XIII Francis Cheyne to Lady Cheyne
London, May 7th.
I HAVE read your letter twice over carefully, and cannot see why we should alter our plans. My sister, I know, counts upon you. But I can imagine from what quarter the objection comes: and I hardly like to think you will let it act upon you in this way. Indeed, I for one have promised your brother to meet him half way, on the understanding that we were all to be at Portsmouth or Ryde together. He for one would be completely thrown out, if our project were to break up. Is Lord Cheyne tired of the plan, do you think? If so, I suppose there is no more to say. You speak so uncertainly of “having to give it up,” and “ not being sure of the summer,” that I have perhaps missed out some such hint. Of course a word must be enough for us; but I fear it will not be easy to get over Reginald. He is hot on the notion; I think he must have a touch of the sea-fever. In our schooldays he used to bewail his fate in being cut off from the sea as a profession. May 8th. I left off yesterday because I wanted to go on differently. Now, as I mean to finish this and send it off at all hazards, I must speak out once for all. I do not think you can mean to break with all our hopes and recollections, and change the whole look of life for me. I do not suppose you have more regard for me than for any other kinsman or chance friend. And I do not appeal to you on the score of my own feeling. You are no coward to be afraid of words, or of harmless things-I can say safely, that if I could die to save you trouble or suffering I should thank God. I love nothing seriously that does not somehow belong to you; all that does not seems done in play, or to get the time through. But I am not going to plead with you on this ground. I ask nothing of you; if you were to die to-night I should still have had more than my fair share of luck in life. If I am to see you again, I can only be as glad of it as I am now, when I think of you. I cannot understand why I should not have this too to be glad of. What can people say, as things are?-unless, indeed, there were to be a change of appearances. Then they might get vicious, and talk idiocy. But you know what I shall do. It is not I who have to set you right; we neither of us want stupid words or anything like the professional clack of love. I think sometimes you might come to care for me a little more. I know you detest that. Perhaps the last word above had no business where it came in. I remember your way of saying what things you hated. I see Reginald often now; I suppose he is all right. I am fond of him, but don’t envy his way of taking things. I like to look at him and make out why he is thought so like you: and, I think, when he is with me he talks more of you than he used. I can hardly think he is older than I am when I see how much less he knows or feels of one thing. May 9th. I have let this lie over another day. I have nothing to say but that I can say nothing. When I begin to write, I seem to hear you speaking. I believe at times I can tell, by the sensation, what you are doing at Lidcombe. I have heard you speak twice since I sat down, and I know the dress you have on. Do not write unless you want. I can see how you will take this. I cannot help it, you understand. There is Reginald’s knock; but this shall go to-day, and I will not touch it again.
XIV Lady Midhurst to Reginald Harewood
Ashton Hildred, May 12th.
MY DEAR BOY:
You are, without exception, the best fun I know. I have been laughing for the last two hours over your letter and its enclosure. You are not to fly out at me, mind; I regard you with all just esteem, I think all manner of good things of you, but you are fun, you will allow. Old friends may remark on such points of character, and yet draw no blood. Now, my dear Redgie, what do you think I got by post exactly three days before this epistle of yours, with Clara’s valuable bit of English prose composition so neatly inserted? I am humane, and will not let your brains tingle with curiosity for a minute. I got this; a note (not ill worded by any means) from my affectionate and anxious niece, C. R., enclosing your last letter to her. She threw herself upon me (luckily the space between us softened the shock of her weight, enabling me to bear up) with full confidence and gratitude. I could explain and advise; I could support and refresh. I was to say whether she were right or not. To Mr. Radworth she could not turn for sustenance or counsel. Ought a wife to-would a wife be justified if she did-do so and so? Through all this overture to her little