I shall be with you in two days at latest; will you understand if I ask you to wait for me? Till I come, do nothing for yourself; say nothing to anybody. For your mother’s sake and mine, who have some claims to be thought of-I add no other name; I don’t want to appeal on any grounds but these; but you know why you should spare her. Restraint and reserve at present will be well made up to you afterwards. I can imagine you may want some one to lean upon; I dare say it is hard now to be shut up and self-reliant; but I would not on any account have you expand in a wrong direction. I could wish to write you a softer-toned letter of comfort than this; but one thing I must say: do not let your grief hurry you even for one minute beyond the reach of advice. As for comfort, my dearest child, what can I well say? I have always hated condolence myself: where it is anything, it is bad -helpless and senseless at best. A grievous thing has happened; we can say no more when all comment has been run through. To us for some time-I say to us, callous as you are now thinking me-the loss and misfortune will seem even greater than they are. You have the worst of it. Nevertheless, it is not the end of all things. The world will dispense with us some day; but it shall not while we can hold out. Things must go on when we have dropped off; but, while we can, let us keep up with life. These are cold scraps enough to feed regret with; but they are at least solid of their kind, which is more than I would say of some warmer and lighter sorts of moral diet. As for what is called spiritual comfort, I would have you by all means take and use it, if you can get it, and if the flavour of it is natural to you: I know the way most people have of proffering and pressing it upon one; for my part I never pretended to deal in it. I know only what I think and feel myself; I do not profess to keep moral medicines on hand against a time of sickness. Heaven knows I would give much, or do much, or bear much, to heal you. But indeed at these times, when one must speak (as I have now to do), I prefer things of the cold sharp taste to the faint tepid mixtures of decocted sentiment which religious or verbose people serve out so largely and cheaply. I may be the worse comforter for this; but to me comments, either pious or tender, usually leave a sickly sense after them, as of some flat, unwholesome drug. I am not preaching paganism; I would have you seek all reasonable comfort or support wherever it seems good to you. But I for one cannot write or talk about hopes of reunion, better life, expiation, faith, and such other things. I believe that those who cannot support themselves cannot be supported. Those who say they are upheld by faith say they are upheld by a kind of energy natural to them. This I do entirely allow; and a good working quality it is. But any one who is utterly without self-reliance will collapse. There can be nothing capable of helping the helpless. So you must be satisfied with the best I can give you in the way of comfort. I see well enough that I am heathenish and hard. But I know your trouble is a great one, and I will not play with it. It would be easy to write after the received models, if the thing were not so serious. Time will help us; there is no other certain help. Some day when you are old enough to reconsider past sorrows you will admit that there was a touch of truth in my shreds of pagan consolation. Stoicism is not an exploded system of faith. It may be available still when resignation in the modern sense breaks down. Resign yourself by all means to the unavoidable; take patiently what will come; refuse yourself the relaxation of complaint. Have as little as you can to do with fear, or repentance, or retrospection of any kind. Fear is unprofitable; to look back will weaken your head. As to repentance, it never did good or undid harm. Do not persuade yourself either that your endurance of things that are is in any way a sacrifice of Christian resignation offered to the supreme powers. That is the unhealthy side of patience; the fortitude of the feeble. Be content to endure without pluming yourself on a sense of submission. For, indeed, submission without compulsion can never be anything but the vicious virtue of sluggards. We submit because we must, and had better not flatter ourselves with the fancy that we submit out of goodness. If we could fight our fate we all would. It is not the desire to resist that we fail in, but the means; we have no fighting material. It would not be rebellion, but pure idiocy or lunacy, for us to begin spluttering and kicking against the pricks; but, on the other hand, that is no reason why we should grovel and blubber. It is a child’s game to play at making a virtue of necessity. I say that if we could rebel against what happens to us we would rebel. Christian or heathen, no man would really submit to sorrow if he could help it. Neither you nor I would, and therefore do not try to believe you are resigned, as people call it, to God’s will in the strict religious sense. For if submission means anything that a Stoic had not it