The letters in this book are re-printed from
the Morning Post, to the Proprietor and Editor
of which newspaper the author owes his thanks for
the permission to reproduce them here.
My dear Bron,
I wish to begin this bundle of “Dead Letters,”
collected from the Dead Letter Office of the
World, with a living letter to you.
These letters are in no wise meant to be either
historical documents or historical studies or aids
to the understanding of history, or learning of any
kind with or without tears. They are the fruits of
imagination rather than of research. The word research
is not even remotely applicable here, for in
my case it means the hazy memories of a distant
education indolently received, a few hurried references
to Smith’s “Classical Dictionary,” a map of
Rome which is in the London Library, and
Bouillet’s “Biographie Universelle.” So that if
you tell me that my account of the Carthaginian
fleet is full of inaccuracies, or that the psychology
of my Lesbia conflicts with the historical evidence,
I shall be constrained to answer that I do not care.
Yet amidst this chaff of fancy there are a few grains
of historical truth. By historical truth I mean the
recorded impressions (they may be false, of course,
and the persons who recorded them may have been
liars, in which case it is historical falsehood) of
men on events which were contemporary with them.
One of the letters is entirely composed of such
grains. I will not tell you which one it is until
some of our common friends, who are historical
experts, have singled it out as being the one letter
which oversteps all bounds of historical possibility
and probability. (It is not the letter on Heine,
part of the substance of which was taken from
Memoirs and freely blended with fiction.) Such
singling out has already occurred with regard to
certain details of the letters as they appeared week
by week in the “Morning Post.” But I confess
that I have so far suffered more from the credulity
than from the scepticism of my readers, and I was
tempted at one moment rather to insert the impossible
than to make the possible appear probable.
For correspondents wrote to me, asking me to
give them from my secret store further details
with regard to Lady Macbeth’s housekeeping, Lord
Bacon’s business affairs, and the table talk of the
Emperor Claudius.
On the other hand, a sceptic asked to be supplied
with the historical evidence for Guinevere’s
extravagance in dress. I am conscious that in some
of these letters I may have laid myself open to the
charge of irreverence towards certain themes which
are hallowed by romance and overshadowed by the
wings of the great poets. I plead “Not guilty.” I
am sure that you, of all people, will acquit me; for
those (such as you) whose enjoyment of the great
poets is vital and whose belief in the permanence
of Romance is robust are seldom offended at a
levity which they have no difficulty in recognizing
to be the familiarity, not breeding contempt but
begotten of awe, of the True Believer, nor have
they any difficulty in distinguishing such laughter
from the scoff of the Infidel.
To end on a less pompous note, let me add that
if you like this book that is enough for me; and
the blame of the rest of the world, although it will
ultimately affect my purse—and a purse, as Shakespeare
says, is trash—will disturb neither my peace
of mind nor my digestion and will therefore not
vex me.
On the other hand there is no amount of praise
which a man and an author cannot endure with
equanimity. Some authors can even stand flattery.
I hope, therefore, to earn a certain measure both
of your approval and others’; while theirs will be
the more profitable, yours will be the more prized.
MAURICE BARING.
Sosnofka, Tambov, Russia. October 19th, 1909.
“To most people of time past and present, at least
history is a pageant, no less and no more. It is a vast
procession of human lives, fascinating to us because of
the likeness underlying all the differences and because of
the differences through which we see the likeness.”
DEAD LETTERS — FROM THE MYCENAE PAPERS — Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus — Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus — Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus — Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus — Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus — Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus — Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus — Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus — Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus ( Two years later ) — Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus — Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus ( Two months later ) — Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus ( Three months later ) — Helen to Clytaemnestra ( Ten years later ) — Clytaemnestra to Helen — Penelope to Odysseus — Helen to Clytaemnestra — Agamemnon to Clytaemnestra — Odysseus to Penelope — Clytaemnestra to Aegisthus
Mycenae.
Honoured Sir,
I am sorry I was out when you came yesterday.
I never thought that you seriously meant to come.
I shall be very busy all next week, as Helen and
Menelaus are arriving and I must get everything
ready. Orestes was quite delighted with the cup
and ball. You spoil him.
Yours sincerely, Clytaemnestra.
Most honoured Aegisthus,
One line to say that I have received your letter
and loved it all except the last sentence. Please do
not say that kind of thing again as it will quite
ruin our friendship, which I thought was going to
be so real.
Yours very sincerely, Clytaemnestra.
Most honoured Aegisthus,
The flowers are beautiful, and it was kind of
you to remember my birthday. But your letter is
really too naughty....
(The rest of this letter is missing)
Mycenae.
Most honoured Sir,
This is to say that since you persist in misunderstanding
me and refuse to listen to what I say, our
correspondence must end. It is extraordinary to
me that you should wish to debase what might have
been so great and so wonderful.
Yours truly, Clytaemnestra.
Mycenae.
Most honoured Aegisthus,
I was much touched by your letter and I will
give you the one more trial you ask for so humbly
and so touchingly.
Paris has arrived. I don’t know if you know
him. He is the second son of the King of Troy.
He made an unfortunate marriage with a girl called
Œnone, the daughter of a rather disreputable river-person.
They were miserable about it. He is very
good-looking—if one admires those kind of looks,
which I don’t. He dresses in an absurd way and
he looks theatrical. Besides, I hate men with curly
hair. He has a few accomplishments. He shoots
well and plays on the double flute quite remarkably
well for a man who is not a professional; but he is
totally uninteresting, and, what is more, impossible.
But Helen likes him. Isn’t it extraordinary that
she always has liked impossible men? They sit for
hours together saying nothing at all. I don’t in the
least mind his paying no attention to me—in fact,
I am too thankful not to have to talk to him; but
I do think it’s bad manners, as I am his hostess.
Helen is certainly looking better this year than
she has ever looked; but she still dresses in that
affectedly over-simple way, which is a pity. I don’t
know how long he is going to stay. I don’t mind
his being here, but Helen and he are really most
inconsiderate. They use my sitting-room as though
it were theirs, and they never seem to think that
I may have things to do of my own, and they expect
me to go out with them, which ends in their walking
on ahead and my being left with Menelaus, whom
I am very fond of indeed, but who bores me. He
talks of nothing but horses and quoits. It is a great
lesson to Queen Hecuba for having brought up
her son so badly. Paris was educated entirely by a
shepherd, you know, on Mount Ida. The result is
his manners are shocking. Helen doesn’t see it.
Isn’t it odd? I must say he’s nice with children,
and Orestes likes him.
I am your sincere friend, Clytaemnestra.
Mycenae.
Most honoured Aegisthus,
We are in great trouble. I told you Helen was
attracted by Paris. We of course thought nothing
of it, because Helen always has flirted with rather
vulgar men, and her flirtations were, we thought,
the harmless distractions of a woman who has remained,
and always will remain, a sentimental
girl.
Imagine our surprise and dismay! Paris and
Helen have run away together, and they have gone
to Troy! Helen left a note behind for Menelaus
saying she realized that she had made a mistake,
that she hated hypocrisy, and thought it more
honest to leave him. She said she would always
think of him with affection. Poor Menelaus is
distracted, but he is behaving beautifully.
Agamemnon is furious. He is overcome by the
disgrace to his family, and he is so cross. We are
all very miserable. Agamemnon says that the
family honour must be redeemed at all costs, and
that they will have to make an expedition against
Troy to fetch Helen back. I think this is quite
ridiculous. No amount of expeditions and wars
can undo what has been done. I am sure you will
sympathize with us in our trouble. I must say it
is most unfair on my children. I shouldn’t have
minded so much if Iphigenia wasn’t grown up.
Electra has got whooping-cough, but she is going
on as well as can be expected. I have no patience
with Helen. She always was utterly thoughtless.
Your sincere friend, Clytaemnestra.
Mycenae.
Most honoured Aegisthus,
There is no end of worry and fuss going on.
Odysseus, the King of Ithaca, has arrived here with
his wife, Penelope. They discuss the prospects of
the expedition from morning till night, and I am
left alone with Penelope. She has borrowed my only
embroidery frame, and is working some slippers
for her husband. They are at least two sizes too
small. She talks of nothing but her boy, her dog,
her dairy, and her garden, and I can’t tell you how
weary I am of it. She made me very angry yesterday
by saying that I spoilt Orestes, and that I
should be sorry for it some day. She is always
throwing up her boy Telemachus to me. Whenever
Helen is mentioned she puts on a face as much as
to say: “Do not defile me.”
Your sincere friend, Clytaemnestra.
Mycenae.
Most honoured Aegisthus,
My worst fears have been realized. They are
going to make an expedition against Troy on a
large scale. Odysseus is at the bottom of it. I cannot
say how much I dislike him. All the Kings
have volunteered to go, but the Fleet will not be
ready for two years, so I am in hopes that something
may happen in the meantime to prevent it.
Iphigenia is learning to make bandages, and says
she will go to the front to look after the wounded.
I am, of course, against this, and think it’s absurd,
but unfortunately she can make her father do what
she likes. My only consolation is that the war
cannot possibly last more than a week. The Trojans
have no regular army. They are a handful of untrained
farmers, and the town cannot stand a siege.
It is all too silly. It is too bad of Helen to have
caused all this fuss.
Your sincere friend, Clytaemnestra.
P.S.—No, of course I haven’t written to Helen.
She is as good as dead to me.
Mycenae.
My dear Aegisthus,
We have at last got some news. The Fleet has
arrived at Aulis, and they are waiting for a favourable
wind to be able to go on. At present they are
becalmed. They are all well. Iphigenia writes that
she is enjoying herself immensely. She has the
decency to add that she misses me. I have not had
a good night’s rest since they have started.
Your most sincere friend, Clytaemnestra.
My dear friend,
Please come here at once. I am in dreadful
trouble. From the last letter I received from
Agamemnon I understood there was something
wrong and that he was hiding something. To-day
I got a letter from Calchas, breaking to me in the
most brutal manner an appalling tragedy and a
savage, horrible, and impious crime! They have
sacrificed my darling Iphigenia—to Artemis, of all
goddesses! to get a propitious wind for their
horrible Fleet! I am heartbroken. I cannot write
another word. Please come directly.
Your friend, Clytaemnestra.
I see no reason why you should not come back;
I have a right to ask whom I like to stay here. Do
come as soon as possible; I am very lonely without
you. Now that I no longer communicate with
Agamemnon in order to get news I have written
to Helen and sent the letter by a very clever silk
merchant, who is certain to be able to worm his
way into Troy. Come as soon as you get this.
C.
P.S.—Agamemnon still writes, but I do not take
the slightest notice of his letters. I trust the Trojans
will be victorious. They have at any rate determined
to make a fight for it. Our generals are certain to
quarrel, Achilles and Agamemnon never get on
well. And Achilles’ temper is dreadful.
I can no longer bear these short visits and these
long absences. I have arranged for you to stay here
permanently.
I wrote to Agamemnon last month a cold and
dignified business letter, in which I pointed out
that unless some man came here to look after things,
everything would go to pieces. I suggested you. I
have now got his answer. He agrees, and thinks it
an excellent plan.
Odysseus wrote me, I must say, a most amusing
letter. He says everything is at sixes and sevens,
and that Priam’s eldest son is far the most capable
soldier on either side. He expects to win, but says
it will be a far longer business than they thought
it would be at first. Come as quickly as you can.
Best and most beloved.
Your C.
Troy.
Dearest Clytaemnestra,
Your letters are a great comfort to me when I
get them, which is very seldom. Everything is
going on just the same. It is now the tenth year
of the siege, and I see no reason why it should ever
end. I am dreadfully afraid the Greeks will never
take Troy.
I can give you no idea of how dull everything is
here. We do the same thing and see the same
people every day. We know exactly what is going
on in the Greek camp, and most of the time is
spent in discussing the gossip, which bores me to
death. You are quite right in what you say about
Paris. I made a fatal mistake. It is all Aphrodite’s
fault. He has become too dreadful now. He is
still very good-looking, but even compared with
Menelaus he is pitiable in every way and every bit
as cross. Hector is very nice, but painfully dull.
The King and the Queen are both very kind, but
as for Cassandra, she is intolerable. She is always
prophesying dreadful calamities which never come
off. She said, for instance, that I would lose my
looks and make a long journey in Egypt. As if I
would go to Egypt from here! As to my looks,
you know, darling, I never was vain, was I? But
I can honestly tell you that, if anything, I have
rather improved than otherwise, and among the
Trojans’ women, who are absolute frights and have
no more idea of dressing than sheep, I look magnificent.
Andromache has got quite a nice face, and
I really like her; but you should see her figure—it’s
like an elephant’s, and her feet are enormous,
and her hands red and sore from needlework. She
won’t even use a thimble! Cassandra always
dresses in deep mourning. Why, we cannot conceive,
because none of her relatives have been
killed.
There is really only one person in the palace I
can talk to—and that is Aeneas, who is one of the
commanders. He is quite nice. What I specially
like about him is the nice way in which he talks
about his parents.
The Greeks are quarrelling more than ever.
Achilles won’t fight at all because Agamemnon insisted
on taking away Briseis (who is lovely) from
him. Wasn’t that exactly like Agamemnon? I
hope this won’t make you jealous, darling, but I
don’t expect it will, because you have never forgiven
Agamemnon, have you?
Everybody tries to be kind to me, and I have
nothing to complain of. They all mean well, and
in a way this makes it worse. For instance, every
morning, when we meet for the midday meal,
Priam comes into the room saying to me: “Well,
how’s the little runaway to-day?” He has made
this joke every day for the last ten years. And
then they always talk about the cowardice and incompetence
of the Greeks, taking for granted that
as I have married into a Trojan family I must have
become a Trojan myself. It is most tactless of
them not to understand what I must be feeling.
I suppose I am inconsistent, but the pro-Greek
party irritate me still more. They are headed by
Pandarus, and are simply longing for their own
side to be beaten, because they say that I ought to
have been given up directly, and that the war was
brought about entirely owing to Priam having got
into the hands of the Egyptian merchants.
I manage to get some Greek stuffs smuggled
into the town, and the merchants tell me vaguely
what people are wearing at Mycenae; but one can’t
get anything properly made here. Andromache has
all her clothes made at home by her women—to save
expense. She says that in times of war one ought
to sacrifice oneself. Of course, I can’t do this,
however much I should like to, as the Trojans
expect me to look nice, and would be very angry
if I wasn’t properly dressed.
I feel if I could only meet Odysseus we might
arrange some plan for getting the Greeks into the
town.
How is everything going on at home? There
is a very strict censorship about letters, and we are
all supposed to show our letters to Antenor before
they go. I don’t, of course. I daresay, however,
many of your letters have been intercepted, because
I have only heard from you five times since the
siege began, and not once this year. Kiss the dear
children from me.
Shall I ever see you again? I shall try my best
to come home.
Your loving sister, Helen.
Mycenae.
Dearest Helen,
Your last letter has reached me. I must implore
you to be very careful about what you do. I hope
with all my heart that the siege will be over soon;
but if it is I don’t think it would be quite wise for
you to come back directly. You see everybody
here is extremely unreasonable. Instead of understanding
that Agamemnon and Odysseus were entirely
responsible for this absurd war, Agamemnon
has got his friends to put the blame entirely on you,
and they have excited the people against you. It’s
so like a man, that, isn’t it? I have been very
lonely, because all our friends are away. Aegisthus
is staying here just to look after the household and
the affairs of the city. But he hardly counts, and
he is so busy that I hardly ever see him now.
There is a strong pro-Trojan party here, too.
They say we had absolutely no right to go to war,
and that it was simply an expedition of pirates and
freebooters, and I must say it is very difficult to
disprove it. If there is any talk of the siege ending,
please let me know at once. Electra has grown into
a fine girl; but she is not as lovely as poor darling
Iphigenia.
Your loving sister, Clytaemnestra.
Ithaca.
My darling Husband,
I wish you would write a little more distinctly;
we have the greatest difficulty in reading your
letters.
When will this horrid siege be over? I think it
is disgraceful of you all to be so long about it. To
think that when you started you only said that it
would last a month! Mind you come back the
moment it is over, and come back straight, by Aulis.
The country is looking lovely. I have built a
new house for the swineherd, as he complained
about the roof letting the rain in. Next year, we
must really have a new paling round the garden,
as the children get in and steal the apples. We
can’t afford it this year. The people have no sense
of honesty; they steal everything. Telemachus is
very well. He can read and write nicely, but is
most backward about his sums. He takes a great
interest in the war, and has made up a map on
which he marks the position of the troops with
little flags.
I am surprised to hear of Achilles’ disgraceful
conduct. If I were there I would give him a
piece of my mind. I hope Ajax has not had any
more of his attacks. Has he tried cinnamon with
fomented myrtle leaves? It ought to be taken
three times a day after meals. The news from
Mycenae is deplorable. Clytaemnestra appears to
be quite shameless and callous. Aegisthus is now
openly living in the house. All decent people have
ceased to go near them. I have had a few visitors,
but nobody of any importance.
I am working you a piece of tapestry for your
bedroom. I hope to get it finished by the time you
come back. I hope that when the city is taken
Helen will be severely punished.
We have taught Argus to growl whenever
Hector is mentioned. I don’t, of course, allow
any one to mention Helen in this house. Telemachus
sends you his loving duty. He is writing
to you himself, but the letter isn’t finished.
Your devoted wife, Penelope.
Sunium.
Dearest Clytaemnestra,
Since I last wrote to you several important
things have happened. Hector was killed yesterday
by Achilles. I am, of course, very sorry for them
all. All Cassandra said was, “I told you so!”
She is so heartless. I have at last managed to
communicate with Odysseus; we have thought of
a very good plan for letting the Greeks into the
city. Please do not repeat this. I shall come home
at once with Menelaus. He is my husband, after
all. I shall come straight to Mycenae. I doubt if
I shall have time to write again. I am sending this
through Aenida, who is most useful in getting
letters brought and sent.
Please have some patterns for me to choose from.
I hope to be back in a month.
Your loving sister, Helen.
Sunium.
Dear Clytaemnestra,
We have had a very good journey, and I shall
reach Mycenae the day after to-morrow in the
morning. Please have a hot bath ready for me. I
am bringing Cassandra with me. She had better
have the room looking north, as she hates the sun.
She is very nervous and upset, and you must be
kind to her.
Your loving husband, Agamemnon.
The Island of Ogygia.
Dearest Penelope,
We arrived here after a very tiresome voyage.
I will not tire you with the details, which are
numerous and technical. The net result is that the
local physician says I cannot proceed with my
journey until I am thoroughly rested. This spot
is pleasant, but the only society I have is that of
poor dear Calypso. She means well and is most
hospitable, but you can imagine how vexed I am
by this delay and the intolerable tedium of this enforced
repose. Kiss Telemachus from me.
Your loving husband, Odysseus.
I am sending this by runner. Come back directly.
I expect Agamemnon any moment. The
bonfires are already visible. Please bring a good
strong net and a sharp axe with you. I will explain
when you arrive. I have quite decided that half
measures are out of the question.
C.
WITH THE CARTHAGINIAN FLEET, 216 B.C. — Letter from a Carthaginian Civilian to a Friend in Carthage
On Board the Hamilcar Barca, Sardinia.
My dear Gisco,
It is now five weeks that we have been in
this place, and we shall have to stay here until
the “battering practice” is over. We have already
got through our “rammers’ test.” I do not
think it is a bad place myself, and most of the
people seem to prefer it to Thule, where they spent
the whole summer, except Mago our physician,
who cannot endure either the Romans or the Sardinians,
and who is longing to get back to the
glittering quays and the broad market-places of
Carthage. It is true that the Sardinians are a
thievish race, and they seldom, if ever, speak the
truth; moreover, they trade on the honesty and
the good nature of our people, and our unfamiliarity
with their various and uncouth jargons. For
instance, a favourite plan of theirs is this: many
of them gain their living by the catching of lobsters,
which they send by Ostia to Rome to supply the
banquets of the rich patricians of that city. One
such fisherman came to the captain of our vessel
with the following complaint: He professed that
for many weeks he had toiled and caught a great
number of lobsters; these lobsters, he said, he was
keeping against the feasts of the Saturnalia at Rome,
in a large wicker basket not far from the shore;
and that some of our men having gone ashore in
one of our swift and brass-prowed boats, had in the
darkness of twilight collided with his wicker basket
and caused the escape of many hundreds of live
lobsters, for which loss he demanded a compensation
amounting to two hundred talents. On consulting
the Roman Magistrate of the place we
learnt that this fisherman made a similar demand
from every ship which visited the bay; moreover,
that he had caught but one lobster. So although
he reduced his demand to the eighth of one talent,
it was refused to him.
Another stratagem of the Sardinian native is to
demand money for the poultry destroyed by the
sailors of our ship. Every family in the village
complained that their poultry had been annihilated
by our unprincipled mariners, but little credence
was lent to the tale, because at the moment when
the complaint was made there was only one hen in
the village, a dead one that had just perished of old
age.
Life on board this vessel is full of variety and
interest to the stranger. Long before sunrise one is
wakened by the sound of a brazen trumpet. This
is followed by much whistling and a deep, but not
unmusical, call from some elder sailor, who exhorts
and finally persuades those over whom he is put
in authority to rise from their narrow couches and
to taste the morning air. They then set about to
wash the upper part of the ship, an occupation
which is pursued more from a disinterested love of
cleaning than from any practical purpose, as by
evening the ship is as dirty as it was before it was
washed. But the men enjoy this work, and indeed
the only people who suffer from it are such men as
myself who are on board ship by chance, and who
are used to sleeping uninterruptedly until some
time after the sun has arisen. Some people have
been known to sleep unconcernedly through all
this noise, but such men are rare.
An hour or two after this process of washing is
accomplished, food is served to the officers and
men of the ship. The officers rarely partake of
more than one olive in the early morning; such is
their endurance and their self-denial. This they
wash down with a small glass of red native wine,
which is singularly pleasant and exhilarating. As
soon as this light repast is over the real business of
the day begins.
First of all the men are inspected on deck, and
it is carefully noted whether they are in a state of
cleanliness and order, and further whether they are
sober enough to perform their daily duties. Any
man who is found twice running to be in a state
of absolute intoxication is drowned, and the ship is
thereby disembarrassed of superfluous cargo. The
greater part of the forenoon is spent in teaching
the young their duties, and in teaching the lads
who have lately arrived from Carthage the full
duties of a seaman. This task is carried out with
patience and persistence by the instructors, who are
never known to raise their voice in anger, or to use
a harsh word. Indeed the nearest approach to harshness
which I observed was when one day I heard
one of the elder mariners say to a lad who was slow
to perform his duty, “Take care lest I should
observe thee to bend.” This is a nautical expression
which means, so I am told, “be strenuous in all
things.”
At noon the second repast of the day is taken,
the food consisting of black bread, herbs, preserved
olives, and a small fish which is caught in great
quantities in the bay by such as are skilful. When
the meal is over the officers retire to a small
cabin, where they aid their digestion by playful
gambols, such as wrestling and beating each other
with their fists, until they are weary. After this
they fall into a profound slumber on the benches
of the cabin, with the exception of one officer who
needs must always remain on deck to observe the
weather and the omens, and make note thereof, for
the captain of the vessel is inquisitive with regard
to such matters.
The younger officers are respectful to their
seniors, and address them as “Suffetes”; but this
outward form of respect when duty is concerned
does not prevent the more youthful of the juniors
from expressing the innate exuberance and impertinence
which are natural to youth. Moreover,
they call each other by familiar names, such as
“Sheep,” “Hog,” “Little Hog,” “Little Pig,”
“Canary,” “Cat,” “Little Cat.”
Later in the afternoon there is a further inspection
on the deck, which takes place to the sound
of many trumpets. At sunset, after a still louder
blast of the trumpet, the third repast is held. The
officers attend this in state, wearing silken togas,
jewelled helmets, and golden chains, and during all
the meal a hundred slaves make music on silver
cymbals, harps, and drums. This they do with great
skill, knowing that should they be unskilful in their
art, they risk being hurled into the sea. All the
officers dine together, with the exception of the
Captain, who feeds in a small turret by himself and
partakes of especial dainties due to his rank, such
as nightingales’ tongues and the livers of peacocks.
At the end of the repast the eldest of the officers
fills a golden bowl full of wine and water and drinks
to the health of the “Gerusia.” Immediately before
he does so the goblet of every officer present
is filled with wine and water, but should any one
taste of his wine before the Elder of the assembly
rises to his feet, he is constrained to empty one
after another every goblet at the board and to refill
them at his own expense. And this proves a tax
both on his moral courage, his physical endurance,
and his material resources.
When this ceremony has been accomplished such
officers who are skilled in the art make music on
the flute or the tom-tom, while others sing plaintive
Carthaginian ditties about the dark-eyed lasses
they have left behind them. Sometimes others,
still more skilful, give a display of dancing. After
this has continued for about an hour another deafening
blast on the trumpet announces that all must
seek their cabins for the night, save those unhappy
officers who take it by turn for a space of four hours
at a time to observe the features of the landscape,
the aspect of the heavens, the position of the stars,
and the nature of the omens. According as these
omens are favourable, or unfavourable, the nature
of the following day’s work is determined.
There are in the ship a particular race of men
who are neither soldiers nor sailors; these are called
by the Latin name “Legio Classica.” Their duties
consist in maintaining discipline amongst the company
of the ship and in dealing out retribution
when it is necessary; they are well known for the
unerring accuracy of their statements, so much so
that if any one in the ship makes a statement or relates
a tale that bears in it the signs of improbability,
he will be ordered to go and tell it to the
men of this legion, for it is known that should the
statement be untruthful or inaccurate they would
be swift to detect it and to laugh the man to
scorn.
The monotony of life on board ship, and the
rigour of the discipline enforced, are relieved by
many pleasant occupations. Thus the officers throw
dice on a place of the ship specially appointed for
the purpose, which is called the “bridge,” and often
in the evening the sailors sing together in soft and
tuneful chorus. With regard to the “ramming”
and the “battering practice”—both of them most
interesting spectacles—I will write to you another
time. In the meantime, farewell.
Hanno.
P.S.—The Roman Fleet is expected here to-morrow.
It is said they intend to build eight Hamilcar
Barcas.
LESBIA ILLA
... Lesbia illa,
Illa Lesbia, quam Catullus unam
Plus quam se atque suos amavit omnes.
Extract from a letter written by Clodia, the wife of Metellus Celer,
to her friend Portia in Athens
We arrived at Baiae yesterday evening. I am
most thankful the journey is over, because Metellus
is a most trying traveller. He started, of course,
by making a scene directly he saw my luggage. I
had scarcely taken anything, only what was absolutely
indispensable, and I got it all into eight
boxes; but men never know how much room
clothes take up. As it is, I have got nothing to
wear at all. But as soon as Metellus saw the litters
with my poor luggage in them he lost his temper,
and during the whole journey he threw my extravagance
at me. Needless to say, he took far
more things than I did. Men think because their
clothes are cheap and cost nothing, and because a
toga lasts them four or five years, we ought to be
able to do the same. But it’s no use discussing
that with a husband. No husband in the world has
ever understood, or ever will understand, how expensive
our clothes are.
We found the villa looking very clean and fresh;
and it is a great blessing to get away from Rome.
I never mean to go back there as long as I live;
especially after what has happened. I suppose you
have heard all about it, but I want you to know
the truth, as everybody in Rome is telling horrible
lies about me and giving a wrong complexion to the
whole story, especially Lalage, who is a spiteful
cat, and is sure to write and tell you all about it.
Well, of course I’ve known Catullus for years.
