LXXIII.
Woodbridge: March 28, [1880.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble,
No—the Flowers were not from me—I have nothing full-blown to show except a few Polyanthuses, and a few Pansies. These Pansies never throve with me till last year: after a Cartload or two of Clay laid on my dry soil, I suppose, the year before. Insomuch that one dear little Soul has positively held on blowing, more or less confidently, all winter through; when even the Marigold failed.
Now, I meant to have intimated about those Flowers in a few French words on a Postcard—purposely to prevent your answering—unless your rigorous Justice could only be satisfied by a Post Card in return. But I was not sure how you might like my Card; so here is a Letter instead; which I
really do beg you, as a favour, not to feel bound to answer. A time will come for such a word.
By the by, you can make me one very acceptable return, I hope with no further trouble than addressing it to me. That ‘Nineteenth Century’ for February, with a Paper on ‘King John’ (your Uncle) in it. [179] Our Country Bookseller has been for three weeks getting it for me—and now says he cannot get it—‘out of print.’ I rather doubt that the Copy I saw on your Table was only lent to you; if so, take no more trouble about it; some one will find me a Copy.
I shall revolve in my own noble mind what you say about Jessica and her Jewels: as yet, I am divided between you, and that old Serpent, Spedding. Perhaps ‘That is only his Fancy,’ as he says of Shylock. What a light, graceful, way of saying well-considered Truth!
I doubt you are serious in reminding me of my Tumbler on the Floor; and, I doubt not, quite right in being so. This comes of one’s living so long either with no Company, or with only free and easy. But I am always the same toward you, whether my Tumbler in the right place or not,
The Laird of Littlegrange.
LXXIV.
Woodbridge, April 6, [1880.] [180a]
My dear Lady,
I hope my letter, and the Magazine which accompanies it, will not reach you at a time when you have family troubles to think about. You can, however, put letter and Magazine aside at once, without reading either; and, anyhow, I wish once more—in vain, I suppose—that you would not feel bound to acknowledge them.
I think this Atlantic, [180b] which I took in so long as you were embarked on it, was sent me by Mr. Norton, to whom I had sent my Crabbe; and he had, I suppose, shown it to Mr. Woodberry, the Critic. And the Critic has done his work well, on the whole, I think: though not quite up to my mark of praise, nor enough to create any revival of Interest in the Poems. You will see that I have made two or three notes by the way: but you are still less bound to read them than the text.
If you be not bothered, I shall ask you to return
me the Magazine. I have some thought of taking it in again, as I like to see what goes on in the literary way in America, and I found their critics often more impartial in their estimation of English Authors than our own Papers are, as one might guess would be the case.
I was, and am, reading your Records again, before this Atlantic came to remind me of you. I have Bentley’s second Edition. I feel the Dullness of that Dinner Party in Portland Place [181a] (I know it was) when Mrs. Frere sang. She was somewhile past her prime then (1831), but could sing the Classical Song, or Ballad, till much later in Life. Pasta too, whom you then saw and heard! I still love the pillars of the old Haymarket Opera House, where I used to see placarded Medea in Corinto. [181b]
And I am still yours sincerely
Littlegrange.
You are better off in London this black weather.
P.S. Since my letter was written, I receive the promised one from Mowbray: his Father well: indeed, in better health and Spirits than usual: and going with Blanche to Southwell on Wednesday (to-morrow) fortnight.
His London house almost, if not quite, out of Quarantine. But—do not go! say I.
LXXV.
Woodbridge: April 23, [1880.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble,
I was really sorry to hear from you that you were about to move again. I suppose the move has been made by this time: as I do not know whither, I must trouble Coutts, I suppose, to forward my Letter to you; and then you will surely tell me your new Address, and also how you find yourself in it.
I have nothing to report of myself, except that I was for ten days at Lowestoft in company (though not in the house) with Edward Cowell the Professor: with whom, as in last Autumn, I read, and all but finished, the second part of Don Quixote. There came Aldis Wright to join us; and he quite agrees with what you say concerning the Jewel-robbery in the Merchant of Venice. He read me the Play; and very well; thoroughly understanding the text: with clear articulation, and the moderate emphasis proper to room-reading; with the advantage also of never having known the Theatre in his youth, so that he has not picked up the twang of any Actor of the Day. Then he read me King John, which he has some thoughts of editing next after Richard III. And I was reminded of you at Ipswich twenty-eight years ago; and of your Father—his look up at Angiers’ Walls as he went out in Act ii. I wonder that Mrs.
Siddons should have told Johnson that she preferred Constance to any of Shakespeare’s Characters: perhaps I misremember; she may have said Queen Catharine. [183a] I must not forget to thank you for the Nineteenth Century from Hatchard’s; Tieck’s Article very interesting to me, and I should suppose just in its criticism as to what John Kemble then was. I have a little print of him about the time: in Œdipus—(whose Play, I wonder, on such a dangerous subject?) from a Drawing by that very clever Artist De Wilde: who never missed Likeness, Character, and Life, even when reduced to 16mo Engraving. [183b]
What you say of Tennyson’s Eyes reminded me that he complained of the Dots in Persian type flickering before them: insomuch that he gave up studying it. This was some thirty years ago. Talking on the subject one day to his Brother Frederick, he—(Frederick)—said he thought possible that a sense of the Sublime was connected with Blindness: as in Homer, Milton, and Handel: and somewhat with old Wordsworth perhaps; though his Eyes were, I think, rather weak than consuming with any inward Fire.
I heard from Mr. Norton that Lowell had returned
to Madrid in order to bring his Wife to London—if possible. She seems very far from being recovered; and (Norton thinks) would not have recovered in Spain: so Lowell will have one consolation for leaving the land of Cervantes and Calderon to come among the English, whom I believe he likes little better than Hawthorne liked them.
I believe that yesterday was the first of my hearing the Nightingale; certainly of hearing my Nightingale in the trees which I planted, ‘hauts comme ça,’ as Madame de Sévigné says. I am positively about to read her again, ‘tout Madame de Sévigné,’ as Ste. Beuve said. [184a] What better now Spring is come? [184b] She would be enjoying her Rochers just now. And I think this is a dull letter of mine; but I am always sincerely yours
E. de Petitgrange.