EDWARD FITZGERALD
“I have been reading a good deal, but not much in the way of knowledge.” So the future translator of Omar Khayyám wrote to a friend in 1832, being then twenty-three years old, and two years out of the University. The words may be taken as fairly descriptive of the remaining fifty years of his life. He was always reading something, but not with an eye to rank or scholarship. His old friends and school-fellows one after another stepped into high place. Tennyson, Thackeray, and Carlyle were names on every tongue; Spedding, less talked about, was deep in a magnum opus; Thompson, Donne, Peacock, Allen, and Cowell held positions of honor in church or college; but FitzGerald had buried himself of set purpose in an insignificant, out-of-the-way Suffolk village, and, by his own account of himself, was dozing away his years in “visionary inactivity,”—in “the enjoyment of old childish habits and sympathies.”
Not less truly than his mates, however, as it now appears, he was living his own life; and perhaps not less truly than the foremost of them he was to come into lasting renown. Such are the “diversities of operations,” through which the spirit of man develops and discloses itself.
FitzGerald came of an eccentric family. “We are all mad,” he wrote; and his own share of the ancestral inheritance—mostly of an amiable and amusing sort—early made itself evident. While he was at Cambridge, his mother drove up to the college gate in her coach and four, and sent for him to come down and see her; but he could not go,—his only pair of shoes was at the cobbler’s. The Suffolk friend, from whom we have this anecdote, adds that to the last FitzGerald was perfectly careless of dress. “I can see him now,” he says, “walking down into Woodbridge, with an old Inverness cape, a double-breasted flowered satin waistcoat, slippers on his feet, and a handkerchief, very likely, tied over his hat.” It was odd, no doubt, that a gentleman should dress in so unconventional a manner; but it was much odder that he should write to Mrs. Kemble a fortnight after the death of his brother, in 1879: “I say but little of my brother’s death. We were very good friends, of very different ways of thinking; I had not been within side his lawn gates (three miles off) these dozen years (no fault of his), and I did not enter them at his funeral—which you will very likely—and properly—think wrong.” Only an eccentric man could have had occasion to say that; and surely none but a very eccentric man would have said it.
After leaving the University,—at which, by the way, he barely obtained his degree,—he went to Paris (where he had spent part of his boyhood), but stayed only a month or two; and on his return, having just passed his majority, he wrote to Allen, “Tell Thackeray that he is never to invite me to his house, as I intend never to go.” He would rather go there than anywhere else, to be sure; but he has got “all sorts of Utopian ideas” about society into his head, and is “going to become a great bear.” In another man’s mouth this might have been merely the expression of a passing whim; but whether FitzGerald meant the words seriously or not, they were pretty accurately fulfilled. His friends were of the noblest and truest, and his affection for them was of the warmest and stanchest, no man’s more so; but he chose to live apart.
“Why, sir,” said Doctor Johnson to Boswell, “you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” And Boswell, of course, responded Amen. “I can talk twice as much in London as anywhere else,” he remarked, with Boswellian simplicity. Possibly FitzGerald was less “intellectual” than the great luminary and his satellite; or perhaps his intellectuality, such as it was, ran less exclusively to talk.[3] At all events, he hated London as a place of residence; and even when he paid it a visit, he was always in such feverish and ludicrous haste to get away that he was sure to leave his calls and errands no more than half done. “I long to spread wing and fly into the kind clear air of the country,” he writes on one occasion of this sort. “I see nobody in the streets half so handsome as Mr. Reynolds of our parish.... A great city is a deadly plague.... I get radishes to eat for breakfast of a morning; with them comes a savor of earth that brings all the delicious gardens of the world back into one’s soul, and almost draws tears from one’s eyes.” In the mouth of a man of social position, University training, and independent fortune,—who had lived in Paris, and was only thirty-five years old,—language like this bespeaks a born rustic and recluse, not to say a philosopher. And such FitzGerald was.
Not that he craved a life in the wilderness (being neither a John the Baptist nor a René), or had any extraordinary appreciation of the beauties of nature, so called. There was little of Wordsworth or of Thoreau in his composition, or, if there was, it seldom found expression; but he detested crowds, was ill at ease in society, and having a bent toward homely solitude, was independent enough to follow it. It must seem queer to his old friends, he knew, but he preferred to “poke about in the country,” using his books, as ladies do their knitting work, to pass the time away. Here is one of his days, a day of “glorious sunshine:”—
“All the morning I read about Nero in Tacitus, lying at full length on a bench in the garden: a nightingale singing, and some red anemones eyeing the sun manfully not far off. A funny mixture all this: Nero, and the delicacy of spring; all very human, however. Then at half past one lunch on Cambridge cream cheese; then a ride over hill and dale: then spudding up some weeds from the grass: and then coming in, I sit down to write to you, my sister winding red worsted from the back of a chair, and the most delightful little girl in the world chattering incessantly. So runs the world away. You think I live in epicurean ease: but this happens to be a jolly day: one isn’t always well, or tolerably good, the weather is not always clear, nor nightingales singing, nor Tacitus full of pleasant atrocity. But such as life is, I believe I have got hold of a good end of it.”
Sometimes, it must be owned, he seemed not quite to approve of his own choice. “Men ought to have an ambition to stir and travel, and fill their heads and senses.” So he says once, in an unusual mood of something like penitence. Even then, however, he concludes, characteristically, “but so it is.” There speaks the real FitzGerald. He is what he is, what he was made: a man without ambition; a man incapable, from first to last, of taking himself seriously. He could never have said, as Tennyson did in his youth, and in effect for all his life, “I mean to be famous.” If FitzGerald meant to be anything,—which is doubtful,—he meant to be obscure. The wonder of it all is that his life was beautiful, his spirit sweet, and his posthumous reward celebrity.
He had little or none of the melancholy which so generally accompanies the union of exceptional powers with an enfeebled will and a comparative intellectual sterility. For one thing, he seems to have been spared the persecution of friends. As he expected little of himself, so they expected little of him. Unlike most men of a kindred sort—men of whom Gray and Amiel may stand as typical examples—he was left to go his own gait. Nobody wrote to him week after week, chiding him for his indolence and entreating him to produce a masterpiece. Happy man that he was, his youth had held out no promise of such production, and so his subsequent course was not clouded by the shadow of a promise unfulfilled. If he was down in the country letting the moss grow over him, why, it was only “old Fitz,” from whom nobody had ever looked for anything very different. So Thackeray, Tennyson, and the rest seem to have thought. And so thought the man himself. Life was worth living; oh yes; and he had “got hold of a good end of it;” but it was hardly a thing to disquiet one’s self about. He set little value upon time or money, and correspondingly little upon his own gifts. There were always hours enough, and more than enough, for the nothings he had to do; his income was sufficient; if it declined,—as it did,—it was no matter, he had only to reduce his expenditures; he never earned a penny, or considered the possibility of doing so; and withal, he was not made to write anything himself, but to please himself with the writings of others.