to have my dog Hero boarded at Jenny Wade's; if you do, he shall go
there. You are a far better judge than I am of the propriety of keeping
a well-fed dog among your starving people. That they themselves would do
so, I can believe; for they are impulsive and improvident, and more
alive to sentiments of kindliness and generosity than to the dictates of
common sense and prudence, or of principles of justice. Hero has been
used to luxury, both in his lodging and board; but human hearts have to
do without their food, and shall not his dog's body? I am fond of him,
poor fellow, and would fain have him kindly cared for.... I do not
consider your parallel a just one--between the bestowing of existence
upon flies and the withholding immortality from a portion of the human
race, except, indeed, that both may be exercises of arbitrary will and
power. It is perfectly true that the clay has no right to say to the
Potter, "Wherefore hast Thou fashioned me thus?" or "Why am I a man, and
not a beast?" But as regards the Creator's dealings with the human race,
inscrutable as His designs are to mortal intelligence, the moral nature
of man demands certain conditions in the conditions of his Maker, higher
and better than his own; and the idea of a partial immortality seems to
me repugnant to the highest human conception (and we have none other) of
God's mercy and justice, and that simply because all men, no matter how
little advanced in the scale, appear to have some notion of _a_ Divinity
and a Deity of some sort, to possess a _germ_ of spiritual progress
capable of development beyond the term and opportunities afforded by
this existence; and if, as I believe, the progressive nature belong to
all, then it seems to me a moral inconsistency to allow its
accomplishment only to a few. If you say that whole nations and races
formerly and now, and innumerable individuals in our own Christian
communities, hardly achieve a single step in this onward career of moral
development, I should reply that the progress of the most advanced is
but comparative, and far from great, and that chiefly on this account
the belief in a future existence appears rational, indeed the only
rational mode of accounting for our achieving so much and so little--our
advancing so far and no further here. The boon of mere physical
existence is great, but if there were none greater, we should not surely
possess faculties which suggest that to make some of His moral and
rational children immortal, and others not, was not in accordance with
the perfect goodness and justice of our Father. This life, good as He
pronounced it to be, and as it surely is, would not be worth enjoying
but for those nobler faculties that reach beyond it, and even here lay
hold of the infinite conception of another after death. To have given
these capabilities partially, or rather their fulfilment unequally,
seems to me a discord in the divine harmony of that supreme Government,
the inscrutability of which does not prevent one seeing and believing,
beyond sight, that it is perfectly _good_. To have bestowed the idea of
immortality upon some and not others of his children, seems to me
impossible in our Father; and since (no matter how faint in degree or
unworthy in kind) this idea appears to be recognized as universal among
men, the fulfilment of it only to some favored few seems still more
incredible, since 'tis a _yearning_ towards Him felt by all His human
creatures--a capacity, no matter how little or erroneously developed,
possessed by all.
Admitting God's absolute power over matter, there surely is a moral law
which _He_ cannot infringe, for it is Himself; and though I do not know
what He can do with the creatures He has made, I know He cannot do
Wrong; and if you tell me that my wrong may be His right, I can only
reply to that, _He is my Right_, the only true, real, absolute Right, of
which I have any conception, and that to propose that which seems to me
wrong as an attribute or proceeding of His seems to me nonsense....
Of course, a good beginning is an especially good thing in education;
but I think we are apt to place too much faith, upon the whole, in what
we can do with children's minds and souls. Perhaps it is well we should
have this faith, or we might do less than we ought, whereas we not
unfrequently do a good deal that is without result that we can perceive;
nevertheless, the world goes on, and becomes by slow degrees wiser and
better.... I met Macready while I was riding to-day; and though I could
not stop to say much to him, I told him that I particularly wished to
act with him. He has been told, I understand, that I have positively
refused to do so; and though his acquaintance with me is slight, I
should feel grateful to him if he would believe this, in spite of what
representations to the contrary he might have heard. He said that my
honesty and truth were known to him, though he had had but little
intercourse with me, and that he entirely believed what I said. I was
glad of this accidental opportunity of saying this to him, as I would
not have sought him for the especial purpose. Good-bye, my dear.
