TO MRS. TULLOCH.
Champs Elysées,
Jan, 22.
My dearest Padrona, — Many happy years to you, my dear and sweet sister. Your birthday last year was about the last day of my happiness. I had little thought of ever looking back upon it as the end of the brightest period of my life, but it must be that God knows best. He has given me a painful and troubled passage through life, but to you the years are still pleasant and full of hope, and you know I wish you all that is best and most blessed in the world. I am not capable of much just at this time, as you will understand; but perhaps I may have more courage after this week is over. I think of going away to the country for a day or two, to fight it out by myself. Think of me a little when you say your prayers. It is hard to go out in the streets, to look out of the window, and see the other women with their daughters. God knows it is an unworthy feeling, but it makes me shrink from going out or facing the world....
As for the little boys, they have got on astonishingly. I cannot quite support Cecco’s own opinion of his proficiency, but he really commences to read French, and when he picks up an English book spells out the words after the pronunciation, which Mademoiselle has taught him in the funniest way....I have grown an old woman all at once, reluctant to move and impatient of having my routine disturbed, and the arrival of a visitor intent upon amusement is a kind of horror.
To Mr. Blackwood.
I send you with this the second number of ‘Miss Marjoribanks,’ which I hope you will like. I am not quite sure myself that there is enough progress made, and I am afraid I am getting into a habit of over-minuteness. Thank you for your letter and the cheque. I am quite content to leave myself in your hands about money; indeed I have myself very little idea as yet how long this story may be: I meant it to be only four or five numbers, but I have already put in too many details to make that possible, and it seems to suit my demon best to let it have its own way. Only on the money question don’t look severe if I should be driven to making claims upon you after a while. I don’t want anything just now, but there is no telling what one may come to. My wonder is that all the Parisians are not hopelessly bankrupt: as far as I am myself concerned I live like an oyster in its shell, but the very air is dear, and to breathe is expensive. It has not been so cold as I expected, and the most of the winter seems over now. Happily the air here seems to agree very well with my boys, who can bear the cold much better than the heat, and the little one, Cecco, begins now and then to get a little hazy in his English, and finds French come handier. I was at St. Germains for a few days in the end of last month, and was so impressed by it that perhaps I may send you a little paper about it one day or another. I am not in the least disposed to be a Jacobite, and Dundee and Culloden and Professor Aytoun sort of thing have very little effect upon me. But there was something wonderfully touching in that long silent terrace and the thought of all the weary days and miserable hopes and disappointments that must have passed without any record — that and the other terrace at Frascati where poor Prince Charlie lies. I was sad enough myself at both places, and no one, being Scotch, could be unmoved by their associations. I got some time ago a most gracious letter from M. de Montalembert, whom I took courage to remind that I had brought a letter to him last year. He writes from La Roche en Bressy with that graceful French politeness which is quite excessive and uncalled for, and at the same time quite delightful. He is to be in Paris after March, and is coming to see me.
March 8.
Don’t frighten me, please, about ‘Miss Marjoribanks.’ I will do the very best I can to content you, but you make me nervous when you talk about the first rank of novelists, &c.: nobody in the world cares whether I am in the first or sixth. I mean I have no one left who cares, and the world can do absolutely nothing for me except giving me a little more money, which, Heaven knows, I spend easily enough as it is. But all the same, I will do my best, only please recognise the difference a little between a man who can take the good of his reputation, if he has any, and a poor soul who is concerned about nothing except the most domestic and limited concerns.
The difference in my books is natural enough when you reflect that the first one was written when I was twenty, and the others were the work of a troubled life not much at leisure. It is only to be expected that one should do a little better when one has come to one’s strength. I remember that once upon a time I refused to be convinced that ‘The Caxtons’ was by Bulwer Lytton. As for your courteous critic’s remarks (but it is incredible that a ‘Saturday Reviewer’ should write such a pretty hand), I am quite conscious of the “to be sures” and the “naturallys,” but then a faultless style is like a faultless person, highly exasperating; and if one didn’t leave these little things to be taken hold of, perhaps one might fare worse.
April 12.
