To the Letter
Page 14
Chesterfield wrote to his son about 400 times, but many more letters didn’t get through. Regretting their inevitable non-delivery, he again used the imagery of kites: some of his letters were blown in the wrong direction by the wind while others were ‘torn by the string’; he was content that at least a few soared, including this one, on how not to be boring:
October 1747
Dear Boy,
The art of pleasing is a very necessary one to possess, but a very difficult one to acquire. It can hardly be reduced to rules, and your own good sense and observation will teach you more of it than I can. Do as you would be done by is the surest method that I know . . .
Take the tone of the company that you are in, and do not pretend to give it; be serious, gay, or even trifling, as you find the present humour of the company; this is an attention due from every individual to the majority. Do not tell stories in company: there is nothing more tedious and disagreeable: if by chance you know a very short story, and exceedingly applicable to the present subject of conversation, tell it in as few words as possible; and even then throw out that you do not love to tell stories, but that the shortness of it tempted you. Of all things, banish the egotism out of your conversation, and never think of entertaining people with your own personal concerns or private affairs; though they are interesting to you, they are tedious and impertinent to everybody else: besides that, one cannot keep one’s own private affairs too secret.
Lord Chesterfield writes to Solomon Dayrolles in 1754.
When his son turned 18, Chesterfield supplemented his letters by sponsoring a Grand Tour, the traditional traipse round the ruins of Europe. He kept on writing as Philip reached Paris, Rome and Leipzig, turning increasingly to matters of politics and commerce, switching his opening gambit from ‘My Dear Boy’ to ‘My Dear Friend’. In February 1750, the subject was the cautious use of one’s resources.
My Dear Friend,
Very few people are good economists of their Fortune, and still fewer of their Time; and yet, of the two, the latter is the most precious. I heartily wish you to be a good economist of both; and you are now of an age to begin to think seriously of these two important articles. Young people are apt to think they have so much time before them, that they may squander what they please of it, and yet have enough left; . . . Fatal mistakes, always repented of, but always too late . . .
For example; you are to be at such a place at twelve, by appointment; you go out at eleven, to make two or three visits first; those persons are not at home: instead of sauntering away that intermediate time at a coffee-house, and possibly alone, return home, write a letter for the ensuing post . . .
Many people lose a great deal of time by reading; for they read frivolous and idle books, such as the absurd Romances of the two last centuries; where characters that never existed are insipidly displayed, and sentiments that were never felt pompously described: the oriental ravings and extravagancies of the Arabian Nights, and Mogul Tales; and such sort of idle frivolous stuff, that nourishes and improves the mind just as much as whipped cream would the body. Stick to the best established books in every language; the celebrated Poets, Historians, Orators, or Philosophers.
Many people lose a great deal of their time by laziness; they loll and yawn in a great chair, tell themselves that they have not time to begin anything then, and that it will do as well another time. This is a most unfortunate disposition, and the greatest obstruction to both knowledge and business . . . Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.
The letters were full of such epigrams and bon mots, many freshly minted, some recycled, a heady bag of Polonius-style windbaggery and inspiration. Kipling’s ‘If –’ appeared to draw a lot from it. And within the thickets there was much good sense.
Fix one certain hour and day in the week for your [accounts] and keep them together in their proper order; by which means they will require very little time, and you can never be much cheated.
Never read History without having maps, and a chronological book or tables lying by you, and constantly recurred to; without which, History is only a confused heap of facts.
Rise early, and at the same hour every morning, how late-soever you may have sat up the night before. This secures you an hour or two at least of reading or reflection before the common interruptions of the morning begin; and it will save your constitution, by forcing you to go to bed early at least one night in three.
And sometimes there were even more fundamental problems to attend to. In November 1750 Chesterfield was disturbed to discover that his 18-year-old son still had a limited grasp on the fundamentals of English.
You spell induce ‘enduce’ and grandeur you spell ‘grandure’; two faults of which few of my house-maids would have been guilty. I must tell you that orthography, in the true sense of the word, is so absolutely necessary for a man of letters, or a gentleman, that one false spelling may fix a ridicule upon him for the rest of his life; and I know a man of quality who never recovered the ridicule of having spelled ‘wholesome’ without the ‘w’.
To what advantage did Philip Stanhope put his father’s all-encompassing advice? Did he become a courtly general or prime minister? He did not, and fairly failed to become prime anything. His father paid £2,000 to install him as MP for Liskeard and St Germans in Cornwall, but his shyness dulled his oratory and he spent much of his time at minor posts abroad, including a stint as the envoy extraordinary at the Perpetual Diet of Regensburg in Bavaria, the parliament concerned with the doomed maintenance of the Holy Roman Empire.
By December 1765, in the last letter to his son that survives, Chesterfield appears to have almost given up on him, reducing his message to some moderate thoughts on the American Revolution and a bit of good gossip.
My Dear Friend,
. . . One hears of nothing now in town but the separation of men and their wives. Will Finch the ex-vice-Chamberlain, Lord Warwick, and your friend Lord Bolingbroke. I wonder at none of them for parting; but I wonder at many for still living together; for in this country it is certain that marriage is not well understood.