I am ever yours affectionately,
FANNY.
BANNISTERS, SOUTHAMPTON, Thursday, 16th.
MY DEAREST HAL,
... Mrs. Fitzhugh does not appear to me in her usual vivacious state of
mind, and I am afraid I shall not contribute much to her enlivenment,
being rather out of spirits myself, and, for the first time in my life,
finding Bannisters melancholy.... Walking up a small back street from
Southampton the other day, I saw a little child of about five years old
standing at a poor mean kind of pastry-cook's window, looking, with eyes
of poignant longing, at some baked apples, stale buns, etc. I stopped
and asked him if he wished very much for some of those things. He said
yes, he wished very much for some baked apples for his _poor little
brother who was sick_. I wish you could have seen the little creature's
face when I gave him money to buy what he wanted, and he carried off his
baked apples in his arms; that look of profound desire for the sake of
his brother, on the poor little childish face has haunted me. I went to
see his people, and found them poor and ill, in much distress; and the
mother, looking at her youngest child, a sickly, wasted, miserable
little object, lamented bitterly that she did not belong to such and
such associations, for then, "if it should please God to take the child,
she should have five pounds to bury it" (I wonder if these wretches are
never killed for the sake of their burial money?); "but now she hadn't
so much as would buy a decent rag of mourning"--a useless solicitude, it
seemed to me, who think mourning attire a superfluity in all classes.
I have had a letter from the Leamington manager, desiring me to act
there, which I will do, some time or other.
I have a riding-habit of my own, and need not hire one at Hastings; but
I shall be glad to hire a horse while I am with you, as, you know, I do
not mind riding alone.... I feel intensely stupid, which makes me think
I must be ill (admire, I beg, the conceit of that inference), as I have
no other symptoms of indisposition. Farewell. Give my love to Dorothy.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
BANNISTERS, SOUTHAMPTON, Friday, December 17th.
I have spoken with even more than my usual carelessness and inaccuracy
upon the subject of my readiness to comply with other people's wishes,
but I seriously think one ought to comply with a request of _anybody's_
that was not an impertinent or improper one. I suppose everybody is
inclined to fulfil the wishes of persons they love.... But I am not
given to the "small attentions," _les petits soins_ of affection, and
therefore am always particularly glad to know of any special desire of a
friend's that I can comply with; a special wish, too, is a saving of
trouble, like the questions in your letters which are equivalent to
wishes in another way, and indicate the particular thing you want to
know....
I have been out of spirits and much depressed during the first days of
my stay at Bannisters, but this gloom passing off, and I am resuming my
more habitual buoyancy of temper....
BANNISTERS, December 22d.
If you don't promise me good, I mean wholesome, food, when I come to St.
Leonard's, I won't stay with you a minute. I have, for some years past,
considered that there was an important deficiency in my human nature,
which instead of consisting, like that of most people, of three
elements, is wanting in what I should call the middle link between its
lowest and highest extremities. Thus, for some time now, I have felt
intimately convinced that I had senses and a soul, but no heart; but I
have now further come to the conclusion that I have neither sense, soul,
nor heart, and am, indeed, nothing but a stomach.... Now, don't retort
upon me with starving populations, in and out of poor-houses; and your
grand national starving experiment in Ireland; neither try to make me
adopt it when I come to St. Leonard's, for I won't....
You will be glad to hear that poor old Mrs. Fitzhugh is better these two
or three last days, and, except for the weakness and irritation in her
eyes, is tolerably well and comfortable; and I, having recovered from
the blue devils, am able to amuse her a little better than I did when
first I came. I am glad you mentioned that your comment on my health was
meant for _fun_. A man sat by me in Edinburgh at dinner one day, and
asked me if I had ever read Adam Smith's "Wealth of Nations," which
frightened me into an indigestion; and when I told Mr. Combe of it, he
gave a sad Scotch laugh, like a postman's knock, "Ha! ha! just like
Farquharson's dry humor!"
