Fanny mourned him for six years, sharing her devotion with the poet’s sister Fanny Keats. Finally Brawne got married to a Jewish merchant’s son named Louis Lindon with whom she had a family. Just before her death in 1865, she revealed her relationship with Keats to her children and gave them his letters to her, which would “someday be considered of value.” The children published the letters, leading many to accuse Fanny of being unworthy of the poet. It was the much-later publication of her letters to Keats’s sister that proved how she had cherished Keats’s exquisite art.
25 COLLEGE STREET, WESTMINSTER
My dearest Girl,
This moment I have set myself to copy some verses out fair. I cannot proceed with any degree of content. I must write you a line or two and see if that will assist in dismissing you from my Mind for ever so short a time. Upon my Soul I can think of nothing else—The time is passed when I had power to advise and warn you against the unpromising morning of my Life—My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you—I am forgetful of everything but seeing you again—my Life seems to stop there—I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving—I should be exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing you. I should be afraid to separate myself far from you. My sweet Fanny, will your heart never change? My love, will it? I have no limit now to my love—Your note came in just here—I cannot be happier away from you—’T is richer than an Argosy of Pearles. Do not threat me even in jest. I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion—I have shudder’d at it—I shudder no more. I could be martyr’d for my Religion—Love is my religion—I could die for that—I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet—You have ravish’d me away by a Power I cannot resist; and yet I could resist till I saw you; and even since I have seen you I have endeavored often “to reason against the reasons of my Love.” I can do that no more—the pain would be too great—My Love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
Yours for ever
John Keats
T. S. Eliot to George Orwell, 13 July 1944
Every writer dreads a rejection slip from a publisher. Here the publisher of Faber and Faber, who happens to be T. S. Eliot—better known as the poet of The Waste Land—pompously rejects the latest book by George Orwell, journalist, essayist, and novelist. Orwell was best known at the time for having fought in the Spanish Civil War and for his brilliant work of reportage covering it, published as Homage to Catalonia, as well as for books on his personal experiences of poverty like The Road to Wigan Pier. But now he is doing something dangerous for any writer: changing his genre. In his latest work, he has used the metaphor of a farmyard to show how Soviet Russia—or a tyranny like it—becomes a murderous terror state. It is clearly an attack on Stalinism at a time when Stalin’s Russia was an ally in the war against Hitler. Orwell was more sympathetic to Stalin’s rival, Trotsky. Hence Eliot’s point—missing the much wider message of the novel. Animal Farm, followed by his novel 1984, were masterpieces that observed and warned against the Orwellian realities of modern politics that remain utterly relevant in the twenty-first century. Eliot’s patronizing rejection must rank as one of the most embarrassing mistakes in publishing history.
Dear Orwell
I know that you wanted a quick decision about “Animal Farm”: but the minimum is two directors’ opinions, and that can’t be done under a week. But for the importance of speed, I should have asked the Chairman to look at it as well. But the other director is in agreement with me on the main points. We agree that it is a distinguished piece of writing; that the fable is very skilfully handled, and that the narrative keeps one’s interest on its own plane—and that is something very few authors have achieved since Gulliver.
On the other hand, we have no conviction (and I am sure none of the other directors would have) that this is the right point of view from which to criticize the political situation at the present time. It is certainly the duty of any publishing firm which pretends to other interests and motives than mere commercial prosperity, to publish books which go against the current of the moment: but in each instance that demands that at least one member of the firm should have the conviction that this is the thing that needs saying at the moment. I can’t see any reason of prudence or caution to prevent anybody from publishing this book—if he believed in what it stands for.
Now I think my own dissatisfaction with this apologue is that the effect is simply one of negation. It ought to excite some sympathy with what the author wants, as well as sympathy with his objections to something: and the positive point of view, which I take to be generally Trotskyite, is not convincing. I think you split your vote, without getting any compensating stronger adhesion from either party—i.e. those who criticize Russian tendencies from the point of view of a purer communism, and those who, from a very different point of view, are alarmed about the future of small nations. And after all, your pigs are far more intelligent than the other animals, and therefore the best qualified to run the farm—in fact, there couldn’t have been an Animal Farm at all without them: so that what was needed, (someone might argue), was not more communism but more public-spirited pigs.
I am very sorry, because whoever publishes this, will naturally have the opportunity of publishing your future work: and I have a regard for your work, because it is good writing of fundamental integrity.
Miss Sheldon will be sending you the script under separate cover.
Courage
Sarah Bernhardt to Mrs. Patrick Campbell, 1915
She was the most famous actress of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries who could teach a lot to the celebrities of today. The beautiful daughter of a Parisian Jewish courtesan and an unknown client, Sarah Bernhardt was a self-made woman. One of her mother’s lovers was Emperor Napoleon III’s powerful half brother the Duc de Morny, who helped her and may also have been the daughter’s lover, too. Sarah was a free spirit as well as a brilliant thespian. When she had her only son, she refused to name the father, sometimes joking “I could never make up my mind whether his father was [Premier] Gambetta, [novelist] Victor Hugo, or General Boulanger,” though he was also possibly the son of her first love the Prince de Ligne. Either way, she became France’s top actress, rich and grand, constantly touring—as this letter shows. When she fell fifteen feet from a balcony during a performance of La Tosca in Rio de Janeiro, she broke her knee. She tolerated the agony for years until, as she laconically confides here to another famous actress “Mrs. Pat,” she decides aged seventy to do something about it once and for all….