means something that no one ever had or ought to have. Courage, taking the word how you will, I have always put at the head of the virtues. Any sort of faith or humility that interferes with it, or impairs its working power, I have no belief in. But, above all things, I would have you always keep as much as you can of liberty. Give up all for that; sacrifice it to nothing-to no religious theory, to no moral precept. All slavishness, whether of body or of spirit, leaves a taint where it touches. It is as bad to be servile to God as it is to be servile to man. Accept what you must accept, and obey where you must obey; but make no pretence of a “ freewill offering.” That sort of phrase and that sort of feeling I hold in real abhorrence. Weak people and cowards play with such expressions and sentiments just as children do with tin soldiers. It is their substitute for serious fighting; because they cannot struggle, they say and believe they would not if they could; most falsely. Give in to no such fancies: cherish no such forms of thought. Liberty and courage of spirit are better worth keeping than any indulgence in hope and penitence. I suppose this tone of talk is unchristian; I know it is wholesome though, for all that. God knows, our scope of possible freedom is poor and small enough; that is no reason why we should labour to circumscribe it further. We are beaten upon by necessity every day of our lives: we cannot get quit of circumstances; we cannot better the capacities born with us; all the less on that very account need we try to impair them. Because we are all purblind, more or less, must we pluck out our eyes to be led about by the ear? Is it any comfort, when we look through spectacles that show us nothing but shapeless blurs and blots, to be told we ought to see clearly by their help, and must at least take it for granted that others do? Rather I would have you endure as much as you can, and hope for as little as you can. All wise and sober courage ends in that. Do, in Heaven’s name, try to keep free of false hopes and feeble fears. Face things as they are; think for yourself when you think of life and death, joy and sorrow, right and wrong. These things are dark by the nature of them ; it is useless saying they can be lit up by a candle held in your eyes. You are only the blinder; they are none the clearer. What liberty to act and think is left us, let us keep fast hold of; what we cannot have, let us agree to live without. This is a strange funeral sermon for me to preach to you across a grave so suddenly opened. Only once or twice in the many years of one’s life the time comes for speaking out, if one will see it-these are matters I seldom think over and never talk about, wishing to keep my head and eyes clear. But my mind was made up, if I did write to you, to keep back nothing I had to say, and affect nothing I had not to say. You are worth counsel and help, such as I can give; the occasion, too, is worth open and truthful speech. I do not pray that you may have strength sent you; you must take your own share of work and endurance; you have to make your strength for yourself. I say again, time will help you, and we should survive this among other lamentable things. But for me, now that I have said my say and prayed my prayers over the dead, I shall not preach on this text again. What my love and thought for you can do in the way of honest help has been done. If you want more in this time of your danger and sorrow, you will not ask it of me. Suppose I were now dying, I could not add a word more to leave you by way of comfort or comment. For once I have written fully, and shown you what I really think and look for as to these matters. I shall never open up again in the same way to any one while I live. I have unpacked my bag for you; now I put it
away for good, under lock and seal. When we meet, and as long as we live together, let us do the best we can in silence. I add no message; all that would be said you know without that. It could only weaken you and sharpen the pain of the day to you to receive tender words and soft phrases copied out to no purpose. I have told your mother she had best not write-forgive me if you regret it. Indeed, I doubt whether she would have tried. When you are here, we must all manage to gain in strength and sense. If this letter of mine strikes cold upon your sorrow, I can but hope you may find, in good time, something or some one able really to soothe and support you better than I can. Meantime, if you read it with patience, I hope it may help to settle you; save you from the useless self-torture of penitent perplexity and the misery of a petted retrospect; and lighten your head, at all events, of some worry, if it cannot just now affect you at heart for the better, as other comforters might profess to do. No one, to my thinking, can “help the heart “-wise phrase of a wiser poet than your brother ever will make. There, I suppose, you must suffer at present. How things are to go with us later on, I cannot say or see. But while you live, and whatever you do, believe at least in the love I have for you.