You say that, as far as my own constitution is concerned, you believe my
theories are right. Pray, my dear, did I ever attempt to meddle with
your constitution? Permit me to say that the hygienic faith I profess
has this in common with my other persuasions, that I am no propagandist,
and neither seek nor desire proselytes. No, my dear friend, it is the
orthodox medicine-takers, not the heterodox medicine-haters, who are
always thrusting their pill-boxes and physic-bottles into their friends'
bodies, and dragging or driving their souls to heaven or hell. If my
physical doctrine saves my body, and my religious doctrine my soul,
alive, it is all I ask of it; and you, and all other of my
fellow-creatures, I deliver over to your own devices, to dose, drug, and
"oh, fie!" yourselves and each other, according to your own convictions
and consciences.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
18, ORCHARD STREET, December 28th.
MY DEAREST HAL,
I would rather have the "garret" looking towards the sea than the
"bedroom" looking over houses, provided I can have a fire in said
garret; and pray, since I can have my choice of the two rooms, may I
inquire why the one that I do not occupy may not be appropriated to
Hayes's use? It seems to me that if there are two empty rooms for me to
choose from, I may likewise hire them both if I choose, and give one to
my maid, and keep whichever I like best for myself. _Che ti pare, figlia
mia?_ Have the goodness, if you can, to take both the vacant rooms for
me, and I will inhabit the garret, if, as I said before, it is
susceptible of a fire.
I left Mrs. Fitzhugh a little more quiet and composed, in spite of her
having just received the news of Lord Harrowby's being at the point of
death.... She has had much to try her in the melancholy events at
Sandon, and she persists in looking over a whole collection of old
letters, among which she found the other day a miniature of her boy,
Henry, the sailor who died, which she had forgotten that she possessed;
and she comes down from this most trying task of retrospection in a
state of nerves so lamentable that no ingenuity of affection, or utmost
desire to cheer and relieve her, can suggest a sufficiently soothing
process for that purpose. She cannot be amused at all now by anything
that does not excite her, and if she is, over-excited she suffers
cruelly from it. Thus, the reading of "Jane Eyre," which, while I
continued it, kept her in a state of extreme expectation and interest,
appeared to me, upon the whole, afterwards, to have affected her very
unfavorably....
I will bring you Charles Greville's book about your most painful
country, and some music....
Good-bye, dearest Hal. My affectionate love to dear Dorothy.
Ever as ever yours,
FANNY.
18, ORCHARD STREET.
... You ask me for my impression of Dejazet, and the piece I went to see
her in; and here they are. The piece in which she came out was called
"Vert Vert." You remember, no doubt, Gresset's poem about the poor
parrot, so called; well, instead of a bird, they make this Vert Vert a
young boy of sixteen, brought up in a girls' convent, and taken out for
a week, during which he goes to Nevers, falls in with garrison officers,
makes love to actresses, sups and gets tipsy at the mess, and, in short,
"gets ideas" of all sorts, with which he returns again to his convent.
If you can conceive this part, acted to the life by a woman, who moves
with more complete _disinvoltura_ in her men's clothes than most men do,
you may imagine something of the personal exhibition at which we
assisted. As for me, my eyes and mouth opened wider and wider, not so
much at the French actress, as at the well-born, well-bred English
audience, who, women as well as men, were in a perfect ecstasy of
amusement and admiration. I certainly never saw more admirable acting,
but neither did I ever see such uncompromising personal exposure and
such perfect effrontery of demeanor. I do not think even ballet-dancers
more indecent than Mademoiselle Dejazet, for their revelations of their
limbs and shapes are partial and momentary, while hers were abiding and
entire through the whole of her performance, which she acted in
tight-fitting knee-breeches and silk stockings; nor did I ever see such
an unflinching representation of unmitigated audacity of carriage, look,
and manner, in any male or female, on or off the stage....
