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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CAttFOflTNM 

SAN  DJgQO 

""  '  **^ 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  oieoo 


MADAME   NECKER. 


UNHAPPY   LOVES 

OF 

MEN  OF  GENIUS 


BY 
THOMAS   HITCHCOCK 


NEW   YORK 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 
1891 


Copyright,  1891,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  right*  ruentd. 


TO 

CHARLES  A.  DANA 

WHOSE  GENEROUS  ENCOURAGEMENT 

AND 

FRIENDLY  CRITICISMS 

HAVE  HELPED  ME  DURING  MANY  YEARS 
OF   LITERARY   LABOR 


PREFACE. 


IN  this  volume  the  author  has  collected 
some  sketches  heretofore  published  separate- 
ly of  experiences  in  love  by  men  of  genius 
which  have  not  had  happy  conclusions.  Ex- 
cept in  the  case  of  Cavour  and  the  Unknown, 
the  leading  incidents  narrated  have  long  been 
familiar  to  the  public,  and  it  is  only  for  their 
new  arrangement  and  treatment  that  any  pre- 
tence to  originality  is  made. 

The  feature  of  these  affairs  which  has  most 
interested  the  author  is  that  the  women  con- 
cerned in  them  were,  equally  with  the  men, 
distinguished  by  their  gifts  and  their  accom- 
plishments. Madame  Necker  was  one  of  the 
intellectual  queens  of  her  day.  Mrs.  Thrale 
possessed  uncommon  literary  and  conversa- 
tional talent.  Charlotte  von  Stein  was  Goethe's 


VI  PREFACE. 

companion  in  his  studies  and  in  his  literary 
work,  as  well  as  in  his  leisure  hours.  Aloysia 
Weber  was  a  musical  artist  of  the  highest  or- 
der; the  few  letters  remaining  of  Cavour's 
Unknown  prove  that  she  possessed  a  highly 
poetical  nature,  while  Mrs.  Carlyle's  wit  and 
acquirements  were,  from  her  earliest  years,  the 
admiration  of  all  who  knew  her.  Some  of 
these  women  had  beauty,  but  it  was  their 
mental  charms  and  not  their  beauty  which 
captivated  their  lovers. 

The  sketches,  therefore,  apart  from  the  com- 
mon human  interest  which  they  possess,  will 
serve  as  materials  for  the  study  of  love  in  its 
more  refined  and  elevated  form.  And  if  any 
one  who  takes  up  this  book  is  disposed  to 
smile  at  its  contents,  let  him  remember  these 
words  of  Dr.  Johnson  :  "  We  must  not  ridicule 
a  passion  which  he  who  never  felt  never  was 
happy;  and  he  who  laughs  at  never  deserves 
to  feel — a  passion  which  has  caused  the  change 
of  empires  and  the  loss  of  worlds — a  passion 
which  has  inspired  heroism  and  subdued  ava- 
rice." 

NEW  YORK,  May,  1891. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

GIBBON  AND  MADAME  NECKER i 

Gibbon  at  Lausanne,  2. — His  own  story  of 
his  love,  4. — Madame  Necker's  girlhood,  7. — 
Her  personal  appearance,  8. — Gibbon's  first 
letters,  II.  — His  lukewarm  passion,  13.  — 
His  return  to  England,  15.  —  His  farewell 
letter,  16. — Her  expostulations,  18. — Rous- 
seau's opinion  of  Gibbon,  21. — The  final 
rupture,  23. — Madame  Necker's  marriage, 
24.  —  Her  social  success,  25.  —  Monsieur 
Necker,  29. — Gibbon's  character,  31. — The 
"Decline  and  Fall,"  32. — Correspondence 
renewed,  35. — A  regretful  letter,  37. — Mat- 
rimonial longings,  39.  —  Lady  Elizabeth 
Foster,  41. — An  undying  friendship,  42. 

DR.  JOHNSON  AND  MRS.  THRALE 45 

Boswell's  slanders,  47. — Piozzi,  49. — Doctor 
Collier,  51. — Mrs.  Thrale's  attractions,  52. 
— Johnson's  repulsiveness,  54.  —  Conversa- 
tional ability,  57. — Fascination  for  women, 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

58. — Appreciation  of  beauty,  60. — Delicacy 
of  feeling,  62. — Thrale's  coarseness,  65. — 
Johnson's  love,  67. — Bitter  disappointment, 
69. — Talk  with  Madame  d'Arblay,  71. — A 
brutal  letter,  72. — Love  turned  to  hatred,  75. 

GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN 77 

Charlotte's  character,  80. — Unhappy  child- 
hood, 81. — Goethe's  beauty,  83. — Numerous 
love  affairs,  85. — A  new  experience,  86. — 
Charlotte's  fascinations,  89. — Letter-writing, 
91.  —  Unromantic  topics,  93. — Charlotte's 
piety,  95.  —  A  passionate  outburst,  97.  — A 
despairing  appeal,  99. — Wild  longing,  101. 
— A  peaceful  record,  103. — Ecstasy,  105. — 
A  lover's  quarrel,  107.  —  Musical  illustra- 
tions, 109. — Quiet  happiness,  in. — Letters 
in  French,  112. — Flight  to  Italy,  114. — 
Opinion  of  Weimar,  117. — A  new  theory, 
119. —  What  Goethe  expected,  121. —  Last 
words  of  love,  123. — Christiane  Vulpius, 
125. — End  of  the  romance,  127. — Resent- 
ment and  reconciliation,  129. 

MOZART  AND  ALOYSIA  WEBER 131 

Mozart's  character.  132. — Romantic  ideas, 
134. — Personal  appearance,  137. — Mann- 
heim, 139. — Aloysia's  talent,  141. — Mozart's 
admiration,  143. — Planning  a  tour,  145. — 
Musical  ambition,  147.  —  Paternal  remon- 
strances, 149. — Filial  submission,  150. — A 
sorrowful  parting,  153. — Aloysia's  incon- 
stancy, 154. — Wonderful  voice,  157. — Tardy 
regret,  159. 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

«  CAVOUR  AND  THE  UNKNOWN 161 

Intellectual  sympathy,  163. — A  long  separa- 
tion, 165. — An  ecstatic  meeting,  167. — 
Vows  of  fidelity,  169. — An  epistolary  out- 
pour, 170.  —  Religious  sentiments,  173. — 
Disinterested  love,  175.  —  Patient  submis- 
sion, 177.  —  A  pathetic  farewell,  179. — A 
lonely  life,  181. 

'    IRVING  AND  MRS.  CARLYLE 183 

Mrs.  Carlyle  as  a  girl,  185.  —  Precocious 
talent,  187. — Irving's  personal  beauty,  189. 
— Bodily  and  mental  vigor,  191. — Teacher 
and  pupil,  193. — A  thoughtless  engagement, 
195. — Dawning  love,  197. — Intercourse  with 
Carlyle,  199. — Irving's  farewell,  200. — Ca- 
reer in  London,  203. — Carlyle  as  a  lover, 
205. — Intellectual  mastery,  207. — Unhappy 
married  life,  209. — Irving's  last  visits,  211. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Drawn  expressly  for  this  work  by  H.  D.  Nicholt. 


I.  MADAME  NECKER  (after  an  old  print). . 

Frontispiece. 
II.  EDWARD  GIBBON  ( after  the  portrait  by 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds) Facing  page       i 

III.  DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON  (after  the  portrait 

by  Sir   Joshua    Reynolds    painted    in 
1773) Facing  page    45 

IV.  MRS.  THRALE  (after  the  figure  in  "  The 

Lady's  Last  Stake,"  for  which  she  sat 
as  model,  painted  by  William  Hogarth 

in  1756) Facing  page     51 

V.  GOETHE  (after  the   portrait  painted  by 

May  in  1779) Facing  page     77 

VI.  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN  (after  a  sketch 

made  by  herself  in  1790).  .Facing page     81 
VII.  CHRISTIANS    VULPIUS,    Goethe's    wife 
( after    a    crayon    portrait    taken    in 

1800) Facing  page  125 

VIII.   MOZART  (from  the  family  group  painted 

by  Delia  Croce  in  1780). .  .Facing page  131 


Xll  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

IX.  COUNT  CAVOUR  (after  a  photograph  from 

life) Facing  page  161 

X.  JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE  (after  a  minia- 
ture* in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Froude) . . 

Facing  page  183 

XI.  EDWARD  IRVING  (after  the  portrait  pre- 
fixed to  Mrs.  Oliphant's  biography). . . . 

Facing  page  189 
XII.  THOMAS    CARLYLE  (after  a  portrait  by 

Samuel  Lawrence) Facing  page  199 


EDWARD  GIBBON. 


GIBBON  AND  MADAME  NECKER. 


EDWARD  GIBBON,  the  author  of  the  "  His- 
tory of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire,"  was,  so  far  as  any  record  shows, 
only  once  seriously  in  love.  If,  like  other 
men,  he  had  occasional  fancies  for  women, 
they  ended  as  quickly  as  they  began,  and  left 
no  trace  behind  ;  but  for  Suzanne  Curchod, 
afterwards  Madame  Necker,  he  experienced 
a  passion  which  was  as  ardent  as  his  nature 
would  permit,  and  which,  in  a  feeble,  flicker- 
ing way,  endured  till  the  end  of  his  life. 

In  1753,  when  Gibbon  was  a  student  at 
Oxford,  and  but  sixteen  years  of  age,  he  was 
induced  by  one  of  those  caprices  to  which 
youth,  and  especially  the  youth  of  a  gen- 
ius, is  liable,  to  become  a  Roman  Catholic. 
His  father,  on  learning  of  his  apostasy,  at 


2  GIBBON   AND    MADAME    NECKER. 

once  denounced  it  to  the  authorities  of  his 
college,  which,  as  a  matter  of  course,  led  to 
his  expulsion,  and  then,  both  by  way  of  pun- 
ishment and  for  the  purpose  of  reclaiming 
him  from  his  error,  he  sent  him  to  live  at 
Lausanne,  in  Switzerland,  as  the  pupil  of  a 
Protestant  pastor  in  that  town.  The  reme- 
dy was  efficacious.  In  a  few  months  Gib- 
bon abjured  his  new  faith  as  lightly  as  he 
had  adopted  it,  and  was  formally  received 
back  into  the  Protestant  communion.  His 
tutor  attributed  this  result  to  his  polemic 
skill,  but  Gibbon  himself  asserts  that  it  came 
from  his  own  reading  and  reflection,  which 
is  probably  true.  Certainly,  his  subsequent 
career  shows  that  he  was  not  of  the  stuff 
out  of  which  Roman  Catholics  are  usually 
made,  and  that  his  Protestantism  was  rather 
negative  than  positive — more  the  want  of 
all  religious  convictions  than  the  possession 
of  those  he  nominally  professed. 

This,  however,  was  not  the  only  important 
consequence  of  Gibbon's  exile  to  Lausanne. 
It  transformed  his  habits  and  his  character, 
as  well  as  his  religion.  Lamenting  at  first 
the  loss  of  the  comforts  of  his  English  home, 


GIBBON    AT    LAUSANNE.  3 

and  revolting  at  the  strangeness  of  Swiss 
ways,  he  quickly  adapted  himself  to  his  new 
conditions,  and  became,  as  he  ever  after  con- 
tinued to  be,  more  of  a  foreigner  than  an 
Englishman.  He  learned  in  the  course  of 
two  or  three  years  to  read,  speak,  and  even 
to  write  French,  as  if  it  had  been  his  mother 
tongue.  So  accustomed,  indeed,  was  he  to 
its  use  that  his  earliest  production,  at  the 
age  of  twenty-four,  "  On  the  Study  of  Liter- 
ature," was  written  in  French ;  and  when,  at 
a  later  date,  he  undertook  a  history  of  the 
Swiss  republics,  he  composed  the  first  chap- 
ters of  it  in  that  language.  Fortunately,  the 
condemnation  of  this  work,  as  far  as  it  had 
proceeded,  by  the  literary  friends  to  whom 
he  submitted  it,  prevented  its  completion, 
and  the  remonstrances  of  his  fellow  histo- 
rian, David  Hume,  against  the  employment 
of  French  by  an  English  author,  induced 
him  to  adopt  English  when  he  came  to  write 
his  monumentaP  "  Decline  and  Fall."  But 
he  kept  his  journal  and  made  his  literary 
notes  always  in  French,  and  carried  on  in  it 
his  correspondence  with  his  foreign  friends, 
who  complimented  him  upon  the  purity  and 


4  GIBBON    AND    MADAME    NECKER. 

the  elegance  of  his  style,  and  begged  him  to 
write  in  French  altogether. 

Being  thus  well  equipped  for  Swiss  socie- 
ty, Gibbon  found  his  way  into  that  of  Lau- 
sanne, and  there,  at  the  commencement  of 
his  twenty-first  year,  he  saw  and  loved  Mad- 
emoiselle Curchod.  His  own  account  of 
the  affair,  as  he  gives  it  in  the  "  Memoirs  " 
written  by  himself  thirty  years  afterwards,  is 
as  follows : 

' '  I  hesitate,  from  the  apprehension  of  ridicule,  when 
I  approach  the  delicate  subject  of  my  early  love.  By 
this  word  I  do  not  mean  the  polite  attention,  the 
gallantry,  without  hope  or  design,  which  has  origi- 
nated in  the  spirit  of  chivalry,  and  is  interwoven  with 
the  texture  of  French  manners.  I  understand  by 
this  passion  the  union  of  desire,  friendship,  and  ten- 
derness, which  is  inflamed  by  a  single  female,  which 
prefers  her  to  the  rest  of  her  sex,  and  which  seeks 
her  possession  as  the  supreme  or  the  sole  happiness 
of  our  being.  I  need  not  blush  at  recollecting  the 
object  of  my  choice  ;  and  though  my  love  was  disap- 
pointed of  success,  I  am  rather  proud  that  I  was  once 
capable  of  feeling  such  a  pure  and  exalted  sentiment. 
The  personal  attractions  of  Mademoiselle  Susan  Cur- 
chod were  embellished  by  the  virtues  and  talents  of 
the  mind.  Her  fortune  was  humble,  but  her  family 
was  respectable.  Her  mother,  a  native  of  France, 


