of the prettiest, brightest,
and most elegant playhouses I ever saw; admirable for the voice, and of
a most judicious size and shape. Unfortunately, a large hotel has been
built immediately adjoining it (I suspect by the same person, who is a
great speculator, and apt, I should think, to have many, if not too
many, irons in the fire), and the space that should have been
appropriated to the accommodation of the actors, behind the scenes in
the theatre, has been sacrificed to the adjoining building, which is a
pity.
If I were to tell you the names of the people who act with me, you would
be none the wiser. The company is a very fair one indeed, and might be
an excellent one, if they were not all too great geniuses either to
learn or to rehearse their parts. The French do not put the flimsiest
vaudeville upon the stage without rehearsing it for _three months_;
here, however, and everywhere else in England, people play such parts as
Macbeth with no more than three rehearsals; and I am going to act this
evening in the "Honeymoon," with a gentleman who, filling the principal
part in the piece, has not thought fit to attend at the rehearsal; so
that though I was there, I may say in fact that I have had no rehearsal
of it,--which is businesslike and pleasant.
Oh, my dear Hal, I strive to judge of my position as reasonably as I
can! I do hope that in spite of the loss of youth, of person, and
feeling (which latter communicates itself even to acting), I may be able
to fill some parts better than I did formerly. I have no longer any
nervousness to contend with--only a sense of the duty I owe to my
employers and spectators, to take the utmost pains, and do my work as
well as I possibly can for them.
My physical power of voice and delivery is not diminished, which is good
for tragedy; my self-possession is increased, which ought to be good for
comedy; and I do trust I may succeed, at least sufficiently to be able,
by going from one place to another, and returning to America when I have
worn out my public favor here--say, in two years,--to make what will
enable me to live independently, though probably upon very small means.
I write this after my first night's performance, and I trust my views
are not unreasonable. How I wondered at myself, as I stood at the side
scene the other night, without any quickening of the pulse or beating of
the heart--thanks to the far other experiences I have gone through,
which have left me small sensibility for stage apprehensions; and yet I
could hardly have believed it possible that I should have been as little
nervous as I was. When I went on, however, I had to encounter the only
thing I had dreaded; and the loud burst of public welcome (suggestive of
how many associations, and what a contrast!) shocked me from head to
foot, and tried my nerves to a degree that affected my performance
unfavorably through several scenes.
But this was my first appearance after thirteen years of absence from
the stage; and, of course, no second emotion of the kind awaits me. The
exertion and exposure of the performance gave me a violent cold and sore
throat, and I have been obliged to send for a doctor. I had _two_
rehearsals yesterday, which did not mend matters, but I have bolstered
myself up _pro tem._, and what with inhaling hot water and swathing my
throat in cold, and lozenges and gargles, etc., I hope to fight through
without breaking down.... I have heard from Catherine Sedgwick, who says
that it is a long time since she heard from you or Emily. She adds: "I
shall be very glad to hear from them again. In your absence, I had
nothing to give interest to my letters to them, and I have not written;
and they, naturally, had no sufficient motive to write to me, so that I
have been in complete ignorance about them. Harriet S---- I reckon among
my friends for both worlds."
God bless you, my dear Hal. Give dear Dorothy my love.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
MANCHESTER, Tuesday, 23d.
A thousand thanks, my dear Lady Dacre, for all your kind inquiries
about, and sympathy in, my concerns. I am going on prosperously. The
theatre is quite full when I play, in spite of the very bad weather, and
I think my employer can afford to pay me, without grudging, my nightly
salary.
I think you are right in saying I am my own best critic; my mother being
gone, I believe I really am so.
I have played, since I last wrote to you, Juliana, in the "Honeymoon," a
rather pretty, foolish part, which I act accordingly; Lady Macbeth,
which I never could, and cannot, and never _shall can_ act; and Juliet,
which, I suppose, I play neither better nor worse than formerly, but
which, naturally, I am no longer personally fit to represent.
I am not very well, for the returning to such labor as this after
thirteen years' disuse of it, and at thirty-seven years of age, is a
severe physical trial, and has, of course, exhausted me very much.
Nothing more, however, ails me than fatigue, and I have no doubt that a
few more nights' "hard use" will enable me to stand steady under my new
load of heavy circumstance.
