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The volume gathers the surviving letters Edward FitzGerald wrote to his lifelong friend Fanny Kemble between mid‑1871 and three weeks before his death in 1883. The first eighty‑five pieces came from the estate of the late George Bentley, who helped publish them in The Temple Bar Magazine; the remainder were supplied by Mrs Kemble in 1883 and some previously appeared in FitzGerald’s posthumous Letters and Literary Remains (1889). The editor, William Aldis Wright, has arranged the correspondence as faithfully as possible to FitzGerald’s original handwriting, preserving his idiosyncratic punctuation and occasional capitalisation of nouns. Notes accompany the letters to clarify allusions and to insert excerpts from unpublished material, while the editor also explains the difficulty of dating many of the missives.
Written in a conversational, often self‑effacing style, the letters reflect the genteel yet intimate tone of Victorian epistolary exchange. FitzGerald’s humor, literary references, and occasional domestic anecdotes are balanced by Kemble’s famously disciplined “laws of correspondence,” which frame much of the dialogue. Readers who enjoy 19th‑century literary history, the personal side of poets, or the nuanced dynamics of a long‑standing friendship will find this collection a rewarding glimpse into the private world of two prominent English cultural figures.
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{Edward FitzGerald. From a photograph by Mess. Cade & Wight, Ipswich: pi.jpg}
Of the letters which are contained in the present volume, the first eighty-five were in the possession of the late Mr. George Bentley, who took great interest in their publication in The Temple Bar Magazine, and was in correspondence with the Editor until within a short time of his death. The remainder were placed in the Editor's hands by Mrs. Kemble in 1883, and of these some were printed in whole or in part in FitzGerald's Letters and Literary Remains, which first appeared in 1889.
TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, 20_th_ June 1895.
{Frances Anne Kemble. Engraved by J. G. Stodart from the original painting by Sully in the possession of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh: pii.jpg}
LETTERS OF EDWARD FITZGERALD TO FANNY KEMBLE 1871-1883
'Letters . . . such as are written from wise men, are, of all the words of man, in my judgment the best.'--BACON.
The following letters, addressed by Edward FitzGerald to his life-long friend Fanny Kemble, form an almost continuous series, from the middle of 1871 to within three weeks of his death in 1883. They are printed as nearly as possible as he wrote them, preserving his peculiarities of punctuation and his use of capital letters, although in this he is not always consistent. In writing to me in 1873 he said, 'I love the old Capitals for Nouns.' It has been a task of some difficulty to arrange the letters in their proper order, in consequence of many of them being either not dated at all or only imperfectly dated; but I hope I have succeeded in giving them, approximately at least, in their true sequence. The notes which are added are mainly for the purpose of explaining allusions, and among them will be found extracts from other letters in my possession which have not been published. The references to the printed 'Letters' are to the separate edition in the Eversley Series, 2 vols. (Macmillans, 1894).
In a letter to Mr. Arthur Malkin, October 15, 1854 ('Further Records,' ii. 193), Mrs. Kemble enunciates her laws of correspondence, to which frequent reference is made in the present series as the laws of the Medes and Persians: 'You bid me not answer your letter, but I have certain organic laws of correspondence from which nothing short of a miracle causes me to depart; as, for instance, I never write till I am written to, I always write when I am written to, and I make a point of always returning the same amount of paper I receive, as you may convince yourself by observing that I send you two sheets of note-paper and Mary Anne only half one, though I have nothing more to say to you, and I have to her.'
WILLIAM ALDIS WRIGHT.
January 1895.
I.
WOODBRIDGE, July 4, [1871.]
I asked Donne to tell you, if he found opportunity, that some two months ago I wrote you a letter, but found it so empty and dull that I would not send it to extort the Reply which you feel bound to give. I should have written to tell you so myself; but I heard from Donne of the Wedding soon about to be, and I would not intrude then. Now that is over {3a}--I hope to the satisfaction of you all--and I will say my little say, and you will have to Reply, according to your own Law of Mede and Persian.
It is a shame that one should only have oneself to talk about; and yet that is all I have; so it shall be short. If you will but tell me of yourself, who have read, and seen, and done, so much more, you will find much more matter for your pen, and also for my entertainment.
Well, I have sold my dear little Ship, {3b} because I could not employ my Eyes with reading in her Cabin, where I had nothing else to do. I think those Eyes began to get better directly I had written to agree to the Man's proposal. Anyhow, the thing is done; and so now I betake myself to a Boat, whether on this River here, or on the Sea at the Mouth of it.
Books you see I have nothing to say about. The Boy who came to read to me made such blundering Work that I was forced to confine him to a Newspaper, where his Blunders were often as entertaining as the Text which he mistook. We had 'hangarues' in the French Assembly, and, on one occasion, 'ironclad Laughter from the Extreme Left.' Once again, at the conclusion of the London news, 'Consolations closed at 91, ex Div.'--And so on. You know how illiterate People will jump at a Word they don't know, and twist it in[to] some word they are familiar with. I was telling some of these Blunders to a very quiet Clergyman here some while ago, and he assured me that a poor Woman, reading the Bible to his Mother, read off glibly, 'Stand at a Gate and swallow a Candle.' I believe this was no Joke of his: whether it were or not, here you have it for what you may think it worth.
I should be glad to hear that you think Donne looking and seeming well. Archdeacon Groome, who saw him lately, thought he looked very jaded: which I could not wonder at. Donne, however, writes as if in good Spirits--brave Man as he is--and I hope you will be able to tell me that he is not so much amiss. He said that he was to be at the Wedding.
