Your very affectionate
H. MIDHURST
IV Francis Cheyne to Mrs. Radworth
London, Jan. 25th.
MY DEAREST CLARA:
I AM off to Lidcombe in a fortnight’s time, and shall certainly not return to Oxford (if I do at all) till the summer term. I really wonder you should think it worth while to dwell for a second on what Lady Midhurst may choose to say: for I cannot suppose you have any other grounds to go on than this letter of hers; and certainly I do not intend to alter my plans in the least on account of her absurdities. You must remember what our father used to say about her “ impotent incontinence of tongue.” I should be ashamed to let a vicious, virulent old aunt influence me in any way. I am fond of our cousins, and enjoy being with them; it is a nice house to stay at, and, as long as we all enjoy being there together, I cannot see why we should listen to any spiteful and senseless commentaries. To meet you there will of course make it all the pleasanter; I need not fear that you will take the overseer line with me, whatever our aunt’s wisdom may suggest. As to Amicia, I think she is very delightful to be with, and fond of us all in a friendly amiable way; and I know she is very beautiful and agreeable to look at or talk to, which never spoils anything; but as to falling in love, you must have the sense to know that nobody over eighteen, or out of a bad French novel, would run his head into such a mess: to say nothing of the absurdity or the villainy of such a thing. It all comes of the ridiculous and infamous sort of reading which I have no doubt the dear aunt privately indulges in. I do hope you will never quote her authority to me again, even in chaff. I never can believe that she really had the bringing up of Amicia in her own hands; it is wonderful how little of the Midhurst mark has been left on her. I suppose her father was a nicer sort of fellow to begin with; for as to our cousin Mrs. Stanford, one can hardly suppose that she bequeathed Amy an antidote to her own blood. I am sure her son has enough of the original stamp on him: I do not wonder at Lady M.’s liking for him, considering. You decidedly need not be in the least afraid of any excessive intimacy between us. Redgie Harewood has been some weeks in town it seems, and I have met him two or three times. I agree with you that he is just what he used to be, only on a growing scale. At school I remember he used simply to flâner nine days out of ten, and on the tenth either get into some serious row, or turn up with a decent set of verses for once in a way. I dare say he will be rather an available sort of inmate at Lidcombe: you will have to put up with him at all events if you go, for I believe he is there already. Really, if you can get on with him at first, I think you will find there are worse fellows going. It appears, for one thing, that his admiration of you is immense. He does me the honour to seek me out, rather with a view I suppose of getting me to talk about you. That meeting here in London, after his final flight from Oxford mists in the autumn term, seems to have done for him just now. So, if you ever begin upon the subject of Amicia to me, I shall retort upon you with that desirable brother of hers. I should like to see old Harewood’s face if his son were ever to treat him to such a rhapsody as was inflicted upon me the last time Reginald was in my rooms here. I start next week, so probably I shall be at Lord Cheyne’s before you. Come as soon as you can after me, and take care of Ernest. Do as you like for the rest, but pray write no more Midhurst letters at second-hand to
Your affectionate brother,
FRANCIS CHEYNE
V Lady Cheyne to Francis Cheyne
Lidcombe, Feb. 1st.
You know, I hope, that we expect your sister and Mr. Radworth in the course of the week? I have had the kindest letter from her, and it will be a real pleasure to see something more of them at last. I have always liked your brother-in-law very much; I never could understand your objection to scientific men. They seem to me the most quiet, innocuous, good sort of people one could wish to see. I quite understand Clara’s preferring one to a political or poetical kind of man. You and Reginald are oppressive with your violent theories and enthusiasms, but a nice peaceable spirit of research never puts out anybody. I remember thinking Mr. Radworth’s excitement and delight about his last subject of study quite touching; I am sure I should enter into his pursuits most ardently if I were his wife. It is strange to me to remember I have not seen either of them since they called last at Ashton Hildred, a few months before my marriage. I suspect your sister has a certain amount of contempt for my age and understanding; all I hope is that I shall not disgrace myself in the eyes of such a clever person as she is. Clara is one of the people I have always been a little in awe of; and I quite believe, if the truth were known, you are rather of the same way of feeling yourself. However, I look to you to help me, and I dare say she will be lenient on the whole. Her letter was very gracious. I suppose you have heard of Reginald’s arrival? He is wild at the notion of seeing your sister again. I never saw anybody so excited or so intense in his way of expressing admiration. It seems she is his idea of perfect grace and charm; I am very glad he has such a good one, but he is dreadfully unflattering to me in the meantime, and wants to form everybody upon her model. I hope you are not so inflammable on European matters as he seems to be; but I know you used to be worse. Since he has taken up with Italy, there is no living with him on conservative terms. Last year he was in such a state of mind about Garibaldi and the Sicilian business that he would hardly take notice of such insignificant people as we are. My husband has gone through all that stage (he says he has), and is now rather impatient of the sort of thing; he has become a steady ally, on principle, of strong governments. No doubt, as he says, men come to see things differently at thirty, and understand their practical bearing; but nothing will get Reginald to take a sane view of the question, or (as Cheyne puts it) to consider possibilities and make allowance for contingent results. So, you see, you are wanted dreadfully to keep peace between the factions. Redgie is quite capable of challenging his brother-in-law to mortal combat on the issue of the Roman question. Lord Cheyne is busy just now with some private politics of his own, about which he admits of no advice. If he should ever take his seat, and throw his weight openly into the scale of his party, I suppose neither you nor Reginald would ever speak to either of us? I wish there were no questions in the world; but after all I think they hardly divide people as much as they threaten to do. So we must hope to retain our friends as long as they will endure us, in spite of opinions, and make the most of them in the interval. We look for you on the fifth.
