800 Years of Women's Letters

by Olga Kenyon

  Ivy Rowe

  LEE SMITH, FAIR AND TENDER LADIES (1989)

  TRANSFORMING LIMITATIONS INTO A BEAUTIFUL LIFESTYLE

  Mary Delany corresponded with many well-known women writers in the eighteenth century. She was a member of the ancient Granville family. Her letters are not distinguished, but describe the manners and attitudes of her circle. Her almost daily letters to Ann, her younger sister, form an epistolary diary, rather like Fanny Burney’s to her sister.

  22ND JAN. 1739

  After such a day of confusion and fatigue as yesterday, my dearest sister I am sure is too reasonable to expect my head should be composed enough to write a folio, so I very prudently, knowing my own strength, undertake but a quarto.

  Lady Dysart, Miss Dashwood and I went together. My clothes you know. I was curled, powdered, and decked with silver ribbon, and was told by critics in the art of dress that I was well dressed. Lady Dysart was in scarlet damask gown, facings, and robings embroidered with gold and colours, her petticoat white satin, all covered with embroidery of the same sort, very fine and handsome, but her gaiety was all external, for at her heart she is the most wretched virtuous woman that I know! The gentle Dash was in blue damask, the picture of modesty, and looked excessively pretty. She danced, and was only just so much out of countenance as to show she had no opinion of her own performance, but courage enough to dance very well. The Princess’s clothes were white satin, the petticoat, crowned with jewels; and her behaviour (as it always is) affable and obliging to everybody. The Prince was in old clothes and not well; he was obliged to go away very early. The Duchess of Bedford’s clothes were the most remarkably fine, though finery was so common it was hardly distinguished, and my little pretension to it, you may imagine, was easily eclipsed by such superior brightness. The Duchess of Bedford’s petticoat was green paduasoy, embroidered very richly with gold and silver and a few colours; the pattern was festoons of shells, coral, corn, corn-flowers, and sea-weeds; everything in different works of gold and silver except the flowers and coral, the body of the gown white satin, with a mosaic pattern of gold facings, robings and train the same as the petticoat; there was abundance of embroidery, and many people in gowns and petticoats of different colours. The men were as fine as the ladies, but we had no Lord Clanricard. My Lord Baltimore was in light brown and silver, his coat lined quite throughout with ermine. His lady looked like a frightened owl, her locks strutted out and most furiously greased, or rather gummed and powdered. The Duchess of Queensbury was remarkably fine for her, had powder, and certainly shewed she had still a right to be called ‘beautiful.’ My Lord Carlisle, his lady, son, and two daughters, were all excessively fine. But I grow sick of the word ‘fine’ and all its appurtenances, and I am sure you have enough of it. The ball began at nine.

  ED. A. DAY, LETTERS FROM GEORGIAN IRELAND (1992)

  HOUSEKEEPING IN THE BATH HOME OF JANE AUSTEN

  Here Jane Austen writers to her sister Cassandra.

  STEVENTON: SATURDAY JANRY 3d [1801]

  My dear Cassandra

  As you have by this time received my last letter, it is fit that I should begin another . . .

  My mother looks forward with as much certainly as you can do, to our keeping two maids – my father is the only one not in the secret. We plan having a steady cook, and a young giddy housemaid, with a sedate, middle-aged man, who is to undertake the double office of husband to the former and sweetheart to the latter. No children of course to be allowed on either side . . .

  I have now attained the true art of letter-writing, which we are always told, is to express on paper exactly what one would say to the same person by word of mouth: I have been talking to you almost as fast as I could the whole of this letter . . .

  My mother bargains for having no trouble at all in furnishing our house in Bath – and I have engaged for your willingly undertaking to do it all. I get more and more reconciled to the idea of our removal. We have lived long enough in this neighbourhood, the Basingstoke Balls are certainly on the decline, there is something interesting in the bustle of going away, and the prospect of spending future summers by the sea or in Wales is very delightful . . . It must not be generally known however that I am not sacrificing a great deal in quitting the country – or I can expect to inspire no tenderness, no interest in those we leave behind.