Doctor will cut off my leg next Monday. Am very happy. Kisses all my heart.
Sarah Bernhardt.
Fanny Burney to her sister Esther, 22 March 1812
Frances “Fanny” Burney, born in 1752, was the daughter of a highly cultured father—a composer and writer—and a French mother. In a long and eventful life, her literary gifts, her curiosity and sense of humor make her a groundbreaking woman in a man’s world. Fanny started to write at a very young age, and she became one of the first bestselling female novelists at a time when well-born girls were not expected to dabble in disreputable storytelling. For this reason, she published her first novel Evelina anonymously, even trying to conceal her female identity from the publisher. The witty satire on aristocratic society was a success and she became famous when her identity was revealed. While keeping a remarkable diary of personal and historical events from the age of sixteen to her death in 1840 and of course writing superb letters, Fanny went on to write a series of novels that helped inspire later writers like Jane Austen—her novel Cecilia was the source of the title of Austen’s best-known novel: “The whole of this unfortunate business,” says one of Fanny’s characters, “has been the result of pride and prejudice.”
Fanny had romances with various suitors but remained unmarried for a
long time, turning down unappetising marriage proposals because she had “no idea why the single life should not be happy. Liberty is not without its value—with woman as well as with men.” In 1785, Queen Charlotte, George III’s wife, offered her the job of Keeper of the Robes and she became a courtier for five stressful years. She sympathized with the moderate ideas of the French Revolution, finally marrying exiled general Alexandre d’Arblay, who returned to his homeland to serve Napoleon. While living in Paris, Fanny noticed a lump in her breast—and agreed to undergo a mastectomy, performed by Dr. Dubois, the accoucheur of Napoleon’s empress Marie-Louise, in the manner of a battlefield operation. Amazingly she survived and lived on for almost thirty years. She describes every second of the agony in this unforgettable letter to her sister.
ACCOUNT FROM PARIS OF A TERRIBLE OPERATION—1812
I have promised my dearest Esther a Volume—& here it is: I am at this moment quite well….Read, therefore, this narrative at your leisure, & without emotion—for all has ended happily….
About August, in the year 1810, I began to be annoyed by a small pain in my breast, which went on augmenting from week to week, yet, being rather heavy than acute, without causing me any uneasiness with respect to consequences….Thus passed some months, during which Madame de Maisonneuve, my particularly intimate friend, joined with M. d’Arblay to press me to consent to an examination. I thought their fears groundless, and could not make so great a conquest over my repugnance. I relate this false confidence, now, as a warning to my dear Esther….M. d’A summoned a physician…he gave me some directions that produced no fruit—on the contrary, I grew worse, & M. d’A now would take no denial to my consulting M. Dubois, who had already attended & cured me in an abscess of which Maria, my dearest Esther, can give you the history. M. Dubois, the most celebrated surgeon of France, was then appointed accoucheur to the Empress….I began to perceive my real danger, M. Dubois gave me a prescription to be pursued for a month, during which time he could not undertake to see me again, & pronounced nothing—but uttered so many charges to me to be tranquil, & to suffer no uneasiness, that I could not but suspect there was room for terrible inquietude….I took, but vainly, my prescription, & every symptom grew more serious….
A formal consultation now was held, of [doctors] Larrey, Ribe, & Moreau—and, in time, I was formally condemned to an operation by all Three. I was as much astonished as disappointed—for the poor breast was no where discolored, & not much larger than its healthy neighbor. Yet I felt the evil to be deep, so deep, that I often thought if it could not be dissolved, it could only with life be extirpated. I called up, however, all the reason I possessed, or could assume, & told them that—if they saw no other alternative, I would not resist their opinion & experience:—the good Dr. Larrey, who, during his long attendance had conceived for me the warmest friendship, had now tears in his Eyes; from my dread he had expected resistance…
I strolled to the Sallon [on the day of surgery]—I saw it fitted with preparations, & I recoiled—But I soon returned; to what effect disguise from myself what I must so soon know?—yet the sight of the immense quantity of bandages, compresses, sponges, Lint—made me a little sick:—I walked backward & forwards till I quieted all emotion, & became, by degrees, nearly stupid—torpid, without sentiment or consciousness;—& thus I remained till the Clock struck three…my room, without previous message, was entered by 7 Men in black, Dr. Larry, M. Dubois, Dr. Moreau, Dr. Aumont, Dr. Ribe, & a pupil of Dr. Larry, & another of M. Dubois. I was now awakened from my stupor—& by a sort of indignation—Why so many? & without leave?—But I could not utter a syllable. M. Dubois acted as Commander in Chief. Dr. Larry kept out of sight; M. Dubois ordered a Bed stead into the middle of the room. Astonished, I turned to Dr. Larry, who had promised that an Arm Chair would suffice; but he hung his head, & would not look at me. Two old mattrasses M. Dubois then demanded, & an old Sheet. I now began to tremble violently, more with distaste & horror of the preparations even than of the pain. These arranged to his liking, he desired me to mount the Bed stead. I stood suspended, for a moment, whether I should not abruptly escape—I looked at the door, the windows—I felt desperate—but it was only for a moment, my reason then took the command, & my fears & feelings struggled vainly against it….I knew not, positively, then, the immediate danger, but every thing convinced me danger was hovering about me, & that this experiment could alone save me from its jaws. I mounted, therefore, unbidden, the Bed stead—& M. Dubois placed me upon the mattrass, & spread a cambric handkerchief upon my face. It was transparent, however, & I saw, through it, that the Bed stead was instantly surrounded by the 7 men & my nurse. I refused to be held; but when, Bright through the cambric, I saw the glitter of polished Steel—I closed my Eyes. I would not trust to convulsive fear the sight of the terrible incision. A silence the most profound ensued, which lasted for some minutes, during which, I imagine, they took their orders by signs, & made their examination—Oh what a horrible suspension!—I did not breathe….I feared they imagined the whole breast infected—feared it too justly,—for, again through the Cambric, I saw the hand of M. Dubois held up, while his forefinger first described a straight line from top to bottom of the breast, secondly a Cross, & thirdly a circle; intimating that the Whole was to be taken off….I closed once more my Eyes, relinquishing all watching, all resistance, all interference, & sadly resolute to be wholly resigned.