Believe me, ever your affectionate cousin,
A. CHEYNE
VI Lady Midhurst to Reginald Harewood
Ashton Hildred, Feb. 21st.
OH, if you were but five or six years younger (you know you were at school six years ago, my dear boy)! what a letter I would write your tutor! Upon my word I should like of all things to get you a good sound flogging. It is the only way to manage you, I am persuaded. I wish to Heaven I had the handling of you: when I think how sorry we all were for you when you were a boy and your father used to flog you! You wrote me the comicallest letters in those days; I have got some still. If I had only known how richly you deserved it! Captain Harewood always let you off too easily, I have not an atom of doubt. How any one can be such a mere schoolboy at your age I cannot possibly conceive. People have no business to treat you like a man. You are nothing but a great dull dunce of a fifth-form boy (lower fifth, if you please), and ought to be treated like one. You don’t look at things in a grown-up way. I want to know what on earth took you to Lidcombe when those Radworths were there? Of course you can’t say. Now I tell you, you had better have put that harebrained absurd boy’s head of yours into a wasps’ nest-do you remember a certain letter of yours to me, nine years ago, about wasps, and what a jolly good swishing you got for running your head into a nest of them, against all orders? you thought it no end of a chouse then (I kept your letter, you see; I do keep children’s letters sometimes, they are such fun-I could show you some of Amicia’s that are perfect studies) to be birched for getting stung, though it was only a
good wholesome counter-irritant; if all the smart had been in your face, I have no doubt you would have been quite ill for a week; luckily your dear good father knew of a counter-cure for inflammation of the skin. Well, I can tell you now that what you suffered at that tender age was nothing to what you will have to bear now if you don’t run at once. Neither the stinging of wasps nor the stinging of birch rods is one quarter so bad as the hornets’ stings and vipers’ bites you are running the risk of. You will say I can’t know that, not having your experience as to one infliction at least; but I have been stung, and I have been talked of; and if any quantity of whipping you ever got made you smart more than the latter process has made me, all I can say is that between your father and the birch you must assuredly have got your deserts for once, in a way to satisfy even me if I had seen it. I hope you have, once or twice, in your younger days; if so, you must have been flogged within an inch of your life. However that may be, I assure you I have been talked within an inch of mine more than once. And so will you if you go on. I entreat and implore you to take my silly old word for it. Of course I am well enough aware you don’t mind; boys never do till they are eaten up body and bones. But you really (as no doubt you were often told in the old times of Dr. Birkenshaw)-you really must be made to mind, my dear Redgie. It is a great deal worse for a man than for a woman to get talked about in such a way as you two will be. If there was any real danger for your cousin you don’t suppose I would let Amicia have you both in the house at once? But as you are the only person who can possibly come to harm through this nonsensical business, I can only write to you and bore you to death. I have no doubt you are riding with Clara at this minute; or writing verses-Amicia sent me your last seaside sonnet-detestable it was; or boating; or doing something dreadful. It is really exceedingly bad for you: I wish to goodness you had a profession, or were living in London at least. If you could but hear me talking you over with Mr. Stanford! and the heavy smiling sort of way in which he “ regrets that young Harewood should be wasting his time in that lamentable manner-believes there was some good in him at one time, but this miserable vie de flâneur, Lady Midhurst” (I always bow when he speaks French in his fearful accent, and that stops him), “ would ruin any boy. Is very glad Amicia should see something of him now and then, but if he is always to be on those terms with his father-most disgraceful,” and so forth. Now, do be good for once, and think it over. I don’t mean what your stepfather says (at least, the man who ought to have been your stepfather, if your filial fondness will forgive me for the hint), “but the way people will look at it. I suppose I should pique you dreadfully if I were to tell you that nobody in the whole earth imagines for a second that there is a serious side to the business. You are not a compromising sort of person-you won’t be for some years yet; and you cannot compromise Clara. She knows that. So does Amicia. So does Ernest Radworth even, or he ought, if he has anything behind his spectacles whatever, which I have always felt uncertain of. I wonder if I may give you a soft light suggestion or two about the object of your vows and verse? I take my courage in both hands and begin. C. R. (you will remember I saw nearly as much of her when she was a girl as I did of Amicia, and I always made a point of getting my nephews and nieces off by heart) is one of the cleverest stupid women I know, but nothing more. Her tone is, distinctly, bad. She has the sense to know this, but not to improve it. The best thing I have ever noticed about her is that, under these circumstances, she