XVIII Lady Midhurst to Francis Cheyne
Ashton Hildred, July 28th.
MY DEAR FRANK:
I WOULD not have you write to Amicia about those minor arrangements you speak of. Matters had better be settled with me, or by means of your sister. We know you will do all you can in the best possible way; and she is not yet well enough to bear worry. I fear, indeed, that she has more to bear physically than we had thought of. She keeps getting daily more white and wretched, and we hardly know how to handle her. When she arrived, she had a sort of nervous look of strength, which begins now to fail her completely; spoke little, except to me, but fed and slept like a rationally afflicted person. Now I see her get purplish about the eyes, and her cheeks going in perceptibly. It will take years to set her straight if this is to go on. She is past all medicine of mine. I dare say she will begin to develop a spiritual tendency-she reads the unwholesomest books. The truth is, she is far too young to be a widow. That grey and cynical condition of life sits well only upon shoulders of thirty or forty. She is between shadow and sun, in the dampest place there is. Mist and dew begin to tell upon her brain: there is the stuff of a conversion in her just now. I tell you this because you have known her so well, and were such good friends with her that you will be able to take my meaning. I am sure you do want to hear, and sincerely wish all things right with her again. I hope they may be in time-we must take them as they are now. Meantime, it is piteous enough to see her. She comes daily to sit with me for hours, and has a way of looking up and sighing between whiles which is grievous to me. Again, at times, I seem to have glimpses of some avowal or appeal risen almost to her lips, and as suddenly resigned. Her words have tears in them somehow, even when she talks peaceably. I had no suspicion of so deep or keen a regard on her part. Our poor Edmund can hardly have given her as much, one would say. But who knows what he had in him? He was strange always, with his gentle cold manner, and had rare qualities. “I forget things,” she said one day on a sudden to me-I never know what she does think of. Another time, “I wish one could see backwards.” I am glad you went at once to Lidcombe; you will make them a good lord there. Edmund always hung loose on the place. Some day, I suppose, you will have to marry, but you are full young as yet. I should like to see what the house will hold in ten years’ time, but do not much expect the luck. Early deaths age people who hear of them. I feel the greyer for this month’s work. They tell me you have had Captain Harewood to help you in settling down and summing-up. As he was, in a manner, your guardian for a year or two after the death of your father, I suppose he is the man for such work. I believe he had always a good clear head and practical wit. That wretched boy of his doubtless lost his chance of inheriting it through my fault. We came in there and spoilt the blood. I fancy you have something of the same good gift. It is one I have always coveted, and always failed of, that ready and steady capacity for decisive work. Your mother was a godsend to our family-we never had the least touch of active sense among us. All my brother’s, now, was loose muddled good sense, running over into nonsense when he fell to work. The worst of him was his tendency to vacuous verbose talk; he was nearly as long-breathed, and as vague in his chatter, as I am. Not such a thorn in the flesh of correspondents, though, I imagine. I hear Reginald is with his father at Plessey. The place is just endurable in these hot months, but always gives me a notion of thawing-time and webbed feet. It is vexatious, not being able to send for the boy here. Amy would be all the better for him; but of course it is past looking for. She talks of him now and then in a very tender and grateful way. “ Redgie was very good; I wonder what his wife will be? “ she said, once. There was no chance of such luck for him in sight, I suggested; but she turned to me with singular eyes, and said, “I should like her if she would marry him soon.” She has a carte de visite of him, which is made much of. Her husband never would sit for one, I recollect. It seems Redgie was useful when nobody else could have done much good. Those few days were hideous. I never shall forget that white dried face of hers, and the heavy look of all her limbs. Poor child, I had to talk her into tears. She “had the ways of old people for some time after. Even now she is bad enough; worse, as I told you, in some things. It is great amiability to express such feeling about turning her out as you do. No help for it, you know. She would have had more to bear at Lidcombe; and you will soon fit well into the old place. Very fond of it she certainly was, and some day, perhaps, I may take her over to see you. That will be years hence. Your wife must be good to the dowagers -I dare say she will. It will be curious to meet there anyhow. One thing is a pity, that Amicia can never have a child to keep her company; for I think she can hardly marry again, young as she is. A daughter would have done you no harm, and left her with one side of life filled up she would have made a perfect mother. I used to think she had much of the social type of Englishwoman. It is such a broken-up sort of life that one anticipates for her. And there was such a tender eager delight in affection, such a soft and warm spirit, such pure pleasure in being and doing good-it is the most delicious nature I know. But you know her, too. Love to your sister from both, if she is still with you. Or did they leave when the Plessey people went?