I am quite delighted with Montalembert. There is a kind of cream of graciousness and cordiality about him which smooths one down all over. I dined there, much, I confess, to my panic, for I don’t feel sufficiently sure of my French to be quite comfortable in society: however, they were all very kind. Montalembert gave me the first half-dozen sheets of his third volume, which is now going through the press, to let me see, as he said, what it was like. What do you think about it? He told me that he didn’t think you would care about having it, and I did all I could to represent to him that everybody read French nowadays, and especially everything in French that bore his name; but he has evidently a hankering after a translation. I wish you would give me your mind on the subject. Of course it will be rather a loss of time to me, but still I would do it if it is to be done. A propos of French literature, there is an advertisement of Lamartine in the papers which goes to one’s heart, offering, not even by a publisher but in his own name, a rabais of so many francs on the price of his entire works to anybody who will buy them. Will you let me do a paper on him and his books that I may feel myself justified in buying them? It is only two hundred francs for which he humbles himself in this distressing way — shouldn’t you like a set for yourself? One feels so ashamed and sad that at his age he should have to do such a thing. To be sure, I suppose he has been a prodigal; but then we are all prodigals more or less — at least I can speak for myself.
To Mrs. Tulloch.
Avranches,
May 28.
My dearest Padrona, — I was very glad to get your letter and that of Fanny. They were a great pleasure to me in this cold, raw country, which is not particularly pretty nor inviting. The situation of the town is very fine, on a hill; but what is the good of getting up on a hill only to look at a dead level of green fields and weird, impoverished trees? To be sure there is far in the distance a margin of sea with Mont St. Michel, a greyish rock with a castle and very fine chapel on it stuck in the middle of a vast extent of sand, and looking at a distance not at all unlike a great pie (don’t be shocked by the comparison) set out on a brown uncovered table. It is very curious and interesting all the same, but I believe Tiddy means to make it the subject of a letter which Mademoiselle is incubating, and I have other things to do than to be topographical. We can get nothing in the shape of a house, and are staying at the hotel, which is of very equivocal cleanliness and much more distinctly nasty than cheap. In the course of next week we will go on to St. Malo again for a few days, where we will be for half our time surrounded by sea; and then to Dinan in Brittany, where please address to me....
I am thinking of staying here longer than I first intended, to wait for a great popular fete, or feet, as Jane calls it, in Brittany, which may do service in the book Mr. Blackett has engaged me, without any great will of my own, to write....I got an anxious letter from my brother Frank the other day, in consequence of his having heard in a roundabout way that I was in very poor health; and though it had never occurred to me before that I was not well enough, it is ridiculous what an effect even such a little bit of idle talk has on the subject of it, and how it makes one begin to think whether perhaps there may be some reason for one’s languors and weariness. If these good people had as much to do as you and I have, Padrona mia, they would not have leisure to make so many commentaries upon others.
You ask when shall we meet? In my own house, I hope, if I get a house at Harrow or elsewhere. It is not dislike of St. Andrews that would keep me from going to it — I need not explain what the other reasons are. You know I love you and all yours, and therefore you will think no harm of it, and indeed will anticipate what I say, that there are comparisons that I cannot bear. I have to put force upon myself when I go into the streets, and especially to church, and wonder and ask myself if it was that God found me unworthy of bringing up a woman. It was her birthday the day after we came here — twelve she would have been, and how different my life! You must come and see me, Padrona mia, and let it be understood that you have a house in England always happy to receive you whenever you can come. Tell S. that Mr. Ruffini on his last visit presented me with Leopardi, to my great content — that I might have a pleasant association with him, said the courtly Dr. Antonio. You will be quite charmed with him.
To Mr. Blackwood.
June 11.
I want to consult you about a proposal the ‘Good Words’ people have made me. They ask me to give them a story, beginning in November, for which they offer me £1000, leaving the copyright, after it has gone through their periodical, entirely in my hands. Of course it is a little tempting, but I will make no answer, either one way or another, until I hear from you. I don’t in the least know what your feeling may be about it. My own feeling is that in any and every case the best I can do and the first is at your service, and if you have any dislike to seeing the name of your contributor in Dr. Macleod’s somewhat ragged regiment, I will not think of it further....I have been captivated on my way to Dinan by the delicious blue-green water and bristling rocks of St. Malo, and have got a little nest on the beach opposite the town, where I mean to stay till the end of the month, when there is a great Breton fete not far off which I want to see. The water comes in upon the rocks immediately under the windows, and I crossed to St. Malo to-day to church through the waves under heavy sail in a little boat, which you will allow was a piquant way of performing one’s Sunday duties. I am afraid Tiddy at least was more captivated by the crossing than by the sermon.