performance one could hear thrill the tone of British matronhood, tremulously strong and tenderly secure. I did think it was all over with some of you, but found rapid relief. She put it to me; was she to notice it? Was she to try to bring you to reason, appealing to the noble mismanaged nature of you? Could she treat your letter as merely insulting or insane? My private answer came at once-Decidedly she could not; but I never wrote it down-it went off in a little laugh, quietly. She wound up with an intimation that I was thus taken into confidence in order to give me a just and clear idea of her conduct and position; this she owed to herself (the debt was well paid, and I receipted it by return of post), but “she would rather say as little of your folly as she could avoid. Of course, she put it twice as prettily, and in a very neat, soft way; but I give you the real upshot. She understood Clara, you see, did-that I felt warmly and fondly towards you; she was aware that I could not but know the way in which your conduct would affect her, Clara; and on your account, on mine (by no means, I need not say, on her own), she now felt-various things in the sensation line eminently creditable to her. I drew breath after this, and then laid hold of your letter. It did not upset me, you will like to hear; indeed, I compliment you on such a “ selfless “ and stainless form of devotion. You play Launcelot in a suit of Arthur’s armour-or rather in his new clothes after the well-known cut of modern tailordom, which I grieve to see are already cast wear or how should you come by them? The vividness and loftiness of view throughout is idyllic. In effect, considering your heat of head and violence of sentiment, I think you behave-and write-nicely, nobly even, if you like to be told so. It is right you should take things in the way you do, now you are first plunged into them. I am glad you do persuade yourself of the justice and reality of your passionate paradoxes and crude conceptions about social rights and wrongs. Naturally, being in love, like the bad specimen you are, you find institutions criminal, and revolt desirable. It is better, taking your age into account, than trying to sneak under shelter of them within reach of the forbidden fruit. Storm the place if you can, but no shooting behind walls; a good plan for you, as I am glad you see. Altogether, if you are cracked, I should say you have no unsound side; a fool you may be, but you get through your fooleries like a gentleman. You are “ brave enough “ too, as you said; it was no coward’s letter, that one. I should not forgive you otherwise; but I was always sure, so far, of my old Redgie-you never had any of the makings of a coward about you. I like the hopeless single-sighted daring of your proposals; also your way of feeling what disgrace would be. Except in the vulgarest surface fashion, she, for one, will never understand that-never get to see the gist of your first few lines, for instance, as I do; but don’t you get on that ground again, my dear boy. I like you all the better; and that has nothing to do with it, you see. In a word allow that you were outside of all reason in writing the letter, and I will admit you have kept well inside the lines of honour. So far, there is nothing to forgive (which is tant soit peu lowering), and not much to punish (which is at worst painful). There is a school copy for you; make me an exercise in C.’s style on that head. So much for you; now for her side; and I do beg you to read this patiently, and do me justice as far as you can. You send me her answer to your letter in a rapture of admiration, with a view of altering and ennobling my estimate of her, which you know to be hitherto of a moderate kind. I am to read and kindle, acknowledge and adore. Is she not noble? Let us see. Ought we not to do honour to such grand honesty and purity, such a sublime goodness? I am not over sure. You write to me as to your first best friend (and effectively, my dear old child, I don’t think you have a better one-I do feel parental on your score), wishing to set my mistakes right and bring me to an equitable and generous tone of mind: you do me the honour to think me capable of con
version, worthy to worship if I did but see the altar as it really stands. Being such as I am, I cannot but appreciate greatness and high devotion if I can but be brought face to face with them. That I think is what you mean, or rather what you had floating in your head when you wrote to me. Well, we must hope you were right. I am no doubt flattered; and will try to be deserving.