You will tell me too how long you remain in England; I fancy, till Winter: and then you will go to Rome again, with its new Dynasty installed in it. I fancy I should not like that so well as the old; but I suppose it's better for the Country.
I see my Namesake (Percy) Fitzgerald advertizes a Book about the Kembles. That I shall manage to get sight of. He made far too long work of Garrick. I should have thought the Booksellers did not find that pay, judging by the price to which Garrick soon came down. Half of it would have been enough.
Now I am going for a Sail on the famous River Deben, to pass by the same fields of green Wheat, Barley, Rye, and Beet-root, and come back to the same Dinner. Positively the only new thing we have in Woodbridge is a Waxen Bust (Lady, of course) at the little Hairdresser's opposite. She turns slowly round, to our wonder and delight; and I caught the little Barber the other day in the very Act of winding her up to run her daily Stage of Duty. Well; she has not got to answer Letters, as poor Mrs. Kemble must do to hers always sincerely
E. F.G.
II.
WOODBRIDGE. NOVr. 2/71.
Is it better not to write at all than only write to plead that one has nothing to say? Yet I don't like to let the year get so close to an end without reminding you of me, to whom you have been always so good in the matter of replying to my letters, as in other ways.
If I can tell you nothing of myself: no Books read because of no Eyes to read them: no travel from home because of my little Ship being vanished: no friends seen, except Donne, who came here with Valentia for two days--_you_ can fill a sheet like this, I know, with some account of yourself and your Doings: and I shall be very glad to hear that all is well with you. Donne said he believed you were in Ireland when he was here; and he spoke of your being very well when he had last seen you; also telling me he thought you were to stay in England this winter. By the by, I also heard of Mrs. Wister being at Cambridge; not Donne told me this, but Mr. Wright, the Bursar of Trinity: and every one who speaks of her says she is a very delightful Lady. Donne himself seemed very well, and in very good Spirits, in spite of all his domestic troubles. What Courage, and Good Temper, and Self-sacrifice! Valentia (whom I had not seen these dozen years) seemed a very sensible, unaffected Woman.
I would almost bet that you have not read my Namesake's Life of your Namesakes, which I must borrow another pair of Eyes for one day. My Boy- reader gave me a little taste of it from the Athenaeum; as also of Mr. Harness' Memoirs, {6} which I must get at.
This is a sorry sight {7} of a Letter:--do not trouble yourself to write a better--that you must, in spite of yourself--but write to me a little about yourself; which is a matter of great Interest to yours always
E. F.G.
III.
[_Nov._ 1871.]
I ought to be much obliged to you for answering my last letter with an uneasy hand, as you did. So I do thank you: and really wish that you would not reply to this under any such pain: but how do I know but that very pain will make you more determined to reply? I must only beg you not to do so: and thus wash my hands of any responsibilities in the matter.
And what will you say when I tell you that I can hardly pity one who suffers from Gout; though I would undoubtedly prefer that you should be free from that, or any other ailment. But I have always heard that Gout exempts one from many other miseries which Flesh is heir to: at any rate, it almost always leaves the Head clear: and that is so much! My Mother, who suffered a good deal, used often to say how she was kept awake of nights by the Pain in her feet, or hands, but felt so clear aloft that she made Night pass even agreeably away with her reflections and recollections.
And you have your recollections and Reflections which you are gathering into Shape, you say, in a Memoir of your own Life. And you are good enough to say that you would read it to me if I--were good enough to invite you to my House here some Summer Day! I doubt that Donne has given you too flattering an account of my house, and me: you know he is pleased with every one and everything: I know it also, and therefore no longer dissuade him from spending his time and money in a flying Visit here in the course of his Visits to other East Anglian friends and Kinsmen. But I feel a little all the while as if I were taking all, and giving nothing in return: I mean, about Books, People, etc., with which a dozen years discontinuance of Society, and, latterly, incompetent Eyes, have left me in the lurch. If you indeed will come and read your Memoir to me, I shall be entitled to be a Listener only: and you shall have my Chateau all to yourself for as long as you please: only do not expect me to be quite what Donne may represent.
It is disgusting to talk so much about oneself: but I really think it is better to say so much on this occasion. If you consider my circumstances, you will perhaps see that I am not talking unreasonably: I am sure, not with sham humility: and that I am yours always and sincerely
E. F.G.
P.S. I should not myself have written so soon again, but to apprise you of a brace of Pheasants I have sent you. Pray do not write expressly to acknowledge them:--only tell me if they don't come. I know you thank me. {9}
IV.
[27 Feb., 1872.]
Had I anything pleasant to write to you, or better Eyes to write it with, you would have heard from me before this. An old Story, by way of Apology--to one who wants no such Apology, too. Therefore, true though it be there is enough of it.
I hear from Mowbray Donne that you were at his Father's Lectures, {10a} and looking yourself. So that is all right. Are your Daughters--or one of them--still with you? I do not think you have been to see the Thanksgiving Procession, {10b} for which our Bells are even now ringing--the old Peal which I have known these--sixty years almost--though at that time it reached my Eyes (sic) through a Nursery window about two miles off. From that window I remember seeing my Father with another Squire {10c} passing over the Lawn with their little pack of Harriers--an almost obliterated Slide of the old Magic Lantern. My Mother used to come up sometimes, and we Children were not much comforted. She was a remarkable woman, as you said in a former letter: and as I constantly believe in outward Beauty as an Index of a Beautiful Soul within, I used sometimes to wonder what feature in her fine face betrayed what was not so good in her Character. I think (as usual) the Lips: there was a twist of Mischief about them now and then, like that in--the Tail of a Cat!--otherwise so smooth and amiable. I think she admired your Mother as much as any one she knew, or had known.
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