HIS   OWN    STORY    OF    HIS    LOVE.  5 

had  preferred  her  religion  to  her  country.  The  pro- 
fession of  her  father  did  not  extinguish  the  modera- 
tion and  philosophy  of  his  temper,  and  he  lived  con- 
tent with  a  small  salary  and  laborious  duty  in  the 
obscure  lot  of  minister  of  Grassy,  in  the  mountains 
that  separate  the  Pays  de  Vaud  from  the  county  of 
Burgundy.  In  the  solitude  of  a  sequestered  village 
he  bestowed  a  liberal,  and  even  learned,  education  on 
his  only  daughter.  She  surpassed  his  hopes  by  her 
proficiency  in  the  sciences  and  languages  ;  and  in  her 
short  visits  to  some  relatives  at  Lausanne,  the  wit, 
the  beauty,  and  erudition  of  Mademoiselle  Curchod 
were  the  theme  of  universal  applause.  The  report 
of  such  a  prodigy  awakened  my  curiosity.  I  saw  and 
loved.  I  found  her  learned  without  pedantry,  lively 
in  conversation,  pure  in  sentiment,  and  elegant  in 
manners  ;  and  the  first  sudden7  emotion  was  fortified 
by  the  habits  and  knowledge  of  a  more  familiar  ac- 
quaintance. She  permitted  me  to  make  her  two  or 
three  visits  at  her  father's  house.  I  passed  some 
happy  days  there,  in  the  mountains  of  Burgundy,  and 
her  parents  honorably  encouraged  the  connection. 
In  a  calm  retirement  the  gay  vanity  of  youth  no 
longer  fluttered  in  her  bosom  ;  she  listened  to  the 
voice  of  truth  and  passion,  and  I  might  presume  to 
hope  that  I  had  made  some  impression  on  a  virtuous 
heart.  At  Grassy  and  Lausanne  I  indulged  my 
dream  of  felicity ;  but  on  my  return  to  England  I 
soon  discovered  that  my  father  would  not  hear  of 
this  strange  alliance,  and  that  without  his  consent  I 


6  GIBBON    AND   MADAME    NECKER. 

was  myself  destitute  and  helpless.  After  a  painful 
struggle  I  yielded  to  my  fate  :  I  sighed  as  a  lover,  I 
obeyed  as  a  son  ;  my  wound  was  insensibly  healed  by 
time,  absence,  and  the  habits  of  a  new  life.  My 
cure  was  accelerated  by  a  faithful  report  of  the  tran- 
quillity and  cheerfulness  of  the  lady  herself,  and  my 
love  subsided  in  friendship  and  esteem.  The  minis- 
ter of  Grassy  soon  afterward  died  ;  his  stipend  died 
with  him  ;  his  daughter  retired  to  Geneva,  where,  by 
teaching  young  ladies,  she  earned  a  hard  subsistence 
for  herself  and  her  mother  ;  but  in  her  lowest  distress 
she  maintained  a  spotless  reputation  and  a  dignified 
behavior.  A  rich  banker  of  Paris,  a  citizen  of  Ge- 
neva, had  the  good  fortune  and  good  sense  to  dis- 
cover and  possess  this  inestimable  treasure  ;  and  in 
the  capital  of  taste  and  luxury  she  resisted  the  temp- 
tations of  wealth,  as^she  had  sustained  the  hard- 
ships of  indigence.  The  genius  of  her  husband  has 
exalted  him  to  the  most  conspicuous  station  in 
Europe.  In  every  change  of  prosperity  and  disgrace 
he  has  reclined  on  the  bosom  of  a  faithful  friend  ; 
and  Mademoiselle  Curchod  is  now  the  wife  of  M. 
Necker,  the  minister,  and  perhaps  the  legislator,  of 
the  French  monarchy." 

To  this  narrative,  Lord  Sheffield,  the  editor 
of  the  "  Memoirs,"  has  added,  in  a  note,  the 
following  extracts  from  Gibbon's  journal : 

"June,  1757. — I  saw  Mademoiselle  Curchod.    Omnia 
vincit  amor  et  nos  cedamus  amori. 


MADAME  NECKER'S  GIRLHOOD.          7 

"  August. — I  went  to  Grassy,  and  staid  two  days. 

"  Sept.  15. — I  went  to  Geneva. 

"Oct.  15. — I  came  back  to  Lausanne,  having  passed 

through  Grassy. 
"  Nov.  I. — I  went  to  visit  M.  de  Watteville  at  Loin, 

and   saw   Mademoiselle    Curchod    on    my   way 

through  Rolle. 
"  Nov.  17. — I  went  to  Grassy  and  staid  there  six  days." 

This  is  all  that  Gibbon  himself  has  re- 
corded of  the  affair,  and  his  account  is  sub- 
stantially correct.  Still,  owing  to  the  lapse 
of  time  and  the  resulting  errors  of  memory, 
it  contains  several  inaccuracies  and  omits 
many  important  details.  Mademoiselle  Cur- 
chod was,  as  Gibbon  relates,  the  only  daugh- 
ter of  the  Protestant  minister  of  Grassier,  or, 
as  he  writes  it,  Grassy,  a  village  near  Lau- 
sanne and  a  little  way  from  the  Lake  of  Ge- 
neva. She  was  born  in  1737,  and  was, 
therefore,  of  nearly  the  same  age  as  Gib- 
bon. Contemporary  accounts  prove  that  he 
has  not  exaggerated  her  beauty  and  her  ac- 
complishments, nor  the  admiration  that  she 
excited  wherever  she  appeared.  While  yet 
living  at  Grassy,  she  was  courted  by  the 
ministers,  young  and  old,  who  came  to  visit 


8  GIBBON    AND    MADAME   NECKER. 

her  father ;  and  when  she  removed  to  Lau- 
sanne she  became  the  acknowledged  queen 
both  of  fashionable  and  of  intellectual  so- 
ciety there.  She  was  made  president  of  a 
literary  organization  called  the  Academic  des 
JSaux,  in  which  questions  of  sentiment  as 
well  as  of  letters  were  discussed  ;  she  shone 
at  social  gatherings,  and,  as  often  happens 
in  little  towns,  she  was  followed  in  the 
streets  by  crowds  of  admirers,  and  by  peo- 
ple, who  said :  "  That  is  the  pretty  Mad- 
emoiselle Curchod."  In  a  paper  written 
for  her  Academic  she  gives  the  following 
description  of  herself : 

"  MY  PORTRAIT. 

' '  A  face  exhibiting  youth  and  gayety  ;  hair  and 
complexion  of  a  blonde,  animated  by  blue,  laughing, 
bright,  and  soft  eyes  ;  a  small,  but  neat-shaped  nose  ; 
a  curling  lip,  whose  smile  accompanies  that  of  the 
eyes  with  something  of  grace  ;  a  large  and  well-pro- 
portioned figure  ;  but  wanting  in  that  enchanting 
elegance  which  augments  its  value,  a  rustic  air  in  the 
deportment,  and  a  certain  brusqueness  of  movement, 
which  contrasts  prodigiously  with  a  sweet  voice  and 
modest  physiognomy.  Such  is  the  sketch  of  a  pict- 
ure which  you  may  perhaps  think  to  be  too  flatter- 
ing." 


HER    PERSONAL    APPEARANCE.  9 

That  the  picture  was  not  more  flattering 
than  the  truth  appears  from  another  descrip- 
tion of  Madame  Necker,  given  by  Sainte- 
Beuve  in  his  "Galerie  des  Femmes  Cele- 
bres."  Sainte-Beuve  says  of  her  that  "  she 
was  beautiful,  with  that  pure,  virginal  beau- 
ty which  demands  the  freshness  of  youth. 
Her  long  and  rather  straight  face  was  ani- 
mated with  a  dazzling  clearness  and  softened 
by  her  blue  eyes,  full  of  candor.  Her  slen- 
der waist  had  as  yet  only  decent  dignity, 
without  stiffness  and  without  training." 

Naturally,  this  charming  and  accomplished 
Swiss  girl  made  a  profound  impression  upon 
an  English  youth  like  Gibbon,  who  was  able 
to  appreciate  the  beauty  of  her  mind  no  less 
than  the  attractions  of  her  person.  It  was 
equally  natural  that  she  should  prefer  him 
to  her  Swiss  admirers.  His  external  ap- 
pearance, indeed,  could  scarcely  have  been 
prepossessing,  for  in  his  later  years  he  is 
described  as  short  in  stature,  fat  to  obesity, 
and  with  a  face  almost  comical  from  its  pro- 
tuberant cheeks  and  little  nose.  His  man- 
ners were  ungraceful,  and  he  confesses  to 
small  success  in  fencing  and  dancing.  Here 


10          GIBBON    AND    MADAME    NECKER. 

is  a  portrait  of  him  from  the  pen  of  Mad- 
emoiselle Curchod,  which,  apparently,  she 
forbore  to  complete : 

"1  will  touch  lightly  on  the  countenance  of  M. 

G .     He  has  nice  hair,  a  pretty  hand,  and  the 

appearance  of  a  man  of  good  birth.  His  physiogno- 
my is  so  intelligent  and  so  remarkable  that  I  do  not 
know  any  one  who  resembles  him.  It  has  so  much 
expression  that  one  always  discovers  in  it  something 
new.  His  gestures,  too,  are  so  well-timed  that  they 
add  a  great  deal  to  what  he  says.  In  a  word,  he  has 
one  of  those  extraordinary  faces  that  one  is  never  tired 
of  examining,  of  picturing  to  one's  self,  and  of  mim- 
icking. He  knows  the  respect  which  is  due  to  ladies. 
His  politeness  is  easy,  without  being  familiar.  He 
dances  passably.  In  a  word,  I  recognize  in  him  few 
of  the  charms  which  constitute  the  merit  of  a  dandy. 
His  talent  varies  prodigiously."  .  .  . 

But  Gibbon,  being  a  foreigner,  had  the 
advantage  of  a  foreigner's  distinction,  and 
his  intellectual  ability  compensated  for  his 
lack  of  the  graces.  Certain  it  is,  that  he 
was  beloved,  not,  as  he  would  lead  his  read- 
ers to  infer,  with  a  transient,  superficial  love, 
but  with  one  that  took  a  firm  hold  of  Mad- 
emoiselle Curchod's  heart.  The  proof  of  this 
exists  in  papers  recently  discovered  in  the 


GIBBON'S  FIRST  LETTERS.  n 

archives  of  Coppet,  the  home  of  the  Neck- 
ers  after  their  exile  from  France,  and  they 
place  Gibbon  in  the  unenviable  light  of  a 
man  who  did  not  know  the  value  of  the  prize 
he  had  won,  and  who,  by  relinquishing  it  in 
tame  submissiveness  to  his  father,  proved 
that  he  was  incapable  of  true  manly  feeling. 
Among  the  other  documents  preserved  at 
Coppet  are  letters  written  by  Gibbon  to 
Mademoiselle  Curchod,  and  some  by  her  to 
him.  The  first  from  him  has  no  special  im- 
portance, and  gives  no  indication  of  the  re- 
lations of  the  pair ;  but  it  is  followed  by  two 
which  show  clearly  that  something  like  an 
engagement  existed  at  an  early  date  between 
them.  Of  these  letters,  the  first,  written 
apparently  after  the  week  spent  at  Grassy, 
mentioned  in  the  "Journal"  under  date  of 
Nov.  17,  1757,  contains  this  passage: 

"  I  have  always  esteemed  you  highly,  but  the  hap- 
py week  which  I  spent  at  Grassier  has  given  you  a 
prominence  in  my  mind  which  you  had  not  before. 
I  then  saw  all  the  treasures  of  the  finest  soul  I  know. 
The  intellect  and  the  passions  are  always  on  a  level, 
and  are  proofs  of  a  mind  contented  with  itself.  There 
is  dignity  even  in  its  banter,  and  charms  even  in  its 


12  GIBBON   AND    MADAME    NECKER. 

seriousness.  I  saw  you  doing  and  saying  the  greatest 
things  without  being  more  aware  of  it  than  was  nec- 
essary to  enable  you  to  do  it  intelligently.  One  sees 
plainly  enough  that  your  dominant  passion  is  the  live- 
liest tenderness  towards  the  best  of  parents.  It  breaks 
out  everywhere  ;  and  shows  to  all  who  come  near  you 
how  susceptible  your  heart  is  of  the  noblest  feelings. 
Every  time  this  thought  occurs  to  me  it  carries  me  far 
beyond  the  objects  which  first  gave  rise  to  it.  I  am 
at  this  moment  reflecting  upon  the  happiness  of  a  man 
who,  the  possessor  of  a  similar  heart,  finds  you  sensi- 
ble to  his  tenderness,  who  can  tell  you  a  thousand  times 
a  day  how  much  he  loves  you,  and  who  never  ceases 
to  do  it  but  in  ceasing  to  live.  I  then  build  up  schemes 
of  happiness,  fanciful  perhaps,  but  which  I  would  not 
exchange  for  anything  that  average  mortals  esteem 
greatest  and  most  real. " 

In  the  letter  following  this  we  read  : 

"  I  have  known  you,  mademoiselle,  and  everything 
has  become  changed  to  me.  A  felicity  above  that  of 
empire,  above  even  philosophy,  may  await  me.  But, 
alas,  a  punishment  repeated  every  day,  and  each  time 
aggravated  by  the  thought  of  what  I  have  lost,  may 
fall  to  my  lot.  However,  Socrates  thanked  the  gods 
that  he  was  born  a  Greek  ;  and  I,  too,  will  thank 
them  that  I  was  born  in  an  age,  that  I  came  to  a  coun- 
try, in  which  I  knew  a  woman  whom  my  mind  must 
always  make  me  respect  as  the  worthiest  of  her  sex, 
while  my  heart  makes  me  feel  that  she  is  also  the  most 


HIS    LUKEWARM    PASSION.  13 

charming.  '  O,'  you  will  say,  '  how  serious  he  is  ! 
how  melancholy  and  how  tragical !  What  a  tiresome 
man  he  is !  Can  I  help  yawning  over  his  letter  ?' 
Yawn,  mademoiselle,  I  feel  that  I  have  deserved  it. 
But  I  deserve,  also,  that  you  should  add,  '  I  wish  all 
the  preachers  were  as  fully  convinced  of  what  they  say 
as  he  who  is  now  boring  me  and  preaching  to  me.' " 

These  passages,  it  must  be  acknowledged, 
indicate  anything  but  ardent  passion.  They 
are  the  compositions  rather  of  a  pedant  than 
of  a  lover.  Nor  do  some  madrigals  and  son- 
nets, addressed  by  Gibbon  to  his  mistress 
about  this  time,  show  anything  more.  They 
are  artificial  and  cold,  and  unworthy  of  re- 
production. That  Gibbon  already  feared 
his  father's  disapproval  of  the  match,  and 
had  prepared  himself  to  give  it  up  if  neces- 
sary, appears  from  another  letter,  dated  Feb- 
ruary 9,  1758,  in  which  he  says  : 

"  How  could  you  doubt  for  one  moment  of  my  love 
and  my  fidelity  ?  Have  you  not  read  to  the  bottom 
of  my  soul  a  hundred  times  ?  Did  you  not  see  in  it 
a  passion  as  pure  as  it  is  strong  ?  Have  you  not  felt 
that  your  image  would  hold  forever  the  first  place  in 
that  heart  which  you  now  despise,  and  that,  in  the 
midst  of  pleasures,  honors,  and  riches,  I  should  enjoy 
nothing  without  you  ? 


14  GIBBON   AND   MADAME   NECKER. 

' '  While  you  were  indulging  in  your  suspicions,  fort- 
une was  working  for  me — I  do  not  dare  to  say  for  us. 
I  found  here  a  letter  from  my  father,  who  has  been 
expecting  me  a  fortnight.  He  permits  me  to  return 
to  England,  and  I  hasten  thither  as  soon  as  I  hear  the 
zephyrs.  It  is  true  that,  by  a  destiny  peculiar  to  me, 
I  see  in  the  midst  of  a  calm  a  storm  rising.  My  fa- 
ther's letter  is  so  kind,  so  affectionate  ;  he  shows  such 
anxiety  to  see  me  again ;  he  enlarges  with  so  much 
pomp  upon  the  projects  that  he  has  conceived  for  me, 
that  it  makes  me  imagine  a  thousand  obstacles  to  my 
happiness,  of  a  different  nature  and  a  different  kind 
from  those  of  the  inequality  of  fortune,  which  alone 
formerly  presented  themselves  to  my  mind. 

