Letters of Edward FitzGerald to Fanny Kemble (1871-1883) Part 2

Well: I have told you all I meant by my 'Half-Invitation.' These N.E.

winds are less inviting than I to these parts; but I and my House would be very glad to entertain you to our best up to the End of May, if you really liked to see Woodbridge as well as yours always truly

E. F.G.

P.S.--You tell me that, once returned to America, you think you will not return ever again to England. But you will--if only to revisit those at Kenilworth--yes, and the blind Lady you are soon going to see in Ireland {19a}--and two or three more in England beside--yes, and old England itself, 'with all her faults.'

By the by:--Some while ago {19b} Carlyle sent me a Letter from an American gentleman named Norton (once of the N. American Review, C. says, and a most amiable, intelligent Gentleman)--whose Letter enclosed one from Ruskin, which had been entrusted to another American Gentleman named Burne Jones--who kept it in a Desk ten years, and at last forwarded it as aforesaid--to me! The Note (of Ruskin's) is about one of the Persian Translations: almost childish, as that Man of Genius is apt to be in his Likes as well as Dislikes. I dare say he has forgotten all about Translator and Original long before this. I wrote to thank Mr. Norton for

(_Letter unfinished_.)

IX.

[1873.]

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

It is scarce fair to a.s.sail you on your return to England with another Letter so close on that to which you have only just answered--you who _will_ answer! I wish you would consider this Letter of mine an Answer (as it really is) to that last of yours; and before long I will write again and call on you then for a Reply.

What inspires me now is, that, about the time you were writing to me about Burns and Beranger, I was thinking of them 'which was the Greater Genius?'--I can't say; but, with all my Admiration for about a Score of the Frenchman's almost perfect Songs, I would give all of them up for a Score of Burns' Couplets, Stanzas, or single Lines scattered among those quite _im_perfect Lyrics of his. Beranger, no doubt, was The _Artist_; which still is not the highest Genius--witness Shakespeare, Dante, AEschylus, Calderon, to the contrary. Burns a.s.suredly had more _Pa.s.sion_ than the Frenchman; which is not Genius either, but a great Part of the Lyric Poet still. What Beranger might have been, if born and bred among Banks, Braes, and Mountains, I cannot tell: Burns had that advantage over him. And then the Highland Mary to love, amid the heather, as compared to Lise the Grisette in a Parisian Suburb! Some of the old French Virelays and _Vaux-de-vire_ come much nearer the Wild Notes of Burns, and go to one's heart like his; Beranger never gets so far as that, I think.

One knows he will come round to his pretty _refrain_ with perfect grace; if he were more Inspired he couldn't.

'My Love is like the red, red, Rose That's newly sprung in June, My Love is like the Melody That's sweetly play'd in tune.'

and he will love his Love,

'Till a' the Seas gang Dry'

Yes--Till a' the Seas gang dry, my Dear. And then comes some weaker stuff about Rocks melting in the Sun. All Imperfect; but that red, red Rose has burned itself into one's silly Soul in spite of all. Do you know that one of Burns' few almost perfect stanzas was perfect till he added two Syllables to each alternate Line to fit it to the lovely Music which almost excuses such a dilution of the Verse?

'Ye Banks and Braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom (so fresh) so fair?

Ye little Birds how can ye sing, And I so (weary) full of care!

Thou'lt break my heart, thou little Bird, That sings (singest so) upon the Thorn: Thou minds me of departed days That never shall return (Departed never to) return.'

Now I shall tell you two things which my last Quotation has recalled to me.

Some thirty years ago A. Tennyson went over Burns' Ground in Dumfries.

When he was one day by Doon-side--'I can't tell how it was, Fitz, but I fell into a Pa.s.sion of Tears'--And A. T. not given to the melting mood at all.

No. 2. My friend old Childs of the romantic town of Bungay (if you can believe in it!) told me that one day he started outside the Coach in company with a poor Woman who had just lost Husband or Child. She talked of her Loss and Sorrow with some Resignation; till the Coach happened to pull up by a roadside Inn. A 'little Bird' was singing somewhere; the poor Woman then broke into Tears, and said--'I could bear anything but that.' I dare say she had never even heard of Burns: but he had heard the little Bird that he knew would go to all Hearts in Sorrow.