You have asked me for newspaper reports, and I send them to you. You
know my feeling about such things, but that is nothing to the purpose;
if you can care for such praise or dispraise of me, it is no less than
my duty to furnish you with it, at your request, if I can. You know I
never read critiques, favorable or unfavorable, myself; so I do not even
know what I send you.
Good-bye. Remember me respectfully and affectionately to Lord Dacre, and
believe me ever
Yours truly,
FANNY.
MANCHESTER, Thursday, 25th.
DEAR HAL,
Mr. H. F. Chorley I believe to be a great friend of mine, and an
uncommonly honest man, but I may be mistaken in both points. Your
inquiry about my health I cannot answer very triumphantly. I am not
well, and my feet and ankles swell so before I have stood five minutes
on the stage, that the prolonged standing in shoes, which, though
originally loose for me, become absolute instruments of torture, like
those infamous "boots" of martyrizing memory, is a terrible physical
ordeal for either a tragic or comic heroine--who had need indeed be
something of a real one to endure it.
Some of this trouble is due to general debility, and some to the
long-unaccustomed effort of so much standing, and will, I trust,
gradually subside as I grow stronger and more used to my work....
I acted Juliet last night, and I am very weary to-day, but thankful to
have my most arduous part well over.
Give my love to dear Dorothy. I am very sorry to hear of her being so
unwell, for I know how anxious you must be about her. Thank her for her
kind words to me....
God bless you, my dear,
I am ever as ever yours,
FANNY.
MANCHESTER, Friday, 26th.
DEAR HAL,
My throat has given me no more trouble since my first night's acting. I
have a pertinacious cough, and a tremendous cold in my head, which are
nuisances; but I am free from irritation in the throat, and have found
hitherto, in my performances, my voice stronger, instead of weaker, than
it was.... I am better than I was last week, and have no doubt I shall
acquire strength as I go on, as my first start in this dismal work did
not quite break me down.
The people here have shown me the most extreme kindness and hospitality,
and I have had invitations to dine out every day this week that I have
not acted.
My brother Henry has come over from Dublin, to spend a couple of days
with me, and his visit has been an immense pleasure and comfort to me.
My time, thank God, is so incessantly occupied with all kinds of
business--writing letters to managers, acquaintances, and friends;
rehearsing, acting, looking after my dresses, correcting proof-sheets,
and receiving visits--that I have no leisure but what I spend in sleep.
Henry has promised to mount me on a horse of his, when I get to Dublin;
and I am sure that my favorite exercise will be of the greatest benefit
to me.
The actors here are not more inattentive than they generally are,
everywhere, to their business; their carelessness and want of conscience
about it is nothing new to me, and all my bygone professional experience
had fully prepared me for it. The company here is a better one than I
shall probably find anywhere, even in London; and I have the advantage
of having to do with a very civil, considerate, and obliging
stage-manager.
I have made, at present, no further engagement for acting here. I shall
spend Passion-week at Sutton Park with the Arkwrights, who have written
to beg me to do so, and whose vicinity to this place makes that
arrangement every way best for me, as in Easter-week I am to act in
Manchester again, for the benefit of the above-mentioned courteous
stage-manager. From the 12th to the 17th of April, I act at Bath and
Bristol; and after that I think it is probable I shall act for a short
time in London,--but this is uncertain.
Your questions, for which you apologize, are particularly agreeable to
me, as, in spite of the ready invention and fluent utterance on which
you compliment me, I am always charmed to have the subject of my letters
suggested to me by the questions of my friends.
As my engagement in Dublin, like all the engagements I make, is _a
nightly one_, if it does not answer to the manager I shall of course
immediately put an end to it. I am secured from loss by payment after
each performance but should never think of taking what I do not bring to
my employer.
Mr. Calcraft writes me that he is sanguine about the engagement, in
spite of the public distress, and wants me to leave three nights open
after the 22d for the extension of it. We shall see.
God bless you, dear Hal. Give my affectionate love to Dorothy. I am most
happy to hear she is better. The kindness of the Manchester people has
filled my room with flowers, my "good angels," about which I am becoming
every day more superstitious, for I am never four-and-twenty hours in a
place that some do not make their appearance, to cheer and comfort me.
Farewell.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
BIRMINGHAM, Sunday, 28th.
MY DEAR LADY DACRE,