  My father is doing all in his power to increase his income by raising his tithes etc., and I do not despair of getting very nearly six hundred a year. In what part of Bath do you mean to place your bees? We are afraid of the South Parade’s being too hot . . .

  Yours affectly J.A.

  ED. R.W. CHAPMAN, JANE AUSTEN: LETTERS (1932)

  RUNNING A HOUSEHOLD IN INDIA

  Emily Eden (1797–1869) longed for a home in England, yet went to live in India. She was one of fourteen children born to the affectionate Baron Auckland. She and her brother George were devoted to each other, and as neither married she agreed to accompany him to India when he was made Governor-General in 1835. She wrote numerous letters back to her family, which she later published as Up The Country: Letters from India (1872), from which these extracts are taken.

  Oct 1835

  You cannot think what a whirl and entanglement buying and measuring and trying-on makes in your brain. Nightdresses with short sleeves, and net night-caps because muslin is too hot. Then such anomalies – quantities of flannel which I never wear at all in a cool climate, but which we are to wear at night because the creatures who are pulling all night at the punkahs sometimes fall asleep. Then you wake from the extreme heat and call to them, they wake and begin pulling away with such vigour that you catch your death with a sudden chill . . . Indeed it is so very HOT I do not know how to spell it large enough . . .

  I get up at eight, and with the assistance of three maids, contrive to have a bath and be dressed for breakfast at nine. When I leave my room I find my two tailors sitting cross-legged in the passage making my gowns, a sweeper plying his broom, two bearers pulling the punkahs and a sentry to mind that none of these steal anything. I am followed downstairs by my Jemdar or head servant, four couriers who are my particular attendants, and by Chance, my spaniel, carried under his own servant’s arm. At the bottom of the stairs I find two more bearers with a sedan chair in case I feel too exhausted to walk to the immense marble hall where we dine. All these people are dressed in white muslin with red and gold turbans and sashes, so picturesque that when I can find no other employment for them I make them sit for their pictures.

  E. EDEN, UP THE COUNTRY: LETTERS FROM INDIA (1872)

  But by December 1837, she was writing:

  We are a very limited group and have lost all semblance of cultivation. We are very nearly savages – not the least ferocious, not even mischievous – but simply good natured, unsophisticated savages, fond of finery, precious stones and tobacco, quite uninformed, very indolent and rather stupid. We are all dying of fever brought on by the rainy season. The only way I’ll survive is by embarking on an interminable course of sketching.

  E. EDEN (1872)

  OLD AGE IN ITALY

  Lady Mary Wortley Montagu describes to her daughter, the Countess of Bute, the beautiful life she made in her old age in Italy.

  LOUVERE, JULY 10, N.S., 1753

  Dear Child, – I received yours of May the 12th but yesterday, July the 9th. I am surprised you complain of my silence. I have never failed answering yours the post after I received them; but I fear, being directed to Twickenham (having no other direction from you), your servants there may have neglected them.

  I have been these six weeks, and still am, at my dairy-house, which joins to my garden. I believe I have already told you it is a long mile from the castle, which is situate in the midst of a very large village, once a considerable town, part of the walls still remaining, and has not vacant ground enough about it to make a garden, which is my greatest amusement, it being now troublesome to walk, or even to go in the chaise till the evening. I have fitted up in this farm-h
ouse a room for myself, that is to say, strewed the floor with rushes, covered the chimney with moss and branches, and adorned the room with basons of earthen ware (which is made here to great perfection).