She always wears men's clothes, and is seldom seen without a cigar in
her mouth. She is extremely witty, and famous for her powers of
conversation and pungent repartees. She is plain, and has a disagreeable
harsh shrill voice in speaking; her figure is thin, but straight, and
well made, and her carriage and movements as graceful as they are free
and unembarrassed; her singing voice is sweet, and her singing charming,
and her spirit and talent as an actress incomparable. But if I had not
seen it, I should not have believed that so impudent a performance would
have been tolerated here: tolerated it not only was, but applauded with
enthusiasm; and Mademoiselle Dejazet carries the town before her, being
the least decent actress of the most indecent pieces I ever saw.
Good-bye. Give my love to Dorothy.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
[Offenbach's burlesque Operas were still in the future.]
29, KING STREET, ST. JAMES'S, January 14th.
I have not heard again from Bath, and so have answered your two
questions, dearest Hal, and will tell you what little I have to tell of
my installation in my new lodging here.
I read the _Times_, _studiously_, all the way up to town, and was alone
in my railroad carriage. As soon as we reached King Street, I sent Hayes
off to Orchard Street, to see for letters, cards, etc. On entering my
room (you will remember the upper front room, where we visited Lady
W---- together), I saw a beautiful white hyacinth, standing in the
window, and knew directly that Emily had sent it to me. I found, too, a
most kind and affectionate letter from her.... Fanny Wilson and Mrs.
Mitchell had called while I was away, and two gentlemen who had not left
their names--probably the Grevilles.... I don't like either my room or
my furniture, I am sorry to say; but I shall get attached to both in a
couple of days.... At a little after four, Henry Greville called and
stayed some time, telling me as usual all manner of gossip--among other
things that his brother Charles was supposed to be _the author of Jane
Eyre_! I wonder by whom?
Lord Ellesmere's gout is better, and they have been able to get him down
to Hatchford--their place near Weybridge. Henry Greville complained
bitterly of Adelaide's not writing to him about their new house in Eaton
Place, which she wants him to get papered and prepared for them--a job
he is very willing to undertake, provided she will send him detailed and
specific instructions, which he is now waiting for in vain, and in great
disgust at her laziness.... I worked at my translation of "Mary Stuart"
till bedtime.... It is impossible to say how much I miss you and dear
Dorothy, and how chilled to the marrow I felt when I had left the warm
and kind atmosphere of your affectionate companionship.... However, an
additional oppressive sense of my loneliness was the price I was sure to
pay for my week's happy fellowship with you and Dorothy. And, after all,
it was worth the price.
I wrote this much yesterday, dear Hal; and yesterday is over, and has
carried with it my cowardly fit of despondency, and I am already back in
the harness of my usual lonely life, and feel the galling on the sore
places of my spirit less; ... and every hour will bring occupation and
business (such as they are, as Hamlet very contemptuously observes), and
I shall have something to do--if not to think of....
I have heard from Norwich, and find I shall have less to prepare than I
expected for two nights, Friday and Saturday. I shall act at Yarmouth,
and repeat what I play at Norwich.
Mrs. Jameson has taken rooms in this house, I find, and comes here
to-night, and I shall be very glad of some of her company.... Certainly
London, much as I hate it, agrees better with me than St. Leonard's;
either the air or the water there are bad for me. I am much better than
when I was there....
God bless you. Kiss your Good Angel for me--how much I love and revere
her, and how I rejoice that you have such an inestimable friend and
companion! I have been very happy with you, my dear and good and kind
friends.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
29 KING STREET, ST. JAMES'S, Saturday, January 15th.
I dined at home yesterday, dear Hal, and spent the evening in reading
"Vanity Fair." It is extremely clever, but hitherto I do not like it
very much. I began it at Bannisters last Winter, and then I did not like
it, wonderfully clever as I thought it. Lord Ellesmere says it is better
than anything of the kind (novels of manners and morals) since Fielding;
but as far as I have yet gone in it, it seems to me to have one very
disagreeable quality--the most prominent people in it are thorough
worldlings, and though their selfishnesses, and meannesses, and
dirtinesses, and pettinesses, are admirably portrayed--to the very life,
indeed--I do not much rejoice in their company. It is only within the
last year that I have been able to _get through_ "Gil Blas," for the
same reason; and though I did get through, I never got _over_ the
odiousness of the people I lived with during the four volumes of his
experiences of life.