We were almost brought up together. He was
always in and out of the house. He used to amuse
me; Metellus liked him, and we were both very
kind to him. I used to think he was thoroughly
nice. He was so sympathetic when my sparrow
died, and quite understood what a shock that was,
and what a state of despair I was in. By the way,
I’ve got a new sparrow now. It’s quite tame. I’ve
called it Julius. We used, in fact, to see a great
deal of Catullus. We were useful to him, too, because
he met a great many clever and important
people at our house; and when we first knew him
nobody had ever heard of him. It only shows what
a mistake it is to be kind to people. After a time
he began to give himself airs, and treated the house
as if it belonged to him. He complained of the food
and the wine. He insisted upon my sending away
Balbus, the best slave I have ever had. He made
Metellus buy some old Falernian from a cousin of
his (that disreputable Rufinus who lost all his money
at Capua last year). The fact was, his head was
turned. People flattered him (Lalage, of course,
told him he was wonderful), and he began really to
think he was a real poet, a genius, and I don’t
know what, and he became quite insufferable. He
began to meddle with my affairs, and to dictate to
me about my friends. But it was when I got to
know Julius Caesar that the crisis came.
Of course you know as well as I do that nobody
could possibly be in love with Julius Caesar. He
is quite bald now, and I think—in fact, I always
did think—most tiresome. I never could understand
what people saw in him. And, oh, what a
bore he used to be when he told me about his campaigns,
and drew imaginary plans on the table with
his finger! But of course I was obliged to be civil
to him because of Metellus and my brother Clodius,
to whom he has been useful. Directly he began
coming to our house—and he came very often, he
had to see Metellus on business constantly—Catullus
became quite mad. He lost his head, and I
had to arrange for them not to meet, which was
most annoying and inconvenient, as they both came
every day, and sometimes twice a day. I know I
ought to have taken steps at once to put an end to
all that nonsense. But I was foolishly kind-hearted
for a time, and gave way weakly. It was a great
mistake.
The crisis came the other day. I had arranged a
supper party, really a divine party. Just Pollio,
Julius Caesar, Marcus Tullius Cicero, Lavinia,
Lalage, and a few others. I didn’t tell Catullus, as
I thought he wouldn’t quite do (apart from Julius
Caesar being there), as I had invited Bassianus,
who is a real professional poet, and writes the most
beautiful things about the moonlight, memory, and
broken hearts. His verses quite make me cry
sometimes. They are far better than Catullus’s,
which I confess I can’t read at all. But Metellus
says it’s unfair to compare an amateur like Catullus
with a real writer like Bassianus.
Somebody told Catullus about the supper, I suspect
it was Lalage—she is jealous of me, and
Catullus made up to her years ago and then left
her. He came to me and made a scene, and said
he was coming too. Then he tried to find out who
else was coming, and I refused to tell him. He said:
“Of course, you have asked Julius Caesar,” and I
said: “It’s not your business; I shall ask the
people I choose to my own house without consulting
you.” Then he said a lot of horribly unfair
things about Julius Caesar, and a lot of absurd
things about me; only I managed to calm him
more or less. All this happened in the afternoon,
and he went away really quite repentant and meek.
He always was easy to manage if one had time, and
I told him Cicero had praised his verses, which
soothed him, although it wasn’t true. He never
could resist flattery.
The supper began very well. Julius Caesar
was, I must say, brilliant. He can be really clever
and pleasant sometimes, and he talked to me the
whole time, and this made Lalage very angry;
she was between Metellus and Bassianus, and she
bored them. Then suddenly in the middle of
supper, just as I was beginning to feel more or
less happy about it all, Catullus walked in, very
flushed and excited. I saw at once he had been
drinking. He was given a place between Cicero
and Lavinia, and opposite me and Julius Caesar;
and no sooner had he settled himself on his couch
than he began to monopolize the conversation. He
talked at the top of his voice. He was rather
amusing at first, and Cicero answered him back,
and for a time everything went well; but I was
dreadfully uneasy, as I felt certain something would
happen, and there was a dangerous look in his eye.
Besides which he drank off a great bowl of wine
and water (with very little water in it), and grew
more and more flushed and excited. He didn’t pay
any attention to Julius Caesar at all, and talked
across to me as though Julius Caesar hadn’t been
there. But Julius Caesar didn’t seem to notice
that Catullus was being rude, and he turned to me
and really was charming. He said, among other
things, that the only woman he had ever seen who
could compare with me for wearing clothes properly
was Cleopatra, but that she was dowdy in comparison
with me. He said, too, that I was the only
woman he had ever met who had any real grasp of
the fiscal question. This made Catullus mad; and
he asked Lavinia in a loud whisper, which we all
heard, who the gentleman sitting opposite might
be who was slightly bald. I was dreadfully uncomfortable,
because Julius Caesar can’t bear any allusions
to his baldness (it’s so silly, as if it mattered
to us), and he turned red in the face.
Then Catullus began to chaff Cicero about his
verses, but as Cicero knows him very well it didn’t
much matter, he knew he didn’t mean it really. To
make a diversion, I proposed that Bassianus should
sing us a song. But Catullus broke in and said:
“Rather than that I will recite a poem.”
I was very angry, and spoke my mind. I said I
thought it was most rash and daring for an amateur
to recite before professionals like Cicero and Bassianus.
I was really frightened, because Catullus’s
verses are either terribly long and serious—I have
never been able to listen when he reads them out;
in fact, I always used to ask him to read to me
when I wanted to add up my bills mentally—or
else they are short and quite impossible.
He then turned scarlet, and said something about
drawing-room poetasters who wrote stuff fit for
women, and, looking at Caesar, he recited a short
poem which was dreadful. I didn’t understand it
all, but I felt—and I am sure every one else felt—that
he meant to be rude. I sent him a small note
by a slave, telling him that if he did not know how
to behave he had better leave the house. But I
looked as if I hadn’t noticed anything, and tried to
treat it all as a joke. But every one felt hot and
uncomfortable.
I then ignored Catullus altogether, and devoted
my whole attention to Julius Caesar. I suppose it
was that which really made him lose all his self-control.
He entirely forgot himself. He got up
and said that, as the company did not like comic
verse, he had written a serious poem, which he was
quite certain would interest them. He had no wish,
he said (and for once in his life he was modest!),
to rival such great writers of verse, such masters of
music and passion, as were Cicero and Bassianus,
but his verse, although it could not rival theirs in
art and inspiration, had at least the merit of truth
and sincerity. He said (and he almost shouted this)
he was a plain man, who expressed in the simplest
possible words what were the common experiences
of every one, from the Senator to the man in the
street. (So vulgar!) He said his verses were about
a woman (how could I ever have thought he was a
gentleman!) who was far-famed for her beauty,
and still better known for her heartlessness. She
heightened her wickedness by the supreme coquetry
of pretending to be virtuous. She professed virtue
and practised vice. (He always was coarse.) He
would not name her; he would call her by a name
which was colourless, namely, Lesbia. (Of course
every one knew he had written verses to me under
that name!)
Then, looking me straight in the face, he recited
a poem which was quite, quite impossible, with a
horrible word in it (at least Lalage said it was
horrible). Pollio came to the rescue, and said that
Catullus was ill, and dragged him out of the
room. And in a way it was true, for he was quite
tipsy, and tears were rolling down his cheeks; and
I do hate drunken men, but, above all, I hate
coarseness.
The next day all Rome knew the poem by heart.
And it was a cowardly, blackguard thing to do,
and I shall never speak to him again as long as I
live, and I shall never, never let him come into my
house again. Not being a gentleman he can’t know
what one feels about those kind of things. He is
thoroughly second-rate and coarse to the core,
although he oughtn’t to be. Of course, I really
don’t care a bit. Only if Lalage writes and tells
you about it, don’t believe a word she says. I hate
Catullus. I must stop now.
Your loving Clodia.
P.S.—Lalage had the impertinence to say that I
ought to make allowance for men of genius. As
if Catullus was a genius! I asked Cicero (who likes
him) if his poetry was really good, and he said that,
to be honest, it was a bad imitation of Calvus’s and
his own, only that it was very good for an amateur.
P.P.S.—Julius Caesar is coming to stay with us
next Saturday, if he can get away. Don’t forget
the Persian silk, the palest shade, six and a half
yards.
CLEOPATRA AT ROME — Letter from Charmian, at Alexandria, to her friend Chloe, at Baiae, 44 B.C.
It all came so suddenly. I never thought that I
should leave Rome without seeing you again and
without being able to say farewell. Even now I
cannot believe that it is true and that the whole
thing is not a dream. I keep on thinking that I
shall wake up and find myself once more by the
banks of the Tiber, sitting in the shade of the
terebinths, listening to the amusing discussions of
Atticus, Cicero, and Caesar.
The suddenness with which everything happened
was terrible. It all began with the dinner party
which Cleopatra had arranged on the eve of the
great event which was to happen on the Feast of
the Lupercalia, when Caesar was to be offered the
Crown. Cleopatra was in the highest spirits. Some
months before this Cicero had asked her to get
him from Alexandria some manuscripts and some
Canopian vases, of which he had need, as such
things are rare in your barbarous cities. Cleopatra
had promised to do this, and she told him that she
had done it. As a matter of fact she had forgotten
all about it. He was invited to the dinner, and had
sent her a note saying that he would be delighted
to come, and reminding her of her promise with
regard to the manuscripts and the vases. He had
already reminded her two or three times before.
As she read the note she was convulsed with
laughter, and when I asked her what she would
say to Cicero she answered that she would of course
tell him what she had already said before, that the
vases and the manuscripts were on the way. I
asked her if she was going to send for them, and
she answered firmly: “No, it is a great mistake to
lend books to men of letters. They never give
them back, or if they do there are always a lot of
thumb marks on them, or notes in the margin,
which are worse. I like my books to be clean.”
She took immense pains to dress herself that
night for the dinner, according to the very latest
Greek fashion, that is to say, in the austerest simplicity.
She wore a gray silk robe made absolutely
plain, and one wild flower in her fair hair. The
curious thing is—which I have noticed since we
got back to Alexandria—that here she is considered
a real beauty, but we had not been back a week
before she realized that what suited Rome does not
suit Alexandria. So she has entirely changed her
style of dress and of demeanour: She has had her
hair dyed a dark bronzed red; she wears gold tissue,
golden bracelets and chains, and she goes about
fanned by Cupids with huge peacock feathers, and
wearing a stiff gold train. Of course in Rome or
in Greece this would be thought vulgar, but it
is quite right here, and she is so clever that she
divined this at once.
Well, to go on with the dinner party. It was
not quite a success. Caesar, who had been anxious
about politics during the last week, and in a frightfully
bad temper, was preoccupied and absent-minded.
When Cicero arrived he was very civil
and did not mention the Greek vases directly, but
we all saw he was thinking of nothing else, and he
managed to get the conversation first on to Alexandria,
then on to the library, and finally he said:
“By the way, I can’t quite remember, but I think
you were kind enough once to say that you were
going to have a manuscript sent me from the
library.”
Cleopatra clapped her hands together and said:
“Of course! I think they must have arrived this
morning. We had a messenger from Alexandria,
but the things have not yet been unpacked, as
everybody in the house has been busy. But I will
let you know to-morrow morning without fail.”
Cicero kissed her hand and told her she was the
divinest and most thoughtful of women.
There were quite a lot of people at dinner, and
several came afterwards, among others a man called
Mark Antony, who is a well-known gambler, and
who is still in the Army. Cleopatra had once or
twice asked Caesar to bring him, but Caesar had
always said that he was not the kind of man she
would like, as he was boisterous, uneducated, and
rather common. Caesar was perfectly right about
this, because Cleopatra would not look at him.
He made several attempts to speak to her, and
paid her one or two extravagant but badly-turned
compliments, and she said to me afterwards that it
was astonishing how tiresome these Roman soldiers
were. During dinner she made signs to me as
though to point out that Antony was drinking a
great deal more than was good for him—which he
did do, and his conversation and his jokes were in
the worst possible taste. Cleopatra herself was at
her very best, so modest, so quiet, so delicately
witty, so highly distinguished and refined.
They talked of mathematics and astronomy,
and Cleopatra astounded Atticus by her knowledge
of these sciences. Mark Antony took no
part in this conversation. He was frankly bored.
From astronomy the talk went on to music, and
from music to dancing. Here Mark Antony
brightened up and monopolized the whole conversation
by describing a dancer from Asia he had
seen two or three days before. The play of the
muscles on her arms, he said, was quite unparalleled,
and she managed to execute a rippling movement
which started from her shoulders and went
to the tips of her fingers.
In the middle of dinner Caesar received a note.
I guessed at once it was from his wife, whose
jealousy lately had been something quite frightening.
Caesar read the note and was visibly disturbed
and irritated. Cleopatra pretended not to notice
the incident. The moment dinner was over Caesar
said that he would have to go home for a moment
in order to despatch a piece of public business, but
that he would be back shortly. He was still living,
you know, in the public offices in the Via Sacra.
Cleopatra did not make the slightest objection to
his going; she only said that she hoped he would
be back soon, and that as for herself she would be
well occupied talking to Cicero, whom she had not
seen for some time.
Caesar was just making ready to go, and the
flute-players had been sent for, when Casca (who,
I think, is the best-looking young man in Rome)
walked up to Cleopatra and occupied the empty
seat next to her. Caesar suddenly changed his
mind, and said he would not go home after all.
This was typical of his behaviour during these
days: he had been constantly changing his mind
about small matters and never seemed able to come
to any decision. Besides this, he was always jealous
of any one younger than himself, especially of Casca,
who has got such thick hair.
Mark Antony tried to lure Cleopatra into conversation
with him, paying her still more fulsome
and still more crude compliments than before. And
she, with perfect civility but with icy determination,
ignored the compliments and took no notice of
him.
After the flute-players had ceased we all had our
fortunes told by an Asiatic soothsayer. He told
Cleopatra and myself that we would be very lucky,
but that we should beware of figs and the worms
inside them. We laughed a great deal at this, because
neither Cleopatra nor myself ever eat raw
fruit. He told Mark Antony that he would love
and be loved by the most wonderful woman in the
world; upon which Mark Antony bent on one
knee before Cleopatra and did mock homage. You
should have seen her face! He did not feel inclined
to do it twice, and there is no doubt that he knew
he had made a grotesque exhibition of himself; in
fact it was rather painful, and we were all sorry for
him.
The soothsayer told Caesar that all would be
well with him should he follow the advice of those
who loved him most. When the soothsayer said
this, Caesar looked at Cleopatra with infinite tenderness,
and she smiled at him very sweetly. It was
all I could do to keep from laughing. The vanity
of men is extraordinary! I thought to myself—How
can that conceited old politician think that a
woman as young, as clever, and as pretty as Cleopatra
could possibly care for him, or feel anything
else but disgust at his attentions!
The soothsayer then told Cicero’s fortune. He
said that his worst enemy was his tongue, but that
if he went through life without offending any of the
present company he would have a fortunate and
successful career. We laughed a great deal at this,
as every one in the room happened to be a great
friend of his.
Caesar was not satisfied with what the soothsayer
had told him, and asked further details; but the
soothsayer said that it was unlucky to tell a person’s
fortune twice in one evening, upon which Caesar
desisted, since he is intensely superstitious.
The guests went away, leaving Caesar and Cleopatra
alone. I was in the next room and could hear
what they said through the silken curtain. I listened
attentively. Caesar began by calling her the sun of
his life, and she complained of headache. Then he
turned the conversation on to serious topics, and
said he was greatly in need of her advice with regard
to the events of the next day. Should he or
should he not receive the Crown which was to be
offered him by Mark Antony in the Forum?
Cleopatra said that if he did not accept it he
would be a fool and a coward, and she for her part
would never speak to him again. This seemed to
satisfy him, and he went away.
The next morning he did not appear at the villa.
We heard the noise of cheering, but we first learnt
what had happened from one of the slaves who had
been in the crowd. He told us that Caesar had
refused the Crown. Cleopatra was frightfully put
out and really angry, for she had determined that
if Caesar accepted the Crown she would make him
divorce Calphurnia, and marry him herself. It was
her great ambition to be Queen, though nobody
knew of this at the time of course, because ever
since she had lived in Rome, Cleopatra had been a
model not only of Roman economy but of Greek
moderation, and her household books had been a
lesson to the strictest of Roman matrons. That is
all changed now, and I must say it is rather a relief.
To go on with my story: Caesar himself came
to see us before supper. He said that he had refused
the Crown for the moment because he did
not think the occasion was opportune, but that he
firmly intended to accept it on a later occasion.
“I am only drawing back,” he said, “in order to
take a greater leap.” Cleopatra said sarcastically
that no doubt he knew best and that he had been
right to climb down. He told her, among other
things, that a soothsayer—not the same one we had
seen—had told him to beware of the Ides of March,
when he intended to go to the Senate, and he asked
Cleopatra whether she thought it would be wise for
him to go.
She laughed at the superstition and told him that
if he paid attention to such trifles people would
begin to say that he was an old woman; in fact they
were already saying it, and she was beginning to
think it was true. This annoyed him so much that
he banged the door, and went away in a huff. We
expected him, however, to come to us the next day,
as these sort of quarrels had often happened before.
But Caesar did not come the next day, and a
week passed without our seeing him. I suggested
to Cleopatra she had better write, but she was quite
obdurate. The days passed, and it was fully three
weeks before we had further news of him. That
was on the Ides of March, when a slave rushed into
the house and told us that Caesar had been murdered,
and that we had better escape as soon as
possible, since all friends of his were in danger.
Cleopatra showed great presence of mind. She
packed her jewels and nothing else; she stained her
face with walnut-juice, and put on a coarse peasant’s
garment, bidding myself and Iras do likewise; then,
taking plenty of money with us, we went out through
the back gate, crossed the river, and quite unobserved
reached the Gate of Ostia. There we took
a litter and started for Ostia, whence we embarked
for Alexandria.
We have now been here a week, and Cleopatra,
as I have already told you, is completely changed.
But the change as far as we are concerned is for the
better, for I can give you no idea of the fun we
are having. Please come here as soon as you can.
Alexandria is far more amusing than either Rome
or Athens, and there is no tiresome Caesar to
interfere with us. Farewell.
Charmian.
OVID’S BANISHMENT — Letter from Diogenes, a Sculptor, to a friend in Athens
My work, or rather the business which called me
to Rome, is now accomplished, and the Caryatids
which I was commissioned to make for the Pantheon
of Agrippa are now in their place. But in what a
place! Alas, they have been set up so high that
their whole effect is lost, and the work might just
as well be that of any Roman bungler. The Romans
are indeed barbarians. They consider that as long
as a thing is big and expensive it is beautiful; they
take luxury for comfort, notoriety for fame, eccentricity
for genius, and riches for wisdom; or rather
they deem that wealth is the only thing which
counts in the modern world, and here at Rome
this is true. Their attempts at art are in the highest
degree ludicrous. Yesterday I visited the studio of
Ludius, who is renowned in this city for his decorative
work. He paints walls and ceilings, and the
Emperor has employed him to decorate his villa at
Naples.
His work, which is not devoid of a certain talent,
is disciplined by no sense of proportion. It would
not be tolerated in Greece for a moment owing to
an extravagance and an exaggeration which, so far
from displaying any originality, merely form the
futile mask of a fundamental banality. The man
himself wears his hair yards long like a Persian,
and favours a pea-green toga. I could not help
saying to him that in Greece artists took pains to
dress like everybody but to paint like no one.
Last night I supped with Maecenas at his house
on the Esquiline. Let me do justice to my host
and give praise where praise is due; here are
no jarring notes and no foolish display. Maecenas
has exquisite taste; his house is not overcrowded
with ornaments nor overwhelmed by useless decoration.
By a cunning instinct he has realized that art
should be the servant of necessity. Everything in
his house has a use and a purpose; but where a
vase, a bowl, a cup, a chair, or seat is needed, there
you will find a beautiful vase, a beautiful bowl, and
so forth.
Maecenas himself is bald, genial, and cultivated;
he looks older than he is, and dresses with a very
slight affectation of coxcombry; his manner is a
triumph of the art which conceals art. He talks
to you as though you were the one person in the
world he had been anxious to see, and as if the
topic you were discussing were the preponderating
interest of his life. As I entered his hall I found
him pacing up and down in eager conversation
with Agrippa, the famous admiral; my ears are
sharp, and I just caught a fragment of their conversation,
which happened to concern the new drains
of Rome. Yet as Maecenas approached me
he greeted me with effusion, and turning to Agrippa
he said: “Ah, here he is,” as if their whole talk
had been of me.
We reclined almost immediately. The fare was
delicious, and distinguished by the same supreme
simplicity and excellence as the architecture and
the ornamentation of his dwelling. There were
many celebrities present besides Agrippa—Ludius
the painter, most grotesquely clothed, several
officials and politicians, Cinna, Grosphus, three
minor poets, Horatius Flaccus, Propertius and
Crassus; Ovidius Naso, the fashionable writer;
Vergilius, the poet, and many young men whose
names escape me. Naso is by far the most prominent
figure in the Roman literary world at
present. He is the arbiter of taste, and sets the
criterion of what is to be admired or not. Heaven
forbid that I should read his verse, but there is no
doubt about the flavour of his conversation, which
is more interesting than his work.
The literary world despises Vergilius (the only
Roman poet at present living worthy of the name!);
on the other hand they admire this Crassus, who
writes perfectly unintelligible odes about topics
barren of interest. He has invented a novel style
of writing, which is called symbolism. It consists
of doing this: If you are writing about a tree and
the tree seems to you to have the shape of an
elephant you call it an elephant. Hence a certain
chaos is produced in the mind of the reader, which
these young men seem to find delectable. If you
mention Vergilius to them they say: “If he only
knew how to write. His ideas are good, but he
has no sense of form, no ear for melody, and no
power of expression.”
This, of course, is ridiculous; for although
Vergilius is a writer who has no originality, his
style is felicitous, delicate, and lofty, and often
musical. In fact he writes really well. With regard
to the other poets, they are of little or no account.
Horatius Flaccus has a happy knack of translation;
Propertius writes amiable, sentimental stuff, and
Tibullus babbles of pastures; but they are all of
them decadent in that they, none of them, have
anything to say. And they either display a false
simplicity and a false archaism, or else they are
slavishly imitative or hopelessly obscure.
At first the conversation turned on naval matters.
It was debated at some length whether the Romans
needed a fleet at all, and, if they did, whether it
should be a small fleet composed of huge triremes
or a large fleet of smaller and swifter vessels.
Agrippa, who has the great advantage of practical
experience in naval warfare, was in favour of the
latter type of vessel. But another sailor, a friend
of Cinna’s, who was present, and who was also
experienced, said that the day of small vessels was
over. The conversation then veered to literary
matters.
Ovidius—a little man with twinkling eyes, carefully
curled hair, and elaborately elegant clothes—he
has his linen washed at Athens—excelled himself
in affable courtesy and compliment to Crassus,
whom he had never met hitherto. He had always
been so anxious, he said, to meet the author of
odes that were so interesting, although they were
to him a little difficult.
“I’m afraid you must be deeply disappointed,”
said Crassus, blushing—he is a shy, overgrown
youth with an immense tuft of tangled hair and a
desperately earnest face.
“No,” said Ovidius, “I am never disappointed
in men of letters. I always think they are the most
charming people in the world. It is their works
which I find so disappointing. Everybody writes
too much,” he continued, “and, what is worse still,
everybody writes. Even the dear Emperor writes
hexameters; they do not always scan, but they
are hexameters for all that. It has even been
hinted that he has written a tragedy. Of course it
doesn’t matter how much verse a young man writes
as long as he burns it all, but our dear Master’s
hexameters are preserved by the Empress. She
told me herself with pride that she often ‘mends’
his verses for him. And they need mending sadly,
because so many stitches in them are dropped. But
how delightful it is to have a literary Emperor.
He was good enough to ask me to read him a
little poetry the other day. I did so. I chose the passage
from the ‘Iliad’ where Hector says farewell to
Andromache. He said it was very fine but a little
old-fashioned. I then recited an ode of Sappho’s,
perhaps the loveliest of all of them. He seemed to
enjoy it, but said that it was not nearly as good as
the original, and that he preferred that kind of song
when it was set to music. What the ‘original’
might be to which he alluded I did not ask, as I
have always held that a monarch’s business is to
have a superficial knowledge of everything but a
thorough knowledge of nothing. And therefore I
say it is an excellent thing, Vergilius, that our dear
Emperor is aware that you and Crassus and myself
all write verse. But it would be in the highest
degree undesirable that he should know so much
about the business as to command you to write
verses of society, and myself to write a Georgic.
“But, you will say, he is a poet himself, and the
Empress mends his verses. It is true she mends
his verses, but she also mends his socks, and a
sensible monarch no more bothers to write his
own verse than he bothers to make his own socks,
or else what would be the use of being a monarch?
But, again, you will object: if they are written for
him, why don’t they scan? The answer is simple.
The man who makes them knows his business,
and he knows that if they did scan nobody would
believe that our dear Master had written them.
“And in having his verse written for him by
a professional, and a bad professional—I hope,
Horatius, it is not you, by the way—the Emperor
displays not only sense but a rare wisdom. For a
gentleman should never bother to acquire technical
skill. If he loves music let him hire professional
flute-players, but do not let him waste his time in
practising ineffectual scales; and if he wants poetry
let him order of Vergilius an epic, and if he wishes
to pose as a literary monarch let him employ our
friend Horatius to write him a few verses without
sense or scansion—although I am afraid Horatius
would find this difficult. You are too correct,
Horatius. That is your fault and mine. We write
verse so correctly that I sometimes think that in
the far distant future, when the barbarians shall
have conquered us, we shall be held up as models
somewhere in Scythia or Thule by pedagogues
to the barbarian children of future generations!
Horrible thought! When Rome falls may our
language and our literature perish with us. May
we be utterly forgotten. My verse at least shall
escape the pedagogues, for it is licentious; and
yours, Crassus, I fear they will scarcely understand
across the centuries. But, O Vergilius, the spirit
of your poetry, so noble and so pure, is the very
thing to be turned into a bed of Procrustes for
little Dacians!”
“You are unfair on the Emperor,” said Vergilius,
“he has excellent taste.”
“In poets certainly,” said Ovidius, “but not
in poetry.”
The conversation then turned to other topics:
the games, the new drains, the theatre of Balbus,
the Naumachia, and the debated question whether
the Emperor was right in having caused Vedius
Pollio’s crystal beakers to be broken because the
latter had condemned a slave, who had accidentally
dropped one of them, to be thrown into his pond
of lampreys and eaten. The sentence would have
been carried out had not the Emperor interfered
and caused the slave to be released. Horatius said
that Vedius Pollio deserved to be eaten by lampreys
himself, but Ovidius and Ludius considered the
punishment to be out of all proportion to the crime.
Agrippa could not understand his minding the
goblet being broken, as there were plenty of goblets
in the world. Vergilius thought that Pollio’s act
was monstrous. Cinna said that the slave was his
own. Maecenas considered that although it was a
reprehensible act (and such deeds created dangerous
precedents) nobody but a collector knew how terribly
severe the punishment was.
We sat talking till late in the night. I cannot
write any more, but I have just heard a piece of
startling news. Ovidius Naso has been banished
for life to some barbarous spot near Tauris. The
reason of his disgrace is unknown. Hail!
THE CAPREAE REGATTA, A.D. 27 — Letter from Sabina to Chloe
Capreae, August.
We arrived late the night before last from Rome,
and never have I seen Capreae so crowded. There
are hundreds of yachts here, and many from Egypt,
Greece, and Asia, and the whole fleet has arrived,
and is drawn up ready for inspection. Clothes are,
of course, a difficulty, because one is expected to
be elegant, and if one wears anything beautiful it
is certain to be spoilt when one gets in and out of
boats. Clodia looks too absurd in Egyptian silks
and gold chains, just as if she were going to the
Games, and Lesbia looks sillier still dressed up as
a Greek sailor boy. I have tried to steer a middle
course between the two extremes, and I have got a
plain white peplum with brown sandals; this all
looks cool and summer-like, but it is really substantial
enough for the fickle, breezy weather.