To Mrs. Tulloch.
Dinard,
June14.
In place of going to Dinan, which is English, we have settled here on the bay of St. Malo in a pleasant village which struck my fancy. The sea is lovely, and broken by no end of bristling rocks and fortifications, with clouds of white-sailed boats floating about perpetually. You know I have a weakness for seeing my fellow-creatures, or at least the signs of them. I have got a tiny little house perched on the very edge of the rocks, so near that when the tide is full one can imagine oneself in a boat, for the rocks are steep and go sheer down into the water. It is very tranquil and sweet, and I think will do us all good, though Cecco has been for the moment a little upset by the change — not, however, in his old feverish way. I have got all your letters sent on from Dinan; they do me no end of good. I began to get persuaded that I had no such thing as a friend in the world, that nobody cared for anybody, and that to expect sympathy or friendship was folly. Your letter, which is like yourself, heals me again. I think you must have been intended by Providence to be my better half and not the Principal’s, which is a sentiment he may laugh at with safety under the circumstances. Please tell him with my love that I am taking Strahan’s proposal into serious consideration. It was very kind of him to be the medium of conveying it, and it is an extremely good proposal, and one I would jump at but for the idea that it might perhaps hurt me with the Blackwoods, who are, you know, my great dependence....You speak of my being alone here, but I am no more alone here, you know, than it is my lot to be anywhere, and I am not sure that one does not feel one’s loneliness more when settled down at home than when wandering as I am doing. Here I can cheat myself into the idea that there are some people who will be glad to see me when I go back; but then when one has gone back, and when the old life, as it was and yet so different, is resumed once for all, it is then that the hardest part of it comes. That is no reason why one should not go back and settle to one’s duties, which I mean to do if all is well in a month or two, and accept as best I may my position as shadow in the landscape. The Blacketts are looking for a house for me, but as I should not like to take one definitely without seeing it, I think most likely in September I will return to London.
To Mr. Blackwood.
June 23.
I send you with this a paper upon the Italian Leopardi, which I hope very much you may like. I am so destitute of anybody to speak to here, on literary subjects, that I cannot feel sure whether my author will impress you as he does me, or whether I have done him anything like justice. The paper is very long, I am afraid.
It is hard that a poor woman should have to decide as well as to work for herself; it is the more difficult business of the two. How can I possibly tell whether ‘Miss Marjoribanks’ will be a great success or not? I am working at her with all my might and power; but you know yourself that if I happen to have a favourite bit for which I have a kind of natural weakness, it is always precisely on that bit that you snub me, so that I am the worst judge in the world as far as that goes. At the same time, I never would for an instant dream of giving a story by the author of the Carlingford Series to any periodical whatever on any terms, unless indeed you were first to throw me overboard. I have decided to tell the ‘Good Words’ people that they may have a novel by Mrs. Oliphant or the author of ‘Margaret Maitland’ if they wish it. The other I should never have thought of under any circumstances.
I am sure your week at Ascot must have been very pleasant. I told a coachman I had in Normandy of the victory of the French horse at the Derby, and the grin of intense satisfaction that came over his face was something beautiful to behold.
To Mrs. Tulloch.
St. Adresse, Havre,
September 1.
I suppose you are all still enjoying your woodland walks and mountain rides, while I am lingering out here the end of my wanderings. I should be half disposed to envy you being where you are if I had not occasion to envy you so many other things that it is not worth while beginning with that. There is nothing attractive here to speak of except the sea, which is in a rage half its time, and knocks one down with mighty tawny waves, stronger and more violent than I ever saw anywhere. Tiddy has learned to swim, and performs very triumphantly when it is calm — which is not often; and Cecco is full of plans to attain the same proficiency, but I don’t expect he will succeed this year. I have promised him that he is to write his name in this letter to let you see how far he has got. It is an accomplishment he is very proud of. They are both very well, thank God, though Cecco has amused himself by having the chicken-pox. We have got a very pretty house, which belongs to Queen Christina of Spain, who lives here in summer. There is a pretty little garden and a nice view of the sea, and the internal arrangements are so satisfactory that I should be very glad to take it up and transplant it bodily to Harrow or Eton. I am beginning now to turn my thoughts to the latter place. Houses are not to be had at Harrow, and if I could satisfy myself that Eton was equally good for the boys, it would be much more interesting to me than the other. I begin to weary much to be settled, even though being settled will make very little difference one way or the other: indeed I think the sense of being abroad and away is rather a kind of ease, and permits one to cherish the delusion that there is something better at home — if one was but at home, — whereas there is nothing better anywhere, and the only thing one has before one is to learn to be content.