Then, I must now see things as you do, and admit the sublimities of behaviour you have made out in C. R. to be real discoveries, and not flies in your telescope. Her noble letter to you a letter so fearless of misconception, so gently worded, so devoted, and so just-must compel me to allow this much. Wait; you shall have my poor verdict as to that by and by. But now, what have you to say about her letter to me? Why do you suppose she sends me your epistle to her? I should like to know. To me, honestly, it does seem like a resolution to be quit of all personal damage, or risk, or other moral discomfort; also it does seem very like a keen apprehension-very laudably keen-of a chance given her to right herself, or to raise herself in my judgment, by submitting the whole matter to me. I, as arbitress, must decide, on receiving such an appeal from her, backed by such proofs, that she had gone on splendidly was worthy of all manner of praise-and that you, as a crazy boy in the “salad days” of sentiment, were alone blameworthy. Now, frankly, do you believe she had any other meaning? Why need she appeal to me at all? Certainly I am her nearest female relation. Après? And we have always been on the nicest terms. What then? There was no call for her to refer to anybody. She is old enough, at all events (and that she will hardly deny, or insinuate a denial of), to manage by herself for herself. Do you imagine she wrote on your account; applied to me for your sake? I do not. How could I help her? How could I settle you? Favour me by considering that. One thing I could do, and that she knew well enough. I could change my mind as to her (she was always clever enough to know what my honest opinion of her was) and prevent, by simply expressing approval, if not applause, of her, any chance of annoyance she might otherwise have run the risk of. Do you see? it was no bad stroke; just the kind of sharpness you know I always gave her credit for. Very well played too by forwarding me your letter; she was aware I should hardly have relied on extracts or summaries of her making, and was not such a fool as to appeal to me in a vague virtuous way. Upon the whole, as it seemed to her, she could not fail to come out admirably from the test in my eyes. I confess, for the sort of woman, she is far-sighted and sharp-sighted. Only, there is one thing to be taken into account; that I have known both her and you since you were the tiniest thinking animals possible. She was not hard upon you; not in the least. I was to draw all the inferences for myself. And now for her letter to you. Luckily I had read all this before I came to it. And after all I am surprised; not admiringly by any means. I looked for better of her, considering. As she could not decently assume alarm and anger, and was not the woman to write in the simple Anglican fashion, you see there was nothing for it but to mix audacity with principle. She begins fairly on that score: the opening is not bad. But how could you swallow the manner? Was there ever such a way of writing? The chaff, as you others call it, is so poor, so ugly and paltry-the tone of rebuke such a dead failure; the air of sad satisfaction so ill put on; the touches of sentiment so wretchedly coloured. I wonder she could do no better; she gets up her effects with trouble enough, and is not a fool. As to the magnanimous bits-I do really want to know if it has never crossed your mind for a second that they were absolute impertinences? Were you quite taken in by that talk about “ man who trusted and respected,” “just self-esteem,” “used generously,” and such like? “ Received more than she has given “! “ Not the only creditor “!- why, my poor boy, I tell you again she married the man tooth and nail; took him as a kite takes a chaffinch. Certainly he wanted her; but as to having wind enough to run her down! It upsets me to write about it. Throw him over! It is perfect impudence to imagine she can make any living creature above twelve suppose that regard for Ernest keeps her what one calls a good wife. She looks it when you come upon them anywhere. But your age has no eyes. Sense of duty?-she cares for the duties and devotions no more than I should care for her reputation if she were not unhappily my relative. It is a grievous thing to see you taking to such a plat d’argot réchauffé. For pure street slang it is, not even the jargon of a rational society. Do you know what ruin means? or compromise even? And she is not the woman, by nature or place, to risk becoming tarée in the slightest degree. She is thoroughly equable and cautious, beyond a certain point. The landmark is a good bit on this side of serious love-making; hardly outside the verge of common sentiment. I assure you there is nothing to be made of her in any other way. She will keep you on and off eternally to no further purpose. Upon the whole I don’t know that her letter could well have been a worse piece of work than it is. Why, if you would but observe it, she runs over into quotation before she gets a good start; and I never saw this modern fashion of mournful, satirical, introspective writing more ungraciously assumed. Her sad smiles crack, and show the enamel. You know how an old wretch with her face glazed looks if she ventures to laugh or cry? at least you can imagine if you will think of me with a coating of varnish on my cheeks and lips, listening to you for five minutes. Well, just in the same way the dried paint of her style splits and spoils the whole look of her letter at the tender semi-rident passages. It is too miserably palpable. Don’t you see her trying to write up to tradition?