Yesterday we went with Sejanus to be shown
over one of the ships, the Servius Tullius. It was
one of the new kind, with three decks and four of
what they call turrets. The officers on board were
very proud of themselves because in their “battering
practice,” which they had just been doing in
some outlandish place, they had successfully destroyed
the boom (which is a kind of mast sticking
out from the ship) of the dummy ship on which
they practise. Julius says that these experiments
are a waste of money, because each of these dummy
ships costs I don’t know how much money. But
then Julius is a Little Roman, and I always tell
him that if everybody thought as he did, we should
have the barbarians in Rome in no time.
The officers have such a hard life on board.
They have to get up before sunrise, and if any of
them is at all disobedient he is told to climb up the
mast and sit in a kind of basket for several hours
with nothing to do. As for the sailors, they live
in a dark hole with scarcely any light in it and no
air at all. I asked one of them whether this didn’t
give them a headache, and he said that some clever
mathematician had invented a kind of fan which
buzzed round and round so as to ventilate their
cabin. He said this was a horrible invention, and
made such a draught that nobody could sleep. If
you live at sea, he told me, you want to be warm
in your cabin. You have quite enough fresh air on
deck. Julius said this showed how perverse and
conservative sailors are. If he was the captain of a
ship he would make the sailors sleep on deck in
hammocks without any blankets. The sailor said
they were all thankful Julius was a politician and
not a sailor. And Julius, who has no sense of
humour, thought it was meant as a compliment.
There have been heaps of visitors on board all
the ships. The captain of the Servius Tullius said
it was wonderful what an interest people took in
the fleet now, and what intelligent questions they
asked, especially the women. I was rather flattered
by this, as I have always taken an intelligent interest
in naval things, and I had only just said to
him (to show I wasn’t ignorant) that my favourite
boat was a spinnaker.
To-morrow there are going to be some races. I
am going to try to get Lucius Aemilius to take
me on board his schooner, the Hirundo. I always
think a schooner is a safer boat than a cutter.
I don’t really like racing, because nobody will
talk to one, and the men are all so rude and
absent-minded while the race is going on, and
whatever one does one is always in the way and
in the wrong place, but I shall get rid of Julius
for a whole day, because he is a very bad sailor
and nothing would drag him on board a racing
yacht.
Capreae is terribly crowded. I was invited upon
Sejanus’ yacht, but I think it much more comfortable
to live in the most uncomfortable villa than in
the most comfortable yacht. There is no privacy
in a yacht, and salt water ruins my skin. Our villa,
which we have hired for the week, is quite clean,
only there is only one bath in it, so that we all
have to use it by turn.
Vitellius, the admiral, has put one of the little
pinnaces belonging to his ship, the Remus, at our
disposal. So we can go backwards and forwards
whenever we like. The pinnace is managed by one
of the quite young officers—such a nice little boy,
and so willing! He doesn’t mind how long I keep
him waiting at the pier. It seems extraordinary
that such young boys should be able to manage a
whole boat full of men, doesn’t it? Ours looks
about fifteen years old, but I suppose he is really
much older. I asked him to come and dine with
us, and Julius was cross about it, and said I was
making myself ridiculous by talking to children.
But I promise you this boy has much more assurance
than many grown-up men. In fact, once or
twice I have had to speak severely to him because
he was on the point of going too far. As it was, I
treated it all as a joke, and told him I was old
enough to be his mother.
There have been a lot of the “Lysistratists”
here—you know, the women who are in favour of
senators being all women. Of course, I have nothing
against their principles. If a man is a senator
why shouldn’t a woman be? Any woman is cleverer
than any man. But I do think their methods are
silly and so unwomanly. One of them took a piece
of chalk and wrote “Women and Freedom” on
Sejanus’ carpet. And another dressed herself up
as a Numidian slave, and shouted “Justice for
Women” just as he was in the middle of a serious
speech at his banquet. But the sailors like them
very much, because they are so graceful, and on
board one of the ships of the fleet—I think it
was the Scipio—one of the chief “Lysistratists,”
Camilla, entirely converted one of the men of the
“Legio classica”—those kind of half-soldiers, half-sailors,
who keep order on board the ships—and
he is now a fervent “Lysistratist” himself. The
other sailors say this is very curious, as the man in
question had such a stern character. But then, you
see, Camilla is quite charming. Sejanus is horribly
put out about it, and his house has to be guarded
day and night by soldiers. It is most inconvenient,
because the other day his own daughter Lydia was
arrested as she was going into the house. They
had mistaken her for a “Lysistratist.”
Last night all the ships were illuminated with oil
lamps, and ten thousand Egyptian slaves danced
and sang in the gardens. The result was I did not
get a wink of sleep, and the worst of it is that these
songs and dances go on all day as well as all night.
On the beach, too, there is every kind of acrobat,
gipsy tumblers, and fortune-tellers. There is a
woman here who tells one marvellous things by
looking at one’s hand, only Julius, who, like all
husbands, is now and then quite unaccountably
obstinate about little things, absolutely forbade
me to consult her, and so I had to give it up.
She told Clodia she would be married three
times.
The Persian fleet arrives here to-morrow on a
visit. Julius and I are invited to dine at the Emperor’s
villa, and Julius has to wear a Persian
uniform as a compliment to the Persians. It is
made of scarlet silk with orange sleeves, and a long
green train fringed with silver; he also has to wear
a high tiara of steel and gold covered with jewels,
and extraordinary sandals laced up the leg with
little bells. He tried it on last night, and I can’t
tell you what he looked like. (Julius has grown to
look much older since you saw him, and only the
soberest togas suit him.) I couldn’t help telling
him he looked like a circus-rider, and he was so
offended that I have not been able to mention the
dinner since. Men are so funny. Julius is ashamed
of being thought a clever politician, which he is,
and wants to be thought an excellent quoit-player,
and he can’t throw a quoit a yard. He stoops and
he is flabby, and yet he wants everybody to take
him for an athlete!
How different from those nice sailors, who are
so modest, and who are pleased because they are
sailors, and wouldn’t be anything else for the
world.
I must stop now, because the pinnace is “awaiting
my pleasure,” and I don’t want to keep my
little sailor boy waiting. Farewell. I will write
again soon.
P.S.—Whenever Julius is bad-tempered now I
say I wish I had married a sailor, because they are
never, never, never rude to their wives. It is true,
of course, that they seldom see them, but I did not
say that.
P.P.S.—Later. We dined at the Emperor’s villa
last night. It appears that this morning a tiresome
incident occurred. A fisherman brought the Emperor
some lobsters, and it turned out that one of
them was not quite fresh. So the Emperor had the
fisherman hurled from the cliff into the sea. He is
subject every now and then to these fits of petulance;
but I must say he was charming last night,
and most agreeable. Of course he is self-conscious
and he makes some people feel shy; but I get on
with him beautifully. He knows so much about
everybody. We fancy he already knew that Metellus
has quite given up Clodia, and is now desperately
in love with Irene. He was most tactful
with me, and never alluded either to Sejanus or to
Julius.
MESSALINA — Letter from Pallas, Librarian to the Emperor Claudius, to a friend
The Palatine, Rome
A slave brought your letter this morning from
Antium, and since the Emperor is sending one
back to-morrow I take advantage of the opportunity
to obey your behest and to give you the news which
you ask for.
You demand a full account of my new life, and
although it is now only three weeks ago that I
arrived, I feel as if many years had passed, so
crowded have they been with incident, experience,
and even tragedy. I will not anticipate, but will
begin at the beginning.
As soon as my appointment was settled I was
commanded to come to the Palace and to take up
my new duties at once. I arrived early one morning
about three weeks ago. I was shown the room
I was to occupy, and the library where I was to
work—which is magnificent—and briefly instructed
in my duties, which are not heavy. I was to have
my meals with the Emperor’s Secretaries.
The first day of my arrival I saw no one, but
the second morning, just after I had settled down
to my work—I have two assistants—a man walked
into the library and asked in a hesitating manner
for a Greek dictionary.
“I am sorry to trouble you,” he added, apologetically,
“but I am a wretched speller.”
I became aware—why exactly I cannot tell, since
he was dressed in a loose robe and slippers—that
it was the Emperor. He looked at me furtively,
fixing his glance on the edge of my toga, so much
so that I began to think it must be dirty. He is
badly made, his head looks as if it might fall off
his shoulders, his features are too big for his face,
and his hand shakes. In spite of all this there is
about him a mournful dignity—an air of intelligence,
melancholy, and authority. I gave him the
dictionary and he looked out the word he wanted,
but my presence seemed to embarrass him, and he
fumbled, and was a long time before he could find
what he was seeking. At last he found it and
returned me the book with a nervous cough. As
he left the room he asked me to dine with him
that night. It would be quite informal, he said, only
himself and the Empress.
I looked forward to the evening with fear and
curiosity, and when at the appointed hour I found
myself in the ante-room I was trembling with
nervousness. Presently the Emperor entered the
room and said the Empress would be down directly.
He seemed to be as shy as I was myself. After a
prolonged silence he remarked that the month of
October, which had just begun, was the pleasantest
month in the year. After this he bade me be seated,
relapsed into silence, and did not seem to notice
my presence. He stared at the ceiling and seemed
to be engrossed in his thoughts. Nearly twenty
minutes passed in uncomfortable silence, and then
the Empress entered with a jingle of chains and
bangles. She smiled on me graciously, and we went
into the dining room.
I had heard much about the beauty of the
Empress, and the accounts were scarcely exaggerated.
Her face was childish and flower-like, her
hair and complexion dazzlingly fair, her smile
radiant, her expression guileless and innocent, and
in her brown eyes there danced a bright and delightful
mischief.
We reclined, and course after course of rich and
spicy dishes were brought. We began with sturgeon
and fried eels, followed by roast sucking-pig, wild
boar, calf, wild peacock, turkey, and various kinds
of game. The Emperor helped himself copiously
and partook twice of every course. The Empress
toyed with her food and sipped a little boiling water
out of a cup. The Emperor did not speak at all,
but the Empress kept up a running conversation
on the topics of the day—the games, the new port
of Ostia, the Emperor’s new improved alphabet,
and the progress of the History of Etruria, which
he is writing in Greek.
“You will be a great help to him,” she said,
talking as if he were not present. “There is nobody
at all literary at Court just now, and he loves talking
about literature. I am so anxious he should go on
with his writing—you must encourage him. I do
what I can, but I am not up to his scholarship and
science; I am only an ignorant woman.”
Towards the end of dinner, Britain having been
mentioned, the Emperor discoursed at length on
the native religion of that insignificant island. The
people there, he said, held the oak tree in great
reverence and sacrificed to a god who had certain
affinities with the Etrurian Moon-god; he intended
to devote a chapter of his Etrurian history to a
comparison between the two religions; and he
explained at enormous length, and with a wealth
of illustration which revealed untold erudition,
their likenesses and differences.
The Empress sat in rapt attention, drinking
in every word, and when he had finished she said:
“Isn’t he wonderful?” He looked at her and
blushed, as pleased as a child at the praise.
When at last the long meal came to an end the
Emperor took us to his private study and showed
me his books, almost all of which, dealt with
history and philosophy. He pulled down many of
them from their shelves, and discoursed learnedly
about them, but the Empress always brought the
conversation back to his own writings, and insisted
on his reading out passages of the History of
Carthage. (This I had to fetch from the library.)
“You must read us my favourite bit about the
death of Hannibal,” she said.
The Emperor complied with her wishes, and
read out in an expressionless voice a narrative of
the death of the Carthaginian hero, which I confess
was not distinguished either by originality of thought
or elegance of diction. It was, to tell the truth,
tedious and interlarded with many moral reflections
of a somewhat trite order on the vanity of human
achievement. But during all the time he read, the
Empress sat opposite him with an expression of
rapt interest, and at the more pathetic passages
tears came into her eyes. By the peroration on
Hannibal’s character, which said that he was a
great man but a victim of ambition, and that in
contemplating so great an elevation and so miserable
an end man could not fail to be impressed, she was
especially moved. When it was finished she made
him repeat some verses which he had written about
the death of Dido. The Emperor showed reluctance
to do this, but she finally persuaded him, saying
that people might say what they liked, but that she
greatly preferred his verse to that of Vergil. It was
more human and more manly. In Vergil, she said,
there was always a note of effeminacy. I could not
agree with her there, but her admiration for her
husband’s work was deeply touching in its sincerity.
“If only he had more time to himself,” she said
wistfully, “he would write a magnificent epic—but
he is a slave to his duty.”
The Emperor then mentioned that he was starting
for Ostia in a few days. The Empress put on a
pained expression, and said it was too cruel of him
not to take her with him. He explained that he
would willingly have done so, but as his time there
would be entirely devoted to formal business he
was sure she would be more happy at Rome. She
then asked him if he had any objection to her
organizing a little ceremony for the Festival of
Bacchus during his absence. Silius had promised
to help her. They had even thought of performing
a little play, quite privately, of course, in the
gardens, just for a few friends.
The Emperor smiled and said he had no objection,
only he begged her to see that etiquette was observed
and that the guests should not be allowed to take
any liberties. “The Empress is so good-natured,”
he said, “and people take advantage of her good
nature and her high spirits, and the Romans,
especially the matrons, are so spiteful.” He had,
of course, no objection to a little fun, and he wanted
her above all things to enjoy herself.
At that moment Narcissus, the freedman, entered
with some papers for the Emperor to sign. The
Emperor glanced through them, signed most of
them, but paused at one.
“I thought,” he said, and then hesitated and
coughed, “that we had settled to pardon them.”
“There was an idea of it at first,” said Narcissus,
“but you afterwards, if you remember, agreed that
it was necessary to make an example in this case.”
“Yes, yes,” answered the Emperor.
“Are you talking of Verus and Antonius?” the
Empress broke in. “You promised me that they
would be pardoned.”
“So I did,” said the Emperor, and then, turning
to Narcissus, he said: “I think in this case, in
view of the rather exceptional circumstances, we
might strain a point.”
“But they are quite undeserving,” began Narcissus.
“The Emperor has pardoned them,” broke in
the Empress, “he told me so yesterday; let us
scratch out their names,” and bending over the
Emperor with a kind and lovely smile, she suited
the action to the word. The Emperor smiled
lovingly at her, and Narcissus withdrew, biting his
lips. Soon after that I withdrew also.
The next morning the Emperor started for Ostia.
During the week that followed the Empress visited
me frequently in the library, and was extremely
kind; she took an extraordinary interest in my
work, and revealed a wide knowledge of literature.
Her criticisms were always acute. She evidently
missed the Emperor very much. The more I saw
of her the more I admired her beauty, her kindness,
and her wit, and the more readily I understood
the jealousy she inspired at Rome, a jealousy
which found vent in spiteful gossip and malicious
scandal.
The Empress, I at once understood, was a
creature compact of kindness, gaiety, and impulse;
she could not understand nor brook the conventions
and the hypocrisy of the world. She was a child of
nature, unsophisticated and unspoilt by the artifices
of society. This is the one thing the world can
never forgive. When she was pleased she showed
it. Her spirits were unbounded, and she delighted
in every kind of frolic and fun, and was sometimes
imprudent in giving rein to her happy disposition
and to the charming gaiety of her nature in public.
This did her harm and gave her enemies a pretext
for inventing the wildest and most absurd calumnies.
But when she heard of this she only laughed and
said that the malice of her enemies would only
recoil on their own heads.
Alas! she was grievously mistaken. Her enemies
were far more numerous and more bitter than she
supposed; moreover, they resented the influence she
exerted over her husband, just because this influence
was gentle and good. Here are the bare facts of
what happened. The Emperor was still at Ostia.
The Empress was celebrating the Festival of Bacchus
in the Palatine Gardens according to the
Emperor’s wish. The feast lasted several days.
Silius and Veltius Valens, who are both skilled at
that sort of thing, had arranged an effective amphitheatre,
and there were dances, music, and a whole
pageant in honour of Bacchus. It was a lovely
sight.
On the last day of the festival a procession of
Bacchanals, clad in leopard skins and crowned with
vine leaves, danced round the altar playing the
double flute. One day on the stage in the amphitheatre
a wine-press was revealed, and a chorus of
wine-harvesters led by the Empress herself trod
the grapes. Never had the Empress looked so
beautiful as in this Bacchanal’s dress, and she joined
in the fun with a wild, irresponsible gaiety and
enjoyed herself like a child. During the whole
festival, which had lasted a week, she had played a
thousand pranks, and on the first day of the merry-makings
Silius had dressed up as Bacchus, and the
Empress as Ariadne, and they acted a play in which
a mock marriage ceremony had been performed—all
this in fun, of course.
But there were spies among us, and Narcissus,
who was at Ostia, received daily accounts of what
was happening. Skilfully he distorted the facts and
represented what had been a piece of harmless fun
as a scandalous orgy. He said the Empress, clad
only in a vine-wreath, had danced before all Rome,
and that she had publicly wedded Silius. He added
a whole list of infamous details which were the
fruits of his jealous fancy; but, worst of all, he
accused Silius and the Empress of conspiracy, and
said that they had attempted to bribe the Praetorian
Guards, that they were plotting to kill Claudius
and usurp the Throne. The festival was not over
when a slave arrived breathless, and told us what
Narcissus had done. The Emperor, he said, was
on his way home. The Empress knew she must
meet him face to face. She also knew that Narcissus
would do everything in his power to prevent it.
The courtiers, scenting the Empress’s overthrow,
deserted her, and she set out on foot to meet the
Emperor. But Narcissus prevented the meeting,
and the Empress fled to Lucullus’ Villa, which
Valerius Asiaticus had bequeathed to her.
The Emperor arrived in time for dinner. I was
summoned to his table. He partook heartily of
eight courses almost in silence, but seemed gloomy
and depressed. After dinner his spirits rose and
he asked whether I considered that Silius and the
Empress had really plotted against him. I told him
the whole truth, and he expressed great annoyance
at Narcissus’ perfidy. He sent a message to say
that the Empress was to return at once—to be
judged, he added cunningly, for he did not wish
Narcissus to know that he knew the truth. But
Narcissus divined his peril. He knew that as soon
as the Empress returned his doom would be sealed,
and he told the tribune on duty that the Emperor
had ordered Messalina to be killed.
That evening I was bidden to supper; and before
we had finished the Emperor asked why Messalina
had not come.
“Messalina,” said Narcissus, “is no more. She
perished by her own hand.”
The Emperor made no comment, but told the
slave to fill his goblet. He finished supper in
silence.
The next morning the Emperor came into the
library. He asked for his own Carthaginian history,
and sat by the window, looking at it without reading.
Then he beckoned to me, and finding the
passage on the death of Hannibal, he pointed to it
and tried to say something.
“She”—he began, but two large tears rolled
down his cheeks, and he choked. Since then he
has never mentioned Messalina; he works, eats,
and talks like a man whose spirit is elsewhere, or
a person who is walking in his sleep.
Farewell, I can write no more, for I am shattered
by this tragedy and the dreadful end of one of the
few really good women I have ever seen.
NERO INTERVIEWED ROME, A.D. 64 — Letter from a Greek Traveller to his friend in Athens
It is fifteen years since I was last at Rome, and
although I was prepared to find a change in everything,
I had not expected this complete transformation.
The Rome I knew, the Rome of the straggly
narrow streets and rotting wooden houses, has disappeared,
and in its place there is a kind of Corinth
on a huge scale, marred of course by the usual want
of taste of the Romans, but imposing nevertheless
and extraordinarily gay and brilliant. The fault of
the whole thing is that it is too big: the houses
are too high, the streets too broad, everything is
planned on too large a scale. From the artist’s
point of view the effect is deplorable; from the
point of view of the casual observer it is amusing
in the highest degree. The broad streets—a blaze
of coloured marble and fresh paint—are now
crowded with brilliant shops where you see all that
is new from Greece and the East, together with
curiosities from the North and the barbarian
countries. Everybody seems to be spending money.
The shops are crowded from morning till night.
The display of gold trinkets, glass vases, carpets,
rugs, silks, gold and silver tissues, embroideries, all
glittering in the sunlight, dazzles the eye and imposes
by the mass and glare of colour and gaudiness.
There is no doubt that the Emperor is extraordinarily
popular, and whenever he shows himself
in public he is greeted with frantic enthusiasm. Of
course there are some mal-contents among the old-fashioned
Liberals, but they have no influence whatever
and count practically for nothing, for what
are their grumblings and their eternal lamentations
about the good old times and the Empire going to
the dogs, in the scale with the hard solid fact that
ever since Nero came to the throne the prosperity
of the Empire has increased in every possible respect?
For the first time for years the individual
has been able to breathe freely, and owing to the
splendid reforms which he has carried through in
the matter of taxation, an intolerable load of oppression
has been lifted from the shoulders of the
poor, and I can assure you they are grateful.
A few nights ago I had dinner with Seneca, to
meet some of the leading literary lights. He is
somewhat aged. Discussing various differences
between our people and his, Seneca said that it is
all very well for us to talk of our intellectual
superiority, our artistic taste, our wit, our sense of
proportion, but we had no idea either of liberty of
trade on the one side, or liberty of thought on the
other. “That kind of liberty,” said Seneca, “always
fares better under a King or a Prince of some
kind than under jealous democrats. We should
never tolerate the religious tyranny of Athens.”
I could not help pointing out that what struck me
at Rome to-day was that whereas almost everybody
had “literary” pretensions, and discussed
nothing but eloquence, form, style, and “artistry,”
nearly everybody wrote badly with the exception
of Petronius Arbiter, whom the literary
world does not recognize. The Romans talk a
great deal of “art for art’s sake,” and language,
instead of being the simple and perfect vesture
of thought, is cultivated for its own sake. “This
seems to us Greeks,” I said, “the cardinal principle
of decadence, and the contrary of our ideal
which is that everything should serve to adorn,
but all that is dragged in merely for the sake of
ornament is bad.” I think Seneca agreed, but the
younger literary men present smiled with pitying
condescension on me and said patronizingly:
“We’ve got beyond all that.”
After that dinner I made up my mind that I had
seen enough of the literary set. Seneca was kind
enough to get me an audience with the Emperor.
I was received yesterday afternoon in the new gold
palace which Nero has built for himself. It is a
sumptuous building, to our taste vulgar, but not
unimposing, and suits its purpose very well, though
all his suite complain of the insufficient accommodation
and the discomfort of the arrangements. I
was taken into a kind of ante-room where a number
of Court officials, both civil and military, were waiting,
and I was told that the Emperor would probably
see me in about a quarter of an hour. They all
talked for some time in subdued tones as if they
were in a temple; as far as I could see there was
no reason for this as the Emperor’s room was at
the other end of a long passage, and the doors were
shut. At the end of a quarter of an hour a young
officer fetched me and ushered me into the Emperor’s
presence.
He was seated at a large table covered with
documents and parchments of every description,
and had evidently been dictating to his secretary,
who left the room on the other side as I entered.
He is very like his pictures, which, however, do not
give one any idea of his short-sighted, dreamy eyes,
nor of his intensely good-humoured and humorous
expression. He has a kind of way of looking up
at one in a half-appealing fashion, as much as to
say “For Heaven’s sake don’t think that I take all
this business seriously.” His movements are quick
but not jerky. He held in his hand a chain of
amber beads which he kept on absent-mindedly
fingering during the whole interview. His fingers
are short, square, and rather fat. He spoke Greek,
which he speaks very purely indeed and without
any Latin accent. Indeed, he speaks it too well.
He asked me whether I was enjoying my visit to
Rome, how long it was since I had been here, what
I thought of the improvements, and if I had been
to the new theatre. I said I had not been to the
theatre, but that I was told the games in the Circus
were extremely well worth seeing. The Emperor
laughed and shrugged his shoulders, and said that
it was very civil of me to say so, since I knew
quite well that those spectacles, although hugely enjoyed
by the ignorant rabble, were singularly tedious
to people of taste and education like myself. I
bowed as he made this compliment. As for himself,
he continued, the games frankly bored him to
death, but, of course, it was a State duty for him
to attend them. “It is part of my profession,” he
said, “but if I had my own way I should witness
nothing but Greek plays acted by my own company
in my own house.” He asked after several of my
relatives whom he had met in Greece, remembering
their exact names and occupations. He asked me
if I had been writing anything lately, and when I
said that I was sick of books and intended henceforth
to devote all my leisure to seeing people and
studying them, he laughed. “Nothing is so discouraging,”
he said, “as trying to improve the
literary taste in this city. We are an admirable
people; we do a great many things much better
than other people—I do not mean only our colonization”—he
said smiling—“and our foreign
trade, but our portrait painting and our popular
farce. But as a general rule directly we touch Art
we seem to go altogether wrong, and the result is
nauseous. Therefore, if you want to find a Roman
who will be thoroughly sympathetic, capable, and
intelligent, and decent, choose one who knows
nothing about Art and does not want to. With
you it is different,” he added, “Athens is a city of
artists.” He then changed the subject and referred
to the rather bitter criticisms published at Athens
about his policy with regard to the Jews, especially
that new sect among them who called themselves
Christians.
“Of course,” he said, “your sense of proportion
is shocked when any extreme measures are adopted,
but, believe me, in this case it is necessary. The
Jews are everywhere, and everywhere they claim
the rights of citizenship. But they do not live as
citizens: they retain their peculiar status; they
claim the rights of the citizen and exceptional
privileges of their own—in fact, their own laws.
They wish to have the advantages of nationality
without being a nation, without taking part in
the functions of the State. We cannot tolerate
this. The whole matter has been brought to the
fore by the attitude of these so-called Christians,
who are, I am obliged to say, extremely difficult
to deal with: In the first place because they adopt
the policy of passive resistance, against which it
is so difficult to act, and in the second place because
they are getting the women on their side—and
you know what that means. I have no personal
objection either to Jews or Christians. What one
can’t tolerate is a secret society within the State
which advocates and preaches neglect of the
citizen’s duty to the State, the worthlessness of
patriotism, and the utter non-existence of citizenship.”
I said I quite understood this, but did not his
Majesty agree with me in thinking that penal
oppressions were rarely successful, and frequently
defeated their own object.
The Emperor replied that there was a great deal
in what I said, but that he did not consider he was
dealing with a national or universal movement,
which had any element of duration in it, but with
a particular fad which would soon pass out of
fashion, as the majority of all sensible people were
opposed to it.
“The unfortunate part is,” he said, “the women
have got it into their heads that it is a fine thing, and
of course the more they see it is opposed to the wishes
of all sensible men the more obstinate they will be
in sticking to it. The whole matter has been grossly
exaggerated both as regards the nature of the movement
and the nature of the measures taken against
it; but that one cannot help. They have represented
me as gloating over the sufferings of innocent
victims. That is all stuff and nonsense. Great care
has been taken to investigate all the cases which
have arisen, so that the innocent should not suffer
with the guilty. Besides which, any Jew or
Christian who is willing to make a purely formal
acknowledgement of the state authorities is entirely
exempt from any possibility of persecution.
But this is precisely what they often obstinately
refuse to do—why, I cannot conceive. There is
also a great deal of hysteria in the matter, and a
large amount of self-advertisement, but one cannot
get over the fact that the movement is a revolutionary
one in itself, and can only be dealt with as
such. I doubt whether in any country a revolutionary
movement which has taken so uncompromising
an attitude has ever been dealt with in so merciful
a manner. So you see,” the Emperor concluded,
“how grossly unfair is the manner in which I have
been treated in this matter. However, I suppose
I can’t complain: whatever one does it is sure to
be wrong.”