I have this day sent Mr. Larpent two hundred pounds for your Christmas-box, which I suppose he will inform you of by this post. Make this Christmas as merry a one as you can . . . For the new years, God send you many and happy ones.
Adieu.
Chesterfield’s son predeceased him by five years, dying, with a certain tragicomic inevitability, of dropsy, in 1768. His father never really recovered from the loss, spending his final years in failing health; not long before he died he claimed that he had already been effectively dead for two years. But his charming letters to his son are still in print, an unmatchable historical primer for manners and civility in the Age of Enlightenment. And his advice, ultimately, didn’t go to waste: Lord Chesterfield used much of it again in the 262 letters he wrote to his godson, the fifth earl of Chesterfield, who was also called Philip Stanhope. He did rather better this time: his new protégé rose to become joint postmaster general.
Entirely Gone
14232134 SIGMN. BARKER H.C., 30 WING, 1 COY.
9 AIR FORMATION SIGNALS, M.E.F.
12 April 1944
Dear Bessie,
Yesterday I got your Letter Card dated the 3rd, the first I have had from you since your L.C. of 12th March, as your letter, unfortunately and unhappily has still to arrive.
I think we are so near to each other that our reactions to similar occurrences are very much, if not exactly, the same. So that you know the excitement I felt when I saw your handwriting on the L.C. my brother handed me. There was one from Deb [an old friend] and another from Mum; and, of course, I had to read these first. And I could read yours only once, and then had to put it in my pocket, while my poor old head tried to cope with its contents as far as I could remember. You have come at me with such a terrific rush of warmth, and I am so very much in need of you.
After I had re-read your letter, out came the chess-men, and we played one game (which I won!) before adjourning to the canteen to gather round the wireless for the ‘news’ (a rite in these surroundings). Then we were ‘collared’ for Bridge, which we played till ten o’clock. All the time, the only thing I wanted to do was read your words, this tiny part of you, again and again.
Back in the tent, and to bed. How impossible to sleep with thought and wonder of you hot within me. As I toss and turn and wriggle and writhe I think of you, probably doing the same. Isn’t it blooming awful? I know that if I think of you, I will not sleep; yet I keep on thinking of you, and get hotter and hotter. Phew! I could do with a couple of ice-blocks around me.
Finally, to sleep. Up in the morning, my first thoughts, of your nearness and your distance from me, and the hope that I can race off this first six pages, to post this afternoon. Unfortunately there is no likelihood of my early return. I must be another year, I may be another three or four. Relax, my girl, or you’ll be a physical wreck in no time. Regard me as what you will, but don’t altogether forget circumstance, distance, environment. I do so joyfully, happily, eagerly, but you must have more sense.
In the film tonight there was a [joke] that the state of being in love was the happiest way of being miserable. So be miserable happily, don’t look over your shoulder too much; enjoy what is, so far as you can, and remember the old, wise tag ‘Today is the tomorrow we worried about yesterday.’ I am a born worrier myself, but feel I could be all that you wanted me to be. Probably more important, I know that you are what I want, not in any limited sense, but in all. I want to confide in you. I want to creep into you. I want to protect you. That I am not capable is unimportant, what is significant is that you should think I am. My hands cannot caress you; my words strive hard to tell you all the things I dare. You spoke of yourself being ‘guilty of slobbering’ – it’s no crime, I’m proud of it! If your incoherent babblings mean what mine do, it’s jolly good. Don’t worry about being bounced out of favour, and try to grow out of this ‘engulfed – nothing belongs to oneself’ feeling. Regard me as a promise rather than a threat, and ‘pick holes’ in me where you can – so that I seem less regal! Remember we are both in this together, and that it has somehow occurred undesignedly, unrehearsed, because we had it in us. Yes, I wish that I was with you. But life is hard – wishing won’t make it so. My thoughts are with you far too often for my physical serenity and my mental equilibrium. During the day I simply lap you up and cause trouble at night. ‘Engulfed’ describes my state, too, a rather floundering, uncertain one.
I wonder what you look like (don’t have a special photograph taken). I know you haven’t a bus-back face but I have never looked at you as now I would. I wonder how many times I have seen you, and how many we have been alone. Now my foolish pulse races at the thought that you even have a figure. I want, very much, to touch you, to feel you, to see you as you naturally are, to hear you. I want to sleep and awaken with you. I want to live with you. I want to be strong and I want to be weak with you. I want you.
I want my letters to be of interest to you, so please let me know how and what you want me to write. On occasions, you’ll understand, I may not be in a position to write.
Let me know if you think I’m mad. When my signature dries I am going to kiss it. If you do the same, that will be a complete (unhygienic) circuit!
Yours,
Chris
Chapter Eight
Letters for Sale
On 3 July 1973, Sotheby’s offered a letter for sale in its London auction rooms, and on 3 July 2007, Christie’s offered the same letter for sale again. In the intervening 34 years the letter had been in the hands of a man called Albin Schram, a plump legal historian from Prague.