resolves to make the most of it. And I quite allow she is very effective when at her best-very taking, especially with boys. When she was quite little, she was the delight of male playfellows; girls always detested her, as women do now. (You may put down my harsh judgment of her to the score of my being a woman, if you think one can be a woman at my age-a thing I believe to be impossible, if one has had the very smallest share of brains to start with.) She can’t be better than her style, but she won’t be worse. I prefer Amicia, I must say; but, when one thinks she might have been like Lady Frances Law. I assure you I do Clara justice when I recollect the existence of that woman,-or Lucretia Fielding (you must have seen her at Lidcombe); but, if I had had a niece like that, I should have died of her. A rapid something in phobianeptiphobia would it be? I suppose not; it sounds barbaric, but my Greek was always very shaky. I learned of my husband; he had been consul at some horrible hole or other; but, anyhow, it would have carried me off-in ten days, at the outside. And I hope she would have been hanged. The upshot of all this is just that our dear C. R. is one of the safest women alive. Not for other people, mind; not safe for you; not safe by any means for her husband; but as safe for herself as I am, or as the Queen is. She knows her place, and keeps to it; and any average man or woman who will just do that can do anything. She is a splendid manager in her way-a bad, petty, rather unwise way, I must and do think; but she is admirable in it. Like a genre painter. Her forte is Murillo beggar-boys; don’t you sit to her. A slight sketch now and then in the Leech sporting manner is all very well. Even a single study between whiles in the Callot style may pass. But the gypsy sentiment I cannot stand. Seriously, my dear Redgie, I will not have it. When she has posed for the ordinary fastish woman, she goes in for a sort of Madonna Gitana, a cross of Raphael with Bohemia. It will not do for you. Shall I tell you the real, simple truth once for all? I have a great mind, but I am really afraid you will take to hating me. Please don’t, my dear boy, if you can help, for I had always a great weakness for you, honestly. I hope you will always be decently fond of me in the long run, malgré all the fast St. Agneses in gypsydom. Well, then, she never was in love but once, and never will be again. It was with my nephew Edmund-Amicia knows it perfectly-when his father was alive. She fought for the title and the man with a dexterity and vigour and suppleness of intellect that was really beautiful in such a girl as she was-delicious to see. I have always done justice to her character since then. My brother would not hear of cousins marrying, probably because he had married one of our mother’s French connections, who must have been a second cousin, at least, of his own. So Cheyne had to give her up; he was a moral and social philosopher in those days, and an attachment more or less was not much to him-he was off with her in no time. But, take my word for it, at one time he had been on with her, and things had gone some distance; people began to talk of her as Lady Cheyne that was to be. She was a still better study after that defeat than when in the thick of the fight. It steadied her for life, and she married Ernest Radworth in six months. Three years after my poor brother died, and the year after that I married Edmund to our dear good little Amicia, as I mean to marry you some day to a Queen of Sheba. When I say Clara’s failure steadied her, you know what I mean; it made her much more fast and loud than she was before-helped in my poor opinion to spoil her style, but that is beside the question; the real point is that it made her sensible. She is wonderfully sensible for a clever person who is (I must maintain) naturally stupid, or she would have gone on a higher tack altogether and been one of the most noticeable people alive. It is exquisite, charming to an old woman, to observe how thoroughly she is up to all the points of all her games. She amuses herself in all sorts of the most ingenious ways; makes that wretch Ernest’s life an Egyptian plague by constant friction of his inside skin and endless needle-probings of his sore mental places: enjoys all kinds of fun, sparingly and heartily at once, like a thoroughly initiated Epicurean (that woman is an esoteric of the Garden): and never for an instant slips aside from the strait gate and narrow way, while she has all the flowers and smooth paving of the broad one-at least all the enjoyment of them; or perhaps something better. She is sublime; anything you like; but she is not wholesome. If she were only the least bit cleverer than she is I would never say a word. Indeed, it would be the best training in the world for you to fall into the hands of a real and high genius. But you must wait. Show me Athénaïs de Montespan and I will allow you any folly on her account; but with Louise de la Vallière I will not let you commit yourself. You will say C. R. is something more than this last;
I know she is; but not enough. If you had had your English history well flogged into you, as it should have been if I had had the managing of matters-and I should have if your father had not been the most-never mind-you would have learnt to appreciate her. She is quite Elizabethan, weakened by a dash of Mary Stuart.
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 295