He then rose from his table and said that the
Empress wished to see me before I went away, and
he led me into her apartment, which was next
door.
The Empress Sabina Poppaea is the perfection
of grace; she is more like a Greek than a Roman,
and speaks Greek better than the Emperor, using
the language not only with purity but with elegance.
All the stories we were told of her extravagance in
dress and of how she powdered her head with gold,
are of course absurd. She was dressed with the utmost
simplicity and did not wear a single ornament.
She was absolutely natural, put one at
one’s ease, talking continuously herself on various
topics without ever dwelling long on one, till she
had said all she had got to say, and then by a
gesture delicately shadowed, she gave me the sign
that it was time for me to go.
The Emperor said that the Empress Mother
would have seen me only she was suffering from
one of her bad attacks of indigestion. He told me
to be sure to let him know should I visit Rome
again, that he hoped himself to be able to spend
some months in Greece next year, but he did not
think the pressure of affairs would allow him to.
Farewell.
P.S.—Later. The gossips say that the Empress
Mother is being poisoned.
MARCUS AURELIUS AT LANUVIUM — Letter from Celsus to Lucian
I arrived at Lanuvium last night. The Court
are here for the summer; that is to say, the
Emperor, the Empress, the Heir Apparent, and
the Emperor’s nephew, Ummidius Quadratus,
and the Senator who is on duty. As soon as I
arrived I was taken by Eclectus, the Chamberlain,
to my apartments, which are small, but from which
one obtains a beautiful view of the Alban Hills. I
was told that I would be expected to come to
supper, and that I must take care not to be late,
as the Emperor was punctual to a minute, and the
water clocks in the villa were purposely an hour
fast according to ordinary time.
A few minutes before the hour of supper a
slave was sent to fetch me, and I was ushered into
a large room, opening on to a portico from whence
you have a gorgeous view of the whole country,
where the Emperor and his family meet before
going into the dining-room.
I had never seen the Emperor before. He is
short and looks delicate and a great deal older than
he really is. His eyes have a weary expression,
and the general impression of the man would be
one of great benevolence and dignity were it not
marred by a certain stiffness and primness in his
demeanour. When he greets you with great affability,
you say to yourself, “What a charming
man!” Then he stops short, and it is difficult,
nay, impossible, to continue the conversation.
After a prolonged pause he asks you a question or
makes some remark on the weather or the topics
of the day. But he does not pursue the subject,
and the result is a succession of awkward pauses
and a general atmosphere of discomfort.
Whether it be from the reserve which at once
strikes you as being the most salient feature of his
character, or whether it be from the primness and
the slight touch of pedantry which are the result
of the peculiar way in which he was brought up,
there is a certain lack, not of dignity, indeed, but
of impressiveness in the man. He strikes you
more as a dignified man than as a dignified monarch.
Indeed, were I to meet Marcus Aurelius in
the streets of Rome or Athens, dressed as a simple
mortal, I should be inclined to take him for a
barber who catered for the aristocracy. As it was,
when I was first introduced into that ante-room
and saw the Emperor for the first time, a wild
longing rose in me to say to him, “I will be shaved
at half-past eight to-morrow morning.”
The Empress Faustina is quite unlike what I
had expected. There is no trace of Imperial or any
other kind of dignity about her. She is not very
tall; she has a delicate nose, slightly turned up,
laughing eyes which will surely remain eternally
young, and masses of thick, curly fair hair. I had
imagined from the pictures and effigies of her that
she was dark; possibly she may have dyed it lately,
but I do not think so. She is restless in her movements;
she is never still, but is always on the
move, and one has the impression that she is longing
to, and would if she dared, skip and jump
about the room like a child. As it is, her arms,
and especially her hands, are never for a moment
still, and her eyes shift quickly from one person
to another, smiling and laughing. She made one
feel that she was trying the whole time to be on
her best behaviour, to curb her spirits, and not
to overstep the bounds in any way, nor to do
anything which would displease the Emperor or
offend his sense of etiquette and decorum.
We waited four or five minutes for the Heir
Apparent, who was late. The Emperor remarked
with some acidity to the Empress that if Commodus
could not learn to be punctual he had
better have his meals in his own villa with his
tutor. The Empress said that the poor boy was
given such long lessons and so many of them that
he scarcely had time even to dress; that he was
overworked and a martyr to discipline.
At that moment the “poor boy” entered the
room. For a boy of sixteen he is enormous: very
tall, large, and fat. He has dark hair, a low forehead,
with a thick and rebellious tuft of hair growing
over it, rather coarse features, and thick lips.
He must be immensely strong, but although you
could not find a greater contrast to his pale, prim,
and dapper father, there is a strong family likeness,
nevertheless. You see at once that he is a son of
Marcus Aurelius. It is as though the gods had
wished to play a huge joke, and had made in the
son a caricature, on a large scale, of the father. It
is as if one saw the caricature of the most delicate
ivory statuette made in coarse clay. He was told
to salute me, which he did somewhat awkwardly.
The Empress said: “You must excuse him;
he is very shy.”
Upon which I saw that he with difficulty suppressed
a shout of laughter by stuffing his fist into
his mouth, while his whole body was shaking.
The Emperor did not notice this. He led the
way into the dining-room, and we all reclined.
At first there was a dead silence, and then
Ummidius Quadratus, who seems to me far the
most lively member of the family, said that the
quails this year were much fatter than he had ever
remembered them.
“Is that so?” said the Emperor. “The best
quails I ever ate,” he added, “were those we got
near the Danube. Unfortunately, my physician
does not allow me to touch meat.”
After this, there was a prolonged silence, which
was broken by the Empress saying she did not
believe in doctors. “Whenever they are at a loss
as to what to prescribe, they ask you what you
are fond of eating, and tell you to stop eating
it.”
Commodus, as if to show his agreement with his
mother’s ideas, at that moment put almost an entire
quail into his mouth, and choked in the process.
His mother hit him on the back, and told
him to look up towards the ceiling. A slave brought
him some water.
The Emperor frowned, and told him not to eat
so fast.
“It is my habit,” he said, “and a habit which
you would do well to imitate, to count twenty-six
between each mouthful.”
But Commodus, who had turned purple in the
face, merely went on choking, and this lasted
several minutes.
The Emperor asked me a few questions about
Athens, and what was being done and said and
written in our city. I answered him as best I could,
but he did not seem to take notice of my replies,
and went on, as though he were a machine, to other
topics and other questions. I spoke of you, and I
mentioned your latest book, but he changed the
subject as though it were distasteful to him. I
suspect that your ideas are too frivolous for him,
and may even shock him.
Then Commodus, having recovered from his
choking fit, began to talk of a pugilistic match
which was to take place in a neighbouring village.
He described at great length the champions who
were to take part in it, the chances and the odds,
and entered into many technical details which were
tedious, and indeed quite incomprehensible to me.
But the Emperor and the Empress listened with
smiling and patronizing approval, and with obvious
admiration of their son’s knowledge. The Emperor
is extremely conservative, and does all he can
to encourage national sports and pastimes. He
never misses a single event of importance at the
Games, and even when he is in a country retreat
like this, he patronizes the local efforts in which his
son seems to play so prominent a part.
After this dissertation on pugilism, which seemed
to me interminable, had come to an end, Commodus
related how he had played a practical joke
on one of the freedmen who had been looking on
at the sports. It appears that the man, who was
old and rather fat, had been on the point of sitting
down, and Commodus had pulled the chair from
under him and he had come heavily to the ground,
much to the amusement of the bystanders.
The Emperor thought this extremely funny,
and indeed I was not a little bewildered by the
mixture of severity and lenience with which the
boy seems to be treated, for when a little later he
asked if he might have a new toga to wear during
the daytime, as his present one was getting worn
out, the Emperor said, in a tone which admitted
of no discussion, that it was quite out of the question;
that boys should learn to be economical, and,
as it was, he was a great deal too extravagant for
his age, and already thought too much of such
trifles. The Emperor said that his own toga was
older than his son’s, and yet he did not complain.
It was certainly true that the Emperor seemed the
perfection of neatness and tidiness, although it was
obvious that his clothes were by no means new.
It was arranged that we should all go on a picnic
on the lake next day and that I should be shown
the country.
The Empress clapped her hands at the idea, and
said there was nothing she enjoyed so much as a
picnic. We should take our food with us and cook
it ourselves. Commodus should catch us some
fish and perhaps kill some game.
Commodus, for his part, looked sulky and sullen
when this was mentioned; he evidently had some
other plan in his mind. The Emperor said that he
also found picnics a very pleasant relaxation; but
a dismal expression came over the faces of the
Chamberlain and of the few Court attendants who
were present.
As I was most anxious to ascertain what was
going on in the political world at this moment, I
hazarded a remark with regard to the recent disturbances
at Lyons which have been caused by the
Christians. The Emperor at once became chillingly
formal, but did not decline to discuss the
matter; in fact, he was evidently anxious that I
should be in no doubt with regard to his ideas on
the subject. He said that it had become necessary
to take extreme measures, that the attitude of these
fanatics was intolerable; that they were in the
highest degree unpatriotic and were a positive
danger to the State. He was, however, not going
to tolerate this any longer; he had no patience
with stubbornness, and had determined, once and
for all, to put his foot down. Conciliatory measures
had been tried and had proved a failure. There
was not the slightest use in pandering to sentimentalism
and hysteria. He said he had just drafted
an edict ordering the authorities to take the very
severest measures to overcome the obstinacy of
the rebels, and that should these prove ineffectual
they were to resort to wholesale capital punishment
without further discrimination or delay.
The Empress said that the Christians were disgusting,
and that such vermin ought to be stamped
upon. I said that I could not conceive the attitude
of the Christians. Personally I had taken some
trouble to ascertain what their doctrines were, and
had interviewed several of the leading Christians
in Greece and Asia. I agreed that Christianity was
the national religion of no one; it was a religion
adopted as a protest against the national religion
by men who were infected by the spirit of all secret
societies; that if the Christians refused to observe
public ceremonies and to render homage to those
who presided over them they should also, logically,
give up wearing the toga virilis. But if they wished
to share the benefit of civil life they should then
pay the necessary honours to those who are charged
with administration. But I added that should they
do this I could not understand why their religion
should not be tolerated on the same footing as
other religions, such as that of the Egyptians,
since nothing was required of them which was
contrary to their principles.
The Emperor said that the Christians had already
made such a thing impossible. “It is not,”
he said, “as if we had ever forced a pious man to
commit an impious action or to say a shameful
thing. He would be quite right in that case to
endure any tortures rather than do so. But it is
quite a different thing when a man is ordered to
celebrate the Sun or to sing a beautiful hymn in
honour of Athene. These are merely outward
forms of piety, and one cannot have too much
piety.”
Here Ummidius Quadratus broke in and said
that the Christians argued that it was a matter
which concerned their conscience, which was no
business of the State, and that they were perfectly
ready to fulfil any duties, either civil or military,
which had no religious character.
The Empress said she did not know anything
about the ideas of the Christians, but she did think
it was a disgraceful thing that in the present enlightened
age people should be allowed to cover
children with flour, to massacre them, and eat
them.
I said I did not think the Christians did this.
But the Empress said she knew it was true; she
had heard it on the best authority; in fact, her
maid knew some one who had seen them do it.
Here Ummidius Quadratus observed that some
people in the best society had become Christians,
and that he had even heard that—and here he
mentioned the niece of a well-known patrician
whose name I have forgotten—was one of them.
The Emperor drew himself up as though some
dreadful solecism had been committed, and told his
nephew that he had no right to say so shocking
and so monstrous a thing at his table, especially
before a stranger and a guest.
I will go on with my letter this evening, for a
slave has just told me that we are to start for the
picnic at once.
THE CAMELOT JOUSTS — Guinevere to King Arthur — King Arthur to Guinevere — Sir Lancelot to Guinevere — Guinevere to King Arthur — Guinevere to Lancelot — Guinevere to Iseult — Iseult to Guinevere — Guinevere to Lancelot
Camelot, Monday.
Dearest Arthur,
I am feeling a little better. Merlin, who came
over the other day from Broceliande, advised me to
drink a glass of tepid water before breakfast every
day and not to eat brown bread. This treatment
has really done me good. I will see that everything
is ready for the Jousts. They are getting on with
the lists, but they have painted the outside paling
red instead of green, which is very provoking. I
think we must send the Under Seneschal away at
Lady Day. He forgets everything.
I have asked Yniol to stay at the castle for the
Jousts, and the Lord of Astolat and one of his
sons. (We can’t be expected to ask the whole
family.) I thought it was no use asking poor little
Elaine because she never goes anywhere now and
hates the Jousts. Do you think we must ask
Merlin this year? We asked him last year and I
don’t see that we need ask him every year. He
has become so cross and crotchety, and Vivien
complained that when he was here last year he
behaved disgracefully to her and was quite impossible.
Of course, I will do exactly as you like.
I have asked Sir Valence, Sir Sagramore, Sir Percevale,
Sir Pelleas, and Sir Modred. I won’t have
Melissande, she is so peevish and complaining.
Then there is King Mark. Shall I ask him?
Without Iseult, of course. He can’t expect us to
ask her after all that has happened. I hear the King
of Orkney asked them both and that he now
expects her to be asked, but nothing shall induce
me to receive her. If you think it is impossible
to ask him alone we had better leave it, and ask
neither of them.
Oh! I quite forgot. There’s Lancelot. Shall
we ask him to stay? He’s been so often, so if you
would rather not have him we can quite well leave
him out this time. I don’t want him to think he’s
indispensable to you.
The weather has been fine and the hedges are a
mass of primroses. Vivi the cat (I christened her
after dear Vivien) caught a mouse yesterday. Do
come back quickly.
Your loving Guinevere.
Carleon, March 20.
My dearest Guinevere,
I was delighted to hear from you. I am glad
you are recovering, but I must beg you to take
care of yourself. These east winds are very trying
and the March sun most treacherous. We shall
arrive two or three days before Whitsuntide. I
will let you know the exact day. We have had a
most successful and satisfactory time in every way.
We rescued six damsels and captured two wizards
and one heathen King. The knights behaved
admirably.
With regard to the Jousts I do not wish to
seem inhospitable, but are you sure there is room
for every one you mention? Merlin must, of course,
be asked. He would be very much hurt if we
left him out.
As to King Mark, we must ask him also with
the Queen. They are now completely and officially
reconciled, and Tristram is engaged to be
married to a Princess in Brittany. Therefore, since
King Mark has magnanimously forgiven and forgotten,
it would not be seemly for us to cast any
insidious slight upon them. To ask neither of
them would be a slight, but to ask the King without
the Queen would be a deliberate outrage.
Besides, apart from our private feelings, the public
good must be considered. We cannot afford to
risk a war with Tintagel at this moment. I shall,
of course, ask Lancelot. He is with me now. I
cannot see any possible objection to his coming,
and I have the greatest regard for him.
Please wrap up well when you go out. I am,
with much love,
Your devoted husband, Arthur.
March 21.
The King has asked me to stay for the Jousts.
From what he said about your health I gather you
do not want me to come, so I said my old wound
would not allow me to take part in the Jousts.
Perhaps it is better that I should stay away.
People are beginning to talk. Burn.
L.
Camelot, Friday.
Dearest Arthur,
Of course you know best. I entirely give in
about Merlin and Lancelot, although I do think
Merlin is trying, and that it makes the others
jealous to ask him so often. But it is rather hard
on me to be obliged to receive Iseult.
Of course with your noble nature you only see
the good side of everything and everybody, but in
Iseult’s case the scandal was so public and the
things they did so extraordinary that it is difficult
to behave to her just as if it had never happened.
I like Iseult personally. I always liked her, but
I do think it is trying that she should put on airs
of virtue and insist on being respected. However,
I have asked her and Mark. If they have any
sense of decency they will refuse. I am quite well
now. Merlin really did me good. We are having
delicious weather, and I miss you all very much.
Sir Galahad stopped here on his way West yesterday,
but never said a word. I have ordered a new
gown for the Jousts, but it is not finished yet.
The weavers are too tiresome. The lists are getting
on. If possible, bring me back six-and-a-half yards
of the best green Samite, double width, from
Carleon. The same shade as I had before. They
can’t match the shade here. I am so glad everything
went off well. It seems centuries to Whitsuntide.
Your loving Guinevere.
Camelot.
I am sending this by P——, who is entirely to
be trusted. You were wrong. It is most necessary
that you should come to the Jousts. Your absence
would be far more noticed than your presence. It
is a pity you told that foolish lie. It is a great
mistake ever to tell unnecessary lies. However,
now it’s done, the best thing you can do is to
come disguised as an unknown knight. Then when
you reveal yourself at the end—for I suppose
there is no chance of your not winning?—you can
say you thought your name gave you an unfair
advantage, and that you wished to meet the knights
on equal terms. The King will be pleased at this.
It is an idea after his own heart.
Iseult is coming with King Mark. At first I
thought this dangerous, but there was nothing to
be done, and she will be quite safe as her one idea
now is to be thought respectable, only we must be
most careful. Iseult is a cat.
I dare not write more.
G.
Camelot, April 21.
Darling Iseult,
I am overjoyed that you can both come. It
will be too delightful to see you again. It is ages
since we have met, isn’t it? I do hope that the
King is quite well and that his lumbago is not
troubling him. Merlin will be here, and he will
be sure to do him good. He might also do something
for his deafness.
Arthur will be delighted to hear you are coming.
He is devoted to the King. It will be a tiny party,
of course—only Merlin, Yniol, Orkneys, Astolats,
and a few of the knights. We will try to make
you comfortable; but Camelot isn’t Tintagel, and
we have nothing to compare with your wonderful
woods.
Good-bye, darling, give my best regards to the
King.
Your loving Guinevere.
P.S.—Sir Kay Hedius has just come back from
Brittany. He was at our old friend Sir Tristram’s
wedding. He said it was glorious, and that she—Iseult
the Lily-handed—was a dream of beauty.
Tristram was looking very well and in tearing
spirits. He’s grown quite fat. Isn’t it funny?
Tintagel.
Darling Guinevere,
Thank you so much for your most kind letter.
I am afraid that after all I shall not be able to
come to the Jousts. It is too tiresome. But I
have not been at all well lately and the physicians
say I must have change of air. I am ordered to
the French coast and the King has got some cousins
who live in a charming little house on the coast of
Normandy. I am starting to-morrow, and I shall
probably stay there during the whole month of
May. It is too tiresome to miss the Jousts, and
you cannot imagine how disappointed I am. The
King will, of course, come without me.
I hear that Sir Lancelot of the Lake is not going
to compete this year for the Diamond on account
of his health. I am so sorry. The people here say
he is afraid of being beaten, and that there is a
wonderful new knight called Lamorack who is
better than everybody. Isn’t it absurd? People
are so spiteful. How you must miss the dear
King, and you must be so lonely at Camelot without
any of the knights.
By the way, is it true that Sir Lancelot is engaged
to Elaine, the daughter of the Lord of
Astolat? She is quite lovely, but I never thought
that Lancelot cared for young girls. I think she is
only sixteen.
Your loving Iseult of Cornwall.
Whit-Sunday.
The King has just told me whose sleeve it was
you wore to-day. I now understand everything, and
I must say I did not suspect you of playing this
kind of double game. I do hate lies and liars, and,
above all, stupid liars. It is, of course, very humiliating
to make such a mistake about a man. But I
hope you will be happy with Elaine, and I pray
Heaven she may never find you out.
Guinevere.
KING LEAR’S DAUGHTER — Letter from Goneril, Daughter of King Lear, to her sister Regan
I have writ my sister.
King Lear, Act I, Scene iv.
The Palace, November.
Dearest Regan,
I am sending you this letter by Oswald. We
have been having the most trying time lately with
Papa, and it ended to-day in one of those scenes
which are so painful to people like you and me, who
hate scenes. I am writing now to tell you all about
it, so that you may be prepared. This is what has
happened.
When Papa came here he brought a hundred
knights with him, which is a great deal more than
we could put up, and some of them had to live in
the village. The first thing that happened was that
they quarrelled with our people and refused to take
orders from them, and whenever one told any one
to do anything it was either—if it was one of Papa’s
men—“not his place to do it”; or if it was one of
our men, they said that Papa’s people made work
impossible. For instance, only the day before
yesterday I found that blue vase which you brought
back from Dover for me on my last birthday broken
to bits. Of course I made a fuss, and Oswald declared
that one of Papa’s knights had knocked it
over in a drunken brawl. I complained to Papa,
who flew into a passion and said that his knights,
and in fact all his retainers, were the most peaceful
and courteous people in the world, and that it was
my fault, as I was not treating him or them with
the respect which they deserved. He even said
that I was lacking in filial duty. I was determined
to keep my temper, so I said nothing.
The day after this the chief steward and the
housekeeper and both my maids came to me and said
that they wished to give notice. I asked them why.
They said they couldn’t possibly live in a house
where there were such “goings-on.” I asked them
what they meant. They refused to say, but they
hinted that Papa’s men were behaving not only in
an insolent but in a positively outrageous manner
to them. The steward said that Papa’s knights
were never sober, that they had entirely demoralized
the household, and that life was simply not worth
living in the house; it was impossible to get anything
done, and they couldn’t sleep at night for
the noise.
I went to Papa and talked to him about it
quite quietly, but no sooner had I mentioned the
subject than he lost all self-control, and began to
abuse me. I kept my temper as long as I could,
but of course one is only human, and after I had
borne his revilings for some time, which were
monstrously unfair and untrue, I at last turned and
said something about people of his age being trying.
Upon which he said that I was throwing up
his old age at him, that I was a monster of ingratitude—and
he began to cry. I cannot tell you how
painful all this was to me. I did everything I could
to soothe him and quiet him, but the truth is, ever
since Papa has been here he has lost control of his
wits. He suffers from the oddest kind of delusions.
He thinks that for some reason he is being treated
like a beggar; and although he has a hundred
knights—a hundred, mind you! (a great deal more
than we have)—in the house, who do nothing but
eat and drink all day long, he says he is not being
treated like a King! I do hate unfairness.
When he gave up the crown he said he was tired
of affairs, and meant to have a long rest; but from
the very moment that he handed over the management
of affairs to us he never stopped interfering,
and was cross if he was not consulted about everything,
and if his advice was not taken.
And what is still worse is this: ever since his
last illness he has lost not only his memory but his
control over language, so that often when he wants
to say one thing he says just the opposite, and
sometimes when he wishes to say some quite simple
thing he uses bad language quite unconsciously.
Of course we are used to this, and we don’t mind,
but I must say it is very awkward when strangers
are here. For instance, the other day before quite
a lot of people, quite unconsciously, he called me a
dreadful name. Everybody was uncomfortable and
tried not to laugh, but some people could not contain
themselves. This sort of thing is constantly
happening. So you will understand that Papa needs
perpetual looking after and management. At the
same time, the moment one suggests the slightest
thing to him he boils over with rage.
But perhaps the most annoying thing which
happened lately, or, at least, the thing which happens
to annoy me most, is Papa’s Fool. You know,
darling, that I have always hated that kind of
humour. He comes in just as one is sitting down
to dinner, and beats one on the head with a hard,
empty bladder, and sings utterly idiotic songs,
which make me feel inclined to cry. The other
day, when we had a lot of people here, just as we
were sitting down in the banqueting-hall, Papa’s
Fool pulled my chair from behind me so that I
fell sharply down on the floor. Papa shook with
laughter, and said: “Well done, little Fool,” and
all the courtiers who were there, out of pure snobbishness,
of course, laughed too. I call this not
only very humiliating for me, but undignified in
an old man and a king; of course Albany refused
to interfere. Like all men and all husbands, he is
an arrant coward.
However, the crisis came yesterday. I had got
a bad headache, and was lying down in my room,
when Papa came in from the hunt and sent Oswald
to me, saying that he wished to speak to me. I
said that I wasn’t well, and that I was lying down—which
was perfectly true—but that I would be
down to dinner. When Oswald went to give my
message Papa beat him, and one of his men threw
him about the room and really hurt him, so that
he has now got a large bruise on his forehead and
a sprained ankle.
This was the climax. All our knights came to
Albany and myself, and said that they would not
stay with us a moment longer unless Papa exercised
some sort of control over his men. I did not know
what to do, but I knew the situation would have
to be cleared up sooner or later. So I went to Papa
and told him frankly that the situation was intolerable;
that he must send away some of his
people, and choose for the remainder men fitting
to his age. The words were scarcely out of my
mouth than he called me the most terrible names,
ordered his horses to be saddled, and said that he
would shake the dust from his feet and not stay a
moment longer in this house. Albany tried to
calm him, and begged him to stay, but he would
not listen to a word, and said he would go and live
with you.
So I am sending this by Oswald, that you may
get it before Papa arrives and know how the matter
stands. All I did was to suggest he should send
away fifty of his men. Even fifty is a great deal,
and puts us to any amount of inconvenience,
and is a source of waste and extravagance—two
things which I cannot bear. I am perfectly certain
you will not be able to put up with his hundred
knights any more than I was. And I beg you, my
dearest Regan, to do your best to make Papa listen
to sense. No one is fonder of him than I am. I
think it would have been difficult to find a more
dutiful daughter than I have always been. But
there is a limit to all things, and one cannot have
one’s whole household turned into a pandemonium,
and one’s whole life into a series of wrangles, complaints,
and brawls, simply because Papa in his old
age is losing the control of his faculties. At the
same time, I own that although I kept my temper
for a long time, when it finally gave way I was
perhaps a little sharp. I am not a saint, nor an
angel, nor a lamb, but I do hate unfairness and
injustice. It makes my blood boil. But I hope
that you, with your angelic nature and your tact
and your gentleness, will put everything right and
make poor Papa listen to reason.
Let me hear at once what happens.
Your loving Goneril.
P.S.—Another thing Papa does which is most
exasperating is to throw up Cordelia at one every
moment. He keeps on saying: “If only Cordelia
were here,” or “How unlike Cordelia!” And you
will remember, darling, that when Cordelia was
here Papa could not endure the sight of her. Her
irritating trick of mumbling and never speaking
up used to get terribly on his nerves. Of course, I
thought he was even rather unfair on her, trying
as she is. We had a letter from the French Court
yesterday, saying that she is driving the poor King
of France almost mad.
P.P.S.—It is wretched weather. The poor little
ponies on the heath will have to be brought in.
LADY MACBETH’S TROUBLE — Letter from Lady Macbeth to Lady Macduff
Most Private.
The Palace, Forres, October 10.
My dearest Flora,
I am sending this letter by Ross, who is starting
for Fife to-morrow morning. I wonder if you could
possibly come here for a few days. You would bring
Jeamie of course. Macbeth is devoted to children.
I think we could make you quite comfortable,
although of course palaces are never very comfortable,
and it’s all so different from dear Inverness.
And there is the tiresome Court etiquette and the
people, especially the Heads of the Clans, who are
so touchy, and insist on one’s observing every tradition.
For instance, the bagpipes begin in the early
morning; the pipers walk round the castle a little
after sunrise, and this I find very trying, as you
know what a bad sleeper I am. Only two nights
ago I nearly fell out of the window walking in my
sleep. The doctor, who I must say is a charming
man (he was the late King’s doctor and King
Duncan always used to say he was the only man who
really understood his constitution), is giving me
mandragora mixed with poppy and syrup; but so far
it has not done me any good; but then I always
was a wretched sleeper and now I am worse, because—well,
I am coming at last to what I really
want to say.
I am in very great trouble and I beg you to
come here if you can, because you would be the
greatest help. You shall have a bedroom facing
south, and Jeamie shall be next to you, and my
maid can look after you both, and as Macduff is
going to England I think it would really be wiser
and safer for you to come here than to stay all
alone in that lonely castle of yours in these troublesome
times, when there are so many robbers about
and one never knows what may not happen.