To Mr. Blackwood.
September 20.
I send you with this the next number of ‘Miss Marjoribanks.’...As for what you say of hardness of tone, I am afraid it was scarcely to be avoided. I hate myself the cold-blooded school of novel-writing, in which one works out a character without the slightest regard to whether it is good or bad, or whether it touches or revolts one’s sympathies. But at the same time I have a weakness for Lucilla, and to bring a sudden change upon her character and break her down into tenderness would be like one of Dickens’s maudlin repentances, when he makes Mr. Dombey trinquer with Captain Cuttle, Miss M. must be one and indivisible, and I feel pretty sure that my plan is right. It is the middle of a story that is always the trying bit — the two ends can generally take care of themselves.
To Mrs. Tulloch.
Carissima Padrona Mia, — I was very glad to get your letter. I got it just after returning from a ramble on the banks of the Seine, with which I have been diversifying a little my quiet life. The country is nothing particular, but the lovely Gothic churches everywhere are quite wonderful. In a little bit of an insignificant town or village you come suddenly, without any warning, upon a grey, glorious, sometimes mouldered, old church of (what Mr. Ruskin would call debased) Flamboyant Gothic, all clad in solemn stony lace and embroidery, which nobody ever said a word about or ever heard of, unknown to Murray and unfrequented by tourists. We were three days gone and saw no end of such, and the lovely ruins of the Abbey of Jumieges. Do you remember when you were at Ealing that time when the Principal was so ill, I took a great fancy for a semi-pedestrian tour on the banks of the Seine if you would or could have gone? Ah me! If I had but contented myself with that and not gone to seek sorrow farther off. This is the last week we shall be here. I think of leaving on Friday, as Jane and the boxes are going direct from Havre, and I have still Rouen to take a glimpse of and to get to Boulogne, where there is a shorter passage across the Channel. If all is well we shall probably be in London on Monday the 25th.
To Mr. Blackwood.
15 Bayswater Terrace,
Sept. 29.
I write simply to tell you that I have got here safe and sound, and have established myself for a few weeks en attendant a more definite settlement. We had on the whole an agreeable journey across country and finally by Boulogne here. London looks wonderfully well even after Paris, and I think can bear the comparison, and I find my simple-minded Swiss governess, who evidently laboured under the idea that les Anglais went abroad because they had no inducement to stay at home, quite overwhelmed with great astonishment to find that the island is wonderfully habitable on the whole.
I have been in communication with Mr. Collins, to whom I narrated in my innocence that Tiddy had had six months of Latin, and who takes me up in a note I received on coming here, chuckling much over my womanish idea that six months’ Latin was a sufficient preparation for Eton. I had no such idea, of course, but I think it is best to tell you the joke myself, as naturally you will hear it some time and have a laugh at my simplicity. I have made no decision as yet as to my final abode, as Mr. Collins says decidedly Eton instead of Harrow, and a friend of mine here in whose judgment I have much confidence says with equal decision Harrow instead of Eton. I find myself a little in the position of the old man with the ass, being, as you and all my friends know, one of the most pliant and advisable of women....It is easy to laugh, but it is horribly hard work coming back here, and I am very little disposed in reality to be amused or amusing. Let me hear from you, please.
The question which Mrs. Oliphant had so anxiously debated as to the respective advantages of Harrow and Eton was finally settled in favour of the latter; and a very pretty cheerful little house. No. 6 Clarence Crescent, Windsor, was taken. Six years — on the whole, very happy ones — were spent here, and the following twenty, much checkered, in a larger house close by. This second house she bought, but during the last year of her life it was let.