"  The  condition,  which  the  noblest  principle  made 
you  exact,  and  which  the  tenderest  motive  led  me  to 
accept  with  pleasure,  to  take  up  my  residence  in  this 
country — will  with  difficulty  be  listened  to  by  my  fa- 
ther, whose  paternal  love  and  whose  ambition  for  his 
son  will  be  equally  shocked  by  it.  Still,  I  do  not  yet 
despair  of  convincing  him.  Love  will  make  me  elo- 
quent. He  will  desire  my  happiness  ;  and  if  he  does, 
he  will  not  seek  to  separate  me  from  you.  My  phi- 
losophy, or,  rather,  my  temperament,  makes  me  in- 
different to  riches.  Honor  is  nothing  to  one  who  is 
not  ambitious.  If  I  know  myself,  I  have  never  yet 
felt  the  attacks  of  this  fatal  passion.  The  love  of 
study  was  my  only  passion  until  you  made  me  feel 
that  the  heart  has  its  needs  as  well  as  the  mind,  and 
that  they  consist  in  a  reciprocal  love.  I  learned  to 


HIS   RETURN   TO   ENGLAND.  15 

love,  and  you  have  not  forbidden  me  to  hope.  What 
happier  lot  could  I  have  than  to  see  the  time  arrive 
when  I  can  tell  you,  each  instant,  how  much  I  love 
you,  and  to  hear  you  say  sometimes  that  I  do  not  love 
an  ingrate." 

Mademoiselle  Curchod's  reply  to  this  omi- 
nous communication  was  tender  and  wom- 
anly. She  disclaims  all  desire  to  marry  her 
lover  against  his  father's  wishes,  but  will 
wait  for  mitigating  circumstances  (quelque 
espece  de  palliatif}  to  change  the  situation. 
To  a  hint  in  his  letter  that  she  was  perhaps 
tired  of  the  engagement,  she  replies  that 
"this  idea  was  too  far  removed  from  my 
heart  to  be  present  to  my  mind." 

Two  months  after  this,  in  April,  1758, 
Gibbon  left  Lausanne,  and  went  to  Eng- 
land for  a  protracted  visit.  His  account  of 
his  intercourse  with  Mademoiselle  Curchod 
conveys  the  impression  that  it  ertfled  with 
this  departure,  but  it  was  not  so.  It  is  true 
that  he  never  mentions  her  name  in  his  jour- 
nal, and  that  for  four  years  there  is  no  trace 
of  any  communicatfon  between  him  and 
her,  except  that  he  sent  her  a  copy  of  his 
"  Study  of  Literature,"  published  in  1761. 


1 6  GIBBON   AND   MADAME   NECKER. 

By  the  death  of  her  father,  in  1760,  she  and 
her  mother  were  left  with  no  pecuniary  re- 
sources beyond  the  trifling  pension  paid 
to  the  widow  of  a  clergyman,  and  she  was 
obliged  to  teach  for  a  living ;  but  though 
Gibbon  knew  this,  there  is  no  evidence  that 
he  ever  rendered  her  assistance,  or  showed 
the  slightest  interest  in  her  welfare.  Still, 
that  she  must  have  written  to  him  appears 
from  a  letter  which  he  evidently  intended 
should  terminate  their  relations : 

"MADEMOISELLE,  —  I  cannot  begin!  and  yet  I 
must.  I  take  up  my  pen.  I  put  it  down  and  take  it 
up  again.  You  perceive  from  this  beginning  what  I 
am  going  to  say.  Spare  me  the  rest.  Yes,  mademoi- 
selle, I  must  renounce  all  thought  of  you  forever. 
The  decree  is  issued  ;  my  heart  groans  under  it.  But 
before  my  duty  everything  else  must  be  silent." 

He  then  repeats  his  father's  objections  to 
his  marrying  a  foreigner  and  living  abroad, 
and  relates  how  he  debated  with  himself  for 
two  hours  before  yielding.  The  letter  con- 
tinues : 

"  May  you,  mademoiselle,  be  more  happy  than  I 
can  ever  hope  to  be.  This  will  always  be  my  prayer, 
it  will  even  be  my  consolation.  Would  that  I  could 


HIS    FAREWELL    LETTER.  17 

contribute  towards  it  by  my  wishes !  I  tremble  to 
learn  your  fate  ;  but,  still,  do  not  keep  me  in  ig- 
norance of  it.  It  will  be  a  cruel  moment  for  me. 
Assure  M.  and  Mme.  Curchod  of  my  respect,  of  my 
regard,  and  of  my  regrets.  Adieu,  mademoiselle.  I 
shall  always  remember  Mile.  Curchod  as  the  noblest 
and  most  charming  of  women.  May  she  never  alto- 
gether forget  a  man  who  did  not  deserve  the  despair 
to  which  he  is  a  victim  ! 

"Adieu,  mademoiselle.  This  letter  may  well  ap- 
pear strange  to  you,  for  it  is  the  picture  of  my  heart. 

' '  I  have  written  you  twice  on  my  way  :  at  a  village 
in  Lorraine,  once  at  Maestricht,  likewise  once  from 
London.  You  have  not  received  the  letters.  I  do 
not  know  whether  I  may  hope  that  this  will  reach 
you.  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  with  feelings  that  make 
the  torment  of  my  life,  and  an  esteem  that  nothing 
can  change,  mademoiselle, 

"Your  very  humble  and  very  obedient  servant, 

"  GIBBON. 

"BURITON,  AugUSt  24,   1762." 

Explicit  as  this  letter  is  in  words,  and 
equally  decisive  in  its  tone,  it  was  not  ac- 
cepted as  final  by  the  loving  woman  to  whom 
it  was  addressed.  She  hoped  that  something 
might  yet  happen  to  render  her  marriage 
with  Gibbon  possible,  and  she  refused  to 
believe  that  he  had  completely  renounced 
her.  When,  therefore,  a  few  months  later, 
2 


l8  GIBBON   AND   MADAME    NECKER. 

he  came  to  Lausanne,  she  addressed  to  him 
a  pathetic  communication,  the  original  of 
which  is  in  the  archives  of  Coppet,  with  the 
seal  broken,  as  if  it  had  been  read  by  Gib- 
bon and  returned.  At  the  bottom,  in  Made- 
moiselle Curchod's  handwriting,  are  these 
words,  in  English  :  "  A  thinking  soul  is  pun- 
ishment enough,  and  every  thought  draws 
blood."  The  contents  are  these  : 

"MONSIEUR,  —  I  blush  at  the  step  I  am  about 
to  take.  I  would  hide  it  from  you.  I  would  also 
hide  it  from  myself.  Is  it  possible,  great  God  !  that 
an  innocent  heart  should  so  degrade  itself  ?  What  a 
humiliation  !  I  have  had  more  terrible  sorrows,  but 
never  one  that  I  have  felt  more  keenly.  No  matter, 
I  am  carried  away  in  spite  of  myself.  My  own  peace 
of  mind  demands  this  effort,  and  if  I  lose  this  present 
opportunity  no  peace  will  remain  for  me.  Could  I 
have  it  since  the  moment  my  heart,  ever  ingenious  in 
tormenting  itself,  interpreted  your  marks  of  coldness 
as  only  proofs  of  your  delicacy  of  feeling  ?  For  five 
whole  years  I  have  been  sacrificing  to  this  chimera  by 
a  unique  and  inconceivable  conduct,  but  at  last  my 
mind,  romantic  as  it  is,  has  become  convinced  of  its 
error.  Upon  my  knees  I  beseech  you  to  dissuade  a 
maddened  heart.  Make  a  frank  avowal  of  your  com- 
plete indifference  to  me.  My  soul  will  adapt  itself  to 
the  situation.  Certainty  will  bring  with  it  the  tran- 


HER    EXPOSTULATIONS.  19 

quillity  for  which  I  sigh.  If  you  refuse  me  this  act 
of  frankness,  you  will  be  the  most  contemptible  of 
men,  and  God,  who  sees  my  heart,  and  who  doubt- 
less loves  me,  though  he  so  sorely  tries  me — God,  I 
say,  will  punish  you  in  spite  of  my  prayers,  if  there  is 
the  slightest  evasion  in  your  answer,  or  if,  by  your 
silence,  you  make  a  plaything  of  my  peace. 

"  If  you  ever  disclose  this  shameful  step  to  any  one 
in  the  world,  were  it  my  dearest  friend,  the  horror  of 
my  punishment  will  condemn  me  for  my  fault.  I 
shall  look  upon  it  as  a  fearful  crime  of  which  I  did 
not  know  the  atrociousness.  Even  now  I  feel  it  to 
be  a  baseness  which  outrages  my  modesty,  my  past 
conduct,  and  my  present  sentiments. 

"GENEVA,  3oth  May." 

What  answer  Gibbon  made  to  this  appeal 
beyond  returning  it  nothing  remains  to  show. 
But  that  Mademoiselle  Curchod  was  in  some 
way  at  last  convinced  of  his  faithlessness  is 
proved  by  a  subsequent  letter  from  her,  dated 
June  4,  1763,  which  commences  : 

"MONSIEUR,  —  Five  years  of  absence  could  not 
have  produced  the  change  that  I  have  just  experienced. 
I  could  have  wished  that  you  had  written  me  sooner, 
or  that  your  last  letter  but  one  had  been  couched 
in  a  different  style.  Exalted  ideas,  supported  by  an 
appearance  of  virtue,  lead  one  to  commit  great  errors. 
You  ought  to  have  spared  me  five  or  six  irreparable 


20          GIBBON    AND    MADAME   NECKER. 

ones,  which  will  forever  determine  my  lot  in  life.  I 
know  as  well  as  you  that  this  remark  may  seem  to 
you  neither  tender  nor  delicate.  For  a  long  time  past 
I  have  forgotten  my  pride,  but  I  am  delighted  to  re- 
gain enough  of  it  to  feel  what  I  now  reproach  you 
with.  Pardon  me,  however,  and  shed  no  tear  over 
the  hardships  of  my  lot.  My  parents  are  dead  ;  what 
is  fortune  to  me  ?  Besides,  it  was  not  to  you  that  I 
sacrificed  it,  but  to  an  imaginary  creature  who  never 
existed  save  in  a  mind  romantically  distraught.  For, 
as  soon  as  your  letter  undeceived  me,  you  became  to 
me  no  more  than  any  other  man,  and  after  having 
been  the  only  one  whom  I  could  ever  love,  you  be- 
came one  of  those  for  whom  I  had  the  least  inclina- 
tion, because  you  resemble  the  least  my  celadonic 
chimera.  It  remains  only  for  you  to  make  amends. 
Follow  the  plan  of  which  you  have  given  me  the  out- 
lines. Join  your  attachment  to  that  which  my  other 
friends  show  me.  You  will  find  me  as  confiding,  as 
tender,  and  at  the  same  time  as  indifferent,  as  I  am 
for  them." 

She  then  communicates  to  him  the  dis- 
tressed condition  in  which  she  was  left  by 
the  death  of  both  her  father  and  her  moth- 
er, and  asks  his  advice  about  seeking  em- 
ployment in  England  as  a  lady's  companion. 
That  she  still  cherished  a  hope  of  winning 
him  back  appears  both  from  what  she  says 


ROUSSEAU'S  OPINION  OF  GIBBON.      21 

above  about  retaining  him  for  a  friend,  and 
from  a  letter  written  with  her  approval,  a 
few  days  before,  by  the  pastor  Moultou  to 
the  celebrated  Rousseau,  begging  him  to 
use  his  influence  with  Gibbon  in  her  behalf. 
In  this  letter,  a  copy  of  which  he  seems  to 
have  sent  to  Mademoiselle  Curchod,  Moul- 
tou says  to  Rousseau :  "  How  I  pity  this 
poor  Mademoiselle  Curchod.  Gibbon,  whom 
she  loves,  to  whom  she  has  sacrificed,  I  know, 
very  good  offers,  has  come  to  Lausanne,  but 
cold,  insensible,  and  as  much  cured  of  his 
old  love  as  Mademoiselle  C.  is  far  from 
being.  She  has  written  me  a  letter  which 
wrings  my  heart."  He  attributes  Gibbon's 
coldness  to  some  slanders  of  Mademoiselle 
Curchod,  spread  by  a  disappointed  suitor, 
and  asks  Rousseau  to  contradict  them,  and 
to  eulogize  Mademoiselle  Curchod  to  Gib- 
bon. Rousseau  took  a  common-sense  view 
of  the  matter,  and  declined  the  commission. 
In  his  reply  to  Moultou,  also  dated  June  4, 
1763,  he  says,  after  unfavorably  criticising 
Gibbon's  writings,  "  Mr.  Gibbon  is  no  man 
for  me.  I  cannot  think  him  well  adapted 
to  Mademoiselle  Curchod.  He  that  does 


22  GIBBON   AND    MADAME    NECKER. 

not  know  her  value  is  unworthy  of  her ;  he 
that  knows  it  and  can  desert  her,  is  a  man- 
to  be  despised.  She  does  not  know  what 
she  is  about.  The  man  serves  her  more 
effectually  than  her  own  heart."  Rousseau's 
letter  was  published  during  Gibbon's  life- 
time, and  it  appears  to  have  annoyed  him, 
for,  in  a  note  to  his  "  Memoirs,"  he  says : 
"  As  an  author,  I  shall  not  appeal  from  the 
judgment  or  taste  or  caprice  of  Jean  Jacques; 
but  that  extraordinary  man,  whom  I  admire 
and  pity,  should  have  been  less  precipitate 
in  condemning  the  moral  character  and  con- 
duct of  a  stranger." 

Nineteen  days  elapsed  before  Gibbon  re- 
plied to  Mademoiselle  Curchod : 

"LAUSANNE,  230!  June,  1763. 

"MADEMOISELLE,  —  Must  you  still  continue  to 
offer  me  happiness  which  reason  compels  me  to 
renounce?  I  have  lost  your  affection,  though  your 
friendship  remains  to  me,  and  it  does  me  too  much 
honor  for  me  to  hesitate.  I  accept  it,  mademoiselle, 
as  a  precious  exchange  for  mine,  which  is  most  per- 
fectly yours,  and  as  a  treasure  whose  value  I  know 
too  well  ever  to  lose  it.  But  this  correspondence, 
mademoiselle,  I  feel  its  attractions,  but,  at  the  same 
time,  I  perceive  all  its  dangers.  I  know  it,  as  regards 


THE   FINAL    RUPTURE.  23 

myself,  and  I  fear  for  both  of  us.  Pray,  let  silence 
protect  me.  Excuse  my  fears,  mademoiselle  ;  they 
are  founded  on  esteem," 

He  proceeds  to  discourage  her  from  carry- 
ing out  her  project  of  going  to  England  for 
employment,  and  ends  with  thanking  her  for 
a  criticism  of  his  "  Study  of  Literature,"  say- 
ing that  his  delay  in  answering  her  had  been 
occasioned  by  his  desire  to  consider  it. 