I confess I have been very much put about lately.
(You quite understand if you come we shall have
plenty of opportunities of seeing each other alone
in spite of all the tiresome etiquette and ceremonies,
and of course you must treat me just the same as
before; only in public you must just throw in a
“Majesty” now and then and curtchey and call
me “Ma’am” so as not to shock the people.) I
am sorry to say Macbeth is not at all in good case.
He is really not at all well, and the fact is he has
never got over the terrible tragedy that happened
at Inverness. At first I thought it was quite natural
he should be upset. Of course very few people
know how fond he was of his cousin. King Duncan
was his favourite cousin. They had travelled together
in England, and they were much more
like brothers than cousins, although the King was
so much older than he is. I shall never forget
the evening when the King arrived after the battle
against those horrid Norwegians. I was very
nervous as it was, after having gone through all
the anxiety of knowing that Macbeth was in danger.
Then on the top of that, just after I heard that he
was alive and well, the messenger arrived telling
me that the King was on his way to Inverness. Of
course I had got nothing ready, and Elspeth our
housekeeper put on a face as much as to say that
we could not possibly manage in the time. However,
I said she must manage. I knew our cousin
wouldn’t expect too much, and I spent the whole
day making those flat scones he used to be so
fond of.
I was already worried then because Macbeth,
who is superstitious, said he had met three witches
on the way (he said something about it in his
letter) and they had apparently been uncivil to
him. I thought they were gipsies and that he had
not crossed their palm with silver, but when he
arrived he was still brooding over this, and was
quite odd in his way of speaking about it. I didn’t
think much of this at the time, as I put it down to
the strain of what he had gone through, and the
reaction which must always be great after such a
time; but now it all comes back to me, and now
that I think over it in view of what has happened
since, I cannot help owning to myself that he was
not himself, and if I had not known what a sober
man he was, I should almost have thought the 1030
(Hildebrand) whisky had gone to his head—because
when he talked of the old women he was quite incoherent:
just like a man who has had an hallucination.
But I did not think of all this till afterwards, as
I put it down to the strain, as I have just told you.
But now! Well, I must go back a little way so
as to make everything clear to you. Duncan arrived,
and nothing could be more civil than he was. He
went out of his way to be nice to everybody and
praised the castle, the situation, the view, and even
the birds’ nests on the walls! (All this, of course,
went straight to my heart.) Donalbain and Malcolm
were with him. They, I thought at the time, were
not at all well brought up. They had not got their
father’s manners, and they talked in a loud voice
and gave themselves airs.
Duncan had supper by himself, and before he
went to bed he sent me a most beautiful diamond
ring, which I shall always wear. Then we all went
to bed. Macbeth was not himself that evening,
and he frightened me out of my wits by talking of
ghosts and witches and daggers. I did not, however,
think anything serious was the matter and I
still put it down to the strain and the excitement.
However, I took the precaution of pouring a drop
or two of my sleeping draught into the glass of
water which he always drinks before going to bed,
so that at least he might have a good night’s rest.
I suppose I did not give him a strong enough dose.
(But one cannot be too careful with drugs, especially
mandragora, which is bad for the heart.) At
any rate, whether it was that or the awful weather
we had that night (nearly all the trees in the park
were blown down, and it will never be quite the
same again) or whether it was that the hall porter
got tipsy (why they choose the one day in the
year to drink when one has guests, and it really
matters, I never could understand!) and made the
most dreadful noise and used really disgraceful
language at the front door about five o’clock in
the morning, I don’t know. At any rate, we were
all disturbed long before I had meant that we
should be called (breakfast wasn’t nearly ready and
Elspeth was only just raking out the fires). But,
as I say, we were all woken up, and Macduff went
to call the King, and came back with the terrible
news.
Macbeth turned quite white, and at first my
only thought was for him. I thought he was going
to have a stroke or a fit. You know he has a very
nervous, high-strung constitution, and nothing could
be worse for him than a shock like this. I confess
that I myself felt as though I wished the earth
would open and swallow me up. To think of such
a thing happening in our house!
Banquo, too, was as white as a sheet; but the
only people who behaved badly (of course this is
strictly between ourselves, and I do implore you
not to repeat it, as it would really do harm if it got
about that I had said this, but you are safe, aren’t
you, Flora?) were Donalbain and Malcolm. Donalbain
said nothing at all, and all Malcolm said when
he was told that his father had been murdered was:
“Oh! by whom?” I could not understand how
he could behave in such a heartless way before so
many people; but I must say in fairness that all
the Duncans have a very odd way of showing grief.
Of course the first thing I thought was “Who
can have done it?” and I suppose in a way it will
always remain a mystery. There is no doubt that
the chamber grooms actually did the deed; but
whether they had any accomplices, whether it was
just the act of drunkards (it turned out that the
whole household had been drinking that night and
not only the hall porter) or whether they were instigated
by any one else (of course don’t quote me
as having suggested such a thing) we shall never
know. Much as I dislike Malcolm and Donalbain,
and shocking as I think their behaviour has
been, and not only shocking but suspicious, I should
not like any one to think that I suspected them
of so awful a crime. It is one thing to be bad-mannered,
it is another to be a parricide. However,
there is no getting over the fact that by their
conduct, by their extraordinary behaviour and flight
to England, they made people suspect them.
I have only just now come to the real subject
of my letter. At first Macbeth bore up pretty
well in spite of the blow, the shock, and the extra
worry of the coronation following immediately on
all this; but no sooner had we settled down at
Forres than I soon saw he was far from being
himself.
His appetite was bad; he slept badly, and was
cross to the servants, making scenes about nothing.
When I tried to ask him about his health he lost
his temper. At last one day it all came out and I
realized that another tragedy was in store for us.
Macbeth is suffering from hallucinations; this
whole terrible business has unhinged his mind.
The doctor always said he was highly strung, and
the fact is he has had another attack, or whatever
it is, the same as he had after the battle, when he
thought he had seen three witches. (I afterwards
found out from Banquo, who was with him at the
time, that the matter was even worse than I suspected.)
He is suffering from a terrible delusion.
He thinks (of course you will never breathe this
to a soul) that he killed Duncan! You can imagine
what I am going through. Fortunately, nobody
has noticed it.
Only last night another calamity happened.
Banquo had a fall out riding and was killed. That
night we had a banquet we could not possibly put
off. On purpose I gave strict orders that Macbeth
was not to be told of the accident until the banquet
was over, but Lennox (who has no more discretion
than a parrot) told him, and in the middle of dinner
he had another attack, and I had only just time to
get every one to go away before he began to rave.
As it was, it must have been noticed that he wasn’t
himself.
I am in a terrible position. I never know when
these fits are coming on, and I am afraid of people
talking, because if it once gets about, people are so
spiteful that somebody is sure to start the rumour
that it’s true. Imagine our position, then! So I
beg you, dear Flora, to keep all this to yourself,
and if possible to come here as soon as possible.
I am, your affectionate, Harriet R.
P.S.—Don’t forget to bring Jeamie. It will do
Macbeth good to see a child in the house.
AT THE COURT OF KING CLAUDIUS — From a Player’s Letter
We arrived at Elsinore in the morning. We
were at once let into the presence of the Prince.
He received us with the courtesy and kindliness
which were native to him, and he seemed but little
changed since his student days when he was as
much our companion as our patron. It is true that
his face and his expression have grown older and
more serious, just as his body has grown more
portly, but in so far as his conduct and demeanour
are concerned he is the same. No words can picture
the dreariness and monotony of the life
which he leads here in the Court. He is virtually
a prisoner, for should he in any way transgress
the fixed limits of the tradition and etiquette
which govern this place, the courtiers and the
officials of the Court do not hesitate to say that
he is deranged in his mind. As soon as he greeted
us he recalled a thousand memories of those freer
and happier days, and he seemed to take as great a
delight in our art and our trade as in days gone by.
His love for the stage, for well turned verse, and
the nice declamation of noble lines is as ardent as
ever, and he bade me recall to him a speech from
a tragedy on which his sure taste had alighted,
although it escaped the notice and the applause of
the populace.
It was arranged that on the night following the
morning of our arrival we should play before the
King and the Court. The piece chosen by the Prince
was entitled “The Murder of Gonzago,” a somewhat
old-fashioned bit of fustian, chosen no doubt
to suit the taste of the King and his courtiers.
The Prince himself wrote a speech of some sixteen
lines which he bade me insert in my part. We
spent the day in study and rehearsal, which were
sorely needed, since we had not played the piece for
many years. In the evening a banquet was held in
the castle. The King and Queen, the Chamberlain
and all the Court dignitaries were present, and the
Prince, although he did not grace the feast with
his presence, insisted that we, the players, should
take part in it. The Court dignitaries were averse
to this, but the Prince overruled their objections
by saying that unless we took part in the banquet
he would not be present at the performance.
The feast was in the banqueting-hall; the King
and the Queen together with all the Court took
their places before a high, raised table at the
end of the banqueting-hall. We players sat at a
separate table at the further end of the hall. The
feast began long before sunset and lasted far into
the night. There was much deep drinking, but an
atmosphere of ceremony and gloom hung over the
festivity; the mirth rang hollow and the hilarity
was false and strained.
Towards the end of the banquet the King rose to
his feet and in pompous phrase spoke of the pleasure
that he felt in seeing so many loyal friends gathered
about him and that he looked forward to the day
when the Prince, his nephew, would once more
join heart and soul in the festivities of the Court,
and then looking towards us he was pleased to say
that he trusted to the skill, the well-known skill,
and the widely-famed art of the players who were
now visiting his capital to have a salutary influence
and to be successful in distracting the mind and in
raising the spirits of the Prince, which had been so
sadly affected ever since the demise of his much-to-be
regretted brother. These words elicited loud cheers
from the assembly and it was pointed out to us by
the Chamberlain that the speech of the King was a
further sign of his Majesty’s unerring tact and
never-failing condescension.
As we left the banqueting-hall, after the King
and Queen had retired, I noticed that the Prince
was pacing up and down the terrace of the castle,
lost as it were in abstraction. During the whole of
the next day we were busy in study and rehearsal.
The Lord Chamberlain was somewhat concerned
as to the nature of the performance we were to
give. He desired to be present at a rehearsal, but
here again the Prince intervened with impetuous
authority. The Lord Chamberlain then sought me
out in person and said that he earnestly trusted
there would be nothing either in the words of the
play or in the manner in which it should be played
that would give offence to the illustrious audience.
I replied that the play had been chosen by the
Prince and that it would be well if he would address
any suggestions he had to make directly to His
Royal Highness. The Lord Chamberlain said that
the Prince was in so irritable a frame of mind that
he could ill brook any interference, but that he
relied on our good sense and inherent tact to omit
any word or phrase which, in the present circumstances
(for he pointed out that the Court was in
half-mourning) might be likely to give offence.
He said that for instance any too exuberant display
of buffoonery, any too great an insistence on broad
jokes would be out of place at the present time. I
assured him that so far from the Prince having
instigated us towards clowning he had begged us
to suppress all buffoonery of any kind, which had
ever been distasteful to him, and this none knew
so well as I.
Elsinore, like all courts, was rife with gossip,
the common talk being that the Prince was courting
the daughter of the Chamberlain, who, owing
to the position she occupied, they professed to find
beautiful, and who in reality is but an insipid minx
and likely to develop on the lines of her doddering
old father, while they say that she will not hear of
his suit, being secretly but passionately enamoured
of one of the minor courtiers, by name Osric.
Others say that the Prince’s passion for the
Chamberlain’s daughter is a mere pretence and that
it is his friend Horatio who is in reality plighted
to her. But we, who know the Prince well, know
that he has no thought of such things. He is an
artist, and had he not had the misfortune to be
born a Prince he would have been a player of first-rate
excellence. Being gifted with the artistic temperament
and the histrionic nature, the mode of
existence which he is forced to lead amidst the
conventions, the formalities, the rules, and the unvarying
tediousness of stiff and stately Court decorum,
is to him intolerable. He is thinking the
whole time of modes of expression, pictures, phrases,
situations, conceits, and his mind lives in the world
of dream and holds office at the court of Art. That
is why, in this nest of officials, he is like a cuckoo
among a brood of respectable blackbirds.
The performance took place after the banquet on
the second evening of our stay. The stage was
appointed in a long, low room adjoining the banqueting-hall.
Slightly raised seats for the King
and the Queen were erected in the centre of the
room in front of the stage, and the Court were
assembled in line with them and behind them. The
Chamberlain and his daughter sat in the front
row, and the gossip of the place seemed to be in
some way substantiated by the fact that she never
took her eyes off Osric the courtier (a handsome
lad) during the whole of the performance. He was
standing next to the Queen’s throne.
The Prince, before the trumpets sounded for
the performance to begin, came to us and gave us
his final instructions which bore, as ever, the stamp
of his fine taste and nice discrimination, and which
proved to us once more that he was by nature a
professional player. When the performance began
he strolled into the hall and reclined on the floor at
the feet of the Chamberlain’s daughter. We played
as well as might be expected considering the chilling
effect which cannot fail to be produced by the
presence of exalted personages, for the Court had
their eyes fixed on the throne and only dared to
murmur approval when approval had already been
expressed from that quarter. During all the first
part of the play such moments were rare and indeed
the audience seemed to have some difficulty
in comprehending the words and the still plainer
action which we suited to the words. But the Prince
came to our aid, whispering audibly to his uncle
and his mother and elucidating for them the passages
which proved perplexing. He also made
various comments to the Chamberlain’s daughter,
and was quick to apprehend the slightest play of
feature, gesture, or intonation which struck him as
being successful and true.
The Chamberlain’s daughter was listless throughout
and seemed to take no interest in the play, and
her father was too enfeebled in mind to catch the
drift of it at all, but the manifest interest which
the Prince took in it seemed, nevertheless, to cause
him uneasiness, and he never ceased furtively to
glance at the King and the Queen. The Queen,
on the other hand, seemed much pleased, and indeed
they say that she has ever been fond of
spectacles and stage-playing. By the time the play
had reached its climax, with the entry of Lucianus
who spoke the lines which had been inserted by
the Prince, the King, who had been growing more
and more fretful (for he has no taste for letters)
rose from his seat and gave the signal for departure,
and the Chamberlain immediately gave orders that
the play should cease. The King remarked that
the heat in the hall was oppressive and he withdrew,
followed by the Court, and the Prince, who was in
an ecstasy of joy at the beautiful performance,
clapped his hands loudly and congratulated us
warmly, saying that he had seldom enjoyed a play
so much.
So tedious is the routine at these courts that
this little incident was much discussed and debated,
and the Prince’s conduct in so loudly applauding
a play after His Majesty had signified that the
performance was tedious has been severely commented
on. To-morrow we sail for Hamburg.
ROMEO AND ROSALINE — Letter from Rosaline to her friend Olivia
One fairer than my love! the all-seeing sun
Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun.
Romeo on Rosaline.
Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene ii.
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies
Not truly in their hearts but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria! what a deal of brine
Hath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!
Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene ii.
Verona.
My dear Olivia,
Thank you very much for your kind letter. I
am only just beginning to be able to write letters,
as you may well imagine after all that we have gone
through, and I am still in half-mourning, although
they say this is ridiculous. As a matter of fact,
nobody has a better right to be in mourning for
Romeo than I, considering that he would certainly
have married me had it not been for a series of
quite extraordinary accidents. Mamma says that I
was to blame, but I will tell you exactly what happened,
and you can judge for yourself.
I made Romeo’s acquaintance two years ago. We
at once got on well together, and I never minded
his childishness, which used to get on some people’s
nerves. He was the kind of person whom it was
really impossible to dislike, because he was so
impetuous, so full of high spirits and good humour.
Some people thought he was good looking; I never
did. It was never his looks that attracted me, but
I liked him for himself. Wherever I went he used
to be there, and whenever we met he always talked
to me the whole time and never looked at any one
else, so that we were practically engaged although
nothing was announced.
After this had gone on for some time Mamma
became annoyed; she said we must do one thing
or the other; we must either be engaged and announce
our engagement or else that I must give up
seeing Romeo altogether. This of course I refused
to do. At last we made a compromise: in our own
house I was allowed to see Romeo as much as I
liked, but if I went out to banquets or masques I
was to talk to other people and not to Romeo.
Papa and Mamma had nothing against my marrying
Romeo, because Mamma never liked the Capulets,
although they are Papa’s relations. The result of
this compromise, which was only arranged quite
lately, was quite disastrous. Romeo could not understand
it at all. He thought it was my fault, and
that I was growing tired of him. It was then that
he begged me to let our engagement be publicly
announced. I did not want the announcement to be
made public until the winter, because one never
really has such fun once an engagement is known.
However, I would no doubt have given in in the
end. As it was, Romeo was annoyed, and just before
the Capulets’ banquet we had a scene. I told
him quite plainly that he had no business to treat
me as if I belonged to him. I had given him to
understand, however, that I should be at the
Capulets’ banquet, and I fully expected him to
come and to beg for a reconciliation.
He came to the banquet, and it so happened that
Lady Capulet’s daughter, who was far too young
for that kind of thing, was allowed to come down
that night. A child of that age is of course allowed
to do anything, as it is supposed not to matter
what they do. And as she had been told that the one
thing she was not to do was to speak to a Montague,
out of sheer naughtiness and perverseness she went
to Romeo and made the most outrageous advances
to him. Romeo, out of pique and simply to annoy
me, kept up the farce, and they say that he even
climbed over a wall that night, right into the house
of the Capulets, and spoke to Juliet! All this time
Juliet was betrothed to her cousin, the County
Paris, and it was arranged that their marriage was
to take place shortly.
What exactly happened we none of us know, but
it is quite certain that Lady Capulet had found out
what was going on, and having heard that Romeo
had been climbing her garden wall and serenading
Juliet under her very nose, she thought it would
be an excellent opportunity to settle the old family
quarrel and reconcile the two families by an alliance.
So she forced Romeo to promise her he would
marry Juliet, and some people say that the marriage
ceremony was actually performed in secret, but this
is not true, as I will tell you later. Of course,
Lady Capulet did not dare tell her husband;
on the contrary, every arrangement was made for
Juliet’s marriage with Paris; but the day before it
was to come off a put-up quarrel was brought about
between Romeo and one of the Capulets, which
ended in Romeo’s being banished to Mantua.
He wrote to me every day, saying how miserable
he was that all this tiresome business had happened,
and how he was longing to see me again, and how
it was not his fault.
Lady Capulet then gave Juliet a strong sleeping
draught, which was to have the effect of making
her like a corpse for forty-two hours. Every
one was to think she was dead. She was to be
taken to the vault of the Capulets and Romeo was
to fetch her after the forty-two hours were over,
when she should come to from her sleep. This was
Lady Capulet’s plan, and Romeo of course could
do nothing but accept it, much as he must have
hated this kind of thing. Romeo had many faults,
but I must say he was never deceitful. I did not
know anything about it at the time. All we knew
was that, owing to a street brawl which had ended
unfortunately, Romeo had been banished to Mantua.
He wrote from there every day. He said over and
over again in his letters that he was in great difficulties,
but that he hoped to be back soon and see
me again. I did not answer his letters because I
was annoyed by the way in which he had spoken
to Juliet at the ball. I had not then heard about
the incident of the orchard, otherwise I should have
been angrier still.
While things were in this state the whole matter
took a tragic turn by the stupidity of Lady
Capulet’s nurse, who gave Juliet the wrong sleeping
draught. Instead of giving her a potion which
made her sleep for forty-two hours, they gave her
some very strong rat poison which happened to be
lying about. She drank it, poor thing, and never
woke again.
Romeo came back from Mantua to meet Juliet
at the vault, where he no doubt intended to have a
final explanation with her and her family, to explain
the whole thing: his engagement to me, and the impossibility
of his contracting any alliance with the
Capulet family, especially as he had very strong
principles on this point. But when he got to the
tomb he found the County Paris, who was nominally
engaged to Juliet, and of course extremely angry
to find a Montague in such a place. They fought,
and Paris killed Romeo, thus putting an end to all
Lady Capulet’s intrigues. But she was not to be
defeated thus. She had already bribed an old
Franciscan monk, called Friar Laurence, to say that
he had secretly married Juliet and Romeo, and her
nurse (a horrible old woman) corroborated the friar’s
evidence. And so, with very much solemnity and
fuss, a reconciliation was brought about between
the two families, and they say that Benvolio,
Montague’s nephew, is to marry Katherine, Lady
Capulet’s niece by marriage, and thus the quarrel
between the families has finally been settled and
Lady Capulet has got her way.
I don’t mind the two families being reconciled in
the least; in fact we are all very glad of it, as life
in Verona was made quite intolerable by their constant
brawling and quarrelling. But what I do think
is unfair, and what is particularly irritating to me,
is that everybody, even Papa and Mamma, take it
for granted that Romeo was really in love with
Juliet, and had given up all thoughts of me. Nobody
knows the truth except me, and I cannot tell
it without making myself appear conceited and
ridiculous. You can imagine how irritating this is.
Of course, when all this happened I was so overcome
by the shock that I was very ill and did not
care what was said, one way or the other. Papa
and Mamma had to take me to Venice for a few
days, as I was in such a state of nerves. Now, the
change of air has done me good, and I am slowly
getting better again. I am told that everybody
believes that Romeo and Juliet were married by
Friar Laurence. Of course, once such a legend
gets about nothing will ever make people think the
contrary. But even if they were married it would
not really affect me, for it was a sheer case of
coercion. If Romeo did marry Juliet he did it
because he could not help himself, after having
been discovered in her garden by that old cat Lady
Capulet, who is a very, very wicked woman, and
capable of anything. In fact I am not at all sure
that she did not poison her daughter on purpose,
and, so bring about the reconciliation between the
two families without having all the trouble of facing
and defeating her husband’s opposition to the
match.
When you next come to see me I will show you
Romeo’s letters. Fortunately I have kept them all.
They are very beautiful, and some of them are in
rime; and you will see for yourself whether he
loved me or not. I cannot read them without crying.
You have no idea what lovely things he says
in them. For instance, one day he sent me a pair
of silk gloves, and with them, written on a small
scroll:
Oh that I were a glove upon thy hand,
That I might touch thy cheek.
His letters were full of lovely things like that, and
I cannot think of them without crying.
Your loving Rosaline.
A FIRST NIGHT — Letter from Jean-Antoine de Binet to a Friend in Paris, July 20, 1602
Yesterday I went to the theatre to see a Tragedy
played by the Lord Chamberlain, his servants, called
“The Revenge of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.”
I was taken thither by Guasconi, who is attached
to the Italian Ambassador, and who desired that I
should not miss any of the curiosities of the city.
The play was new, and the theatre was crowded with
people, many of whom were of high rank, since
noblemen in this country are fond of visiting the
playhouse. They sit in places kept for them on the
stage, and encourage the players by applause, and
they express their approval and their blame.
The play is written partly in a kind of verse,
which is pleasing to the ear and not without a
certain happy fancy; but Guasconi told me that
the English, who have learnt our science and make
sonnets and madrigals after the pattern of our
masters, do not consider this kind of writing to be
either poetry or literature; but these rough and
unpolished rhythms are used to tickle the popular
ear and to please the taste of the common people.
There were in the theatre many well-known faces.
Sir Bacon was sitting in the front, but he went to
sleep shortly after the beginning of the play, and
slept right until the end, none daring to disturb
him. At the end of the play his servants woke him
up by shaking him. He is a busy man, and goes
to the theatre for repose, liking well the music, the
high screeching of the players, and the buzz of
tongues, and finding them conducive to repose.
In one of the boxes Guasconi pointed me out the
beautiful Countess of Nottingham, whom, he said,
the English consider to be one of their most
beautiful countrywomen. She has the marks of
race, and was richly and elegantly dressed in black
and crimson colours. With her was a young nobleman
whom I took to be her son, but Guasconi told
me that this was not so. He was her second husband.
One nobleman, the Earl of Essex, arrived
in the middle of the performance, and talked loudly
to his friends, paying but little attention to the
players. Since his father was beheaded not long
ago it was considered a lapse in taste on his part to
visit the theatre so soon. In the theatre were
several well-known players from other theatres, who
were much clapped by the populace when they
entered. The crowd was good-humoured, and
pleased with the show: but they made a great
noise, eating oranges and nuts, and throwing shells
and peel right and left. There were also in the
audience some men of letters, scholars and noblemen,
whose fame as writers of verse is the talk of
the town. For instance, Lord Southampton, who
has written over a hundred sonnets; Sir Iger and
the Countess of Pembrock, the author of “The Fall
of Troy,” which those who know say is the finest
epic which has been written since the death of Virgil.
There were also many students, who were tempestuous
and unruly in the expression of their enjoyment,
and among these many vagabond writers and
ballad-mongers.
The show was not displeasing, being full of much
excellent clowning and fine dresses. It is a tale of
murder and revenge such as have been brought
into the fashion by the Italian story-tellers. It is
brutal, and therefore suits the English taste, for
Guasconi tells me the English will not go to the
playhouse unless they can see tales of battle and
murder with plenty of fighting on the stage, mixed
with grotesque episodes and rough horseplay.
The players declaimed their words nicely, and the
utterance of the verse, especially that which was
spoken by the young boy who played the part of
the mad heroine of the play, struck me as being
not unmelodious poetry, but when I said this to
the young literary noblemen with whom we supped
after the performance, they split their sides with
laughter, and said how impossible it was for a
foreigner to judge the literature of a country which
was not his own.
The author of the play, whose name I have forgotten,
but which was something like John or
James Shockper or Shicksperry, was himself, they
told me, one of the players, which proved that he
could neither be a man of education nor capable
of writing his own tongue. In the play, they told
me, he had played the part of the ghost. If this
really be so, he cannot be a man of talent, for he
spoke his lines so feebly and so haltingly that the
vagabonds in the body of the theatre laughed and
interrupted him several times, shouting such things
as “Speak louder!” and “Go back to your
grave.” The stage plays are, I was told, almost
always written by players, for they best know what
suits the popular taste, being of the populace and
vagabonds themselves.
The scene which pleased the audience most was
that of a fight in which the players fought bravely,
more after the Italian style than the French, and
the audience was greatly delighted by the close of
the play, and laughed heartily when all the characters
were killed and rolled about on the stage,
the actor who played the King was especially popular;
he had a jovial face, so that whenever he spoke,
and sometimes even before he spoke, the audience
laughed, heartily enjoying his comic talent.
There is no intelligible story in the play, nor is
it possible to follow the sequence of events that
happen on the stage; but it is rather the aim of the
performance to present the public with a series of
varied pictures, pleasant to the eye owing to the
finery, the brave dresses, the glint of steel rapiers,
the tinselled cloaks, and pleasing to the ear owing
to the interludes of viol and hautboy playing.
At the end of the performance there was loud
clapping, and the chief actor, who is famous in this
country—so famous, indeed, that there is talk of
emancipating him from his position as a vagabond
and making him equal to a soldier of the Queen—was
called on to the stage; nor would the public let
him depart until he had spoken to them, which he
did. He thanked them for their warm welcome,
and for expressing their pleasure at the performance
of the fine play which John or James Shicksperry
had written. He said he had felt sure that this
play would not disappoint them, and he intended
before long to give them another of the same kind,
in which there would be still more murders, still
more fighting, many more ghosts, and yet finer
dresses. What the name of that play was, he said,
was as yet a secret: who had written it was a secret.
Here the audience shouted out: “We all know
who has written it, it is old John or James.”
(Now I come to think of it, I remember his name
was Bill or Billy or Ben.) Since they had guessed,
he said, he would not conceal it any longer: it
was Billy, and the play, which he knew they would
enjoy, and in which there was plenty of clowning,
was called “King Lear.”