My dearest Esther,—& all my dears to whom she communicates this doleful ditty, will rejoice to hear that this resolution once taken, was firmly adhered to, in defiance of a terror that surpasses all description, & the most torturing pain. Yet—when the dreadful steel was plunged into the breast—cutting through veins—arteries—flesh—nerves—I needed no injunctions not to restrain my cries. I began a scream that lasted unintermittingly during the whole time of the incision—& I almost marvel that it rings not in my Ears still! so excruciating was the agony. When the wound was made, & the instrument was withdrawn, the pain seemed undiminished, for the air that suddenly rushed into those delicate parts felt like a mass of minute but sharp & forked poniards, that were tearing the edges of the wound—but when again I felt the instrument—describing a curve—cutting against the grain, if I may so say, while the flesh resisted in a manner so forcible as to oppose & tire the hand of the operator, who was forced to change from the right to the left—then, indeed, I thought I must have expired. I attempted no more to open my Eyes,—they felt as if hermetically shut, & so firmly closed, that the Eyelids seemed indented into the Cheeks. The instrument this second time withdrawn, I concluded the operation over—Oh no! presently the terrible cutting was renewed—& worse than ever, to separate the bottom, the foundation of this dreadful gland from the parts to which it adhered—Again all description would be baffled—yet again all was not over,—Dr. Larry rested but his own hand, &—Oh Heaven!—I then felt the Knife rackling against the breast bone—scraping it!—This performed, while I yet remained in utterly speechless torture, I heard the Voice of Mr. Larry,—(all others guarded a dead silence) in a tone nearly tragic, desire everyone present to pronounce if any thing more remained to be done; or if they thought the operation complete. The general voice was Yes,—but the finger of Mr. Dubois—which I literally felt elevated over the wound, though I saw nothing, & though he touched nothing, so indescribably sensitive was the spot—pointed to some further requisition—& again began the scraping!—and, after this, Dr. Moreau thought he discerned a peccant attom—and still, & still, M. Dubois demanded attom after attom.—My dearest Esther, not for days, not for Weeks, but for Months I could not speak of this terrible business without nearly again going through it! I could not think of it with impunity! I was sick, I was disordered by a single question—even now, 9 months after it is over, I have a head ache from going on with the account! & this miserable account, which I began 3 Months ago, at least, I dare not revise, nor read, the recollection is still so painful.
To conclu
de, the evil was so profound, the case so delicate, & the precautions necessary for preventing a return so numerous, that the operation, including the treatment and the dressing, lasted 20 minutes! a time, for sufferings so acute, that was hardly supportable—However, I bore it with all the courage I could exert, & never moved, nor stopt them, nor resisted, nor remonstrated, nor spoke—except once or twice….Twice, I believe, I fainted; at least, I have two total chasms in my memory of this transaction, that impede my tying together what passed. When all was done, & they lifted me up that I might be put to bed, my strength was so totally annihilated, that I was obliged to be carried, & could not even sustain my hands & arms, which hung as if I had been lifeless; while my face, as the Nurse has told me, was utterly colorless. This removal made me open my Eyes—& I then saw my good Dr. Larry, pale nearly as myself, his face streaked with blood, & its expression depicting grief, apprehension, & almost horror.
David Hughes to his parents, 21 August 1940
Flight Lieutenant David Hughes was a pilot who served in the Battle of Britain, the air war that prevented a Nazi invasion and ensured British independence from Hitler’s empire. The battle was won by the young pilots of the RAF, often just eighteen years old, many of whom were killed in the desperate fighting over England and the Channel. Posted near Newquay in Cornwall, Hughes’s jaunty letter to his family tells of their excitements and fears.
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