Subsequently  to  this  correspondence,  the 
pair  met  at  Voltaire's  house  at  Ferney,  and 
Gibbon  seems  to  have  angered  Mademoiselle 
Curchod  into  a  renewed  expression  of  her 
opinion  of  his  baseness.  She  wrote  him  a 
long  letter,  recounting  the  history  of  their 
engagement,  and  ended  it  by  saying : 

"  I  repeat,  sir,  that  any  heart  which  has  once  known 
mine  and  has  ceased  for  one  moment  to  love  it  was 
not  worthy  of  it,  and  will  never  have  my  esteem.  If 
I  have  otherwise  expressed  myself  in  speech  or  in 
writing,  I  now  blush  at  it.  It  was  the  result  of  an 
indefinable  sentiment,  of  a  calmness,  and  of  a  dis- 
gusted indifference,  and,  above  all,  of  the  repugnance 
which  one  always  feels  at  overthrowing  one's  idol. 

"My  conduct,  you  say,  belies  my  words.  In  what  ?  I 
ask.  I  am  acting  towards  you  as  towards  an  honorable 
man  of  the  world  who  is  incapable  of  breaking  his 


24          GIBBON    AND    MADAME    NECKER. 

word,  of  seducing,  or  of  betraying  ;  but  who  has  been 
amusing  himself  with  lacerating  my  heart  by  the  best 
contrived  and  most  skilfully  managed  tortures.  I  do 
not  now  threaten  you  with  the  anger  of  Heaven — an 
expression  which  escaped  me,  impulsively,  but,  with- 
out having  the  gift  of  prophecy,  I  can  assure  you 
that  you  will  one  day  regret  the  irreparable  loss  you 
have  suffered  in  alienating  forever  the  too  tender  and 
the  too  open  heart  of  S.  C. 

"GENEVA,  Sept.  21." 

With  this  explosion  of  outraged  affection 
and  injured  dignity  Mademoiselle  Curchod 
resigned  herself  to  her  fate,  and  in  a  little 
mote  than  a  year  afterwards  she  married, 
as  Gibbon  tells  us,  Jacques  Necker,  then  a 
partner  in  the  great  Paris  banking  firm  of 
Thelusson  &  Necker,  and  subsequently  min- 
ister of  finance  to  Louis  XVI.  The  mar- 
riage was  brought  about  in  a  rather  singular, 
though  not  unprecedented,  manner.  Made- 
moiselle Curchod,  soon  after  her  final  rupture 
with  Gibbon,  despairing  of  all  other  means 
of  livelihood,  accepted  the  situation  of  com- 
panion to  a  rich  young  French  widow,  whom 
she  met  in  Geneva,  named  De  Vermenoux, 
and  early  in  1764  went  to  Paris  with  her. 
M.  Necker,  who  was  a  native  of  Geneva,  had 


MADAME  NECKER'S  MARRIAGE.        25 

been  long  a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  Madame 
de  Vermenoux,  and  continued  to  pay  her 
attention  for  some  time  after  Mademoiselle 
Curchod  became  her  companion.  To  re- 
lieve herself  of  his  importunities,  Madame 
de  Vermenoux  used  her  arts  to  make  him 
marry  Mademoiselle  Curchod,  saying,  it  is 
reported,  "They  will  bore  each  other  to 
death :  that  will  give  them  something  to  do." 
At  all  events,  she  succeeded  in  making  the 
match.  Monsieur  Necker  fell  in  love  with 
Mademoiselle  Curchod,  she  accepted  him, 
and  the  wedding  was  celebrated  towards 
the  end  of  the  year. 

As  the  wife  of  the  wealthy  and  influen- 
tial banker,  Madame  Necker  at  once  took 
a  prominent  position  in  Paris  society.  Her 
house  became  famous.  On  Fridays  she  en- 
tertained artists  and  men  of  letters  at  din- 
ner, which  began  at  half -past  four  o'clock, 
and  on  Tuesdays  she  received  her  more 
fashionable  friends.  Among  her  regular 
Friday  visitors  were  Marmontel,  the  jour- 
nalist, poet,  and  playwright;  Grimm,  Did- 
erot, and  Morellet,  the  Encyclopaedists; 
Suard,  the  Academician ;  the  poet  Dorat, 


26  GIBBON    AND    MADAME    NECKER. 

the  Abbe  Galiani,  St.  Pierre,  the  author  of 
"  Paul  et  Virginie,"  which  was  read  in  manu- 
script in  her  salon  before  it  was  published ; 
D'Alembert,  the  mathematician,  and  the 
naturalist  Buffon.  On  Tuesdays  she  was 
visited  by  the  poetess,  Madame  Geoffrin ; 
the  blind  octogenarian  beauty,  Madame  du 
Deffand ;  the  Duchess  de  Lauzun ;  the  Mar- 
quise de  Crequy;  the  Marechale  de  Lux- 
embourg ;  Madame  de  Vermenoux,  her  old 
patroness ;  Madame  de  Marchais,  Rous- 
seau's beloved ;  the  Countess  d'Houdetot, 
and,  in  a  word,  by  all  the  women  in  Paris 
worth  knowing  for  their  rank,  beauty,  wit, 
and  accomplishments.  Over  this  social  and 
intellectual  kingdom  she  reigned  a  queen, 
and  like  a  queen,  commanded  respect  as 
well  as  admiration.  Her  beauty,  though  not 
remarkable,  was  sufficient  to  produce  a  fa- 
vorable first  impression,  and  this  impression 
she  made  permanent  by  the  charm  of  her 
simple  unaffected  kindness  of  heart  and  of 
manner.  Loving  devotedly  a  husband  who 
loved  her  as  devotedly  in  return,  the  pair 
presented,  in  the  midst  of  the  corruption  of 
Paris,  a  splendid  example  of  conjugal  fidel- 


HER    SOCIAL   SUCCESS.  27 

ity,  and,  preserving  the  religious  convictions 
of  her  childhood,  she  restrained  by  example 
and,  when  necessary,  by  rebuke,  the  auda- 
cious infidelity  of  both  the  men  and  the 
women  by  whom  she  was  surrounded.  A 
little  tract  by  her  in  defence  of  Christianity, 
"  Les  Opinions  Religieuses,"  had  great  suc- 
cess, and  she  wrote  another  against  the  lax 
views  of  marriage  and  divorce  which  char- 
acterized the  times.  Many  other  works  pro- 
ceeded from  her  pen,  and  a  collection  of 
them,  embracing  a  copious  journal  kept  by 
her,  which  was  published  after  her  death  by 
her  celebrated  daughter,  Madame  de  Stae'l, 
fills  several  volumes. 

Among  her  admirers  there  were  some 
whom  Madame  Necker  inspired  with  an  af- 
fection amounting  almost  to  idolatry.  The 
pastor  Moultou,  the  friend  of  her  youth, 
continued  to  be  faithful  to  her.  Thomas,  a 
rough,  self-educated  peasant  from  Auvergne, 
was  for  twenty  years  her  adoring  slave,  and 
the  great  Buffon,  who  made  her  acquaint- 
ance at  the  age  of  sixty-seven,  five  years  af- 
ter the  death  of  a  wife  to  whom  he  was  ten- 
derly attached,  found  in  her  society  consola- 


28          GIBBON    AND    MADAME   NECKER. 

tion  for  his  widowed  life,  and  often  wrote  to 
her  expressing  his  admiration  and  affection. 
One  of  his  letters  commences  thus : 

"  I  have  too  deliciously  enjoyed  your  letter,  my 
adorable  friend,  to  delay  long  imparting  these  delights 
of  my  heart.  I  could  not  get  tired  of  reading  and 
re-reading  it.  Lofty  thoughts  and  profound  senti- 
ments are  found  in  every  line  and  are  expressed  in  a 
manner  so  noble  and  so  touching  that  not  only  am  I 
impressed  with  them,  but  warmed,  lifted  to  a  point 
from  whence  I  get  a  loftier  idea  of  the  nature  of 
friendship.  Ah,  gods  !  it  is  not  a  sentiment  without 
fire  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  a  true  warmth  of  soul,  an 
emotion,  a  movement  gentler  but  also  livelier  than 
that  of  any  other  passion  ;  it  is  an  untroubled  enjoy- 
ment, a  happiness  rather  than  a  pleasure  ;  it  is  a  com- 
munication of  existence  purer  and  yet  more  real  than 
the  sentiment  of  love  ;  the  union  of  souls  is  a  mingling 
(pJn/tration) ;  that  of  bodies  is  a  simple  contact." 

This  charming  relation  between  Buff  on 
and  Madame  Necker  continued  for  thirteen 
years,  and  when  her  venerable  friend  fell 
dangerously  ill,  Madame  Necker  hastened 
to  his  bedside,  and  staid  by  it  till  his  death. 
For  five  days  she  never  left  him,  wiping 
from  his  face,  with  her  own  hands,  the  cold 
perspiration  which  his  agony  brought  out  on 


MONSIEUR    NECKER.  29 

it,  and  rendering  to  him  all  the  services  of  a 
daughter  to  a  father. 

Madame  Necker's  social  reign  in  Paris 
lasted  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
Monsieur  Necker,  who,  when  he  married  his 
wife,  was  simply  a  rich  banker  and  a  mana- 
ger of  the  French  East  India  Company,  was 
made  in  1777  director -general,  or  finance 
minister,  by  Louis  XVI.,  and  held  the  post 
until  1781,  when  he  resigned  because  a  seat 
in  the  royal  council  was  denied  him  on  ac- 
count of  his  being  a  Protestant.  Recalled 
in  1788,  he  held  office  until  1789,  when  his 
dismissal  by  the  king  having  provoked  a 
popular  uprising,  he  was  again  reinstated ; 
but,  losing  all  hope  of  saving  the  monarchy, 
and  becoming  unpopular  because  of  his  ef- 
forts in  its  behalf,  he  finally  withdrew  from 
Paris  in  1790,  and  took  up  his  residence 
at  his  chateau  of  Coppet,  in  Switzerland, 
where  he  spent  the  remainder  of  his  life. 

Not  the  least  gratifying  advantage  which 
Madame  Necker  derived  from  her  elevated 
position  was  the  means  it  afforded  her  of 
proving  to  Gibbon  how  great  a  mistake  he 
had  made  in  not  securing  her  for  himself. 


30          GIBBON    AND    MADAME    NECKER. 

Her  prophetic  last  words  to  him,  "You  will 
one  day  regret  the  irreparable  loss  you  have 
suffered  in  alienating  forever  the  too  tender 
and  the  too  open  heart  of  S.  C.,"  were  now 
fulfilled.  In  the  autumn  of  1765,  Gibbon 
came  over  to  visit  her  at  Paris,  and  she  had 
the  gratification  of  being  able  to  write  to  a 
friend  : 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  I  told  you  that  I  have  seen 
Gibbon.  I  cannot  express  the  pleasure  it  gave  me, 
not  that  I  have  any  remains  of  sentiment  for  a  man 
whom  I  believe  to  be  unworthy  of  it,  but  my  femi- 
nine vanity  never  had  a  more  complete  and  honorable 
triumph.  He  staid  two  weeks  in  Paris.  I  had  him 
every  day  at  my  house.  He  had  become  gentle, 
submissive,  and  decent  even  to  prudery.  Continual 
witness  of  my  husband's  tenderness,  of  his  talent  and 
his  devotion,  a  zealous  admirer  of  wealth,  he  caused 
me  to  notice  for  the  first  time  that  which  surrounds 
me,  and  which,  if  it  had  impressed  me  at  all,  had 
impressed  me  only  disagreeably." 

That  this  burst  of  exultation  was  justified 
appears  from  Gibbon's  own  account.  Of 
this  same  visit  he  writes  to  his  friend  Hol- 
royd,  afterwards  Lord  Sheffield  : 

"The  Curchod  (Madame  Necker)  I  saw  at  Paris. 


GIBBON'S  CHARACTER.  31 

She  was  very  fond  of  me,  and  the  husband  particu- 
larly civil.  Could  they  insult  me  more  cruelly  ?  Ask 
me  every  evening  to  supper,  go  to  bed,  and  leave  me 
alone  with  his  wife — what  an  impertinent  security ! 
It  is  making  an  old  lover  of  mighty  little  consequence. 
She  is  as  handsome  as  ever  and  much  genteeler  ;  seems 
pleased  with  her  fortune  rather  than  proud  of  it." 

We  have,  probably,  in  these  two  bits  of 
concurrent  testimony,  the  key  to  Gibbon's 
otherwise  inexplicable  behavior  towards 
Mademoiselle  Curchod.  He  was  luxurious, 
self-indulgent,  and  a  worshipper  of  wealth, 
not  as  mere  wealth,  but  for  the  comforts 
which  it  commands.  His  complaints  of 
Swiss  living  and  cooking,  his  eulogy  of  Eng- 
lish housekeeping,  the  keenness  he  shows 
in  making  bargains  and  his  frequent  refer- 
ences, in  his  correspondence  with  Lord 
Sheffield,  to  his  investments,  all  prove  this, 
while  his  timidity  of  character  appears  from 
his  own  confession  that  he  never  had  the 
courage  to  speak  in  Parliament.  That  such 
a  man,  not  certain  of  his  own  worldly  fut- 
ure, should  shrink  from  marriage  with  a 
poor  Swiss  girl  was  only  natural ;  and  when 
he  found  her  rich,  influential,  and  admired 


32  GIBBON   AND    MADAME   NECKER. 

in  the  foremost  city  of  Europe,  it  was  equal- 
ly natural  that  his  esteem  for  her,  if  not  his 
affection,  should  revive. 

Gibbon,  on  his  part,  was  destined  to  a 
career  no  less  brilliant  than  Madame  Neck- 
er's.  His  first  published  work,  the  "  Study 
of  Literature,"  had  little -success,  and  he 
abandoned,  as  we  have  seen,  his  projected 
history  of  the  Swiss  republics  after  writ- 
ing the  first  few  chapters.  But  in  his  twenty- 
eighth  year,  sitting,  as  he  tells  us,  "  amidst 
the  ruins  of  the  Capitol  at  Rome,  while  the 
barefooted  friars  were  singing  vespers  in 
the  temple  of  Jupiter  transformed  into  a 
Christian  church,"  the  idea  of  describing 
the  decline  and  fall  of  the  city  entered  his 
mind,  though  it  was  not  until  1768,  four 
years  later,  when  he  had  finally  renounced 
his  Swiss  history,  that  he  seriously  under- 
took the  task.  Preliminary  study  and  re- 
search, interrupted  by  the  death  of  his  fa- 
ther and  the  labor  required  to  settle  his 
deeply  embarrassed  estate,  consumed  four 
years  more,  and  only  in  1772,  when  he  had 
reached  the  age  of  thirty-four,  was  he  able 
to  begin  the  work  of  composition.  It  took 


THE  "DECLINE  AND  FALL."          33 

another  four  years  to  complete  the  first  vol- 
ume. "  Many  experiments  were  made,"  he 
says,  "  before  I  could  hit  the  middle  tone 
between  a  dull  chronicle  and  a  rhetorical 
declamation.  Three  times  did  I  compose 
the  first  chapter  and  twice  the  second  and 
third,  before  I  was  tolerably  satisfied  with 
their  effect."  His  practice  was  "  to  cast  a 
long  paragraph  in  a  single  mould,  to  try  it  by 
my  ear,  to  deposit  it  in  my  memory,  but  to 
suspend  the  action  of  the  pen  till  I  had  given 
the  last  polish  to  the  work."  When  he  had 
thus  laboriously  perfected  his  composition 
he  was  satisfied  with  it,  and  sent  it  directly 
to  the  printer  without  submitting  to  the 
criticism  of  others,  because,  as  he  says, 
"  The  author  is  the  best  judge  of  his  own 
performance.  No  one  has  so  deeply  medi- 
tated on  the  subject ;  no  one  is  so  sincerely 
interested  in  the  event." 

