by Rona Altrows
In recent days, some have unjustly represented me as ruthless. A military campaign is not a pretty thing; if a few farm buildings burn and animals lose their lives, it is not because we desire to quash the civilian population. It must simply be clear at all points that ours is the superior force. I have made it known here, by my own hand and in the French language, that Britain shows benevolence to the vanquished, so long as they do not rise up against us. It is in their interests to surrender; only French arrogance stops them from doing so. The intendant of their rough colony, Bigot, lives like an anointed monarch while the plain people struggle, and he encourages gambling in Quebec until it has become another disease. The dissatisfaction of the citizenry should be directed not toward me, but toward their own leadership.
This next part is for your eyes alone, lying, as it does, strictly in the private domain. Although you have not masked your displeasure at my engagement to Katherine Lowther, kindly see to it that she has her miniature portrait back, along with the copy of Mr. Gray’s great poem that she gifted me when we were betrothed last Christmas. That you fulfill the moral duty to return these small items to Miss Lowther, I have specified in my will. However, I think it prudent to inform you now of my wishes in this regard. If you are tempted to forget to return those items to Miss Lowther, I would invite you to recall the pressure you exerted to have me end my courtship of Elizabeth Lawson, all because, as in Miss Lowther’s case, the dowry offered was modest. It is only because of filial devotion that I die a bachelor.
Nonetheless, in every other respect, you have been always my champion and my comfort, and for those gifts I am grateful. Perhaps when you read these words, you will already be a mother with no surviving children. It saddens me to think of your grief. I am also sorry to leave you so soon after Father’s death.
I wish you much health, and am, dear Madam,
your dutiful and affectionate son,
Jam. Wolfe
TO HERMANN EINSTEIN FROM HEINRICH SCHMIDT
Luitpold Gymnasium
Munich
22 May 1892
Sehr geehrter Herr Einstein,
I write with great reluctance, since every parent wishes to hear his son well spoken of by the boy’s educators. This I cannot do.
Your son Albert neither fails nor excels in my Latin class. He passes his examinations; however, his indifference to the subject matter troubles me. He cares not whether we are studying Caesar’s Gallic Wars or Virgil’s Aeneid; it makes no difference to him whether I am teaching the rules of scansion or the uses of the ablative absolute. Always he sits with a faraway look, as though he were contemplating things not of this world. That expression is most disconcerting to me as a teacher. I expect complete concentration from my students, who must not only be attentive but also look attentive. As far as his participation goes, it is a repeating story. “Einstein!” I say sharply, and I present him with a question. He rises slowly, more like an eighty-year-old man than a thirteen-year-old boy. He hesitates, as though disturbed from some more important occupation. Only then, and stumblingly, does he answer. The fact that his response is correct is not the point. The problem is his manner.
Once, he looked genuinely engaged in the lesson. The students were involved in silent work; they were translating Sallust’s Conspiracy of Catiline. Your son’s eyes sparkled. I walked the aisles of the classroom and soon discovered the reason.
Einstein was involved in a conspiracy, to be sure—not the Catilinarian conspiracy, but a conspiracy of another kind, between him and the contents of a geometry book, which he had embedded within the pages of the Sallust. Naturally, I confiscated the text and returned it only after Einstein had apologized to me in front of all my other students. His apology was flat in tone; it did not carry the ring of sincerity. I considered giving him a Verweis, but frankly, I did not think even a formal reprimand would cause him to experience, and, more importantly, demonstrate, penitence.
During the week I held that geometry book, I showed it to my colleagues in our Mathematics department and learned that the book is not even part of our curriculum. Later I discovered that your son has been caught in similar fashion twice in his Greek class. Once he was reading Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason; the other time, he was poring over a work about light by a physicist named Tyndall. Again, not only not Greek, but also, not part of our curriculum.
If his inattentiveness does not end, I cannot say how or even if your son will make his way to the end of his studies here and indeed, one wonders how he will fare as an adult. I have never heard of an employer who will retain an absent-minded employee.
I understand this news is all harsh for you to hear but truly, I feel an obligation to inform you that your son needs to change his ways. He reminds me of Hoffmann’s Hans Guck-in-die-Luft, the boy whose head is always in the clouds and winds up falling in the river, losing his notebook and facing deserved ridicule.
Do not let your Albert fall into the river, Herr Einstein. Through whatever means you have at your disposal, bring the boy back to earth, so he looks at what is in front of him—his Latin books, for example. Otherwise, his attitude will surely defeat him and he will not amount to much.
Finally, let me ask for your specific assistance with regard to his contraband reading materials. If you are able to ascertain where he is getting these items, kindly cut off his supply at the source. I thank you in advance.
With best regards,
Heinrich Schmidt
ANY WORDS YOU MAY HAVE FOR ME
Problem.
You cogitate. Cerebrate. Reflect.
Aha!
But wait. What if…?
You ruminate. You pace.
Face it: you need advice.
Now, articulate.