-say what she has to say in the soft pungent manner she thinks proper to her part as a strong-minded, clear-headed, somewhat rapid humourist (don’t suppose I meant to write vapid), with a touch of the high-minded unpretentious social martyr? I must tell you a bit of verse I kept thinking of while I ran over this epistle of hers-Musset, you know Triste! oh, triste en vérité! -Triste, abbé? Vous avez le vin triste? If you had but the wit to take it in that way, and answer her accordingly! Elle a l’amour triste, like most of her sort. For you must allow she is making love, though in the unpractical way. If I could but see an end of this dolorous kind of verbal virtue and compromised sentiment-this “tender tension of the moral machine, worse for the nerves than the headiest draughts of raw sensation! But it all comes of your books; I thank Heaven we were reared on sounder stuff. Confess that her American sermons were too much for you. As for Aboulfadir, I never was so nearly hysterical since the decease of your grandfather. I actually saw her looking out the bit. And your initials on the slip of paper, you remember? Oh, you utter idiot! Allow me one more question before you tear me up. Has it yet struck you what her last words mean? “You can never show this “ that is, in Heaven’s name forward this to old Aunt Midhurst next time she writes spitefully about me. Now, Reginald, I will not have bad language. You know she meant that; the woman capable of inditing that letter must be capable of thinking it good enough to influence any reader, upset any prejudice. You were to send it (you must admit you did), and it was to complete the grand work of refutation begun a week before by her appeal to me on the occasion of your letter. Now, I do hope you see: it was really a passable stroke of wit. The whole thing was cooked with a view to its being served up stewed in the same sauce. No doubt, after the great conception, her brain swelled with the sense of supreme diplomacy. Perhaps a man might have been taken in. Evidently a boy was. For my part I think it personally insulting to have supposed my opinion of her was to be affected by such a cheap specimen of the sceneshifter’s professional knack. I see as well as ever how she wants to play her hand out. I give you a month, my dear boy, to get over your rage at me; then I shall expect you to behave equably. Till that time I suppose I must let you “ chew the thrice-turned cud of wrath.” Otherwise I should beg you not to make one of the south-coast party I hear of. Also, if you did go, to stick close to your sister. As it is, I see you will join the rest, and waste your time and wits, besides sinking chin-deep in Platonic sloughs of love. Some day I may succeed in pulling you out. I dare say it ought to be a comfort to me to reflect that you are doing no great harm; dirtier you might get, but scarcely wett
er. The quagwater of sentiment will soak you to the bone. In earnest, if you go to Portsmouth or elsewhere with the Cheynes, you are to let me hear now and then. I hope there is enough love or liking between us two to stand a little sharp weather between whiles. Even though I am unbearably vicious and shamefully stupid with regard to your cousin, you ought to try and overlook it. Recollect my age, I entreat you. Can you expect sound judgment and accurate relish of the right thing from such an old critic as I am? You might as well hope to make me see her beauty with your eyes as appreciate her goodness in your fashion. And then, bad as I may be, we have been friends too long to break off. If I had ever had a son in my younger years things would have gone differently; as it was, I have always had to put up with you instead. A bad substitute you make, too; but somehow one gets used to that. If I could have taken you with me from the first, and reared you under shelter of your mother (nice work I should have had of it, by the by; but all that labour fell to your father’s share), I would have broken you in better. I would, regardless of all expense in birch; though as to that the Captain did his duty to you liberally, I will say. When you were born I could not realize your mother’s age to myself in the least; I myself was only thirty-eight (look me out in the dates, if you won’t take my word for it), and I could not make her out old enough to have a son. Besides, I had always hungered after a boy. So I took to you from the beginning in an idiotic way, and by this time no doubt my weakness is developing into senile dotage. I don’t say I always stood by you; but you must remember, my dear Redgie, I could not always. Your ill-luck was mine as to that, and your mother’s too. I wish I could have kept by you when you did want some of us at hand; not that I suppose the softest-hearted boy feels deeply the want of a superincumbent grandmother. Still, we should all have got on the better for it, I conceive. No doubt, too, I have not always done the best for you-only my best: but that I did always want to do. In a word, you know I love you as dearly as need be: and you may as well put up with me for fault of a better. Take this into account when you feel furious, and endeavour to make the best you can of me. I perceive this letter is running to seed, and my tattle fast lapsing into twaddle. After all, I don’t suppose my poor shots at the pathetic will bring down much game of the sentimental kind. I might bubble and boil over with feeling long enough (I suspect) before you melted. Besides, what does it matter, I should be glad to know? However, I do trust you will be as good a boy as you can, and not bring me to an untimely grave in the flower of my wrinkles.
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 298