The  success  which  the  book  had,  is  par- 
alleled only  by  that  of  Macaulay's  "  History 
of  England,"  a  century  afterwards.  The  first 
edition  was  exhausted  in  a  few  days,  a  sec- 
ond and  a  third  were  as  quickly  disposed 
of,  and  its  author  was  overwhelmed  with 
3 


34          GIBBON    AND    MADAME    NECKER. 

praise,  not  only  from  his  personal  friends, 
but  from  other  historians,  like  Hume  and 
Robertson.  His  treatment  of  the  Christian 
religion  provoked  a  swarm  of  attacks,  only 
one  of  which  he  found  it  necessary  to  an- 
swer, and  that  merely  because  the  writer  had 
impugned  his  literary  honesty.  The  fame 
he  acquired  led  to  political  promotion.  He 
was  already  a  member  of  Parliament,  but 
now  he  was  employed  by  the  ministry  to 
defend  their  measures  with  his  pen,  and  as 
a  reward  for  his  efforts  was  made  by  Lord 
North  one  of  the  Lords  of  Trade,  an  office 
which  he  retained  until  the  fall  of  his  patron 
in  1783,  when  he  retired  altogether  from  po- 
litical life. 

It  thus  became  Gibbon's  turn  to  show 
Madame  Necker  that  she,  too,  had  lost 
something  in  losing  him  for  a  husband. 
The  first  volume  of  his  "  History  "  had  ap- 
peared in  March,  1776,  and  in  May  the 
Neckers  came  over  to  London  on  a  visit. 
Gibbon  devoted  himself  to  entertaining 
them,  but  his  attitude  towards  them  was  no 
longer  so  humble  as  it  had  been  in  1765. 
He  wrote  to  his  friend  Holroyd  : 


CORRESPONDENCE   RENEWED.  35 

"  At  present  I  am  very  busy  with  the  Neckers.  I 
live  with  her  just  as  I  used  to  do  twenty  years  ago, 
laugh  at  her  Paris  varnish  and  oblige  her  to  become 
a  simple,  reasonable  Suissesse.  The  man,  who  might 
read  English  husbands  lessons  of  proper  and  dutiful 
behaviour,  is  a  sensible,  good-natured  creature." 

On  her  part,  Madame  Necker  seems  to 
have  experienced  a  revival  of  affection  for 
her  quondam  lover,  and  upon  her  return  to 
Paris  she  wrote  to  him  : 

' '  You  ought  not  to  doubt  of  the  pleasure  which  I 
take  in  your  success,  for  I  have  long  been  warned  of 
my  amour  propre  only  by  my  sensibility.  I  will  not 
give  you  advice.  I  could  only  criticise  your  opinions  or 
your  sentiments,  and  no  advice  could  change  them. 
Besides, you  have  a  style  of  writing  peculiar  to  yourself. 
You  must  follow  the  promptings  of  your  genius,  and 
whoever  would  risk  advising  you  to  do  anything  but 
giving  up  to  yourself,  would  be  unworthy  of  admir- 
ing you,  and  of  feeling  the  inestimable  value  of  a 
sublime  singularity." 

A  month  later  she  writes  again,  praising 
his  history,  and  begging  him  to  come  and 
take  up  his  residence  in  Paris  as  the  only 
place  worthy  to  be  honored  by  his  presence. 
She  adds  : 


36  GIBBON   AND    MADAME    NECKER. 

"  You, who  have  transferred  to  English  all  the  del- 
icacy, the  finesse,  and  at  the  same  time  the  lucidity 
of  our  tongue,  will  transfer  to  French  the  richness 
and  strength  of  yours,  and  you  will  write  both  with 
that  harmonious  pen  which  seems  to  place  words  only 
to  charm  the  ear,  as  a  skilful  hand  touches  the  keys  of 
a  harpsichord. 

' '  But  when  will  you  come  ?  Monsieur,  fix  for  us  the 
precise  day  that  we  may  enjoy  it  in  advance.  Mon- 
sieur Necker  and  I  both  present  to  you  the  assurance 
of  the  distinguished  sentiments  which  we  have  vowed 
to  you  for  life." 

Madame  du  Deffand  also  wrote  to  him 
about  this  time  a  letter  in  which  she  says : 
"  I  have  seen  very  little  of  M.  and  Mme. 
Necker  since  your  departure.  I  supped 
once  as  a  third  with  them,  and  Madame 
Necker  has  supped  once  with  me.  We  talk 
of  M.  Gibbon,  and  of  what  else?  Of  M. 
Gibbon,  always  of  M.  Gibbon." 

The  invitation  so  flatteringly  given  was 
accepted  the  following  year,  and  Gibbon 
was  highly  delighted  with  the  treatment  he 
received.  He  writes  to  Lord  Sheffield : 

1 '  You  remember  that  the  Neckers  were  my  princi- 
pal dependence,  and  the  reception  which  I  have  met 
with  from  them  very  far  surpassed  my  most  sanguine 


A    REGRETFUL    LETTER.  37 

expectations.  I  do  not  indeed  lodge  in  this  house 
(as  it  might  incite  the  jealousy  of .  the  husband  and 
procure  me  a  lettre  de  cachet),  but  I  live  very  much 
with  them,  and  dine  and  sup  whenever  they  have 
company,  which  is  almost  every  day,  and  whenever  I 
like  it,  for  they  are  not  in  the  least  exigeans." 

After  his  return  to  England  Gibbon  must 
have  been  absorbed  in  his  work  and  the 
Neckers  occupied  with  the  political  troubles 
of  France,  for  no  correspondence  seems  to 
have  passed  between  them  until  1781,  when 
he  sent  to  Madame  Necker  the  second  and 
the  third  volume  of  his  history  with  a  letter, 
in  which,  referring  to  their  early  love  affair, 
he  says : 

"  I  am  sufficiently  punished  by  the  reflection  that 
my  conduct  may  have  laid  me  open  to  a  reproach 
which  my  heart  alone  can  contradict.  No,  madame, 
I  shall  never  forget  the  dearest  moments  of  my  youth, 
and  its  pure  and  indelible  memory  is  now  lost  in  the 
truest  and  most  unalterable  friendship.  After  a  long 
separation  I  had  the  happiness  of  being  able  to  spend 
six  months  in  your  company.  Every  day  added  to 
the  feelings  of  respect  and  of  gratitude  with  which 
you  inspired  me,  and  I  quitted  Paris  with  the  firm 
but  vain  resolution  always  to  keep  up  a  correspond- 
ence which  alone  could  compensate  me  for  what  I 
had  lost" 


38  GIBBON-  AND   MADAME    NECKER. 

Madame  Necker's  reply  is  most  affec- 
tionate. Gently  chiding  Gibbon  for  hav- 
ing so  long  neglected  to  write  to  her,  she 
says : 

"Although  I  am  concentrated  in  the  objects  of 
my  tenderest  attachment,  the  sensibility  which  I  have 
received  from  nature  suffices  for  other  ties.  My  soul 
exists  only  when  it  loves,  and  when  it  still  lacks  new 
means  of  existence  outside  of  its  centre.  I  want  you 
to  bestow  on  me  the  sentiments  you  promised.  I 
reckoned  on  them  in  making  up  my  sum  of  happi- 
ness. I  know  you ;  you  will  have  affection  for  me 
when  you  see  me  again,  and  you  will  not  be  con- 
scious of  your  faults  until  you  have  them  no  longer." 

Two  years  later,  on  his  retirement  from 
politics,  Gibbon  removed  permanently  from 
England  to  Switzerland,  and  took  up  his 
residence  in  Lausanne,  in  a  house  which  he 
occupied  jointly  with  his  friend  Deyverdun. 
Here,  in  full  view  of  the  beautiful  Lake  of 
Geneva  and  of  the  Savoy  Alps,  he  remained 
several  years,  engaged  upon  his  "  Decline 
and  Fall,"  the  last  volume  of  which  he  com- 
pleted in  1787,  and  in  enjoying  the  society 
of  his  friends.  That  in  this  paradise  his 
loneliness,  like  that  of  Adam,  began  to 


MATRIMONIAL    LONGINGS.  39 

weary  him,  appears  from  what  he  says  in 
1784  in  a  letter  to  Lord  Sheffield : 

"  Should  you  be  very  much  surprised  to  hear  of  my 
being  married  ?  Amazing  at  it  may  seem,  I  do  as- 
sure you  that  the  event  is  less  improbable  than  it 
would  have  appeared  to  myself  a  twelvemonth  ago. 
Deyverdun  and  I  have  often  agreed,  in  jest  and  in 
earnest,  that  a  house  like  ours  would  be  regulated, 
graced,  and  enlivened  by  an  agreeable  female  com- 
panion ;  but  each  of  us  seems  desirous  that  his  friend 
should  sacrifice  himself  for  the  public  good." 

Again,  in  1790,  he  writes  to  the  same 
friend  : 

*"  Sometimes,  in  a  solitary  mood,  I  have  fancied  my- 
self married  to  one  or  another  of  those  whose  society 
and  conversation  are  the  most  pleasing  to  me  ;  but 
when  I  have  painted  in  my  fancy  all  the  probable 
consequences  of  such  a  union,  I  have  started  from 
my  dream,  rejoiced  in  my  escape,  and  ejaculated  a 
thanksgiving  that  I  was  still  in  the  possession  of  my 
natural  freedom.  Yet  I  feel,  and  I  shall  continue  to 
feel,  that  domestic  solitude,  however  it  may  be  alle- 
viated by  work,  by  study,  and  even  by  friendship, 
is  a  comfortless  state,  which  will  grow  more  pain- 
ful as  I  descend  in  the  vale  of  years." 

And  again  in  1791  : 

"I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  give  you  an  ad- 


4O          GIBBON   AND    MADAME    NECKER. 

equate  idea  of  the  conveniency  of  my  house  and  the 
beauty  of  my  garden,  both  of  which  I  have  improved 
at  a  considerable  expense  since  the  death  of  poor 
Deyverdun.  But  the  loss  of  a  friend  is  indeed  ir- 
reparable. Were  I  ten  years  younger,  I  might  pos- 
sibly think  of  a  female  companion  ;  but  the  choice  is 
difficult,  the  success  doubtful,  the  engagement  per- 
petual, and  at  fifty-four  a  man  should  never  think  of 
altering  the  whole  system  of  his  life  and  habits." 

The  storm  that  burst  upon  the  French 
monarchy  drove,  as  we  have  seen,  the  Neck- 
ers  into  exile,  and  Coppet,  where  they  went 
to  live,  was  not  far  from  Lausanne.  Mad- 
ame Necker,  preserving  her  tenderness  for 
the  object  of  her  early  attachment,  sought 
by  every  feminine  art  to  lure  him  to  her 
side,  and  in  a  measure  succeeded.  Here  is 
what  she  writes  to  him  in  1792,  referring  to 
a  visit  he  had  made  her : 

"  We  think  often  of  the  days,  full  of  charms, which 
we  passed  with  you  at  Geneva.  I  felt  during  all  this 
time  a  sentiment  that  was  new  to  me,  perhaps  it 
would  be  also  new  to  many  people.  By  a  rare  favour 
of  Providence  I  reunited  in  one  and  the  same  spot 
one  of  the  sweet  and  pure  affections  of  my  youth  and 
also  that  which  now  constitutes  my  lot  upon  earth, 
and  which  makes  it  so  enviable.  This  peculiarity, 


LADY    ELIZABETH    FOSTER.  41 

joined  with  the  pleasures  of  an  incomparable  conver- 
sation, formed  for  us  a  sort  of  enchantment,  and  the 
connection  of  the  past  with  the  present  made  all  my 
days  appear  like  a  dream,  proceeding  from  the  ivory 
gate  for  the  consolation  of  mortals.  Will  you  not 
help  us  to  prolong  it  ?" 

At  the  same  time  she  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  unsheathe  the  claw  beneath 
the  velvet,  and  to  give  him  a  peculiarly 
feminine  scratch.  We  have  seen  how,  in 
the  loneliness  of  his  bachelor  home,  Gib- 
bon's thoughts  turned  towards  matrimony, 
and  there  is  an  unverified  legend  that  he 
actually  once  offered  himself  at  Lausanne 
to  an  English  woman,  Lady  Elizabeth  Fos- 
ter, afterwards  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  who, 
like  many  of  her  countrywomen,  had  called 
to  pay  her  respects  to  the  celebrated  his- 
torian. The  legend  narrates  that  he  got 
upon  his  knees  to  make  his  offer,  and  when, 
upon  being  rejected,  he  attempted  to  rise, 
he  was  so  fat  and  infirm  that  he  was  unable 
to  do  it,  and  had  to  be  helped  up  by  his 
servants.  Referring  to  this  matrimonial  in- 
clination, Madame  Necker  goes  on  to  say : 

"  Monsieur  de  Germain  has  thought  fit  to  marry, 


42  GIBBON   AND    MADAME    NECKER. 

and  he  has  had  to  renounce  much  of  his  attentions. 
Beware,  monsieur,  of  these  late  bonds.  The  mar- 
riage which  makes  one  happy  in  ripe  age  is  that 
which  was  contracted  in  youth.  Then  only  is  the 
union  perfect,  tastes  are  shared,  sentiments  expand, 
ideas  become  common,  the  intellectual  faculties  mu- 
tually shape  themselves.  All  life  is  double,  and  all 
life  is  a  prolongation  of  youth,  for  the  impressions  of 
the  soul  govern  the  eyes,  and  the  beauty  which  has 
passed  away  preserves  its  empire,  but  for  you,  mon- 
sieur, in  all  the  vigour  of  thinking,  when  your  whole 
existence  is  fixed,  a  worthy  wife  could  not  be  found 
without  a  miracle,  and  an  imperfect  association  re- 
calls always  Horace's  statue  in  which  a  beautiful 
head  is  joined  to  the  body  of  a  stupid  fish." 