XIX Francis Cheyne to Mrs. Radworth
Lidcombe, Aug. 16th.
I DO not see how I can possibly stay here. If you had not gone so soon we might have got on; now it is unbearable. There is a network of lawyers’ and over-lookers’ business to be got through still. I go about the place like a thief, and people throw the title in my face like a buffet at every turn. And I keep thinking of Amicia; her rooms have the sound of her in them. I went down to the lake at sunset and took a pull by myself. The noise of the water running off and drawing under was like some one that sobs and chokes. I went home out of all temper with things. And there was a letter waiting from Aunt Midhurst that would have made one half mad at the best of times. She is right to strike if she pleases; but her sort of talk hits hard. I felt hot and sick with the sense of meanness when I had done. These things are the worst one has to bear. She tells me what to do; gives news of Amicia that would kill one to think of, if thought did kill; mixes allusions in a way that she only could have the heart to do. I believe she knows or thinks the worst, and always has. And there is nothing one can say in reply to her. It is horrid to lie at her mercy as we do. Their life in that house must be intolerable. I can see Amy sitting silent under her eyes and talk; sick and silent, without crying, like a woman held fast and forced to look on while some one else was under torture. I know so well by myself how she must take the suffering; with a blind, bruised soul, and a sort of painful wonder and pity; divided from herself; beaten and broken down and tired out. If she were to go mad I should know why. And I cannot come near her, and you know how I love her. I would kill myself to save her pain, and I know she is in pain hourly,
and I sit here where she used to be. If I had never been born at all she would have been happy enough with her husband alive. I tell you, God knows how good she was to him. If only one of their people here would insult me, I should be thankful. But the place seems to accept me, and they tolerate a new face; I did think some one would show vexation or sorrow-do or say something by way of showing they remembered. I was Quixotic, I suppose, for all the old things made way for me. Except the one day when Redgie Harewood came over with his father; he did seem to think I had no business here, and I never liked him so well. You recollect how angry it made you. People ought to remember. I was glad he would not stay in the house. That was the only time any one has treated me as I want to be treated. I shall come and stay with you if you will have me. I cannot go about yet, and I hate every corner of this house. When I ride I do literally feel now and then tempted to try and get thrown. Last winter we were all here together, and she used to sing at this time in this room. The voice and the sound of her dress come and go in my hearing. I see her face and all her hair glitter and vibrate as she keeps singing. Her hands and her throat go up and down, and her eyes turn and shine. Then she leaves off playing and comes to me, and I cannot see her near enough; but I feel her hands touch me, and hear her crying. I can do nothing but dream in this way. I want my life and my love back. I am wretched enough now, and she must be unhappier than I am; she is so much better. Her beautiful tender nature must be a pain to her every day. I suppose she is sorry for me. I would die to-day if I could make her forget. My dear sister, you must let me write to you as I can, and not mind what I say. I could not well write to a man now; and I never was friends enough with any one to open out as I can to you. I must get strength and sense in time, or make an end somehow. I wish to God I could give all this away and be rid of things at once.
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 300