Is not Shakespeare _true_ to human nature? Why does he never disgust one
with it? Why does one feel comparatively clean in spirit after living
with his creatures? Some of them are as bad as real men and women ever
were, but some of them are as good as real men and women ever are; and
one does not lose one's respect for one's kind while reading what he
writes of it; and his coarse utterances, the speech of his time, hurt
one comparatively little in the midst of his noble and sweet
thoughts....
I am going with Henry Greville to Drury Lane to-night, and perhaps he
will eat his dinner here. He has a perfect mania for playhouses, and
cannot keep out of them, and I would as lief spend my evening in hearing
pretty music as alone here....
I drove up and down Regent Street three times in vain to find your
identical cutler, Mr. Kingsbury: perhaps he has left off business, and
some one else has taken his shop. _So_ what shall I do with your
scissors? Do you think if I talk to them they will be sharpened?...
I have not heard again from Bath, and have seen nobody but Fanny Wilson,
with whom I dine to-morrow, and Mrs. Mitchell's two boys....
I shall get through my packing very well. Hayes is greatly improved, and
really _begins_ now to be useful to me. Thus we most of us begin only
just as we come to the _end_ and leave off.
I was driving about all yesterday, doing commissions; to-day the sun
shines, and I am going to wade in the mud for my health.
God bless you. Kiss dear Dorothy for me.
Ever yours,
FANNY.
NORWICH, Wednesday, January 20th.
I have found your cutler, Kingsbury; and very glad I was to find him,
for I hate not being able to execute a commission exactly as I am
desired to do....
When I said that people never love others better than themselves, I did
not mean _more_, but in a better way than they love themselves. I mean
that those who are conscientious in their self-regard will be
conscientious in their regard for others, and that it takes good people
to make good friends; and I do not consider this a "paradox of mine," as
you uncivilly style it. It is a _conviction_ of mine, and I feel sure
that you agree with it, whatever your first impression of my meaning may
have been when I said that people never loved others better than
themselves (_i.e._, with a better kind of love). I know that very
unprincipled people are capable of affection, and their affection
partakes of their want of principle: people have committed crimes for
the sake of the love they bore their wives, mistresses (oftener), and
children; and half the meannesses, pettinesses, and selfishnesses of
which society is full, have their source in unprincipled affection as
much as in unprincipled self-love.
I had already taken to my King Street lodging when I left it for this
place. You know I have a horror of new places and a facility in getting
over it, which is a double disadvantage in this wandering life of mine;
for I am perpetually undergoing the process of feeling miserable and
lonely in a new place, and more miserable and lonely still when I leave
it. The room I have here is gloomy, but opens into my bedroom, which is
comfortable, and I shall soon attain the easy liking of habit for it.
Mrs. ----, dear Harriet, is without tact, and learns nothing, which is
one reason why, in spite of her many good qualities and accomplishments,
I cannot get on with her. I breakfasted with her on Sunday morning, and
she abused A---- to me--not violently, of course, but very foolishly.
She is wanting in perception, and is perpetually committing sins of bad
taste, which provoke people--and me "much more than reason." I do not
suppose I shall see enough of her to admit of her "drying me up" (as the
Italians say for boring), but I always find it difficult to get on with
her, even for a short time.
There is an element of _ungenuineness_ about her, I believe quite
involuntary; ... and it does not so much consist in telling stories,
though I believe she would do that on proper occasions, like everybody
else (but you, who never would know which were proper occasions), as in
a crooked or indirect moral vision, an incapacity for distinguishing
what is straight from what is not, which affects me very unpleasantly.