Her  other  letters  to  him  written  about 
this  time  also  manifest  a  lively  interest  in 
his  welfare.  Here  are  some  extracts  : 

"  You  have  always  been  dear  to  me,  but  the  friend- 
ship you  show  to  M.  Necker  increases  that  which 
you  inspire  in  me  for  so  many  other  reasons,  and  I 
love  you  at  present  with  a  double  affection." 

' '  Your  words  are  for  me  the  .milk  and  honey  of  the 
promised  land,  and  I  seem  to  hear  their  sweet  mur- 
mur. Still,  I  yet  regret  the  pleasure  that  I  had  of 
entertaining  you  during  the  day  with  my  thoughts  of 
the  day  before.  I  lived  thus  with  you,  doubly,  in 
the  past  and  in  the  present,  and  the  one  embellished 


AN    UNDYING    FRIENDSHIP.  43 

the   other.     May  I  flatter  myself  that  I   shall   find 
again  this  happiness  in  our  avenues  of  Coppet  ?" 

"What  price  does  not  my  heart  attach  to  your 
health,  and  the  interest  which  your  friendship  sheds 
upon  our  retreat !  On  arriving  here,  on  finding  only 
the  tombs  of  those  whom  I  so  much  loved,  you  were 
to  me  a  solitary  tree,  whose  shade  still  covers  the 
desert  which  separates  me  from  the  past  years  of  my 
life. 

"You  promised  me  to  read  '  Les  Opinions  Reli- 
gieuses,'  and  whatever  may  be  your  metaphysical 
opinions,  I  am  sure  you  will  be  struck  by  the  chap- 
ter on  happiness.  The  touching  word  which  ends 
your  letter  convinces  me  of  it.  I  want  to  add  to  it 
these  lines  of  Zaire  : 

'  Genereux,  bienfaisant,  juste,  plein  de  vertus. 
S'il  etait  ne  Chretien,  que  serait-il  de  plus.' 

"  Return  to  us  when  you  are  left  to  yourself.  It  is 
the  moment  which  ought  always  to  belong  to  your 
first  and  to  your  last  friend.  I  cannot  discover  which 
of  these  titles  is  the  sweetest,  and  the  dearest  to  my 
heart." 

This  affectionate  intercourse  appears  to 
have  been  kept  up  both  in  person  and  by 
correspondence  until  the  end.  Madame 
Necker's  last  letter  to-  Gibbon  is  dated  Dec. 
9,  1793,  and  he  died  Jan.  16,  1794.  She, 


44          GIBBON    AND    MADAME    NECKER. 

too,  died  the  following  May,  after  months  of 
suffering  which  incapacitated  her  for  writ- 
ing. It  would  have  been  romantic,  if  it 
could  be  said  that  her  last  thoughts  were 
of  Gibbon,  but,  in  truth,  they  were  exclu- 
sively of  her  husband,  whom  she  loved  to 
the  day  of  her  death  as  truly  and  as  tender- 
ly as  she  had  loved  him  from  the  beginning 
of  their  married  life.  Her  body  was  in- 
terred at  Coppet,  where  it  has  ever  since  re- 
mained. Gibbon's  was  entombed  in  Lord 
Sheffield's  family  vault  in  England.  The 
pair  were  thus  divided  in  death  as  they 
were  in  early  life,  the  native  country  of 
each  claiming  and  receiving  its  own. 


DR.   SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


DR.  JOHNSON    AND  MRS.  THRALE. 


DR.  JOHNSON'S  acquaintance  with  Mrs. 
Thrale  began  in  January,  1765,  when  he  was 
fifty-six  years  of  age  and  she  was  twenty- 
four.  Mr.  Thrale  was  a  wealthy  brewer, 
who  had  received  a  liberal  education,  and, 
as  well  as  his  wife,  had  a  fondness  for  the 
society  of  literary  men  and  of  artists.  The 
couple,  who  had  been  married  only  a  few 
months,  took  such  a  liking  to  Johnson  that 
they  made  him  their  intimate  friend,  and 
for  the  remaining  sixteen  years  of  Mr. 
Thrale's  life  he  lived  for  the  greater  part  of 
the  time  at  their  villa  at  Streatham,  near 
London.  A  chamber  was  set  apart  for  him, 
which  he  occupied  for  several  days  of  every 
week,  his  tastes  in  eating  and  drinking  were 
sedulously  consulted,  conveniences  were  pro- 


46        DR.    JOHNSON   AND    MRS.    THRALE. 

vided  for  his  experiments  in  chemistry,  the 
library  was  put  under  his  care,  with  a  liberal 
allowance  of  money  for  the  purchase  of 
books,  he  was  consulted  in  the  management 
of  Mr.  Thrale's  business  affairs,  and,  in 
short,  he  became  an  integral  member  of 
the  family.  His  fame  and  the  hospitality 
of  the  Thrales  made  the  house  the  favorite 
resort  of  the  finest  minds  in  London,  and 
as  Abraham  Hayward  says  in  his  memoirs 
of  Mrs.  Thrale :  *'  Holland  House,  alone  and 
in  its  best  days,  would  convey  to  persons 
living  in  our  time  an  adequate  conception 
of  the  Streatham  circle  when  it  comprised 
Burke,  Reynolds,  Garrick,  Goldsmith,  Bos- 
well,  Murphy,  Dr.  Burney  and  his  daughter, 
Mrs.  Montague,  Mrs.  Boscawen,  Mrs.  Crewe, 
Lord  Loughborough,  Dunning  (afterwards 
Lord  Ashburton),  Lord  Mulgrave,  Lord 
Westcote,  Sir  Lucas,  and  Mr.  (afterwards  Sir 
William)  Pepys,  Major  Holroyd  (afterwards 
Lord  Sheffield),  the  Bishop  of  London  and 
Mrs.  Porteous,  the  Bishop  of  Peterborough 
and  Mrs.  Hinchcliff,  Miss  Gregory,  Miss 
Streatfield,  etc."  In  this  literary  elysium 
Johnson's  life,  as  may  well  be  imagined. 


BOSWELL'S  SLANDERS.  47 

passed  most  agreeably.  His  health  and  his 
spirits  improved,  and  he  enjoyed  himself  to 
the  full.  Mr.  Thrale's  death  in  1781  put  an 
end  to  it  all.  The  Streatham  establishment 
was  broken  up,  and  though  Dr.  Johnson  oc- 
casionally visited  Mrs.  Thrale  at  her  town 
residence,  and  continued  to  correspond  with 
her,  the  intimacy  gradually  lessened,  until, 
upon  her  marriage  to  Gabriel  Piozzi  in  1784, 
six  months  before  Johnson's  death,  it  ceased 
altogether. 

Mrs.  Thrale,  like  Dr.  Johnson,  is  best 
known  to  the  world  through  the  medium  of 
Boswell's  life  of  the  distinguished  scholar. 
That  incomparable  work,  unique  among 
biographies,  has  probably  a  hundred  readers 
where  any  other  on  the  same  subject  has 
one,  and  naturally  it  has  had  a  predominant 
influence  in  shaping  public  opinion.  Bos- 
well,  who  was  an  admiring  worshipper  of 
Johnson  and  a  jealous  rival  of  Mrs.  Thrale, 
hated  her  because  Johnson  liked  her,  and 
because  he  foresaw  that  she,  too,  would 
write  a  memoir  of  his  hero  in  competition 
with  his  own.  Hence  he  persistently  repre- 
sents her  in  the  most  unfavorable  light,  and 


48        DR.    JOHNSON    AND    MRS.    THRALE. 

impugns  both  the  soundness  of  her  under- 
standing and  the  accuracy  of  her  recollec- 
tions. Above  all,  he  has  succeeded  in  es- 
tablishing the  belief  that,  after  the  death  of 
her  husband,  she  treated  Dr.  Johnson  with 
ingratitude,  and  that  her  marriage  with 
Piozzi  was  a  sacrifice  of  self-respect  to  an 
unworthy  passion.  The  truth  is  that  Dr. 
Johnson  was  indebted  to  Mrs.  Thrale,  not 
only  for  the  kindness  which,  as  he  himself 
acknowledged  in  the  very  paroxysm  of  his 
anger  at  her  re-marriage,  "soothed  twenty 
years  of  a  life  radically  wretched,"  but  for 
an  intellectual  companionship  and  stimulus 
which  materially  assisted  in  making  his  rep- 
utation. Even  Boswell  has  the  candor  to 
say :  "  The  vivacity  of  Mrs.  Thrale's  literary 
talk  aroused  him  to  cheerfulness  and  exer- 
tion, even  when  they  were  alone.  But  this 
was  not.  often  the  case;  for  he  found 
here  a  constant  succession  of  what  gave 
him  the  highest  enjoyment;  the  society 
of  the  learned,  the  witty,  and  the  eminent 
in  every  way,  who  were  assembled  in  nume- 
rous companies,  called  forth  his  wonder- 
ful powers,  and  gratified  him  with  admira- 


PIOZZI.  49 

tion,  to  which  no   man   could  be   insensi- 
ble." 

Johnson,  therefore,  owed  Mrs.  Thrale 
quite  as  much  as  she  owed  him,  and  that, 
after  her  husband's  death,  her  intimacy 
with  him  came  to  an  end,  was  no  proof  of 
ingratitude.  Nor  was  her  marriage  with 
Piozzi  at  all  deserving  of  censure.  Piozzi, 
though  only  an  Italian  music  master,  was 
in  every  way  as  worthy  a  man  as  Thrale, 
and  made  a  much  better  husband.  In  the 
light  that  modern  inquiry  has  thrown  upon 
the  subject,  the  conviction  cannot  be  avoid- 
ed that  Mrs.  Thrale's  real  offence  was  pre- 
ferring the  younger  and  handsomer  Italian 
to  her  elderly  admirer,  and  that  Johnson's 
resentment  was  merely  the  commonplace 
effect  of  a  lover's  rejection.  He  was, 
probably,  not  himself  aware  of  the  nature 
of  his  feelings,  nor  does  it  appear  that  any 
of  his  friends  suspected  it.  If  they  did, 
they  did  not  choose  to  say  so.  Nor  did 
Mrs.  Thrale  ever  suggest  this  explanation 
of  Johnson's  conduct,  and  in  the  two  vol- 
umes of  correspondence  with  him  which  she 
published  after  his  death,  nothing  is  found 
4 


50        DR.    JOHNSON   AND   MRS.    THRALE. 

to  support  it.  By  common  consent  it  seems 
to  have  been  agreed  to  represent  the  quar- 
rel as  having  had  reference  solely  to  Piozzi's 
position  and  character,  and  to  leave  every- 
thing else  out  of  consideration.  This  is 
done  by  even  so. well-informed  a  writer  as 
Lord  Macaulay,  and  the  only  eminent  au- 
thor who  has  expressed  a  different  opinion 
is  Lord  Brougham,  who,  in  his  "  Lives  of 
Men  of  Letters,"  ventures  the  surmise  that 
"  Johnson  was,  perhaps  unknown  to  himself, 
in  love  with  Mrs.  Thrale." 

All  accounts  agree  in  depicting  Mrs. 
Thrale  as  a  woman  in  every  way  deserving 
of  admiration.  Though  not  positively  beau- 
tiful, she  was  pretty  enough  at  the  age  of 
fourteen  to  be  selected  by  Hogarth  to  sit 
for  the  principal  figure  in  his  picture  "  The 
Lady's  Last  Stake,"  while  the  vivacity  of 
her  countenance  and  the  graciousness  of 
her  manners  rendered  her  otherwise  attrac- 
tive. Her  intellectual  gifts  were  uncom- 
mon. When  she  was  thirteen  her  parents, 
who  were  in  comfortable  circumstances, 
thought  not  wealthy,  placed  her  under  the 
tuition  of  the  learned  Dr.  Arthur  Collier, 


MRS.   THRALE. 


DOCTOR   COLLIER.  51 

and  by  him  she  was  taught  Latin,  Spanish, 
and  Italian,  besides  other  branches  of 
knowledge.  Moreover,  notwithstanding  his 
sixty  odd  years,  he  inspired  in  her,  as  he 
did  in  another  of  his  girl  pupils,  Sophy 
Streatfield,  a  romantic  affection.  She  says 
of  him :  "  A  friendship  more  tender,  or  more 
unpolluted  by  interest  or  by  vanity,  never 
existed;  love  had  no  place  at  all  in  the  con- 
nection, nor  had  he  any  rival  but  my  moth- 
er." Whether  from  jealousy  or  from  pru- 
dence, her  mother,  however,  thought  it  best 
to  part  her  from  her  adored  preceptor,  lest 
his  influence  over  her  should  prevent  her 
marriage.  As  for  Miss  Streatfield,  she  took 
him,  when  he  became  so  old  as  to  be  in- 
firm, into  her  -own  home,  he  died  in  her 
arms,  and  for  years  she  marked  the  anni- 
versary of  his  death  by  wearing  black. 

How  Mrs.  Thrale  profited  by  Dr.  Collier's 
instruction  is  proved  by  her  subsequent  ca- 
reer. Besides  her  familiarity  with  English 
literature  and  a  knowledge  of  French,  Ital- 
ian, and  Spanish,  the  Rev.  E.  Mangin,  who 
knew  her  during  the  last  eight  or  ten  years 
of  her  life,  says  that  "she  not  only  read  and 


52        DR.    JOHNSON    AND    MRS.    THRALE. 

wrote  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  Latin,  but  had 
for  sixty  years  constantly  and  ardently  stud- 
ied the  Scriptures  and  the  works  of  com- 
mentators in  the  original  languages."  This 
is  an  exaggeration,  but  that  her  learning 
was  considerable  and  her  information  varied 
and  extensive,  Boswell's  reports  of  her  dis- 
putes with  Dr.  Johnson  abundantly  show. 
On  several  occasions  she  proved  her  knowl- 
edge of  Latin  by  translating  it  into  English 
offhand,  and  Dr.  Johnson  did  not  disdain 
her  co-operation  in  making  a  series  of  Eng- 
lish versions  of  the  Latin  odes  of  Boethius, 
which  are  printed  with  her  second  volume 
of  his  letters.  After  one  of  their  frequent 
intellectual  contests,  he  said  to  her,  in  reply 
to  an  apologetic  remark,  "  Madam,  you  nev- 
er talk  nonsense.  You  have  as  much  sense 
and  more  wit  than  any  woman  I  know." 
Miss  Reynolds  has  also  left  the  following 
testimony  to  his  appreciation  of  her : 

"  On  the  praises  of  Mrs.  Thrale  he  used  to  dwell 
with  a  peculiar  delight,  a  paternal  fondness,  expres- 
sive of  conscious  exultation  in  being  so  intimately 
acquainted  with  her.  One  day,  in  speaking  of  her  to 
Mr.  Harris,  author  of  '  Hermes,'  and  expatiating  on 


MRS.  THRALE'S  ATTRACTIONS.         53 

her  various  perfections — the  solidity  of  her  virtues, 
the  brilliancy  of  her  wit,  and  the  strength  of  her  un- 
derstanding, etc. — he  quoted  some  lines,  with  which 
he  concluded  his  most  eloquent  eulogium,  of  which 
I  retained  but  the  two  last  : 

"  Virtues  of  such  a  generous  kind, 
Good  in  the  last  recesses  of  the  mind." 