TO APHRA BEHN FROM JANE BARKER
Christchurch Newgate Street, London
21 March, 1686
Dear Mrs. Behn,
We are not acquainted with each other, yet I beg you still to take some moments to peruse this correspondence, for I have a critical decision to make and would much value your counsel. You have all my respect for your god-given capability to make words do your will, and I have admiration for your labouring on notwithstanding venomous statements related to your writings and slanderous comments related to your person. I am cognizant too of your perilous travails as a spy for our country and have heard how harshly you were treated for your pains, having received virtually none of the remuneration promised to you, in spite of your regular entreaties. In a world far more just than the one we inhabit, Arlington, who defaulted utterly in his duty to pay you, would have faced the rigours of prison to which you, instead, were subjected for failure, through no fault of your own, to meet your financial obligations. Moreover, I applaud your refusal to be deterred by the ravings of those men who do not accept that women can write, and write well. If the naysayers were correct, how to account for your published books and your many plays, produced on the great stages of London and at the court of King James.
Now I must decide whether to avail myself of an offer and it is my hope that, with your worldly wisdom and your experience in the publishing arena, you may see fit to advise me. I beg your indulgence as I put forward here something of my own history and aspirations.
Stories and verses have been forming in my mind for as long as I am able to remember; I recounted them aloud, as a small girl, to my brother Edward, two years my elder and always a willing listener. Later he taught me to read and write and I set my childish compositions down on paper, until little by little I came to write more fluently, benefitting greatly from my brother’s lessons in syntax. As a young man my brother studied to be a physician at Oxford and at my behest, when he was home for holidays, he instructed me in anatomy, medicine and chemistry. Later I used my knowledge to invent a plaster effective for the treatment of gout.
Although my choice is most unusual for a woman, I am determined
to write as my principal labour for however many years God chooses to grant me life, craggy and fraught with perils though the path to recognition may be. At present I find myself low in spirits, with the pain of lone effort and omnipresent doubt regarding my own aptitude, but as I have learned since taking to the pen in childhood, such feelings advance and recede; beset as I may be with apprehensions, I will not allow them to interfere with my resolution to continue writing.
Six months ago my mother and I moved here from Lincolnshire, but how long our sojourn in London will be, we have not decided. It has become my custom to visit a bookshop that lies at the western extremity of St. Paul’s Churchyard, close by where we are staying on Newgate Street. The bookseller, Benjamin Crayle, I imagine from his appearance to be my age (thirty-three) or perhaps a little younger, and I derive great pleasure in conversing with him, for, like you, I enjoy the company of clever men. Mr. Crayle composes verses, although he has told me he is not as serious a writer as I. From time to time, he publishes his own work as well as that of others. In an unexpected gesture of generosity, or perhaps manipulation, he offered to carry my gout plaster in his bookshop and to place, on the back cover of a book of his verses, a notice regarding “Dr. Barker’s” plaster, its attributes and its availability at Mr. Crayle’s bookshop. As a result, I have made a little money from sales of the plaster, but in spite of my repeated requests that he do so, Mr. Crayle refuses to take any portion of the proceeds of sale.
Now, having read my verses, Mr. Crayle has offered to publish a book of them. He assures me—for I have asked outright—that the offer is made on the basis of the merit of the verses and is in no wise attributable to our camaraderie. Indeed, he states unequivocally that as a man of letters and in particular as a man of business, he would never consider publishing the work of an inferior poet. Because I do not have a reputation as a writer, I do not believe my name alone would excite the interest of the book-buying public, and I therefore have inquired of my poet friends at Cambridge, each of whom has a following of loyal readers, whether they would consider contributing some of their own verses to the book. To a man and with relish, they have consented. Mr. Crayle has looked at their verses and approved. Accordingly we now have a manuscript, half of which consists of my poetry, with the other half being devoted to the verses of the Cambridge lads. For the title I have suggested Poetical Recreations, and to that too, Mr. Crayle has agreed.
Yet I find myself bedevilled with hesitation. Should I be more circumspect than to take the first offer of publication that is given? Would the more prudent course for me be to inquire of other publishers, who might have greater resources than Mr. Crayle and who might, therefore, be able to distribute the book more widely? As there is a personal connection of friendship between Mr. Crayle and me, will publication lead to my feeling beholden to him in any manner? Are the terms of his offer reasonable, compared to offers extended to other writers?
A further consideration that I have not until now mentioned is this. Although I intend never to have my freedom curtailed by marriage, I do have and for the foreseeable future will have means of support apart from any proceeds of sale of my writings. My beloved brother Edward died of a fever at the age of twenty-five; it is a loss over which I have wept and written much, and from which I do not think I will ever fully recover. As a consequence of his demise, I was named as a “life” on the ninety-nine year extension of a lease to my father by the Earl of Exeter. The leased property includes a manor house, arable lands, and a water meadow in Wilsthorpe, Lincolnshire. My father, Thomas, who died four and a half years ago, had trained me in the management of lands, and I am particularly familiar with the Wilsthorpe manor and environs, where our family had lived since the ’sixties when my father was granted the original lease. I am both fortunate and grateful to have Wilsthorpe to rely on, but that does not cause me to waver in my determination to write for a living.
