Letters of Edward FitzGerald to Fanny Kemble | Page 3

a better--that you must, in spite of yourself--but write to me a little about yourself; which is a matter of great Interest to yours always
E. F.G.

III.
[Nov. 1871.]
DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,
I ought to be much obliged to you for answering my last letter with an uneasy hand, as you did. So I do thank you: and really wish that you would not reply to this under any such pain: but how do I know but that very pain will make you more determined to reply? I must only beg you not to do so: and thus wash my hands of any responsibilities in the matter.
And what will you say when I tell you that I can hardly pity one who suffers from Gout; though I would undoubtedly prefer that you should be free from that, or any other ailment. But I have always heard that Gout exempts one from many other miseries which Flesh is heir to: at any rate, it almost always leaves the Head clear: and that is so much! My Mother, who suffered a good deal, used often to say how she was kept awake of nights by the Pain in her feet, or hands, but felt so clear aloft that she made Night pass even agreeably away with her reflections and recollections.
And you have your recollections and Reflections which you are gathering into Shape, you say, in a Memoir of your own Life. And you are good enough to say that you would read it to me if I--were good enough to invite you to my House here some Summer Day! I doubt that Donne has given you too flattering an account of my house, and me: you know he is pleased with every one and everything: I know it also, and therefore no longer dissuade him from spending his time and money in a flying Visit here in the course of his Visits to other East Anglian friends and Kinsmen. But I feel a little all the while as if I were taking all, and giving nothing in return: I mean, about Books, People, etc., with which a dozen years discontinuance of Society, and, latterly, incompetent Eyes, have left me in the lurch. If you indeed will come and read your Memoir to me, I shall be entitled to be a Listener only: and you shall have my Chateau all to yourself for as long as you please: only do not expect me to be quite what Donne may represent.
It is disgusting to talk so much about oneself: but I really think it is better to say so much on this occasion. If you consider my circumstances, you will perhaps see that I am not talking unreasonably: I am sure, not with sham humility: and that I am yours always and sincerely
E. F.G.
P.S. I should not myself have written so soon again, but to apprise you of a brace of Pheasants I have sent you. Pray do not write expressly to acknowledge them:--only tell me if they don't come. I know you thank me. {9}

IV.
[27 Feb., 1872.]
DEAR MRS. KEMBLE,
Had I anything pleasant to write to you, or better Eyes to write it with, you would have heard from me before this. An old Story, by way of Apology--to one who wants no such Apology, too. Therefore, true though it be there is enough of it.
I hear from Mowbray Donne that you were at his Father's Lectures, {10a} and looking yourself. So that is all right. Are your Daughters--or one of them--still with you? I do not think you have been to see the Thanksgiving Procession, {10b} for which our Bells are even now ringing--the old Peal which I have known these--sixty years almost--though at that time it reached my Eyes (sic) through a Nursery window about two miles off. From that window I remember seeing my Father with another Squire {10c} passing over the Lawn with their little pack of Harriers--an almost obliterated Slide of the old Magic Lantern. My Mother used to come up sometimes, and we Children were not much comforted. She was a remarkable woman, as you said in a former letter: and as I constantly believe in outward Beauty as an Index of a Beautiful Soul within, I used sometimes to wonder what feature in her fine face betrayed what was not so good in her Character. I think (as usual) the Lips: there was a twist of Mischief about them now and then, like that in--the Tail of a Cat!--otherwise so smooth and amiable. I think she admired your Mother as much as any one she knew, or had known.
And (I see by the Athenaeum) Mr. Chorley is dead, {11} whom I used to see at your Father's and Sister's houses. Born in 1808 they say: so, one year older than yours