Madame  d' Arblay  (Fanny  Burney),  the  fa- 
mous author  of  "  Evelina,"  also  wrote  of  her 
after  her  death : 

"She  was,  in  truth,  a  most  wonderful  character 
for  talents  and  eccentricity,  for  wit,  genius,  gener- 
osity, spirit,  and  powers  of  entertainment.  She  had 
a  great  deal  both  of  good  and  not  good,  in  com- 
mon with  Mme.  de  Stael  Holstein.  They  had  the 
same  sort  of  highly  superior  intellect,  the  same  depth 
of  learning,  the  same  general  acquaintance  with 
science,  the  same  ardent  love  of  literature,  the  same 
thirst  for  universal  knowledge,  and  the  same  buoyant 
animal  spirits,  such  as  neither  sickness,  sorrow,  nor 
even  terror  could  subdue.  Their  conversation  was 
equally  luminous  from  the  sources  of  their  own  fer- 
tile minds  and  from  their  splendid  acquisitions  from 
the  acquirements  of  others." 

From  other  sources  we  learn  that  in  con- 
versation she  was  accounted  a  formidable 
rival  to  the  celebrated  blue-stocking,  Mrs. 


54        DR.  JOHNSON    AND    MRS.  THRALE. 

Montague,  and  the  verses,  letters,  and  oth- 
er productions  she  left  behind  her  evince 
more  than  ordinary  literary  skill. 

Johnson,  on  his  part,  was  remarkable  for 
his  repulsive  person  and  uncouth  manners. 
Boswell  says :  "  Miss  Porter  told  me  that 
when  he  was  first  introduced  to  her  mother 
his  appearance  was  very  forbidding.  He 
was  then  lean  and  lank,  so  that  his  im- 
mense structure  of  bones  was  hideously 
striking  to  the  eye,  and  the  scars  of  scrofula 
were  deeply  visible.  He  also  wore  his  hair, 
which  was  straight  and  stiff,  separated  be- 
hind, and  he  often  had  seemingly  convul- 
sive starts  and  odd  gesticulations,  which 
tended  to  excite  at  once  surprise  and  ridi- 
cule." Madame  d'Arblay,who  first  saw  him 
when  he  was  sixty,  also  speaks  of  his  "per- 
petual convulsive  movements,  either  of  his 
hands,  lips,  feet,  and  knees,  and  sometimes 
of  all  together."  His  behavior  at  table  was 
what  we  should  call  disgusting.  He  ate 
ravenously,  like  a  half-famished  man,  and, 
while  making  pretence  to  nicety,  he  preferred 
quantity  to  quality.  Lord  Chesterfield,  in 
one  of  his  letters  to  his  son,  describes  him, 


JOHNSON'S  REPULSIVENESS.          55 

without  mentioning  his  name,  as  "a  re- 
spectable Hottentot,"  and,  after  speaking 
of  the  defects  of  his  person  already  men- 
tioned, goes  on  to  say :  "  He  throws  any- 
where but  down  his  throat  whatever  he 
means  to  drink,  and  only  mangles  what  he 
means  to  carve.  Inattentive  to  all  the  re- 
gards of  social  life,  he  mistimes  or  misplaces 
everything.  He  disputes  with  heat  and  in- 
discriminately, mindless  of  the  rank,  char- 
acter, and  situation  of  those  with  whom  he 
disputes,  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  several 
gradations  of  familiarity  or  respect."  An 
Irish  clergyman,  Dr.  Campbell,  who  dined 
with  Johnson  at  Mrs.  Thrale's  in  1775, 
writes  of  him :  "  He  has  the  aspect  of  an 
idiot,  without  the  faintest  ray  of  sense 
gleaming  from  any  one  feature — with  the 
most  awkward  gait,  an  unpowdered  gray  wig 
on  one  side  of  his  head — he  is  forever  danc- 
ing the  devil's  jig,  and  sometimes  he  makes 
the  most  drivelling  effort  to  whistle  some 
thought  in  his  absent  paroxysms." 

All  this  is  confirmed  by  Boswell,  who  re- 
counts numerous  instances  of  Johnson's 
slovenliness,  rudeness,  and  general  ill  man- 


56         DR.  JOHNSON   AND    MRS.  THRALE. 

ners.  Yet  his  colossal  stature,  great  physi- 
cal strength,  and  manly  courage  impressed 
his  female  friends  with  that  sense  of  power 
which  is  so  attractive  to  their  sex.  On  the 
one  occasion  when  he  followed  the  hounds, 
his  fearless  riding  elicited  general  admira- 
tion, and  when  two  large  dogs  were  fighting 
in  his  presence,  he  separated  them  by  tak- 
ing one  in  each  hand  and  holding  them 
apart  at  arm's-length.  At  another  time, 
merely  to  display  his  agility,  he  climbed  over 
a  high  gate  which  came  in  his  way;  and 
Foote,  the  actor,  having  announced  that  he 
would  caricature  him  on  the  stage,  he  pre- 
vented it  by  the  significant  purchase  of  a 
stout  oaken  stick. 

In  spite,  therefore,  of  his  repulsive  ap- 
pearance and  behavior,  Johnson  had  com- 
pensating physical  advantages,  and  these 
were  amply  re-enforced  by  his  intellectual 
gifts.  Like  ugly  John  Wilkes,  he  was  "  only 
half  an  hour  behind  the  handsomest  man  in 
England."  Mrs.  Porter,  whom  he  married, 
remarked  after  her  first  interview  with  him  : 
"Mr.  J.  is  the  most  sensible  man  that  I  ever 
saw  in  my  life."  Mrs.  Kitty  Clive,  the  fa- 


CONVERSATIONAL   ABILITY.  57 

mous  actress,  said :  "  I  love  to  sit  by  Dr. 
Johnson;  he  always  entertains  me."  The 
aged  Countess  of  Eglintoune  was  so  pleased 
with  him  that  she  gave  this  message  to  Bos- 
well  :  "  Tell  Johnson  I  love  him  exceeding- 
ly." Miss  Adams,  a  daughter  of  Dr.  Adams 
of  Pembroke  College,  Oxford,  writes  to  a 
friend  in  the  last  year  of  Johnson's  life: 
"  Dr.  Johnson,  though  not  in  good  health, 
is  in  general  very  talkative,  and  infinitely 
agreeable  and  entertaining."  Mrs.  Cotton 
testifies  that :  "  Dr.  Johnson,  despite  his 
rudeness,  was  at  all  times  delightful,  having 
a  manner  peculiar  to  himself  in  relating 
anecdotes  that  could  not  fail  to  attract  both 
old  and  young."  Mr.  Langton  told  Boswell 
of  an  evening  gathering,  where  ladies  of  the 
highest  rank  and  fashion  gathered  round 
Johnson's  chair,  four  and  five  deep,  to  hear 
him  talk.  Madame  d'Arblay  had  for  him 
a  feeling  bordering  upon  idolatry.  Her 
diary  abounds  in  expressions  like  these : 
"  My  dear,  dear  Dr.  Johnson !  what  a  charm- 
ing man  you  are !"  "  But  Dr.  Johnson's  ap- 
probation !  it  almost  crazed  me  with  agree- 
able surprise."  "  I  have  so  true  a  venera- 


58         DR.  JOHNSON   AND   MRS.  THRALE. 

tion  for  him  that  the  very  sight  of  him 
inspires  me  with  delight  and  reverence." 
"  But  how  grateful  do  I  feel  to  this  dear  Dr. 
Johnson."  "  Dear,  dear,  and  much  rever- 
enced Dr.  Johnson  !"  "  This  day  was  the 
ever  -  honored,  ever -lamented  Dr.  Johnson 
committed  to  the  earth.  Oh,  how  sad  a 
day  to  me!  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  dry 
all  day!  Nor  can  I  now  in  the  recollect- 
ing." And  four  years  afterwards  she  says  of 
a  conversation  about  him  with  Mr.  Wynd- 
ham :  "  My  praise  of  him  was  of  a  more 
solid  kind — his  principles,  his  piety,  his 
kind  heart  under  all  its  rough  coating  ;  but 
I  need  not  repeat  what  I  said.  My  dear 
friends  know  every  word." 

Women  liked  also  in  Johnson  his  delicate 
gallantry.  He  had  a  tender,  respectful  love 
for  them,  and  succeeded  in  making  them 
feel  it.  Mrs.  Thrale  once  said  to  him : 
"Your  compliments,  sir,  are  made  seldom, 
but  when  they  are  made,  they  have  an  ele- 
gance unequalled."  To  her,  assuredly,  he 
paid  homage  in  the  most  flattering  manner, 
wrote  sonnets  in  her  honor,  both  in  English 
and  in  Latin  ;  when  he  was  absent  he  kept 


FASCINATION    FOR    WOMEN.  59 

up  a  constant  correspondence  with  her,  and 
he  contrived  even  in  the  violence  of  his 
contradiction  to  make  that  contradiction  a 
tribute  to  her  understanding.  Goldsmith, 
who  knew  him  well,  and  who,  as  often  as 
anybody,  suffered  from  his  rudeness,  said  of 
him :  "  He  has  nothing  of  the  bear  but  his 
skin." 

It  was  not  without  reason,  therefore,  that 
Boswell  writes : 

"Let  not  my  readers  smile  to  think  of  Johnson's 
being  a  candidate  for  female  favor.  Mr.  Pete*  Gar- 
rick  assured  me  that  he  was  told  by  a  lady  that  in 
her  opinion  Johnson  was  'a  very  seducing  man.' 
Disadvantages  of  person  and  manner  may  be  forgot- 
ten where  intellectual  pleasure  is  communicated  to  a 
susceptible  mind,  and  Johnson  was  capable  of  feel- 
ing the  most  delicate  and  disinterested  attachment." 

That  Dr.  Johnson  was  indeed  capable  of 
ardent  love  for  women  there  is  no  doubt. 
Boswell  strives  to  portray  him  as  a  man  of 
mighty  intellect,  raised  by  it  above  ordinary 
human  weaknesses.  But  even  Boswell,  with 
the  unconscious  fidelity  of  a  photographer, 
has  incidentally  preserved  many  traits  of 
Johnson's  character  which  redeem  it  from 


60         DR.  JOHNSON    AND    MRS.  THRALE. 

being  that  of  a  faultless  monster,  and  ex- 
hibit it  in  a  more  human  aspect.  He  ad- 
mits that  "  Johnson  had  from  his  youth  been 
sensible  to  the  influence  of  female  charms;" 
and  specifying  several  of  the  objects  of  his 
boyish  love,  he  introduces  the  account  of 
his  early  marriage  with  this  remark :  "  In  a 
man  whom  religious  education  has  secured 
from  licentious  indulgences,  the  passion  of 
love,  when  it  once  has  seized  him,  is  ex- 
ceedingly strong,  being  unimpaired  by  dis- 
sipation and  totally  concentrated  in  one  ob- 
ject. This  was  experienced  by  Johnson 
when  he  became  the  fervent  admirer  of 
Mrs.  Porter  after  her  first  husband's  death." 
Johnson's  impressibility  by  feminine 
charms  and  his  own  consciousness  of  it  are 
evinced  by  a  remark  he  made  at  the  age  of 
forty  to  his  friend  and  former  pupil,  David 
Garrick ;  "  I'll  come  no  more  behind  your 
scenes,  David ;  for  the  silk  stockings  and 
white  bosoms  of  your  actresses  excite  my 
amorous  propensities."  After  the  famous 
dinner  at  Mr.  Dilly's,  to  which  Johnson  was 
inveigled  to  meet  Mr.  Wilkes,  Boswell 
records  that  a  pretty  Quakeress,  Mrs. 


APPRECIATION    OF    BEAUTY.  6l 

Knowles,  being  present,  "  Mr.  Wilkes  held 
a  candle  to  show  a  fine  print  of  a  beautiful 
female  figure  which  hung  in  the  room,  and 
pointed  out  the  elegant  contour  of  the  bosom 
with  the  finger  of  an  arch  connoisseur.  He 
afterwards,  in  a  conversation  with  me,  wag- 
gishly insisted  that  all  the  time  Johnson 
showed  visible  signs  of  a  fervent  admiration 
of  the  corresponding  charms  of  the  fair 
Quaker."  At  seventy-two  he.  remarked  to 
Boswell :  "  Sir,  it  is  a  very  foolish  resolution 
to  resolve  not  to  marry  a  pretty  woman. 
Beauty  is  of  itself  very  estimable.  No,  sir, 
I  would  prefer  a  pretty  woman  unless  there 
are  objections  to  her." 
Elsewhere  Boswell  says : 

"When  I  told  him  that  a  young  and  handsome 
countess  had  said  to  me  :  '  I  should  think  that  to  be 
praised  by  Dr.  Johnson  would  make  one  a  fool  all 
one's  life,'  and  that  I  answered,  '  Madam,  I  shall 
make  him  a  fool  to-day  by  repeating  this  to  him.'  He 
said,  '  I  am  too  old  to  be  made  a  fool,  but  if  you  say  I 
am  made  a  fool  I  shall  not  deny  it.  I  am  much  pleased 
with  a  compliment,  especially  from  a  pretty  woman.'  " 

And  again,  speaking  of  a  visit  to  a  Heb- 
rides chief,  Boswell  records : 


62         DR.  JOHNSON    AND    MRS.  THRALE. 

"  This  evening,  one  of  our  married  ladies,  a  lively, 
pretty  little  woman,  good  humoredly  sat  down  upon 
Dr.  Johnson's  knee,  and.  being  encouraged  by  some 
of  the  company,  put  her  hands  round  his  neck  and 
kissed  him.  '  Do  it  again,'  said  he,  '  and  let  us  see 
who  will  tire  first."  He  kept  her  on  his  knee  some 
time,  while  he  and  she  drank  tea." 

Another  acquaintance  of  Johnson's  relates 
that  "  Two  young  women  from  Staffordshire 
visited  him  when  I  was  present  to  consult 
him  on  the  subject  of  Methodism,  to  which 
they  were  inclined.  'Come,'  said  he,  'you 
pretty  fools,  dine  with  me  and  Maxwell  at 
the  "Mitre,  and  we  will  talk  over  that  sub- 
ject,' which  they  did,  and  after  dinner  he 
took  one  of  them  upon  his  knee  and  fondled 
her  for  half  an  hour  together." 

