I despatched Spedding’s letter to your Master yesterday; I daresay you have read it: for there was nothing extraordinary wicked in it. But, he to talk of my perversity! . . .
My Sir Joshua is a darling. A pretty young Woman (‘Girl’ I won’t call her) sitting with a turtle-dove in her lap, while its mate is supposed to be flying down to it from the window. I say ‘supposed,’ for Sir J. who didn’t know much of the drawing of Birds, any more than of Men and Women, has made a thing like a stuffed Bird clawing down like a Parrot. But then, the Colour, the Dove-colour, subdued so as to carry off the richer tints of the dear Girl’s dress; and she, too, pensive, not sentimental: a Lady, as her Painter was a Gentleman. Faded as it is in the face (the Lake, which he would use, having partially flown), it is one of the most beautiful things of his I have seen: more
varied in colour; not the simple cream-white dress he was fond of, but with a light gold-threaded Scarf, a blue sash, a green chair, etc. . . .
I was rather taken aback by the Master’s having discovered my last—yes, and bonâ-fide my last—translation in the volume I sent to your Library. I thought it would slip in unobserved, and I should have given all my little contributions to my old College, without after-reckoning. Had I known you as the Wife of any but the ‘quondam’ Greek Professor, I should very likely have sent it to you: since it was meant for those who might wish for some insight into a Play [109] which I must think they can scarcely have been tempted into before by any previous Translation. It remains to be much better done; but if Women of Sense and Taste, and Men of Sense and Taste (who don’t know Greek) can read, and be interested in such a glimpse as I give them of the Original, they must be content, and not look the Horse too close in the mouth, till a better comes to hand.
My Lugger has had (along with her neighbours) such a Season hitherto of Winds as no one remembers. We made £450 in the North Sea; and (just for fun) I did wish to realize £5 in my Pocket. But my Captain would take it all to pay Bills. But if he makes another £400 this Home Voyage! Oh, then we shall have money in our Pockets. I do wish this. For the anxiety about all these People’s lives
has been so much more to me than all the amusement I have got from the Business, that I think I will draw out of it if I can see my Captain sufficiently firm on his legs to carry it on alone. True, there will then be the same risk to him and his ten men, but they don’t care; only I sit here listening to the Winds in the Chimney, and always thinking of the Eleven hanging at my own fingers’ ends.
This Letter is all desperately about me and mine, Translations and Ships. And now I am going to walk in my Garden: and feed my Captain’s Pony with white Carrots; and in the Evening have my Lad come and read for an hour and a half (he stumbles at every third word, and gets dreadfully tired, and so do I; but I renovate him with Cake and Sweet Wine), and I can’t just now smoke the Pipe nor drink the Grog. ‘These are my Troubles, Mr. Wesley;’ [110] but I am still the Master’s and Mistress’ loyal Servant,
Edward FitzGerald.
Woodbridge: Tuesday,
[28 Dec. 1869.]