  This spot of ground is so beautiful, I am afraid you will scarce credit the description, which, however, I can assure you, shall be very literal, without any embellishment from imagination. It is on a bank, forming a kind of peninsula, raised from the river Oglio fifty feet, to which you may descend by easy stairs cut in the turf, and either take the air on the river, which is as large as the Thames at Richmond, or by walking an avenue two hundred yards on the side of it, you find a wood of a hundred acres, which was all ready cut into walls and ridings when I took it. I have only added fifteen bowers in different views, with seats of turf. They were easily made, here being a large quantity of underwood, and a great number of wild vines, which twist to the top of the highest trees, and from which they make a very good sort of wine they call brusco. I am now writing to you in one of these arbours, which is so thick shaded, the sun is not troublesome, even at noon. Another is on the side of the river, where I have made a camp kitchen, that I may take the fish, dress it, and eat it immediately, and at the same time see the barks, which ascend or descend every day to or from Mantua, Guastalla, or Pont de Via, all considerable towns. This little wood is carpeted, in their succeeding seasons, with violets and strawberries, inhabited by a nation of nightingales, and filled with game of all kinds, excepting deer and wild boar, the first being unknown here, and not being large enough for the other.

  My garden was a plain vineyard when it came into my hands not two years ago, and it is, with a small expense, turned into a garden that (apart from the advantage of the climate) I like better than that of Kensington. The Italian vineyards are not planted like those in France, but in clumps, fastened to trees planted in equal ranks (commonly fruit trees), and continued in festoons from one to another, which I have turned into covered galleries of shade, that I can walk in the heat without being incommoded by it. I have made a dining room of verdure . . .

  I am afraid you will think this a very insignificant letter. I hope the kindness of the design will excuse it, being willing to give you every proof in my power that I am,

  Your most affectionate mother,

  M. Wortley

  ED. R. HALSBAND, THE COMPLETE LETTERS OF LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU (1965)

  THE MIDDLE CLASS IN THE LATE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

  Fanny Burney gained almost immediate fame for her novel Evelina. However, she was exceedingly shy, and avoided praise, preferring the company of her adored sister Susan. When they were separated she wrote to her regularly. After turning her letters into a diary for the sister, Fanny had the idea of publishing it, thanks to which we learn about the details, trials and joys of the daughters of the musicologist Dr Burney.

  Friday 8 October 1784

  For Susan,

  I set off with my dear father for Chessington where we spent 5 days very comfortably. Father was all humour, all himself, such as you and I mean by that.

  Thursday, Oct 14, I arrived at dear Norbury Park, at about seven o’clock, after a pleasant ride in the dark. Mr Locke most kindly and cordially welcomed me; he came out upon the steps to receive me, and his beloved Fredy [Mrs Locke] waited for me in the vestibule. Oh, with what tenderness did she take me to her bosom! I felt melted with her kindness, but I could not express a joy like hers, for my heart was very full – full of my dearest Susan, whose image seemed before me upon the spot where we had so lately been together.

  Next morning I went up stairs as usual, to treat myself with a solo of impatience for the post, and at about twelve o’clock I heard Mrs Locke stepping along the passage. I was sure of good news, for I knew, if there was bad, poor Mr Locke would have brought it. She came in, with three letters in her hand, and three thousand dimples in her cheeks and chin! Oh, my dear Susy, what a sight to me was your hand! I hardly cared for the letter; I hardly desired to open it; the direction alone almost satisfied me sufficiently. How did Mrs Locke embrace me! I half kissed her to death. Then came dear Mr Locke, his eyes brighter than ever – Well, how does she do?

  Nothing can be more truly pleasant than our present lives. I bury all disquietudes in immediate enjoyment; an enjoyment more fitted to my secret mind than any I had ever hoped to attain. We are so perfectly tranquil, that not a particle of our whole frames seems ruffled or discomposed. Mr Locke is gayer and more sportive than I ever have seen him; his Fredy seems made up of happiness; and the two dear little girls are in spirits almost ecstatic; and all from that internal contentment which Norbury Park seems to have gathered from all corners of the world into its own sphere.

  Our mornings, if fine, are to ourselves, as Mr Locke rides out; if bad, we assemble in the picture room. We have two books in public reading, Madame de Sévigné’s ‘Letters,’ and Cook’s last ‘Voyage.’ Mrs Locke reads the French, myself the English.