The audience was pleased at this, and cheered
for several minutes. They shouted for the author,
for old Ben, and went on shouting while people
hurried backward and forward across the stage.
The author did not come forward, and the shouting
continued. At last the chief actor returned,
and bowing to the audience, said that old Ben
was no longer in the house: he had gone to the
tavern. After this there was more cheering, and
the actor, kissing his hand to the audience, left
the stage.
Guasconi took me to the Mermaid Tavern, a
low place where the actors go after such performances,
and where some of the nobles and the learned
repair also, for the sake of change and to enjoy the
spectacle. Here we were obliged to drink a great
deal of a hot and nauseous mixture called sack,
which is made of good wines spoilt by the admixture
of much sugar and spice. I hate these English
mixtures; their sweetmeats are made of sugared
cake mixed with meat, and with their meat they
eat sugared fruits. You can imagine how nauseous
is this system, and indeed it reminds me of their
plays. Their plays are like their plum puddings,
full of great lumps of suet in which little sweet
plums and currants are imbedded, but difficult to
find. I said this to Guasconi, but he told me I
must not judge of the English either by their food
or their plays, but that if I wished to judge of
their literature I should read the Sonnets of the
Countess of Rutland, and he quoted one which
begins:
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Moreover, he said, the English were not a literary
but a musical nation. Their music was unequalled
in all Europe; it was the art (and the only art) in
which they excelled; witness the divine melodies of
Orlando Gibbons, Morley, and Dowland, which,
indeed, I had heard performed at the Court, and
had greatly enjoyed, for we have nothing like it in
France.
The author of the play, Ben Shicksperry, arrived
at the Mermaid late, and a learned man who was
there, and whose name they told me was Will
Johnson, condescended not only to speak but to
drink with him. The players made a great noise,
toasting each other, likewise the noblemen, who
spent the time in violent disputes on the merits
and demerits of this writer and that writer. After
a time everybody began to talk of public affairs, of
the policy of Spain, and of a party of English
politicians whom they called pro-Spaniards: and
they all agreed that these latter deserved to be immersed
in a horse-trough, and so, late in the night,
they set out to accomplish this unrefined joke.
The English, in spite of their great culture, and
their learning, their wonderful power of speaking
foreign languages—for every one of the noblemen
speaks perfectly not only Greek and Latin, but five
or six other languages, and is well versed in astrology,
music, and chess-playing—the English, I
repeat, in spite of all this, have something barbarous
at heart, which is awakened after they have
partaken much of that nauseous potion called sack.
THE POET, THE PLAYER, AND THE LITERARY AGENT — Letter from Mr. Nichols, Literary Agent, to Lord Bacon — Letter from Mr. Nichols to Lord Bacon — Letter from Mr. Nichols to Lord Bacon — Letter from Lord Bacon to Mr. Nichols — Letter from Lord Bacon to Mr. Nichols — Letter from Lord Bacon to Mr. Nichols
My Lord,
I have now submitted the plays which your lordship
forwarded to me to seven publishers: Messrs.
Butter, Mr. Blount, Mr. Thorpe, Mr. Waterson,
Mr. Andrew Wise, Mr. Steevens, and Mr. G.
Eld; and I very much regret to inform your lordship
that I have not been able to persuade any of
these publishers to make an offer for the publication
of any of the plays, although Mr. Thorpe
would be willing to print them at your lordship’s
expense, provided that they appeared under your
lordship’s name. The cost, however, would be very
great. No one of these publishers is willing to
publish the plays anonymously, and they agree in
saying that while the plays contain passages of
exceptional merit, there is, unfortunately, at the
present moment no demand in the market for the
literary play. This form of literature is in fact at
present a drug on the market; and they suggest
that your lordship, whose anonymity I have of
course respected, should convert these plays into
essays, epics, masques, or any other form which is
at present popular with the reading public. There
is certainly very little chance at present of my being
able to find a publisher for work of this description.
Therefore I await your lordship’s instructions before
sending them to any other publishers.
At the same time I would suggest, should your
lordship not consider such a course to be derogatory,
that I should submit the plays in question to
one or two of the best known theatrical managers
with a view to performance. I would of course
keep the authorship of the plays a secret.
Awaiting your lordship’s commands in this
matter,
I am,
Your lordship’s most humble and obedient servant, J. J. Nichols.
My Lord,
I am in receipt of a communication from
Mr. Fletcher, the chief of the Lord Chamberlain’s
servants, now playing at the Globe Theatre.
Mr. Fletcher informs me that he has read the plays
with considerable interest. He considers that they
are not only promising but contain passages of
positive merit.
Mr. Fletcher, however, adds that your lordship
is no doubt fully aware that such plays are totally
unsuited to the stage; indeed it would be impossible
to produce them for many reasons. With
regard to the first batch, namely, the Biblical series,
the David and Saul trilogy, Joseph and Potiphar,
and King Nebuchadnezzar, there could of course be
no question of their production, however much
they might be altered or adapted for the stage;
for it would be impossible to obtain a licence, not
only on account of the religious subject matter,
which of necessity must prove shocking to the
greater part of the audience, but also owing to the
boldness of the treatment. Mr. Fletcher begs me
to tell your lordship that he is far from suggesting
that your lordship has handled these solemn themes
in any but the most reverent manner; but at the
same time he is anxious to point out that the
public, being but insufficiently educated, is likely
to misunderstand your lordship’s intentions, and
to regard your lordship’s imaginative realization
of these sacred figures as sacrilegious.
With regard to the second series, the tragedies,
Mr. Fletcher states that the play entitled “Hamlet”
might, if about three-quarters of the whole play
were omitted, be made fit for stage presentation,
but even then the matter would be extremely
hazardous. Even if enough of the play were left
in order to render the story coherent, the performance
would still last several hours and be likely
to try the patience of any but a special audience.
Such a play would doubtless appeal to a limited
and cultivated public, but as your lordship is aware,
the public which frequents the Globe Theatre is
neither chosen nor cultivated, and it is doubtful
whether a public of this kind would sit through a
play many of the speeches in which are over a hundred
lines long. Mr. Fletcher adds that a play of
this kind is far more suited for the closet than for
the stage, and suggests that your lordship should
publish it as a historical chronicle. With regard
to these tragedies Mr. Fletcher further points out
that there are already in existence several plays on
the themes which your lordship has treated, which
have not only been produced but enjoyed considerable
success.
With regard to the third series, the comedies,
Mr. Fletcher states that these plays, although not
without considerable charm and while containing
many passages of graceful and melodious writing,
are far more in the nature of lyrical poems than of
plays. Mr. Fletcher adds that if these were also
considerably reduced in length and rendered even
still more lyrical and accompanied by music, they
might be performed as masques or else in dumb
show.
Finally, Mr. Fletcher suggests, if the author
of these plays is anxious that they should be performed,
that your lordship should send the plays
to an experienced actor who should alter and arrange
them for stage presentation. Mr. Fletcher
suggests that should your lordship see your way to
agree to this, he has in his company a player named
William Shakespeare who is admirably fitted for
the undertaking, and who has already had much
experience in adapting and altering plays for the
stage.
I am, Your lordship’s most obedient and humble servant, J. J. Nichols.
My Lord,
In accordance with your lordship’s instructions
I submitted the plays to Mr. William Shakespeare.
I am now in receipt of Mr. Shakespeare’s full
report on the plays.
Mr. Shakespeare confirms Mr. Fletcher’s opinion
that the plays in their present state are far too long
for production. The religious series he does not
discuss, as being by their nature precluded from
performance. With regard to the historical tragedies,
“Edward III,” “Mary Tudor,” “Lady Jane Grey,”
and “Katherine Parr” Mr. Shakespeare points out
that none of these plays would be passed by the
Censor because they contain many allusions which
would be considered to touch too nearly, and give
possible offence to, certain exalted personages.
With regard to the tragedies, Mr. Shakespeare
is quite willing to arrange “Hamlet, Prince of
Denmark” for the stage. More than half of the
play will have to be omitted: the whole of the first
act, dealing with Hamlet’s student days at Wittenburg,
Mr. Shakespeare considers to be totally irrelevant
to the subsequent action of the play, although
the long scene between the young prince and
Dr. Faustus contains many passages which are not
only poetical but dramatic. Mr. Shakespeare regrets
to have to sacrifice these passages, but maintains
that if this act be allowed to stand as it is at present,
the play would be condemned to failure. Mr. Shakespeare
is also anxious to cut out the whole of the
penultimate act, which deals entirely with Ophelia’s
love affair with Horatio. This act, though containing
much that is subtle and original, would be
likely, Mr. Shakespeare says, to confuse, and possibly
to shock, the audience. As to the soliloquies,
Mr. Shakespeare says that it is impossible to get an
audience at the present day to listen to a soliloquy
of one hundred lines. Mr. Shakespeare suggests
that if possible they should all be cut down to a
quarter of their present length.
Out of the remaining plays, Mr. Shakespeare
selects the following as being fit for the stage:
“Macbeth,” “Romeo and Juliet,” “Mephistopheles,”
“Paris and Helen,” “Alexander the Great,”
and “Titus Andronicus.” Of all these Mr. Shakespeare
says that by far the finest from a stage point
of view is the last. It is true that the action of
this play is at present a little slow and lacking in
incident, but Mr. Shakespeare says that he sees a
way, by a few trifling additions, of increasing its
vitality; and he is certain that, should this play be
well produced and competently played, it would
prove successful. The tragedy of “Macbeth” might
also be adapted to the popular taste, but here again
Mr. Shakespeare says the play is at least four times
too long.
I would be glad if your lordship would inform
me what reply I am to make to Mr. Shakespeare.
I am, Your lordship’s obedient and humble servant, J. J. Nichols.
Sir,
I am quite willing that Mr. Shakespeare should
try his hand on “Hamlet,” “Macbeth,” “Romeo
and Juliet,” and “Titus Andronicus,” but I cannot
consent to let him shorten my “Mephistopheles,”
my “Alexander the Great,” or my “Paris and
Helen.” I should of course wish to see a printed
copy of the play as arranged by Mr. Shakespeare
before it is produced.
I am,
Your obedient servant, Bacon.
Sir,
I received the printed copies of my four plays
as arranged by Mr. Shakespeare. I would be much
obliged if you would communicate to him the
following instructions: (1) “Hamlet” may stand
as it is. The whole nature of the play is altered,
and the chief character is at present quite unintelligible,
but if Mr. Shakespeare thinks that in its
present form it will please an audience, he is at
liberty to produce it, as it is not a piece of work for
which I have any special regard, and it was written
more as an exercise than anything else. (2) I cannot
allow “Romeo and Juliet” to appear with
the changed ending made by Mr. Shakespeare.
Mr. Shakespeare is perhaps right in thinking that
his version of the play, ending as it does with the
marriage of Juliet and Paris and the reconciliation
of Romeo and Rosaline, is more subtle and true to
life, but in this matter I regard my knowledge of
the public as being more sound than that of
Mr. Shakespeare. As a member of the public myself,
I am convinced that the public is sentimental,
and would be better pleased by the more tragic
and romantic ending which I originally wrote. (3)
With regard to Mr. Shakespeare’s suggestion that
in “Macbeth” the sleep-walking scene should fall
to Macbeth, instead of to Lady Macbeth, I will
not hear of any such change. (Confidential: The
reason of my refusal is that this change seems to me
merely dictated by the vanity of the actor, and his
desire that the man’s part may predominate over
the woman’s.) (4) “Titus Andronicus.” I have no
objection to Mr. Shakespeare’s alterations.
Your obedient servant, Bacon.
Sir,
I was present last night at the Globe Theatre
at the performance of my play “Macbeth,” as
produced by Mr. Shakespeare. I confess that I
was much disgusted by the liberties which Mr.
Shakespeare has taken with my work, which I
am certain far exceed the changes and alterations
which were originally presented to me, and which
I myself revised and approved. For instance,
Mr. Shakespeare has made a great many more
omissions than he originally suggested. And at
the end of many of the scenes he has introduced
many totally unwarranted tags, such as, for instance:
I’ll see it done.
What he hath lost noble Macbeth hath won.
And, worst of all:
It is concluded:—Banquo, thy soul’s flight,
If it find Heaven, must find it out to-night.
The whole play is riddled with such additions, not
to speak of several incidents of an altogether barbarous
and outrageous character, and of certain
other interpolations of coarse buffoonery, inserted
in the most serious parts of the play to raise a
laugh among the more ignorant portions of the
rabble. Of course I cannot now withdraw them
from the stage without risking the discovery of
their authorship. Mr. Shakespeare is at liberty to
produce and perform in any of the plays written by
me which are now in his possession, provided that
they appear under his name, and that the authorship
is attributed to him.
Your obedient servant, Bacon.
BATH, 1663 — Letter from a Frenchman to a Friend in Paris
Bath, August 20, 1663.
We arrived here with the Court last week, the
physician having decided that the hot waters of this
far-off and desolate spot would prove more beneficial
to the Queen’s health than the cold waters
of beautiful Tunbridge Wells. Bath has not the
sunny elegance of the latter place, but the Court
are doing their best to enliven this otherwise
dreary spot. One of their chief occupations is to
play at bowls, but you must not think that this
game is confined, as in France, to artisans and
lackeys. On the contrary, it is here a game of
gentlefolk, and there is both skill in it and a certain
art, and the places where these games are
played are singularly charming and elegant. They
are called “boulingrins.” They consist of small
meadows, of which the grass is as smooth as a
billiard table. As soon as the heat of the day is
over everybody meets here, and many heavy wagers
are made. I confess that I have lost considerable
sums at this sport, but have been more successful
at cock-fighting.
There is dancing every night at the King’s.
Often a comedy is played, which is followed by a
supper. As for music, it never ceases. The
English are above all things a musical nation;
their skill both in the art of singing and dancing
far excelling that of our courtiers. For instance,
the Chevalier de Grammont, who is reckoned one
of our most accomplished dancers, is not sufficiently
skilful to take part in the Royal dance.
The fashionable instrument is now the guitar,
which was introduced here by an Italian, whose
compositions so pleased the King that everybody
became mad about this instrument, so that you see
no one at the Court who does not play the guitar,
whether or no they possess a talent for so doing.
Some, such as the Earl of Arran, play as well as
the Italian himself. Others extract but futile discord
from this difficult instrument. It is a curious
thing that the English, who have obtained an unexampled
liberty in political matters, show themselves
curiously slavish and lacking in initiative
and independence in matters of thought, pleasure,
and recreation. Their political liberty is extraordinary;
for instance, in their Parliament the
members are not only allowed to speak their minds
freely, but also to do a number of astonishing
things, such as call the most important members
of the State to the Bar! The Earl of Bristol remained
free in the town after he had accused the
Lord Chancellor of high treason! And even the
populace considers that it has the right to speak of
public affairs.
Not long ago, at the Stock Exchange, I heard a
political speech quoted on every side, and even the
boatmen in the barges discuss matters of State with
the noble Lords whom they convey to the Houses
of Parliament. On the other hand, in matters of
pleasure and pastime the English are slaves of
convention; everybody wishes to do what every
one else is doing. The matter of the guitar-playing
is an instance of this. As soon as some high personage
makes a sport, an occupation, or a manner
of dress fashionable, the crowd follow in abject
obedience and perfect uniformity like sheep.
Indeed, we not long ago had a narrow escape
from having a peculiarly tedious occupation forced
upon us: the Duke of York fell in love with a
Scotch game called goff, which is played, so they
say, in the more sterile regions of the extreme
north of Scotland, where the inhabitants still feed
on oats and wear scarcely any clothes. This game
consists in hitting a hard ball about the size of a
turkey’s egg into the dense heath with a kind of
stick. Several hours are then spent in looking for
the ball, and when, after much difficulty and
discomfort, it has been found, the player immediately
hits it as hard as he can into the distance and
resumes the laborious search. This game would
no doubt have become the fashion had not the
King, who has a horror of introducing an element
of seriousness into pastimes which are designed
exclusively for recreation, remarked that such a
game was fit only for very small children or for
men who were so old that they had reached their
second childhood. After that we heard no more
of this intolerable sport.
Again, Prince Rupert, who is distinguished by
his studious habits, his love of chemistry and
mathematics and his awkward manners, attempted
to introduce a game of cards called “Trump” or
“Whist.” The most notable feature of this game
is that it must be played in complete silence. It is
not surprising, therefore, that it failed to find favour
at Court, for the English love conversation above
all things, and excel in repartee, apt quotation, and
madrigal-making. But it is curious that although
the Court is highly cultivated, and although the
courtiers speak elegantly both in English and Latin,
and make verses and madrigals in these languages,
there appears at the present time to be no English
literature at all. Our Ambassador tells me that
among learned circles in London, although there
are certain philosophers of merit, such as Hobbes,
there remain but few traces of the art of letters for
which England was once famous. The only writers
whose memory still subsists to a certain degree are
Bacon, Morus, Buchanan, and in the last century a
certain Miltonius who acquired an evil notoriety
by his scurrilous and seditious pamphlets. Letters
have deserted England and given way to music and
painting. The art of madrigal-making, which is
cultivated at Court with assiduity and exquisite
skill, belongs, of course, to music.
What has struck me most since I have been here
is the beauty of the English women; they are all
being painted at this moment by a painter called
Lely; he is an accomplished artist, but he does not
succeed in rendering the personality of the people
he paints, and his pictures are all alike. Most of
these ladies speak French not only with correctness
but with elegance; some of them, such as Miss
Stewart, for instance, speak French better than their
own language. Others, on the other hand, are so
unfamiliar with our manners and customs that they
seem to imagine that a Frenchman must necessarily
be half-witted, and address him in a kind of broken
language such as nurses and mothers use to their
babies.
Lady Hyde is remarkable, even in England, for
her grace and her wit. Her hands are delicate and
her feet astonishing. She is surrounded by the
wits of the Court, and one evening after supper
she organized a kind of tournament of wit. It
was thus: we all sat round the gaming table, but
instead of playing we had set before us counters
made of mother-of-pearl, on each one of which a
letter of the alphabet was worked in gold. These
were placed face downwards and turned up in turn;
each player who turned up a letter was obliged to
compose a line of a sonnet beginning with the
letter in question. The game would have proved
highly successful had not Lord Rochester caused
some annoyance by ending the sonnet, which had
up till then been delicate and tender, with an unexpectedly
crude and uncourtly expression, which,
while it tickled the mirth of some of the company,
offended our sensitive hostess.
Miss Stewart is childish and frivolous. She
laughs at everything and everybody. She has a
passion for those games which are usually played
only by children of twelve and thirteen; such as,
for instance, Blind Man’s Buff, and even when at
cards the play is at its highest, she builds houses
and castles with the cards, and forces everybody to
join in the pastime. She is encouraged in her gaiety
and her frivolity by the Duke of Buckingham, who
sings agreeably, and has a wonderful talent for
mimicking, not without a certain spice of malice,
the voices and the tricks of his friends.
Play is everywhere high, and at every “boulingrin”
there is a pavilion where refreshments are
sold—liquors such as cyder, hydromel, sparkling
ale, and Spanish wine. There is a race of men
called “Rooks” who meet together to smoke and
to drink. They are what we should call grooms in
France, and they always have about them enough
money to lend to those who have lost at play;
they are themselves so skilful at games of hazard,
especially at one particular game which is played
with three cards, that no one who plays with them
wins. The Chevalier de Grammont once tried his
luck with them at dice, and, strange to say, the first
time he played he won. They begged him to continue
the game. This he refused to do, in spite of
the many well-turned compliments they paid to his
prowess.
The English are somewhat concerned at this
moment at the state of their Navy, which they say
leaves much to be desired. There are many politicians
who are in favour of building an increased
number of ships, but it appears that this cannot be
done without grievously taxing the rich, who are
already overtaxed. The Duke of Buckingham told
me yesterday that if the taxes were to be in any
way increased he would be obliged to dismiss his
gardener and his Groom of the Chambers. Besides
which, he assured me that this agitation in favour
of an increased Navy was entirely due to a foolish
fear of the Dutch, a fear which he said was utterly
groundless, for it was inconceivable that the Dutch
could wish to invade England; moreover, if they
did so they would be defeated by the English
Navy, such as it was.
PETER THE GREAT — Letter from an English Architect
St. Petersburg, July, 1715.
Dear Sir,
Although it is almost six weeks ago that I arrived
at St. Petersburg, I have not until this moment
had leisure to write you my impressions. And
now before I impart these to you I must advert to
a conversation which I had in Berlin with X——,
who, as you know, spent many years in Russia,
before the accession of the present Czar, and who
is an eminent Russian scholar. He assured me
that in entering the Russian service at the present
moment I was doing a foolish and perilous thing.
Russia, he said, was on the eve of a grave crisis,
which might very probably lead to the dismemberment
of the nation. This was owing to the character
of the present Sovereign. The Czar was inspired
with inordinate ambition and blind obstinacy;
he was, moreover, pursued by a demon of restlessness,
and a desire to change and reform everything
that was old. This love of improvement was no
doubt in itself a laudable ambition; yet in view of
the peculiar circumstances of the case, the ignorance
of the great mass of Russians, the fundamental
conservatism of the educated class, the deficiency
and the inadequacy of all necessary material and
instruments, the designs of the Czar were akin to
madness.
He was attempting to make bricks without straw,
and this could only have one result—the disruption
of the kingdom of Russia and the consequent rise
of a large and powerful Poland. Poland would once
again reduce Russia to servitude, and all civilized
Europe would once more be revolted by the spectacle
of civil and religious tyranny. Moreover,
a powerful Poland was, as far as all European
countries were concerned, far less to be desired
than a powerful Russia. I will comment on these
remarks in due time. At present I must resume
my narrative.
On arriving at St. Petersburg I went straight to
the Summer Palace. I was told that the Czar had
gone to Cronstot. He had left orders that I was
to follow him thither as soon as I arrived, in a
snow which was waiting to convey the Dutch
Minister. It was a fine, sultry day when we
started from St. Petersburg. I was much impressed
by the sight of the city, which possesses
already many thousands of houses and some fine
churches and palaces. We started with a fair wind,
but soon a storm arose, and our condition was the
more perilous owing to the lack of experience of
the captain and the mate. The Dutch Minister
was prostrate with sea-sickness, and upon his asking
whether there was any chance of escape—and he
seemed, such were his pains, to hope for a negative
answer—the captain, who was facing the emergency
by doing nothing at all, kept on repeating in a
soothing voice the word Nichevo (which means
“all is well”) “we shall arrive.” All seemed to be
very far from well. The mate, when consulted,
folded his hands together and said Bog Znaet,
which means “God knows.” At last, after two
days and three nights, which we spent without fire
or provisions, we arrived at Cronstot. We were
forthwith bidden to the Czar’s pleasure-house,
Peterhof, on the coast of Ingria, whither a fair
wind took us without further mishap.
We were at once taken into the Czar’s presence.
Anything less like the state and formal etiquette of
Paris, Berlin, or Madrid, it would be difficult to
imagine. To speak of the simplicity of the Czar
would be to understate my meaning. He seemed to
be divested not only of the formality of sovereigns,
but of the ordinary convention and reserve which
unwittingly hang over every human being like a
cloak. He greeted us as if he had known us all
his life, and as if he were continuing a conversation
but lately interrupted. His dress—which was
dark, plain, and sober—his demeanour, his manner,
were not only free from all trace of pomp
but would have struck one as simple in a common
sailor. And yet the overwhelming mastery and
intelligence and power of the man were instantly
apparent in the swiftness of his look and the stamp
of his countenance. It was clear from the first
moment that he was a man who went straight to
the point and had the knack of eliminating and
casting aside the unessential and the superfluous
with the quick decision with which a skilful gardener
removes dead flowers from a tree with his garden
knife.
This was evident when speaking of the concern
he had felt for us owing to the storm. The Dutch
Minister launched out into a diffuse narrative. The
Czar at once seized on the essential fact that the
skipper was incapable and deftly changed the subject,
keeping the garrulous Minister charmed all
the while. He welcomed me to Russia and said
that he had been awaiting my arrival with impatience,
as he had much work for me to do.
“But we will talk of that later,” he said, “at
present you must be hungry.”
We then followed him into another room, where
we were presented to the Czarina. The Czarina,
who is of humble origin, has that peculiar grace,
that intangible beauty and charm, which baffle
verbal description and cause the painter to burn
his canvas. She is the embodiment of spontaneous
and untaught refinement, and her manner, like
that art which consists in concealing all art, proceeds
from the certain instinct which bids her make
the right gestures and say the right word without
either effort or forethought.
We proceeded to dinner, which was served
punctually at noon. The first course consisted of
many cold meats, followed by a second hot course,
and then by a third course of fruits. During dinner
we were all of us plied with Tockay wine. His
Majesty himself partook of it freely but forebore
drinking too much; but we by the end of the meal
could scarcely stand, and the Dutch Minister was
obliged nevertheless to empty a bowl holding a full
quart of brandy which he received at the Czarina’s
hand. The result was he rolled under the table,
and was carried away by two men to a quiet place
where he could sleep.
The Czar laughed and talked without ceasing,
and asked many pertinent questions concerning
England and Scotland, and was thoroughly posted
in all the latest news. Talking of the Stuarts, he
said they would never return, because, apart from
their talent for mismanagement, the English people
did not feel strongly enough on the subject to
make a rising in their favour, however popular
such a restoration would be if it could be effected
by a Deus ex machina. The Stuarts, he said, had
always had the people on their side and the oligarchy
against them. He blamed the English people with
regard to Ireland, saying the English had neither
annihilated the Irish nor made them happy. He
compared this to the action of the Poles in Russia
in the past, and pointed to the result.
After dinner I retired to sleep, but at four
o’clock we were awakened and brought back to the
Czar’s presence. He gave us each a hatchet and
orders to follow him. He led us into a wood of
young trees, where he marked a walk of a hundred
yards to be cut to the seashore. He fell to work,
and we (there were seven of us) followed; (the
Dutch Minister found such a work in his half-dazed
condition hard) and in three hours’ time
the path was cut. At supper, to which we were
bidden, more Tockay was consumed, and the Czar
joked with the Dutch Minister about the violent
exercise he had caused him to take. We retired
early, but about eight the next morning, I was
bidden to Court to partake of breakfast, which
consisted, instead of coffee or tea, of large cups of
brandy and pickled cucumbers.
After dinner we were taken on board the Czar’s
vessel. The Czarina and her ladies sought the
cabin, but the Czar remained with us in the open
air, laughing and joking. A strong wind was
blowing, which in two hours became a gale, and
the Czar himself took the helm and showed the
utmost skill in working a ship as well as huge
strength of body. After being tossed about for
seven hours we at last reached the port of Cronstot,
where the Czar left us with the words: “Good
night, gentlemen. I fear I have carried the jest too
far.”
The next day I returned to St. Petersburg, and
was lodged in the Summer Palace so as to be near
the Czar. The Czar sent for me early in the morning,
and discoursed for two hours on various buildings
he wished me to design. He went into every
detail, and soon showed me that he was as skilled
an architect as he was a sailor. He also talked on
various other subjects, including theology, mechanics,
music, painting, the English Navy, and
the German Army. England, he said, was his
model as far as the Navy was concerned, Germany
for the Army, and France for architecture. At the
same time he was not disposed slavishly to follow
any particular models, and force on his people those
details of any system which might not be in concord
with the genius of the Russian character. It
is undeniable that the Germans have far the best
system of military discipline, he said, but it would
be quite impossible to get Russian soldiers to act
with the mathematical precision of the Prussians.
“I adopt the system as far as I can, and adapt
it to my material. That is why I get as many
Scotch officers as I can, and English architects,
because it is difficult to make a Frenchman understand
that Russia isn’t France, and that a Russian
workman must work in his own way.”