Actually, not quite 34 years, since Schram had died a couple of years earlier. When his relatives started looking through his belongings in the months after his funeral they realised that this letter might be worth a fair amount, partly because it was a letter from Napoleon, and partly because it was a great and mad letter from Napoleon, written by hand following a quarrel he’d just had with his new lover. According to the letter, Bonaparte had been almost undone by the throes of love and lust. A few weeks before he was to embark on the long conquest of Europe he stood emotionally naked, almost fatally distracted by Josephine in the first flush of their relationship. The letter was beyond rare and unquestionably authentic: one of only three known letters addressed to her before their marriage, two pages of light blue-grey paper cut from a larger sheet at the upper edges, with four cancellations and corrections, encouragingly worn, torn and spotted. No one was terribly surprised when, as lot 387 at its sale in 1973, it fetched several thousand pounds. But how much would it be worth in 2007? The estimate stood between £30,000 and £50,000.
The letter was written at nine in the morning, but Napoleon gives no indication of the date or even the year; it is somewhere between the beginning of their romance in December 1795 and their marriage on 9 March 1796. It describes the powerful control Josephine holds over her lover, and it is down on its knees with apology; Napoleon is known to have enquired about her family wealth and property in the West Indies, but in the letter he assures her that he only loves her for herself. In a modern translation:
So what is your strange power, incomparable Josephine? One of your thoughts is poisoning my life, tearing my soul apart . . . I well know if we argue, I should deny my heart, my conscience. You have seduced them, they are always yours.
I went to bed really angry . . . So you thought I didn’t love you for you? Whom then? Ah madame, have you really thought about it? How could such a low feeling be conceived from a soul so pure. I am still astonished, less so however than the feeling which since I woke up has led me without bitterness and effortlessly to your feet.
I give you three kisses, one on your heart, one on your mouth and one on your eyes.
NB
What is the strange power the letter holds over us? Napoleon’s love letters resonate not so much for their universality as for their singularity – the particular French vocabulary, the constant echoes of weariness from the latest campaign – yet they can’t but strike a common chord in anyone once consumed by the absence of another. Not everyone can lead a successful invasion of Austria, Italy, Egypt, Spain and Germany, but we can all fall in love with love, and we can all, as readers, revel in a doomed affair. History has additional claims. Josephine’s brief hold on Napoleon amounted almost to a disease, and it is through his affliction, both its climax and decline, that we gain a permanently valuable record of his character and actions. Battles rage behind him as he writes, and we can almost smell the gunpowder.
Passion unbound: Napoleon writes to Josephine.
Many of Napoleon’s other love letters are less adulatory. They are accusatory, self-centred, mistrusting, self-immolating and usually composed from the depths of exhaustion. His love is not one of joy but of deprivation and melodrama; he demands sympathy but he risks contempt. ‘My life is a perpetual nightmare,’ he writes from Italy in June 1796, three months after their marriage. His wife had been unwell; he had been slaying Austrians and storming through Milan, Verona and Naples.
A presentiment of ill oppresses me. I see you no longer. I have lost more than life, more than happiness, more than my rest. I am almost without hope. I hasten to send a courier to you. He will stay only four hours in Paris, and then bring me your reply. Write me ten pages. That alone can console me a little. You are ill, you love me, I have ma
de you unhappy, you are in delicate health, and I do not see you! – that thought overwhelms me. I have done you so much wrong that I know not how to atone for it; I accuse you of staying in Paris, and you were ill there. Forgive me, my dear; the love with which you have inspired me has bereft me of reason. I shall never find it again. It is an ill for which there is no cure. My presentiments are so ominous that I would confine myself to merely seeing you, to pressing you for two hours to my heart – and then dying with you.
. . . Josephine, how can you remain so long without writing to me; your last laconic letter is dated May 22. Moreover, it is a distressing one for me, but I always keep it in my pocket; your portrait and letters are perpetually before my eyes.
A month later, Bonaparte is stationed near Mantua, which he has just overrun. He had recently met Josephine in Milan 80 miles away, and their meeting had made him question whether she shared the heat of his passions. He wondered whether she wasn’t already seeing others. On 19 July Napoleon’s paranoia grew.
I have been without letters from you for two days. That is at least the thirtieth time today that I have made this observation to myself; you are thinking this particularly wearisome; yet you cannot doubt the tender and unique anxiety with which you inspire me.
We attacked Mantua yesterday. We warmed it up from two batteries with red-hot shot and from mortars. All night long that wretched town has been on fire. The sight was horrible and majestic. We have secured several of the outworks; we open the first parallel tonight. Tomorrow I start for Castiglione with the Staff, and I reckon on sleeping there. I have received a courier from Paris. There were two letters for you; I have read them. But though this action appears to me quite natural, and though you gave me permission to do so the other day, I fear you may be vexed, and that is a great trouble to me. I should have liked to have sealed them up again: fie! that would have been atrocious. If I am to blame, I beg your forgiveness. I swear that it is not because I am jealous; assuredly not. I have too high an opinion of my beloved for that. I should like you to give me full permission to read your letters, then there would be no longer either remorse or apprehension.