Beranger's Morals are Virtue as compared to what have followed him in France. Yet I am afraid he partly led the way. Burns' very _Pa.s.sion_ half excused him; so far from its being Refinement which Burke thought deprived Vice of half its Mischief!

Here is a Sermon for you, you see, which you did not compound for: nor I neither when I began my Letter. But I think I have told you the two Stories aforesaid which will almost deprive my sermon of half its Dulness. And I am now going to transcribe you a _Vau-de-vire_ of old Olivier de Ba.s.selin, {23a} which will show you something of that which I miss in Beranger. But I think I had better write it on a separate Paper.

Till which, what think you of these lines of Clement Marot on the Death of some French Princess who desired to be buried among the Poor? {23b}

[P.S.--These also must go on the Fly-leaf: being too long, Alexandrine, for these Pages.]

What a Letter! But if you are still at your Vicarage, you can read it in the Intervals of Church. I was surprised at your coming so early from Italy: the famous Holy Week there is now, I suppose, somewhat shorn of its Glory.--If you were not so sincere I should think you were persiflaging me about the Photo, as applied to myself, and yourself. Some years ago I said--and now say--I wanted one of you; and if this letter were not so long, would tell you a little how to sit. Which you would not attend to; but I should be all the same, your long-winded

Friend E. F.G.

X.

WOODBRIDGE, _May_ 1, [1873.]

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,

I am very glad that you will be Photographed: though not by the Ipswich Man who did me, there are no doubt many much better in London.

Of course the whole Figure is best, if it can be artistically arranged.

But certainly the safe plan is to venture as little as possible when an Artist's hand cannot harmonize the Lines and the Lights, as in a Picture.

And as the Face is the Chief Object, I say the safest thing is to sit for the Face, neck, and Shoulders only. By this, one not only avoids any conflict about Arms and Hands (which generally disturb the Photo), but also the Lines and Lights of Chair, Table, etc.

For the same reason, I vote for nothing but a plain Background, like a Curtain, or sober-coloured Wall.

I think also that there should be no White in the Dress, which is apt to be too positive for the Face. Nothing nearer White than such material as (I think) Brussels Lace (?) of a yellowish or even dirty hue; of which there may be a Fringe between Dress and Skin. I have advised Men Friends to sit in a--dirty Shirt!

I think a three-quarter face is better that a Full; for one reason, that I think the Sitter feels more at ease looking somewhat away, rather than direct at the luminous Machine. This will suit you, who have a finely turned Head, which is finely placed on Neck and Shoulders. But, as your Eyes are fine also, don't let them be turned too much aside, nor at all downcast: but simply looking as to a Door or Window a little on one side.

Lastly (!) I advise sitting in a lightly clouded Day; not in a bright Sunlight at all.

You will think that I am preaching my own Photo to you. And it is true that, though I did not sit with any one of these rules in my head; but just as I got out of a Cab, etc., yet the success of the Thing made me consider afterward why it succeeded; and I have now read you my Lecture on the Subject. Pray do not forgo your Intention--nay, your Promise, as I regard it--to sit, and send me the result. {25}

Here has been a bevy of Letters, and long ones, from me, you see. I don't know if it is reasonable that one should feel it so much easier to write to a Friend in England than to the same Friend abroad; but so it is, with me at least. I suppose that a Letter directed to Stoneleigh will find you before you leave--for America!--and even after that. But I shall not feel the same confidence and ease in transcribing for you pretty Norman Songs, or gossiping about them as I have done when my Letters were only to travel to Kenilworth: which very place--which very name of a Place--makes the English world akin. I suppose you have been at Stratford before this--an event in one's Life. It was not the Town itself--or even the Church--that touched me most: but the old Footpaths over the Fields which He must have crossed three Centuries ago.

Spedding tells me he is nearing Land with his Bacon. And one begins to think Macready a Great Man amid the Dwarfs that now occupy his Place.

Ever yours sincerely

E. F.G.

XI.

_September_ 18/73.

DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,