I had not been in St. Petersburg long before I
realized that X——’s forebodings are baseless.
He is right in saying that the Czar is ambitious.
He is right in saying that he is actuated by restlessness,
if by restlessness he means a ceaseless and
indefatigable energy. He is right in saying that
the Czar’s materials are bad and scanty and that
the Czar thus had to make bricks without straw.
He is right in saying that the Russians are fundamentally
conservative and regard all reforms with
distrust.
But what he has not realized is this, that a man
of genius can make bricks without straw. The
Czar has proved it. He has built St. Petersburg
on a marsh. He has built a fleet and organized an
army. He has made palaces, schools, academies,
factories, and dockyards, and he has inspired others
with his fever for work. Like all great workers he
never gives one an impression of hurry. He seems
always to have leisure to see whom he wants, to
have his say out, and to indulge in recreation when
he feels so inclined. He rises every morning at
four o’clock. From eleven to twelve he receives
petitions from all ranks of his subjects, who have
access to him during that hour. He dines at twelve
o’clock. At one he sleeps for an hour; the afternoon
and evening he spends in diversions, and at
ten he goes to bed.
He seems to delight in finding out a project
which appears to be impossible, and in achieving
it forthwith. No scheme is too large for him to
devise, and no detail of it too small for him to
attend to. He has the gift of discovering any useful
scrap of knowledge either in men or books.
At his balls and entertainments, which he now
gives at the Summer Palace or, on extraordinary
occasions, at the Senate House, all degrees of
persons are invited. Different tables are arranged
in separate rooms for the clergy, the officers of the
Army, those of the Navy, the merchants, the ship-builders,
the foreign skippers. After dinner the
Czar goes from room to room and talks to everybody,
especially with the masters of foreign trading
vessels. The Dutch and English skippers treat him
with familiarity, and call him by no other name
than Skipper Peter, which delights him, and the
whole time he marks down any points which
interest him in a note-book.
In conversing with these men, various in rank
and condition, he never appears to be courting
popularity or to be ingeniously fencing with subjects
of which he is ignorant. On the contrary, he
makes it manifest that he is talking on a subject
because it interests him and because he is thoroughly
acquainted with it. And any man who is an expert
at any trade or profession cannot converse with
him for a few moments without realizing that he
knows what he is talking about and that his knowledge
is the result of practical experience. He has
a hatred of baseless theory, a contempt for convention,
and an insatiable passion for fact and reality.
He has no respect for inherited rank or for the
glory of lineage; merit is to him the only rank.
He will at a moment’s notice, should he think it
necessary, degrade a nobleman into a peasant or
make a pastry-cook into a Minister. Indeed he
has done this in the case of Prince Menzikoff.
It is useless to pretend that he is as popular
with the Russian people as he is with foreigners.
Many of the ignorant peasantry regard him as the
Antichrist, and they worship his utterly worthless
son, the Czarevitch, because they consider that he
respects and embodies their ancient customs. In
spite of this there is no danger that what the Czar
has accomplished will be overturned in the immediate
future. He has done something which cannot
be undone, like putting salt into a pudding.
Moreover, his genius and his versatility, his extraordinarily
varied talents, are based on a soundness
of judgement, a level-headedness and a sanity of
instinct which, while they lead him to do things
which are seemingly impossible, justify him, in
that success is achieved, and prevent him from
undertaking what, owing either to the backwardness
of the population or the temper of popular
feeling, would in reality and of necessity end in
failure. He knows exactly where to draw the line.
In a speech he made to the Senate some time ago
he said that the ancient seat of all sciences was
Greece, whence they were expelled and dispersed
over Europe and hindered from penetrating further
than into Poland. The transmigration of sciences
was like the circulation of the blood, and he prognosticated
that they would some time or other
quit their abode in Western Europe and settle for
some centuries in Russia, and afterwards perhaps
return to their original home in Greece. In the
meantime he recommended to their practice the
Latin saying ora et labora.
Now what the Czar has already achieved is that
he has made such a circulation possible. He has
broken down the barrier which was between Russia
and Western Europe, and let in to the great veins
of his country a new drop of blood which nothing
can either expel or destroy.
“HAMLET” AND DR. DODD — Letter from a Frenchman, translated from the French
London, June 28, 1777.
Sir,
It is now three days since I arrived in London.
I am still bewildered by the noise of the carriages
and overwhelmed by an admiration which any
foreigner must feel when for the first time he beholds
the streets, the lanterns, and the pavements
of London. Nothing could be better than these
three things. The streets are wide; the manner in
which they are lit up at night, and the commodity
of the ways made for foot-passengers so that they
may be safe from vehicles in the most dangerous
thoroughfares are astonishing. There is nothing
to compare with it in Europe. It is only in London
that such thoroughfares and such superb nightly
illumination are to be found, and where so careful an
attention is paid to the safety of the public. And
all this decoration, and indeed half of the city, are
not more than twenty years old!
I have already become an adopted Englishman.
I drink my tea twice a day, I eat my “tostes” well
buttered. I read my Gazette scrupulously every
morning and every evening. I have been waiting
with impatience for one of those plays to be performed
which have obtained universal applause,
such as those, for instance, of the “divine” Shakespeare.
I have at last been rewarded. Yesterday I
read on the playbill (affiche), “Hamlet, Prince of
Denmark.” So I said to my sister, who is with me,
“We must go and see ‘Hamlet.’” We set out,
therefore, for Covent Garden.
We had intended to take tickets for the boxes,
but there were none left. We tried to get into the
first gallery (our premières loges), but there were no
seats to be had there. I proposed then that we
should try the upper gallery, but we were advised
not to. There remained the pit. This was also full.
I remained standing, and my sister obtained half a
seat at the end of a crowded bench. It was all most
brilliant. The house, which is square and partly
gray and partly gilded, without harmony of ornament
or design, is not imposing in itself. But the
crowd of spectators, the quantity of lights, the rapt
attention of the coloured crowd, make a striking
ensemble.
No sooner had we seated ourselves than to my
extreme astonishment something fell on to my
sister’s hat. It turned out to be a piece of orange
peel. Here I must mention that an essential part of
a lady’s coiffure in London is a flat round hat, which
is a most ingenious device of coquetry. It heightens
beauty and diminishes ugliness; it confers grace
and play to the features. It is impossible to tell
you all the varied effects an Englishwoman can
derive from her hat. Curiously enough, the hat is
not worn on State occasions, and neither at Court
nor at assemblies, nor even in the premières loges of
the theatre, and its place is taken by French feathers.
I was just wondering whence the piece of orange
peel had proceeded when I saw a man come from
behind the scenes with a large broom in his hand.
Knowing that Shakespeare makes use of everything
that pertains to human life, I thought that
“Hamlet” was going to begin by a sweeping scene.
I was mistaken. It was only a servant who was
cleaning the front of the stage, which I now noticed
was covered with the remains of the feast of oranges
and apples which was taking place in the upper
gallery, and of which my sister had received a small
sample on her hat.
At last the play began. Not having the good
fortune to understand the English language, I
could not follow one word of the dialogue. But
I am told that the play gains rather than loses by
being translated, though our Anglomaniacs say it is
untranslatable. But I have now read the play in
M. Letourneur’s translation. The play is sheer
madness—nay, more, it is the wildest and most
extravagant thing that a madman could devise in a
fit of delirium. Towards the end of the play only
six characters remain alive, and they all die a violent
death. The King and the Queen are poisoned on
the stage. Hamlet, after having assassinated the
Lord Chamberlain and his son, dies himself of a
poisoned wound. His lady-love throws herself out
of the window and is drowned; the Ghost, who
enlivens this farrago of horrors, was poisoned himself
(in the ear).
Lest the spectators should be overcome by so
many murders, the “divine” Shakespeare has given
them moments of relief in the person of the Lord
Chamberlain, who is a coarse buffoon, and the conversation
of the grave-diggers, who, while they
crack their insipid jests, dig a real grave, throw real
black earth on to the stage, of the same colour and
substance as that which is found in churchyards,
full of real bones and real skulls. In order to give
an effect of reality, there are some large skulls and
some small ones. Hamlet recognizes one as having
belonged to a clown whom he knew. He seems to
caress it, and to moralize over it. And these horrors,
and the still more disgusting pleasantry, seemed
vastly to please the upper gallery, the pit, and even
the boxes. The people who were near me and
behind me stood up on their seats and craned forward
to look, and one man, in order to see better,
lifted himself up by pulling my hair.
What strikes me most in thinking of this performance
is the contrast that exists in England
between the mildness and the leniency of the
English customs and legislation in criminal matters,
and the barbarity and savagery of the entertainments
in their playhouses. On the same morning
that “Hamlet” was performed, the execution of
Dr. Dodd was carried out at Tyburn. Doctor
Dodd was a minister of the Church, highly respected
for his eloquence. He had been Aumonier
to the King, and cherished the ambition of becoming
a bishop. With this object, he had caused his wife
to offer the sum of a thousand guineas to the wife
of a Minister. The transaction was discovered and
Dr. Dodd was dismissed from his post, but still
retained a living. He had been the tutor of a son
of a man who is well known here, Lord Chesterfield,
and in the name of the young lord he signed
a bond of four thousand guineas. This was also
discovered, and it constitutes what they here call
the crime of forgery, for which Dr. Dodd was condemned
to death. In spite of many petitions the
sentence was carried out yesterday, June 27. I
assisted at the execution. A stranger accustomed
to the terror-inspiring machinery, to the noise and
fuss with which, in the rest of Europe, the decrees of
justice are executed, and which are designed to serve
as a terrible example, would be astonished at the
manner in which it is done here. Here there are
no soldiers, no representatives of the army, no outward
signs of ferocity, no preliminary torture.
Here that humanity, which the law seems to forget
from the moment the judge has uttered the
word guilty—by letting a long delay elapse between
the pronouncement of the sentence and the execution—reappears
as soon as the prison opens its
doors and delivers the prisoner to the sheriffs, who
are charged with carrying out the sentence. The
sheriffs are not military men; they have no mercenaries
under them, but merely a certain number of
constables, ordinary bourgeois, whose only uniform
consists in a long stick painted and partially gilded.
The victim, bound, without constraint, by the
cord which is to hang him, is seated on a cart draped
in black, or he may obtain leave to use a carriage,
and this is what was done yesterday. The carriage
passed slowly up Oxford Street, one of the longest
and broadest streets of London. The prisoner had
no escort, save a small number of constables on
foot, and some sheriffs on horseback. He is condemned
by the law, it is the law which leads him to
death. The officers show no signs, either of threatening
or fear, lest the people should oppose themselves
to a severity which has their safety for object.
The immense crowd which fills the streets,
especially in a case like this one, which has been so
much talked about, maintains a respectful silence.
When they arrived at Tyburn Dr. Dodd left his
carriage and mounted on a cart which stopped
under the horizontal beam of the gallows. The
executioner then appeared, untied the rope, and
attached it to the transverse beam. The victim
conversed with a minister of the Church, who recalled
his crime, and spoke of the necessity of
expiation. After a short pause, the executioner
covered the victim’s head with a handkerchief,
which he drew down to his chin. The first sheriff
made a sign; the executioner touched the horse,
the cart went on, and the work of execution was
thus almost imperceptibly accomplished. After the
body has remained hanging for an hour it is cut
down and restored to the relatives of the deceased.
He is then no longer a culprit, but a citizen who
regains the rights he had forfeited by crime. His
memory is not held in obloquy; for instance, the
brother of Dr. Dodd succeeded to his living on
the recommendation of Lord Chesterfield.
Now to return to the playhouse and “Hamlet.”
How is it that a people which abhors bloodshed in
general, which fears murder, to whom poison and
assassination are unknown, and which carries regard
even towards the criminal to the extent I have
described, can take pleasure in theatrical spectacles
as barbarous and revolting as their own? The
executions at London seem but games. The
tragedies of the playhouse, on the other hand, are
butcheries, causing even such spectators as are
familiar with bloodshed to shudder.
It is only fair to say that those Englishmen who
have read and travelled are slightly embarrassed
when a foreigner, who has heard the extravagant
praises paid to the “divine” Shakespeare, comes
to London to see for himself the works of this
genius. They tell us that the populace are the
lords of the English stage, and that they must needs
be pleased. It is their depraved taste, we are told,
which maintains these spectacles which would empty
the theatres in any other country. I am quite ready
to believe it; but then it is only drunken sailors who
should be asked to admire Shakespeare, since it is
only by drunken sailors that his altars are supported.
On the other hand, I cannot help adding that
educated society shares to a certain extent the
prejudice of the rabble, since it shares their pleasures.
The boxes are always full when Shakespeare
is on the bill, and last night the play was well
received; the disgusting jokes and the extravagant
ravings duly listened to and applauded by men,
women, lawyers, merchants, lords, and sailors. One
and all they seemed to breathe with delight the
obnoxious vapours of that earth which is made up
of the remains of corpses. Compare this deliberate
brutality, which educated men have tried to justify
in books, with the mildness of the penal laws and
the real executions, and explain it if you can! As
for me, I will not visit the playhouse again until
the question is solved.
HERR MÜLLER — Letter from Sir Richard C—— to his Cousin
Rome, January 4, 1787.
I have been here a fortnight and have been able
more or less to look round. I wrote a long letter
to Horace yesterday in which I described at great
length the journey from Venice, so I will not repeat
to you what I have already written to him.
Rome is a great deal altered since I was here last,
ten years ago. It is being spoilt, and such damage
as the Goths and Vandals left undone is now being
accomplished by the modern architects. I am afraid
that by the time the next generation is grown up
the beautiful Rome that we have known and loved
will have entirely disappeared, and that when our
sons and daughters make the pilgrimage which we
looked upon as the reward of our studies and the
greatest privilege of our youth, they will find a new
city, elegant no doubt, and not without grandeur,
but devoid of that special charm, that rare and
solemn dignity, which clothed the city as we knew
it. Of course, certain of the monuments and works
of art will always remain, and nothing can prevent
Nature from performing her careless miracles. No
defacing hand will be allowed to touch the trees
that grow in the Coliseum, or to desecrate the
verdure and the luxuriant vegetation which is
allowed to run riot in the baths of Caracalla. Again,
no modern artist will be allowed to lay hands on
the grassy Forum, or to intrude upon the Gardens
of the Borghese Palace which remind one of the
fabled meadows and parterres of Elysium. But it
is in the body of the city that the barbarians of the
present day are allowed to commit their impious
sacrilege, and it is not only a melancholy and bitter
task to trace the remains of antiquity in the Rome
of to-day, but it is even difficult to recognize in
what now exists the city as she was when we were
last here together.
The weather has so far not been very favourable.
The sirocco is blowing, and daily brings with it a
quantity of rain, but it is warm, warmer than it ever
is in London. Rome is, I need scarcely tell you, very
full of visitors at this moment, and it is especially
crowded with our dear countrymen, whom I sedulously
try to avoid, for I have not come to Rome,
as do so many of our friends, for the purpose of
continuing London life, and of hearing and helping
to increase the scandal and the tittle-tattle with
which we are only too familiar. It is for this reason
that I have thus far shunned society, and the only
people I have seen are artists and students, of
whom there are many. Most of them are Germans,
and several of these have received me with great
civility and kindness, and afforded me much useful
assistance in visiting the museums and conducting
my trifling researches.
So far I have not seen much. The new museum
is a very fine institution, and possesses many treasures.
I have visited the ruins of the palace of the
Caesars, the Coliseum, which impressed me more
than ever by its size and solemnity, the Sistine
Chapel, and St. Peter’s, on to the roof of which I
climbed in order to enjoy the view.
The theatres are opened once more, and a few
nights ago I went to the opera. Anfossi is here, and
they gave “Alessandro nel Indie” (which is tedious)
followed by a ballet representing the Siege and Fall
of Troy, which I greatly enjoyed. I have also seen,
since I have been here, Goldoni’s “Locandiera.”
As you know, all parts here are played by men;
and all the dancers in the ballet are men also.
They act with ease and naturalness, and their facial
play is especially remarkable.
From the moment I arrived in Rome until
yesterday I was oppressed and somewhat saddened
by the feeling—whether this was the result of the
sirocco or of the shock of seeing so many unexpected
changes I do not know—that I was not in any way
in touch with Rome. I never seemed to say to
myself “This is Rome indeed!” nor to experience
that peculiar charm which I remember feeling so
acutely when I was here last. It was in vain that I
brooded over the ruins, admired the monuments
of antiquity, and the masterpieces of the Italian
painters; it was in vain that I lingered on the
Palatine in the twilight, or roamed in the Baths of
Diocletian. I admired with my reason, but I did
not feel with my heart as before. Something was
wanting. But yesterday the magic returned.
I went for a walk by myself along the Appian
Way to the tomb of Metella. It was a gray day;
it had been raining nearly all the morning, but by
the time I started the rain had ceased, though a
layer of high, piled-up clouds remained; the air
was mild and almost sultry.
I walked along the Appian Way, and the desolation
of the Campagna, with its fragments of broken
arches, its ruined aqueducts and the distant hills,
which on a day like this seem curiously near and
distinct, came over me. In the distance, above
Rome itself, the clouds had slightly lifted, and St.
Peter’s was lit up by a watery gleam of light. I
cannot describe to you the beauty and the melancholy
of the scene.
All at once, while I was standing by the grassy
plain and looking towards Rome, I became aware of
a plaintive sound: a Roman shepherd boy dressed
in sheepskins was tootling one or two monotonous
notes on a wooden pipe. His music seemed to
complete the landscape, and to express the very
spirit of the Campagna, which brings home to me
the Rome of ancient days more poignantly and
more nearly than all monuments and museums.
The veil which had hung over me during all
these days was abruptly lifted. The old spell and
the old charm returned, and I could say to myself:
“This is Rome! I have at last found what I was
seeking.”
I had remained for some time musing, when I
suddenly noticed that a man was sitting not far
from me, seated on a stool and making a sketch
in water-colour of a broken archway. He had been
there the whole time, but I had not noticed him.
I do not know why, but I felt a desire to speak
to some one, and I approached him and asked in
French if he could tell me the time. He answered
me civilly, and by his accent I perceived that he
was a German, one of the artists no doubt who are
here so numerous, although I did not remember
having seen him before. He was extremely handsome—I
should say between thirty and forty—and
though his face was young, his eyes had a penetrating
sadness about them, an almost tragic expression,
as though they had sounded bitter depths of
experience.
We fell into conversation, and he told me that
he was a German, that his name was Müller, and
that he was spending some months in Rome. I
said that I presumed he was an artist; he replied
that he was only now learning the rudiments of
the art of drawing, but that he had begun too late,
and that he would never be anything but a dilettante.
As he spoke he folded up his sketching-book,
for it was already too dark to draw, and we walked
towards the city together. He said he had never
been to Rome before, but that he had been
steeped ever since his youth in the culture of antiquity,
and the monuments and the pictures which
he had seen since his arrival were to him like
old friends with whom he had frequently corresponded,
but whom he had never seen in the flesh.
But all previous study, he said, as far as Rome
was concerned, struck him as being ineffectual as
soon as he arrived in the city, because he was sure
that it is only in Rome itself that one can prepare
oneself to study Rome. He had not been here
many weeks, but so far, the three things which had
impressed him most were the Rotunda, which he
considered the thing most spiritually great he had
seen, St. Peter’s, and the Apollo Belvidere, which
he thought, as a work of genius, was the greatest
of all; for although he had seen innumerable casts
of this work, and indeed possessed one himself, it
was as though he had never seen the statue before.
I told him that he was to be congratulated on never
having seen Rome before, since his impressions
would not be marred by the memories of a Rome
more unspoiled and more charming. He said that
he was only too keenly aware of the havoc which
the modern architects had wrought, and that he
feared that in twenty years’ time Rome would be
unrecognizable.
“But perhaps,” he added, “we are mistaken.
Rome has an assimilative power so great that
it is able to suffer any amount of alteration, vandalism,
superstructure, and addition, without losing
anything of its eternal character and divinity.
In Rome there is a continuity with which nothing
can interfere.” And he added that he thought there
was something in the atmosphere, the vegetation,
the very grass and the weeds of the place which
acted like a spell and softened what was ugly and
modern, reconciled all differences, and reduced all
discords into an eternal harmony which was the
genius of the city.
We talked of other matters also, and I found
that he was well versed in ancient and modern
literature, and had an intimate knowledge of
English. He admired the plays of Shakespeare;
with Dryden he was less well acquainted, but he
possessed a knowledge very striking in a foreigner
of the untrodden byways of our literature. For
instance, he told me that he had read the plays of
Marlowe with great interest, especially the tragical
history of Dr. Faustus. This, he told me, was a
favourite theme for German writers; in the last
few years there had been almost a hundred plays
written on the subject.
I asked him if he wrote himself. He said he
had done so, and had begun many books, but that
he found it difficult to finish them.
“I have dabbled,” he said, “in art, in science,
and in literature; they all interest me equally. But
I am affected by the malady of our age, which is
dilettantism, and I fear I shall be nothing but a
dilettante all my life.”
I asked him if he was engaged on any literary
labour at present. He said he was thinking of
writing a poem on the subject of Dr. Faustus, and
that he had indeed already written fragments of it.
I expressed my surprise that he should choose a
subject which he had himself told me had already
been used by a multitude of writers. He then
smiled, and said:
“Everything has been thought and everything
has been said already. What we have to do is to
think it and to say it again. The Greeks,” he went
on, “never bothered themselves to search for new
subjects. They wrote new plays on old themes.
Likewise many generations of painters found sufficient
subject-matter in the Madonna and Child.
I mean,” he said, “to follow their example. Dr.
Faustus shall be for me what the Madonna and
Child were to them.”
We separated at the gate, after a most pleasant
conversation. Herr Müller expressed a wish to
see me again, and he told me that he was staying
with an artist called Tishbein.
January 6.
I received this morning your letter dated December
18. I shall stay here until the Carnival, and
then to Naples, where, they say, Vesuvius is in
eruption. The German artist whom I met the
other day turns out to be a celebrity. His real
name is Goethe, and he is the author of “The
Sorrows of Werther,” a book which you have
probably not read, but of which you must certainly
have heard, for it created a considerable stir about
(I think) twelve years ago.
HEINE IN PARIS — Fragment of an unpublished letter from Lady G—— to Lord C——
Paris, 183—.
My dear Uncle H——,
We arrived in Paris last night.... (Here I omit
a passage regarding the children of a family some
of whom still survive.) Last night we spent a
very agreeable evening at Madame Jaubert’s. There
were a great many people present, for we had been
invited to meet the celebrated Bellini. There were
many people I did not know, and many others who
were introduced to me whose names did not reach
me. Signor Bellini himself came early. His appearance
is charming; he is just like a fat child, pink
and white, amiable and good-natured, and not in
the least conceited or pretentious. Soon afterwards
Prince and Princess Belgiojoso arrived. This was
the first time I had set eyes on the Princess. Her
beauty and the grace of her person have not, indeed,
been exaggerated. She resembles a classical statue,
but her face has an expression which recalls later
and more romantic times. Her features are regular,
but there is something mysterious and rather
strange about her face and her dark orbs. Her
hair is like ebony, but her skin is very white,
and she smiles with a kind of wearied look, as
though she were a Chinese idol. Her hands and
her hair are most beautiful, and she walks into
a room as if there could not be the slightest doubt
that she is the most beautiful woman there. And
this is true, although perhaps she is too slender.
She was elegantly dressed in violet velvet, trimmed
with fur, which showed her graceful figure and
disappeared in the folds of a black skirt; she wore
a black lace mantilla, which she took off when she
came into the room. She talks well, and her voice
is musical, but, at the same time, it has a cold
ring like a crystal glass being tapped. Of course
one could not help seeing that she was agreeable
and accomplished, but I could not restrain a wicked
wish to see her dethroned from her pedestal. It
is impossible to say that she gives herself airs, but
at the same time there is something irritating
about her beauty.
As soon as they arrived, Madame Jaubert took
the Prince to the pianoforte and said he must sing
a duet with Madame de Vergennes, and that it
should be the duet out of the “Pirate,” as Bellini
was there. The Prince said that he was loth to
sing before the Master, but Madame Jaubert appealed
to Bellini, and they both succeeded in persuading
him. Madame de Vergennes herself accompanied
at the pianoforte. The Prince has a
real tenor voice, his méthode is excellent, and they
sang the duet as it should be sung. Madame
Jaubert said to me that if you ask musicians to
a party you must let them play an active part at
once in public, but if, on the other hand, you invite
politicians and literary men it is best to place
them in corners and let them talk.
Bellini was childish about the music: he danced
with delight when they had finished, and clapped
his hands and said: “Do sing it again!” Somebody
suggested their singing a French song, but
Bellini said: “No, no, please sing some more of
my own music: I do enjoy it so much more,
and you know it is much better.” So they sang
something from “Norma,” and after that the trio
from “The Comte Ory,” in which the Prince,
M. du Tillet, and a young girl took part, with
Madame de Vergennes at the pianoforte.
When the trio was over, Madame Jaubert interrupted
the music, although we were all anxious
to hear more, I myself among others; but she took
me aside and whispered to me that you must
always stop music before people have had enough,
because the moment they have one second too
much of it they will go away with the impression
that they have spent a tiresome evening. I
think she was right. But there was a young man
there, a M. de Musset—he writes—who was both
obstinate and persistent, and never ceased for a
moment asking for more. Madame Jaubert was
firm and turned a deaf ear to him. This young
man was introduced to me: he is good-looking
and well-mannered, but sulky and overdressed.
He is in love with Princess Belgiojoso, and this
I suppose affected him on this occasion because
she was paying but scant attention to him, and
talked incessantly to Major Fraser, who was there.
Gradually the greater part of the people took
their departure, and we all sat down round the
table in a small room and talked about table-turning
and spirits. Then, I forget how, the conversation
turned upon caricatures, and Princess Belgiojoso
said, with a lovely smile, that nobody had ever been
able to caricature her. Upon which M. de Musset
instantly accepted the challenge and said he would
make a caricature of the Princess at once. He
fetched a scrap-book which was in the room, and
a pencil, and on a blank page, drew, in four strokes,
her face and figure in profile, exaggerating her
thinness and making an enormous black eye. It
exactly resembled her; we all craned over the table
to look at it, and she took up the book and said
in a tone of the utmost indifference: “Really, M. de
Musset, it is unfair that you should have all the
talents,” and she shut the book.
Madame Jaubert took the book and put it away,
and I heard her whisper to M. de Musset: “You
have burnt your boats.” He turned round and
looked at the Princess and his eyes filled with tears,
and at that moment I felt that I could have gladly
chastised her.
After that we went in to supper. Almost everybody
had gone; the only people who remained
were Prince and Princess Belgiojoso, M. de Musset,
Major Fraser, Mlle. de Rutières, a lovely Créole,
the Comte d’Alton-Shée, Bellini, and Herr Heine,
the German writer. I sat between him and Prince
Belgiojoso. M. de Musset was on Madame Jaubert’s
left, Bellini and the Princess were sitting
opposite us.
Herr Heine, like all Germans, is a trifle tiring
and long-winded; of course he is cultivated and
accomplished, and they say he has written most
interesting books, but I cannot read a word of
German. He talks French well, but he is heavy
and continues a subject long after one has sufficiently
discussed it. This is so different from
the French, who skate over every topic so lightly
and never dwell too long on any subject, and
understand what you want to say before you
have half said it. All the same, you see at once
that he is an interesting man, and every now and
then he says something truly remarkable. He
wears big spectacles, and his hair, which is very
fair, is cut straight and is rather long and bunches
over his low collar. He astonished everybody at
supper by saying that the perpetual praise of
Goethe and Byron tired him.