So as I am sure you appreciate, I do not wish in any way to compromise or even to appear to do so. Do you think if I accept Mr. Crayle’s offer to publish, my doing so might be misinterpreted as anything beyond an agreement to enter into a mutually advantageous business arrangement? Am I acting too precipitously? Any words you may have for me, I would most appreciate, for you have broken the ground for me and, it is my hope, other women writers to come.
I am, dear Madam, with great esteem, yours very faithfully,
Jane Barker
TO CATHERINE CHURIAU OF BIARRITZ, FRANCE FROM ESTHER BRANDEAU
Hôpital Général
Port de Québec
Nouvelle-France
le 20 novembre, 1738
Chère Madame Churiau,
I trust you are in fine health and of good cheer.
A nursing nun, Sister Agathe-Louise, has become my dear friend and has offered to assist me. I simply call her Sister now, and she is the only person here who addresses me by my first name. Without her my loneliness would be unbearable.
I speak and Sister writes. From time to time she helps me find the right words. She tells me this letter will be transported on the next ship to France. I do not know if Biarritz is one of the ship’s ports of call but Sister says the God she and I both believe in will ensure my words reach you. I hope that is so because I am much in need of guidance. I cannot decide whether to convert or stay Jewish. The rest of my life depends on the choice I make. The authorities here will not wait forever; I see them losing patience. If I do not succumb they will deport me—a terrible prospect, as with all my heart, I wish to remain here. If I do become a Catholic, it will be against my true will, and I will never be at ease with myself. I am pulled in different directions until I feel I will tear apart.
Sister suggested I write my parents for advice. But they have other children to care for. Moreover, since I was a little girl I have heard whispers I am illégitime and only my father’s child, not my mother’s, which may explain her coldness to me. As you know, I was fifteen and on a voyage to Amsterdam to live with relatives when the shipwreck occurred that brought about my good fortune—to be rescued by a fellow sailor, to meet you, and to live as a guest in your home. I could probably have somehow found my way back to my father’s house in Saint-Esprit, as I was still in southwestern France. But I decided not to go back then and I choose not to ask my family for advice now. My mother always judged me harshly for my restless temperament. Even on short acquaintance, I felt more accepted by you.
Do you remember my excitement when you and I sat by your hearth and I had my first taste of pork ever? What a feeling of freedom that gave me. Above all, I value freedom.
I am sorry to have departed after only two weeks. I should have bade you adieu but in truth, I did not know I would leave until I was gone. I simply followed an impulse to keep moving.
Indeed, for the past five years I have been in motion, employed for the most part on ships, dressed as a boy and with my breasts tightly bound. I have been known by aliases, picking names that appealed to me. Most recently I called myself Jacques la Fargue and served as a cabin boy on the Saint-Michel under le Capitaine de Salaberry. On that voyage, I had a deep change of heart. Weary of constantly uprooting myself, I decided I would settle once the ship reached its destination—Québec. After all, I am a woman of twenty now, ready to set down roots. Salaberry saw past my male disguise, so I disclosed my true name to him. He did not punish me. It was not like other times I have been found out and whipped or worse.
We arrived in Québec in late September. “Catholique?” I was asked when we disembarked. “Juive,” I said. Why would I lie, when my identity was already known? But that was when the trouble began, because, by law, Jews are not allowed in any colony of France. Thus, I have been given my options: convert and settle here or be sent back to France. Since I have at present no status and they do not know what to do with me, they have, for now, put me in the hospital. That is how I met Sister. She was one of those assigned to teach me Catholicism. She do
es her job; however, she has also become my confidante. We speak of many things now, not just religion, and she lets me say to her whatever I please. I know she will repeat nothing to the authorities. My freedom to be myself with Sister is all that keeps me sane. To Sister, I am a full person. To the others who visit me, I am a conundrum and an embarrassment.
Other nuns come to see me. The parish priest comes as well. The sessions are tedious. Constantly they make me pray with them. Over and over, they explain the sacraments. What I hate most is how they try to soften me up with references to Judaism, as they argue that Christianity is its natural successor. Last Tuesday, one of the nuns, Sister Marie-Joseph said, “As a Hebrew you know the meaning of a sacrificial lamb. So of course, you can see why Jesus is called the lamb of God.” Truly, I cannot. In fact I despise the original lamb tale. Abraham’s binding of Isaac was an act of cruelty by a father and I wish that story were not part of the Jewish religion. “Why do you think the disciples of Jesus called him a rabbi?” the parish priest asked me yesterday. “Perhaps to increase his popularity,” I said.
They say I will learn to have faith by observing rituals. How many times have they asked me to repeat the Apostle’s Creed? How can I, when I do not believe in ‘Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary’ and the rest of it?