  Our conversations, too, are such as I could almost wish to last for ever. Mr Locke has been all himself – all instruction, information, and intelligence – since we have been left alone; and the invariable sweetness, as well as judgment, of all he says, leaves, indeed, nothing to wish.

  ED. A. DOBSON, THE DIARY AND LETTERS OF MME D’ARBLAY (1904)

  SIMPLE LIFE ON A BOAT IN THE 1990S

  This is a recent letter from a Buddhist friend. When her husband lost money in business and the bank threatened to foreclose on their jointly owned house, she went to live on a tiny boat near her work. She soon realized that simplicity and calm are more important than having a large income.

  21 June 91

  Dear Olga,

  It’s three weeks now since I’ve been living on my small boat, alone for virtually the first time in my life. Trying to enjoy it, and succeeding – most of the time. I still feel so torn about my work, about whether to stay working here or go back to London.

  On a more positive side, by living here on my own, I’m learning to become less attached to the house, other than physical comfort; and towards the family, I’ve become more open and less dependent.

  It is sometimes a bit too lonely, but by writing letters to people like you and just knowing that friendship is always with me in thought, is very comforting. That weekend we Buddhist women all spent together was inspiring. With which other group of people could one discuss so openly, so trustingly?

  I usually write part of a letter each evening and the rest of the time I listen to the radio, but more often read Buddhist books. I enjoy the peace and the slow pace of life. The local canoe club often come by and swans and ducks make very welcome visitors. A few people from work have come for meals and trips up the canal too. But just observing nature and having the time to listen to its sounds is one of the best things.

  The setting is quite lovely. Where I’m moored there is a bank of willow trees inhabited by several birds. Their dawn chorus is a delightful advent to the day. Buttercups and daisies are my back garden together with a sloping bank of grass. When the weather is good it is the ideal place for me to practice my Tai Chi. I go once a week, on Mondays, to my Tai Chi class, which gives me a focus for the week. It is a difficult discipline and very exacting of mindfulness but it is also extremely energizing. Unfortunately I have disturbed my equanimity by fancying the instructor! It’s all pure fantasy and obviously something I will have to work at.

  Living on the boat itself is an extreme exercise in mindfulness as well as control of energy. The above fantasy has made me realize how important it is to use one’s energy in positive and useful ways rather than dissipating it on ephemeral dreams. My mind is continually considering how to make a reasonable living without all the hassles which intrude into our equanimity in a normal working day. Living here in a simple way has made me aware of how little money I need to make life pleasurable. That’s an incredibly comforting lesson. Come soon and try it – any weekend. Write!

  Love, Barbara

  O. KENYON (1992)

  S
even

  Work

  ‘Women’s work’ has a pejorative ring in our male-dominated culture. Yet women have always worked, continuously and continually, in every culture and country. These letters show women involved in a wide variety of tasks. Work was often a shared experience in field and household before the nineteenth century, for poor and for powerful. The previous chapter showed medieval Margaret Paston and Honor Lisle dealing with financial and estate matters competently. In this chapter, Elizabeth I shrewdly assesses the needs of a Protestant monarchy.

  Hildegard Bingen and St Teresa worked hard for others: they set up convents, proving that nuns could be remarkable businesswomen, running large households, overseeing self-sustaining estates. Both achieved fame in their lifetime for their mysticism, and their advice was sought by men in power. And Hildegard found time, like many women, to study medicine, publishing a comprehensive study in the twelfth century. Her advice is admirable, particularly on herbal remedies, and respecting the body’s needs:

  If the stomach is irritated through different harmful foods and the bladder weakened through miscellaneous detrimental drinks, then they both will bring bad juices to the intestines and send a foul smoke to the spleen.

  The death of a husband frequently precipitated a widow into his business, or job-hunting. After the deaths caused by the Great Plague in 1665, widows like the playwright Aphra Behn accepted any remunerative work. As she spoke Dutch, she agreed to spy for the English government, at war with Holland; dangerous work for which she was briefly imprisoned – but not paid!