“I cannot understand you Parisians,” he said,
“when you talk about poetry. You go out of the
way to search out and idolize all sorts of foreign
poets when you have got a real native poet who is
worth all these foreigners put together.” Somebody
said “Victor Hugo.” “Nothing of the sort,”
he answered, “Victor Hugo is like a wheel which
turns round and round in space without any intellectual
cog-wheel. It is all words, words, words.
But he has no thought and no real feeling. He is
screaming at the top of his voice about nothing.”
“Then who is our great poet?” asked Madame
Jaubert.
“Why, M. de Musset, of course,” said Herr
Heine.
We all laughed, and Madame Jaubert said it
was a very pretty compliment. M. de Musset himself
appreciated the joke quite as much as we did.
But they say he really does write very well, rather
in the same manner as Lord Francis Egerton.
M. de Musset remained sulky all through supper.
Once or twice he said things across the table
to Princess Belgiojoso, and she answered him as if
she were an empty portfolio from which her real
self was absent. We talked about music; Herr
Heine said we were all barbarians as far as music
was concerned; that it was true the Italians had
a notion of what tune meant, but that the French,
and especially the Parisians, did not know the
difference between music and pastry. Somebody
asked him how he could say such things after what
we had heard that evening, and appealed to Bellini
as to whether his music had ever been better interpreted.
“Ah, Bellini is a genius,” said Herr Heine, and
he turned to him and added: “You are a great
genius, Bellini, but you will have to expiate your
genius by an early death. You are condemned to
die. All great geniuses die young—very young,
and you will die like Raphael and Mozart.”
“Don’t talk like that! for Heaven’s sake don’t
say that!” said Bellini. “Please do not speak
about death. Forbid him to talk like that,” he said
to the Princess.
“Perhaps my fears are groundless,” Herr Heine
said to the Princess. “Perhaps Bellini is not a
genius after all. Besides which I have never heard
a note of his music. I purposely came in this
evening after it was all over. Is he a genius,
Princess? What do you think?” Then he addressed
himself again to Bellini: “Let us hope,
my dear friend, that the world has made a mistake
about you, and that you are not a genius after all.
It is a bad thing to be. It is the gift of the wicked
fairy. The good fairies have given you every other
gift, the face of a cherub, the simplicity of a child,
and the digestion of an ostrich. Let us hope the
bad fairy did not come in and spoil it all by giving
you genius.”
Bellini laughed, but I suspect he did not appreciate
the joke.
Princess Belgiojoso said that Herr Heine had no
right to talk like that, for he was a poet himself.
“A poet, yes,” he answered, “but not a
genius. That is quite a different thing. I have
never been accused of that, not even in my own
country.”
“But no man is a prophet in his own country,”
said Madame Jaubert.
“I am neither a prophet in my own country
nor in any one else’s,” said Herr Heine. “My
countrymen think I am frivolous, and the French
think I am German and heavy. When I am with
people like you they think I am an old professor,
and when I am with professors they consider I am
a frivolous mondain. When I am with Conservatives
I am reckoned a Revolutionary, and by
Revolutionaries I am considered a Reactionary.
And when I am among the geniuses,” he said,
bowing with an ironical smile towards Bellini, “I
become a pedant, a philosopher, and an ignoramus,
almost as bad as M. Cousin.”
“I wondered,” said Madame Jaubert, “whether
we should get through the evening without an allusion
to M. Cousin.”
“When I die,” said Herr Heine, “I should
like a stool to be placed on either side of my tomb,
with an inscription: ‘Here lies a man who fell
from Heaven between two stools.’”
“Geniuses,” said M. de Musset....
(The end of the letter is missing)
P.S.—Bellini died suddenly to-day, so Herr
Heine’s prophecy came true.
SMITH MAJOR — Letter from a Private Schoolboy to a Public Schoolboy
St. James, March 4, 1885.
Dear Chinee,
Thanks awfuly for your letter. Eton must be
jolly. I am glad I’m coming next term instead of
at Micalmass. I shall be glad to leave this beastly
hole. Wilson ma. has got a scholarship at Westminster
and we were going to have a whole
holiday extra only now its stopped worse luck!
Yesterday the Head went to London and Mac
sent a message to the First Div. to say we wernt
to dig in Wilderness while the Head was away.
Middleton brought the message and Wilson ma.
told him to go and ask Mac if the message was
genuine. Middleton thought he was ragging but
he said: “You must take my message you Second
Division squit if you don’t I’ll smack your head.”
So Middleton did. Mac was in an awful wax and
sent for Wilson and asked him what he meant by
it. Wilson said it was a joke—he never thought
Middleton would take the message.
When the Head came back we were all sent for
after tea and there was a pi-jaw. Wilson had his
First Div. privileges taken away for the rest of the
term, and the Holiday was stopped.
The other day Mason missed three Guatemalar
green parrots from his stamp collexion which he had
swoped with Jackson for a toad. It was a beastly
swindel because the toad was blind. Jackson who
is always sucking up to Colly sneeked about the
stamps and Mac said he knew it was someone in
his Div. who had bagged the stamps and if the
chap didn’t own up he’d give the whole Div. an
electric shock with his beastly battery.
Nobody owned up and the whole Second Div.
had to join hands and they said Mac gave them
the biggest shock theyd ever had. They didnt
care but when it was over Middleton took the
battery and threw it at Mac’s head. We all thought
hed be expelled but Mac didn’t even sneek to the
Head which was jolly decent of him. Mac can be
awfully decent sometimes. After this Butler began
to blub and then he said he had bagged the stamps
but he meant to give them back. Mac told Butler
he would find himself in Queer Street. We all
knew what that meant and didnt we just tell him!
Nothing happened till Monday morning—then at
reeding over the Head gave the Second Div. a
jaw. He said they were mutinus and as bad as
feenians—a feenian is a man who eats mustard with
mutton—and that Butler was a thief and a traitor
worse than Gladstone. Butler’s pater is a liberal
and some of the chaps say he’s a pal of Gladstone’s
and you can just think how the Head gave it him.
Butler was swished. Simpson ma. and Pearse held
him down and he squeeled like anything. The
Head gave him fifteen from the shoulder which
Gordon says is against the law. The Head had a
glass of shery before the swishing.
Last week there was elexions going on. The
Head got a notice from the Reding Club asking
him to vote for the Lib. Wasnt he waxy! He
read us out the letter at tea and jawed about the
Church and State and said he would send back the
letter with some coppers in it so that they would
have to pay 8d. He said a radical was worse than
a feenian. We were taken to the elexion and we
all wore blue ribbons in our buttonholes. The Libs
werent allowed to go. There are only seven but I
believe Rowley’s pater is a lib. although he swears
he isnt.
Next week we are going to have athletic sports.
I think I shall win the hurdel race and the high.
Campbell’s sister’s name is Ann. Mason saw it at
the end of a letter. Now we all call him Mary
Ann. He’s awfully sick about it.
There’s a new chap called Gunter—a little beast.
He’s the cheekiest squit I’ve ever seen. Colly
reported him for stealing sugar from the pantry
and he was warned that if he did anything again
he would be turned out of the choir and swiped
although it was his first term. He has got cheek!
He called Alston who is now top of the First
Div. and captain of the Eleven, Piggy. Alston
smacked his head. Fancy a Fourth Div. squit
calling Alston piggy! Only the Head dares do
that. He’s awfully dirty too and never washes.
Colly nabbed him smacking Melton mi. with a
slipper and he was reported again so he was swished.
The Head said it was the first time a new chap had
ever been swished and afterwards he kicked the
Head’s straw hat through the Hall. We don’t
know yet what will happen but we think he’ll be
expeled.
I got into a row with Mac last week. While
we were having tea he passed up that Bell and me
were to stop talking. It never got to us and Mac
sent for me afterwards and said he knew what I
was up to and I’d better look out or I’d find myself
in Queer Street and he stopped me talking for a
week.
The Head’s reading us out an awfully good Book
called “Tresure Island” and he’s just finished a
better one called “The Last Abot of Glasconbury.”
In the First Div. we do have to swot but in the
First Set with Colly for maths and French we don’t
do a stroke of work. You should hear Lambert
the frenchy cheek him. He goes up to him and
asks him whether one ought to pronounce yeux
youks or yeks and Colly doesn’t dare pronounce
it and says he ought to know. Then Lambert
says “I’ve forgotten Sir I really don’t know how
to.”
Yesterday in school we lit some patent pills
which you burn and a snake comes out. Colly
who is awfully blind asked what I was doing. I
just had time to put it in my desk and said I had
dropped my pen. Only one bung and he believed
it! On Valentine’s Day we sent Colly some sweets
with biter alows inside them the stuff Mac puts
on Watson’s fingers when he bites his nails and
he eat them.
Last week the Choir expedition came off. They
went to Reding to see the biskits made and then
to Bath. If I was staying on next term I should
be in the Eleven and get my flanels.
I forgot to tell you another awful row there’s
been. Hetherington who is a new chap sits next
to Ferguson at dinner. Ferguson always bags his
sausage at breakfast on Sundays. The other day
the Matron found a letter in Ferguson’s drawer
written by Hetherington to Ferguson saying,
“Dear Mister Ferguson. May I please have my
sausage next Sunday. I’m so hungry.” Ferguson
was swished but he didn’t care a rap. The Head
says he’s callus. I had an awfully good catty. I
shot Hichens mi. in the back of his head by mistake
and it bled awfuly. I thought I was in for it but
the Head only bagged my catty for the rest of the
term. We sent for a lot of snakes and green lizzards
from Covent Garden and most of us bought some.
I bought a Salamander but it died. Up to the
Head one can’t keep a toad in one’s desk as we
used to when we were in Colly’s div. We still
have Hashed Cat and Dead Fly pudding on Thursdays
and nobody eats it and Mac still asks us
why we arnt hungry. But I’m in training now for
the sports and don’t eat pudding at all. None of
us do.
Please write and tell me about the sort of things
a chap ought to know before going to Eton.
Yours ever, P. Smith.
I’m Smith ma. now because my minor’s here.
He isnt bad.
FROM SATURDAY TO MONDAY — Letter from a Frenchwoman to an English Friend in Italy
Hotel Ritz, London. Monday, June 1909.
My very dear Mary,
Here is the second tome of my first impressions
of your country and your compatriots, which I
promised to share with you. After the town the
country! After one day of the London season, the
English country life, the home, the Sunday at
home! I have spent what you call a Saturday week-end,
or a Sunday over. I will relate you all my
adventures, and tell you in all frankness the good
and the bad.
The sister of our dear Jackie invited me for the
Saturday week-end to her beautiful chateau. By misfortune
our dear Jackie was prevented from coming
himself. He was kept all Sunday at the Foreign
Office to help to copy out telegrams! Is it not ignoble
to spoil his holiday like that? Jackie, who has so
little holiday, and who works so hard in Paris!
His sister—perhaps you know her—is Lady Arlington,
the wife of Sir Arlington. Their chateau
is in Surrey. I had never been presented to her,
but she wrote me most amiably and proposed three
trains I might take. I chose the first, which arrived
at half-past four, and found an auto at the station.
After five minutes we arrived at the chateau, which
is fine, but rather heavy: style, Louis XIV, outside.
In the interior, a mixture—Queen Elizabeth,
Vandyke, Maple, Modern style, Morris. Je n’aime
pas les mélanges. But the English comfort always
seduces me. The chintzes, the flowers, the nick-nacks,
the thousand little nothings! Oh, it is
charming! When I arrived I was shown into a
large hall, all panelled (the panelling repainted)
with some fine pictures (some Vandykes and a
Sir Joshua) and some horrors. And a picture of
Lady Arlington by a modern French painter; a
nightmare like a coloured photograph! There was
a large tea table and a buffet all prepared, but neither
the master nor the mistress of the house there to
receive me. In the corner of the room a pale
young man was sitting reading a book. He got
up when I entered and looked embarrassed and
said nothing. I did not know whether it was Sir
Arlington or not. Then he said: “It has stopped
raining; I think I will go out.” And he abandoned
me to my fate!
I waited five minutes, ten minutes, one quarter
of an hour; then Lady Arlington entered. She is
not like Jackie at all, but a blonde, very tall, handsome,
and striking. She was dressed simply (but
not well) in white serge, and I was embarrassed,
because they had told me the English were all that
is most elegant for Saturday week-ends, and I was
very dressed, with a big hat, with a lace veil, and
... (a page of technical details omitted). Lady
Arlington was most amiable, and did not seem at
all embarrassed at not having been there to receive
me. She gave me tea.
Presently other guests entered; they had all
been at Ascot Races—some of them staying in this
house, others coming in their autos from neighbouring
chateaux. They were all simply dressed,
the men in tennis. I felt red with shame to be
the only one dressed. Lady Arlington did not
present one single person to me. Two pretty
young women arrived (one a real Sir Joshua and
the other a Greuze), and an older lady—very
handsome—who began to talk politique. Also
a great many men, most of them bald although
young; they all sat down and we drank tea. Then
the master of the house arrived, a tall man with a
beard, très, très bien, like a Vandyke. He seemed
timid. Lady Arlington said to him: “You know
Madame,” and then stopped, as though she had
forgotten my name.
We of course talked of dear Jackie at once, but
when I said it was a shame to disturb his holiday,
Lady Arlington said, “Oh yes,” as though
she did not understand. Then a man who had not
been presented to me began to talk to me. He is
no longer in his first youth, but very beautiful and
gentle like a seigneur in a Pinturicchio, and we
discussed Sargent’s pictures and art in general. I
found him very well-informed, intelligent, and
even erudite; he has written a book about Villon.
Then more people arrived: an old man with a
beard, who my “Italian nobleman” whispered to
me was Wreathall, the celebrated novelist. He
is, between us, a raseur, and told stories enough
to make one sleep about ghosts in a kitchen.
There also arrived two American ladies, one a
real American, full of life; the other just like
an Englishwoman, and, to speak the truth, one
would not have known she was American except
by her clothes; she was dressed well, just like
a Frenchwoman.
Then came some sportsmen, some clubmen, and
a little man with a pince-nez. They all talked together
about their friends, calling everybody by
their little names; for example, Janie, and Letty,
and Tommy, and Bobbie, so all that was Greek to
me. Soon everybody disappeared into the garden
by twos, and I was left alone with Lady Arlington
and my “Italian nobleman!” The pale young
man who was there when I arrived gave a glance
into the hall and went out again. Lady Arlington
told me he was a celebrated M.P., and very remarkable.
I continued to discuss art and history,
in which he was so strong, with my “Italian nobleman,”
until at last Lady Arlington said she was
sure I would like rest, and she conducted me to my
bedroom, a ravishing room furnished with all the
English comfort, looking over the superb garden
with its admirable lawns.
I was glad to go to my room, so as to have
plenty of time to make my toilet, because they had
told me the English are so exact. I disembarrass
myself of my things and put on a dressing-gown.
I lie down, and presently I hear cries from the
garden; I look out of the window and I see in
the distance they are playing at croquet with great
gaiety. I am almost tempted to go downstairs
once more, but as I am already undressed I have
not the energy; so I remain in my room and read
a book, and at half-past seven my maid comes, so
that I was ready almost before half-past eight, the
dinner hour. When the dinner gong rang, and I
left my room to descend, some of the men were
only just coming in from the garden. I was the
first downstairs.
There was no one in the salon except the little
man with the pince-nez. He said nothing at all at
first, but after five minutes he said he was glad it
had stopped raining, and after that not a word.
We did not sit down at table until nine. Sir
Arlington gave me the arm, and on the other side
was an oldish distinguished man with well cut
features, très bien, with good manners, but so
devoted to his neighbouress that he paid no attention
to me. She was a beauty, but dressed, it is
inconceivable! Fagotée, ma chère! If you could
have seen it! It was to cry about! Her dress was
made in Paris too, but all put on anyhow.
Sir Arlington is a delicious gentleman, but
distrait; he cares only for birds and animals,
and often undertakes long expeditions for sport
in Africa. I asked him who all the people were,
and imagine, he had no idea who was the small
man with the pince-nez, or several of the others.
He said: “Those are my wife’s literary friends;
they are very nice, but too clever for me.” He is
modest, like all the Englishmen. Lady Arlington
has, it appears, the mania for hommes de lettres as
well as for music, gardening, and a thousand other
things, although, between us, she is une sotte—bête
comme une oie et poseuse! and always making
exaggerated exclamations, such as How thrilling!
How darling! and always in ecstasy about
nothing. I talked with Sir Arlington nearly all
dinner, as my other neighbour was so occupied.
There was no general conversation, and we were
twenty-two at table.
After dinner, according to the British custom,
the ladies went into the drawing-room; they broke
up into groups, the young women sat on a sofa
and two or three others—the Americans also—grouped
themselves round them. The others talked
tête-à-tête. Lady Arlington sat beside me, with
another lady who seemed to be very pleased that
I was French, and just as we had begun to talk
Lady Arlington left us and joined the group by
the sofa. The lady who remained with me talked
of nothing but Paris and French things, and what
a salad! Cafés chantants, Réjane, De Bussy, Fursy,
and Maeterlinck, and all à côté! The men stayed
very late, but came out at last, and then Lady
Arlington arranged the Bridge. There were four
tables; everybody played except the M.P., who
sat down and began reading a book; the novelist,
who went to bed; the little man with the pince-nez,
who I discovered was a celebrated painter; my
“Italian nobleman,” and the political lady. She
took the M.P. away from his book, and settled
herself down in a corner with him for the rest of
the evening.
Lady Arlington took my “Italian nobleman”
apart and said something to him in a whisper, and
I heard him answer: “I have been talking to her
the whole afternoon.” Then she went up to the
painter and said something to him, and he came
and sat down beside me. We talked French literature
and theatres; he is intelligent, but twenty
years in behind about everything French, and
though I was told he was an homme d’esprit, I could
not understand his allusions nor his pleasantries.
The Bridge went on late; it was already half-past
twelve when we went to bed. Lady Arlington
asked me if I would have breakfast in my room,
but I, who wanted to see a real English breakfast,
decided to descend. I was resolved to make no
mistake about my clothes, so I came down the next
morning at ten in a dress I had got for the Mont
Dore, a simple jacket and a short skirt. Imagine
my astonishment! Everybody was dressed in muslins,
as elegant as possible, grandes toilettes. Lady
Arlington was dressed in white and silver and green
and gold, half décolletée, with a huge green hat. I
am not wicked, you know, but she looked like a
great white parrot with her blonde coiffure! It is
only English complexions which can support such
toilettes in the morning.
After breakfast Lady Arlington and the M.P.
went to the church; she said that afterwards she
would show me her “Friendship’s Garden,” which
I suppose is a garden reserved for her intimate
friends. The guests went into the garden and sat
under the trees in small groups; nearly every one
had a book, and I found that wherever I went I
made a desert, a vide, and everybody said they
must go and write letters. After a time I went
in doors, also to write letters, and in every drawing
room I found a tête-à-tête! I waited for Lady
Arlington, but Sir Arlington found me and asked
me to take a walk, and he took me to see his stables
and the park, which is a dream. I asked about the
garden, but he said that was his wife’s, and that
he did not occupy himself with it; but he showed
me all that was practical and interesting. It was
admirable. I came in all out of breath before the
lunch, and had just time to go upstairs and change
my dress.
This time I thought I would be right, and I put
on my most elegant Worth dress. But no! I
come downstairs, I find everybody sitting at the
lunch, and they have once more changed into short
skirts and flannels. It was despairing! There was
only one empty place left, between the painter and
the M.P. I talked French politique with him; he
was amiable, but I could not see what they find
remarkable in him.
After lunch the tennis; it was not very hot, and
Lady Arlington and some of the other guests
went out, and one of the young women (she who
was so pretty) quarrelled with one of the other
women, and although everybody tried to calm her,
she would not listen and went into the house,
crying, my dear, crying hot tears, and there she
remained for the rest of the afternoon! I did not
know what the drama was about. Then everybody
disappeared; the “Italian nobleman” (always so
well meaning and so modest) proposed to me to
look on at the tennis. We sat down on chairs
with the painter and the novelist until tea was
brought.
At tea another man arrived from London, a
lord, I forget his name, middle-aged and very gay;
he at once got himself presented to me; we played
a new game called croquet-golf until dinner. The
others did not seem to appreciate him so much,
perhaps he shocked the English reserve; he is
full of en-train and the English humour. At
dinner Sir Arlington again gave me the arm.
After dinner everybody played Bridge once more,
but I had the joy to find my friend the new
arrival, who talked to me the whole evening
and regaled me with his drollery, and made a
thousand farces, causing me to die of laughing,
simply (imagine how!) by drawing pigs with his
eyes shut!
This morning I returned to London, on which
I will write you further impressions soon. I adore
England, the men are so well informed and full
of humour, the women are beautiful, but why do
not they learn to put on clothes, and why are they
so dressed and yet so untidy? Oh how different
you are from us!
Your friend, Jeanne.
A RUSSIAN SAILOR — Letter from a Russian Sailor to his Brother
Cowes, July 23 (August 6), 1909. (St. Trafim’s Day.)
My dear brother Ivan,
I am alive and well, and I hope you are alive
and well, and that all the family are thriving, and
I beg you to greet my father, my stepmother, my
brother Andrew, my sister, little Peter, and all my
near ones from me. Please also greet Dimitri
Ivanovitch and Paul Borisovitch and Anna Nikolaevna.
We arrived yesterday in this country. It
belongs to the English, who possess so many
countries. Their great Queen is no longer alive,
but there is now a King in her place who is a blood
relation of our Emperor.
We were sent on shore yesterday to buy provisions.
Everything is very cheap, except vodka,
which costs three roubles a small bottle. But the
English drink a vodka of their own which is also
very dear, and they drink a kind of beer which we
do not care for much. The houses are all built of
brick and warmed with coal. Even the working
men live in stone houses and heat them with coal.
There is no wood anywhere. The houses and
the streets are kept clean, and the people, even
the gentry, obey the police, and are humble when
they are given orders. The English are Christians,
and like white men in all respects. They are not
heathens. Most of them are rich, and they have
many lacqueys who obey their masters like dumb
slaves, and dare not look them in the face when
they speak to them.
The English food is nasty, and there is little
to eat, although all eat meat every day, except
the very poor, who seldom receive alms from the
passers-by. There are here many beggars in the
streets, but nobody gives them food or money. We
gave a cripple a quarter of a rouble and he was
surprised.
There are many luxurious ships in the harbour
all painted white and pretty to look at. At night
they are lit up by electricity. The English Fleet
is here, too, and it is very big, and the ships are
fine, and we were heavy-hearted when we looked
at it and thought of our brave sailors who had been
obliged to fight like lions for their dear country.
But there is no help for it, and if Providence wills
we shall one day have another fleet bigger than
the first. The tide is strong here, and dangerous
for us who do not know where the rocks are, and
when we ask nobody can explain, for the English
do not speak Russian at all. I only know three
things in English: “Plenty whisky,” which means
vodka; “five o’clock,” which means shabash (all
over); and “alright,” which means “I thank
you.”
The English sailors are like ours, but they have
little to eat or drink. The laws are strict here,
and if a man who has taken drink walks about in
the streets he is put in prison. If that happened
in Russia we should mutiny. Moreover, it is forbidden
to smoke almost everywhere. This is
strange, as the English smoke a great deal; but
they are an obedient people, and clean. They respect
their laws.
On shore it is merry. There are many clowns
and acrobats dancing and singing, just as though
it were a fair. But the English do not know how
to sing, and they do not dance at all. Although
there is much merrymaking I have not seen one
drunken man, so much afraid are they of being put
in prison.
The English have a Duma, but an Englishman
who speaks Russian told us that it was just like
ours, and that they did nothing but talk there.
He also told us that the English women had
mutinied because so many of them had been put
in prison for beating the police, and that they were
being starved in the prisons until they should
submit. This seems to us cruel, but the English
are often not kind to women and animals, and
they say the women interfere in what is not their
business, just as they do at home.
The English have no army, only mercenaries
who are paid money. Some of them are niggers.
I asked the man who talked Russian why it was
that if men were paid so much to be soldiers every
one was not a soldier. He said that soldiers were
sent away to foreign climates, and that men did
not respect soldiers in England. It is also like that
in China. The sailors are much respected and much
loved, and they are all Englishmen, and white men,
and not mercenaries. They are merry people, too.
The English naval officers are clean shaven,
which makes them look very funny, but they are
good officers and know their business. The police
are dressed in long great-coats and carry no weapons,
because the English people are docile and submissive;
and they have few hooligans here, although
they say that in London there are many hooligans,
but these are hanged.
Yesterday we went to Portsmouth, a town, for
we could not buy what we wanted in this place,
which is only a village, although all the houses are
built of stone. Portsmouth is a beautiful town,
with many shops, palaces, theatres, and churches,
and full of beautiful women who are all married
to sailors. It is the custom of the place to obey
the sailors in everything, and not to rob them.
The English sailors are rich, much richer than
some of our generals. They spend their money
generously and treat everybody. They would be
robbed in Russia, but here everybody lives in
terror of the police, and I am told that if a
poor man is arrested there is no chance of his not
being condemned to prison. They are strict, so
they say, in their prisons, and the “unfortunates”
are not allowed even to speak to each other or to
smoke. Fancy this happening in Russia! If they
are very bad they are sent to America! But this
only happens to the very bad criminals.
The English are polite to strangers, but uncivil
among themselves. They never greet each
other, and even the naval officers never shake
hands with each other. When I first heard this I
did not believe it, as I thought only Turks behaved
like that, but it is true, and they do not seem to
mind. The gentry live quite apart from the common
people, but the common people do not mind,
and, indeed, they laugh at them openly, and call
them, so I was told, fools to their faces, and abuse
them and their mothers openly and without fear
of any unpleasantness. All this is because they
obey and respect the law, and it’s very well, but
we could not live in a country like this, because it
would sadden us.
Everything is in order here except the railways.
There the disorder is terrible. You buy no ticket
for your seat, and you cannot register your luggage.
But the guards are strict and never let even a poor
man travel without a ticket! That would be a bad
business for you, Ivan, who never take a ticket.
They tell me it is impossible to make any arrangement
with the railway guards because the Government
is powerful and they are afraid of being put
in prison.
I only travelled a short distance, but it was difficult
to get a seat in the train. And if I had had
any luggage it would certainly have been stolen,
as they will not allow you to take much luggage
in the carriage with you. The trains are bad.
Their first class is more uncomfortable than our
third class, because there is no room to lie down.
You can get tea everywhere; but the English do
not know how to make tea. It is thick and black
and bitter, like soup which has been kept too long.
They do not know how to make bread, and there
is no black bread. Their white bread is made of
starch and is not fit to eat. But since every one
eats meat this does not matter.
I cannot write any more. I am glad to have
travelled in foreign countries, and this is a clean
country and the people are friendly and all right;
but I shall be glad to get back to my native
land, for which my heart is weary, and to a place
where a man can do as he pleases. We always
heard much of English freedom, but a man in
prison in our country is freer than a man at large
here. I send you a dozen postcards which are very
beautiful. They did not cost much money.
Please greet my father, my stepmother, my
brother, my sister, little Peter, and all who are near
to me, as well as Dimitri Ivanovitch and Paul
Borisovitch. Please heaven, I shall return home
soon. To-day the English King and those who
are near to him will pay a visit to his Majesty the
Emperor (God bless him!) and his near ones, and
they will drink tea together. To-night we shall eat
and drink to their health, and if heaven pleases I
shall have drink taken. Heaven bless you and all.
I am, my dear brother Ivan, your affectionate
brother,
Basil.
CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
Transcriber’s Notes
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made
consistent when a predominant preference was found
in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced
quotation marks were remedied when the change was
obvious, and otherwise left unbalanced.