It  would  be  a  mistake,  nevertheless,  to 
infer  from  these  anecdotes  that  Johnson,  as 
regards  women,  was  coarse  and  sensual.  He 
appreciated  more  the  finer  elements  of  the 
feminine  character,  and  took  delight  in  the 
society  of  cultivated  ladies.  Mrs.  Thrale 
herself  relates  that  "  when  Mr.  Thrale  once 
asked  Johnson  which  had  been  the  happiest 
period  of  his  life,  he  replied :  '  It  was  that 


DELICACY   OF    FEELING.  63 

year  in  which  he  spent  one  whole  evening 
with  Molly  Aston.  That,  indeed,'  he  said, 
'  was  not  happiness,  it  was  rapture,  but  the 
thought  of  it  sweetened  the  whole  year.' 
I  must  add  that  the  evening  alluded  to  was 
not  passed  tete-a-tete,  but  in  a  select  com- 
pany of  which  the  present  Lord  Kilmorey 
was  one."  Of  another  lady,  Miss  Boothby, 
Mrs.  Thrale  writes :  "  Johnson  told  me  she 
pushed  her  piety  to  bigotry,  her  devotion  to 
enthusiasm ;  that  she  somewhat  disqualified 
herself  for  the  duties  of  this  life  by  her 
perpetual  aspirations  after  the  next.  Such, 
however,  was  the  purity  of  her  mind,  he 
said,  and  such  the  graces  of  her  manner, 
that  he  and  Lord  Lyttelton  used  to  strive 
for  her  preference  with  an  emulation  that  oc- 
casioned hourly  disgust  and  ended  in  last- 
ing animosity."  His  romantic  love  for  his 
wife  while  she  lived  and  his  devotion  to  her 
memory  long  after  her  death,  are  frequently 
mentioned  in  Boswell's  pages.  His  affec- 
tion for  Mrs.  Thrale  was  evidently  inspired 
by  her  mind  rather  than  by  her  person, 
and  all  the  letters  he  wrote  to  her  are 
most  chivalrous.  Of  ladies'  dress  he  was, 


64        DR.  JOHNSON   AND    MRS.  THRALE. 

notwithstanding  his  nearsightedness,  an  ap- 
preciative critic.  Boswell  relates  that  on 
one  occasion  he  was  greatly  displeased  be- 
cause Mrs.  Thrale  appeared  before  him  in 
a  dark-colored  gown.  "  You  little  creat- 
ures," he  said,  "should  not  wear  those 
sort  of  colors;  they  are  unsuitable  in  every 
way.  What !  have  not  all  insects  gay  col- 
ors?" When  none  of  the  ladies  could  ex- 
plain why  a  pale  lilac  should  be  called  a 
soupir  etouffe,  he  was  ready  with  the  answer : 
"It  is  called  a  stifled  sigh  because  it  is 
checked  in  its  progress,  and  is  only  half  a 
color."  Elsewhere  Mrs.  Thrale  informs  us  : 

"It  was  indeed  astonishing  how  he  could  remark 
with  a  sight  so  miserably  imperfect  ;  but  no  acci- 
dental position  of  a  riband  escaped  him,  so  nice  was 
his  observation  and  so  rigorous  his  demands  of  pro- 
priety. When  I  went  with  him  to  Lichfield,  and 
came  down  stairs  to  breakfast  at  the  inn,  my  dress 
did  not  please  him,  and  he  made  me  alter  it  entire- 
ly before  he  would  stir  a  step  with  me  about  the 
town." 

In  like  manner  Madame  d'Arblay  says 
he  once  refused  to  go  to  church  at  Streat- 
ham  with  her  mother  until  she  had  changed 


THRALE'S  COARSENESS.  65 

a  hat  which  he  disliked  for  one  that  suited 
him  better. 

There  was  enough,  therefore,  in  the  char- 
acters of  both  Mrs.  Thrale  and  Dr.  John- 
son, notwithstanding  their  disparity  of  age, 
to  make  them  pleased  with  each  other.  The 
same  intellectual  strength  and  cultivation 
which  rendered  Dr.  Collier  so  dear  to  her 
in  her  girlhood  she  found  in  a  larger  degree 
in  the  person  of  her  new  friend,  while  he  in 
turn  was  flattered  by  her  admiration  and 
grateful  for  her  affection.  Besides  this,  she 
had  a  special  reason  for  drawing  close  to 
him.  Her  husband,  though  he  was  possess- 
ed of  superior  abilities,  and  had  been  edu- 
cated at  Oxford  in  the  society  of  young  men 
of  good  family,  yet  lacked  the  refinement 
necessary  to  preserve  her  love.  A  wife  was 
to  him  a  companion  and  a  housekeeper  and 
the  mother  of  his  children,  and  that  was  all. 
He  treated  her  as  a  despot  treats  a  slave. 
"  I  know  no  man,"  said  Johnson  to  Boswell, 
"  who  is  more  master  of  his  wife  and  family 
than  Thrale.  If  he  holds  up  a  finger  he  is 
obeyed."  He  introduced  into  his  house 
as  a  constant  guest  an  illegitimate  son,  and 
5 


66        DR.  JOHNSON   AND    MRS.  THRALE. 

appointed  him  one  of  his  executors.  He 
made  love  to  a  pretty  girl,  the  Sophy  Streat- 
field  already  mentioned,  before  his  wife's 
face ;  and  at  a  time  when,  if  ever,  she  de- 
served consideration,  he  made  her  exchange 
seats  at  table  with  her  rival,  who  occupied 
one  exposed  to  a  draught. 

Nor  was  he  intellectually  so  superior  to 
her  as  to  justify  this  domination.  Even  in 
business  matters  he  committed  many  blun- 
ders, which,  with  Dr.  Johnson's  counsel,  she 
aided  him  to  repair,  and  she  did  her  best  to 
repress  in  him  the  gluttony,  the  indulgence 
of  which  eventually  caused  his  death.  John- 
son, on  the  other  hand,  as  all  the  evidence 
shows,  was  tender  and  sympathetic.  He 
took  an  interest  in  her  little  ambitions, 
shared  her  sorrows,  and  consoled  her  in 
her  afflictions,  of  which  the  frequent  loss  of 
children  was  not  the  least. 

Given  thus,  on  the  one  hand,  a  man  of 
vigorous  intellect,  strong,  though  controlled 
passions,  and  fascinating  conversation,  and, 
on  the  other,  a  woman  of  talent,  able  and 
quick  to  appreciate  his  merits,  and  let  the 
two  be  thrown  together  intimately  for  the 


JOHNSON'S  LOVE.  67 

period  of  sixteen  years,  nothing  would  be 
more  natural  than  for  a  feeling  to  spring  up, 
at  least  on  the  part  of  the  man,  warmer  than 
mere  friendship.  Difference  of  age  counts 
for  little  in  such  cases,  for  it  is  a  common 
saying  that  the  heart  never  grows  old.  A 
man  in  Johnson's  position  readily  forgets 
how  he  actually  appears  to  the  woman  who 
flatters  and  pleases  him,  and,  conscious  only 
of  his  own  youthful  feelings,  is  prone  to  im- 
agine that  he  seems  to  her  as  young  as 
he  does  to  himself.  There  is  no  proof  that 
Mrs.  Thrale  ever  entertained  any  sentiment 
for  Johnson  other  than  the  esteem  which  in 
Madame  d'Arblay  became  reverent  adora- 
tion. Indeed,  when  spoken  to  about  her 
supposed  passion  for  him  some  years  after- 
wards by  Sir  James  Fellows,  she  ridiculed 
the  idea,  saying  that  she  always  felt  for 
Johnson  the  same  respect  and  veneration  as 
for  a  Pascal.  But  if  the  long-continued 
manifestation  of  these  sentiments,  coupled 
with  the  most  assiduous  devotion  and  ten- 
der, wifelike  care,  had  not  awakened  in  him 
some  response  beyond  mere  gratitude,  he 
would  have  been  the  most  insensible  of  be- 


68         DR.  JOHNSON   AND   MRS.  THRALE. 

ings.  Love,  moreover,  is  frequently  the  re- 
sult of  propinquity  and  habit,  and  to  both 
these  influences  Johnson  was  subjected  for 
more  than  sixteen  years.  If  he  misinterpret- 
ed the  attentions  he  received,  and  was  em- 
boldened by  them  to  hope  for  a  return  of 
the  passion  they  aroused,  he  did  only  what 
many  a  wise  man  has  done  under  the  same 
circumstances,  and  will  do  again. 

But,  while  both  Johnson  himself  and  all 
his  friends  saw  nothing  like  love  in  his  re- 
lations with  Mrs.  Thrale,  the  outside  world 
was  convinced  that  it  existed,  and,  upon 
Mr.  Thrale's  death,  fully  expected  Dr.  John- 
son to  marry  his  widow.  This  belief  pro- 
duced a  number  of  literary  squibs  ridiculing 
the  match,  of  which  specimens  are  given  by 
Boswell,  and  others,  too  coarse  for  reproduc- 
tion, are  preserved  in  the  library  of  the  Brit- 
ish Museum.  It  is  certain,  at  least,  that  he 
took  her  desertion  of  him  very  much  to 
heart,  and  suffered  intensely  from  it.  Bos- 
well,  in  his  animosity  against  Mrs.  Thrale, 
says  this  plainly,  and  descants  upon  the 
pain  which  her  remarriage  caused  him. 
An  anonymous  friend,  in  a  biography  pub- 


BITTER    DISAPPOINTMENT.  69 

lished    the  year  following   his   death,  also 
writes  : 

"  No  event  since  the  decease  of  Mrs.  Johnson  so 
deeply  affected  him  as  the  very  unaccountable  mar- 
riage of  Mrs.  Thrale.  This  woman  he  had  frequent- 
ly mentioned  as  the  ornament  and  pattern  of  her  sex. 
There  was  no  virtue  which  she  did  not  practise  ;  no 
feminine  accomplishment  of  which  she  was  not  a 
mistress  ;  hardly  any  language  or  science  or  art 
which  she  did  not  know.  These  various  endow- 
ments he  considered  as  so  many  collateral  securities 
of  her  worth.  They  conciliated  his  confidence,  at 
least  in  what  he  thought  she  was.  He  consequently 
entertained  a  sincere  friendship  for  her  and  her 
family.  But  her  apostasy  appeared  to  him  an  in- 
sult on  his  discernment,  and  on  all  those  valuable 
qualities  for  which  he  had  given  her  so  much  credit. 
The  uneasiness  and  regret  which  he  felt  on  this  oc- 
casion was  so  very  pungent  that  he  could  not  con- 
ceal it  even  from  his  servants.  From  that  time  he 
was  seldom  observed  to  be  in  his  usual  easy  good 
humors.  His  sleep  and  appetite,  and  the  satisfac- 
tion he  took  in  his  study,  obviously  forsook  him.  He 
even  avoided  that  company  which  had  formerly  given 
him  the  greatest  pleasure.  He  often  was  denied  to 
his  dearest  friends,  who  declined  mentioning  her 
name  to  him,  and  till  the  day  of  his  death  he  could 
not  wholly  dismiss  her  from  his  thoughts." 

Mrs.  Thrale  married  Piozzi  July  25,  1784, 


70         DR.  JOHNSON    AND    MRS.  THRALE. 

and  Johnson  died  on  Dec.  13  of  the  same 
year.  It  would  be  unjust  to  say  that  his 
death  was  caused  by  the  marriage,  because 
he  had  long  been  the  victim  of  a  disease 
which  must,  sooner  or  later,  be  fatal.  But 
a  struggle  had  been  going  on  in  his  mind 
ever  since  Mr.  Thrale's  death,  April  4,  1781, 
or  more  than  three  years  and  a  half.  Mrs. 
Thrale  broke  up  the  establishment  at  Streat- 
ham  in  1782,  and  in  June,  1783,  Johnson  had 
a  stroke  of  paralysis,  from  which,  however, 
he  recovered  in  a  few  weeks.  A  significant 
extract  from  his  diary,  under  date  of  April 
15,  1783,  is  transcribed  by  his  biographer, 
Hawkins  : 

"  I  took  leave  of  Mrs.  Thrale.  I  was  much  moved. 
I  had  some  expostulations  with  her.  She  said  that 
she  was  likewise  affected.  I  commended  the  Thrales 
with  great  good  will  to  God.  May  my  petitions  have 
been  heard  !" 

This  proves  that  at  this  date  differences 
had  arisen  between  the  two  which  could 
not  have  failed  to  produce  an  unfavorable 
effect  upon  Johnson's  health.  An  interview 
between  him  and  Madame  d'Arblay,  which 


TALK    WITH    MADAME    D'ARBLAY.  71 

occurred  Nov.  23, 1783,  is  thus  described  by 
the  lady: 

"Nothing  had  yet  publicly  transpired  with  cer- 
tainty or  authority  relative  to  the  projects  of  Mrs. 
Thrale,  who  had  now  been  nearly  a  year  at  Bath, 
though  nothing  was  left  unreported  or  unasserted 
with  respect  to  her  proceedings.  Nevertheless,  how 
far  Dr.  Johnson  was  himself  informed,  or  was  igno- 
rant on  the  subject,  neither  Dr.  Burney  nor  his  daugh- 
ter could  tell,  and  each  equally  feared  to  learn. 

"  Scarcely  an  instant,  however,  was  the  latter  left 
alone  at  Bolt  Court  ere  she  saw  the  justice  of  her 
long  apprehensions,  for  while  she  planned  speaking 
upon  some  topics  that  might  have  a  chance  to  catch 
the  attention  of  the  Doctor,  a  sudden  change  from 
kind  tranquillity  to  strong  austerity  took  place  in  his 
altered  countenance,  and,  startled  and  affrighted, 
she  held  her  peace.  .  .  . 

"  Thus  passed  a  few  minutes  in  which  she  scarcely 
dared  breathe,  while  the  respiration  of  the  Doctor,  on 
the  contrary,  was  of  asthmatic  force  and  loudness  ; 
then,  suddenly  turning  to  her  with  an  air  of  mingled 
wrath  and  woe,  he  hoarsely  ejaculated,  '  Piozzi  !' 

"  He  evidently  meant  to  say  more,  but  the  effort 
with  which  he  articulated  that  name  robbed  him  of 
any  voice  for  amplification,  and  his  whole  frame  grew 
tremulously  convulsed. 

"At  length,  and  with  great  agitation,  he  broke 
forth  with  :  '  She  cares  for  no  one  !  You,  only — 


72         DR.  JOHNSON   AND    MRS.  THRALE. 

you,  she  loves  still !  but  no  one — and  nothing  else — 
you  she  still  loves — ' 

"A  half-smile  now,  though  of  no  very  gay  char- 
acter, softened  a  little  the  severity  of  his  features, 
while  he  tried  to  resume  some  cheerfulness  in  ad- 
ding: 'As  ...  she  loves  her  little  finger  !'  " 

The  fact  was,  that  at  this  time  Mrs. 
Thrale,  so  far  from  being  about  to  marry 
Piozzi,  whom  she  had  begun  to  love  even 
before  her  husband's  death,  had  resolved, 
in  deference  to  the  opposition  of  her  daugh- 
ters and  of  her  friends,  to  give  him  up.  The 
struggle  cost  her  so  dear,  and  had,  visibly, 
so  bad  an  effect  upon  her  health,  that  her 
eldest  daughter  became  alarmed,  and  in 
May,  1784,  of  her  own  accord,  begged  her 
mother  to  send  for  her  lover.  He  arrived 
on  the  ist  of  July,  after  an  absence  of  four- 
teen months,  and  as  has  been  said,  on  the 
25th  the  pair  were  married.  She  announced 
her  intention  to  Johnson,  among  the  other 
guardians  of  her  children,  by  a  circular  let- 
ter dated  June  30,  speaking  of  the  marriage 
as  irrevocably  settled.  Johnson  answered  : 

"MADAM, — If  I  interpret  your  letter  right,  you 
are  ignominiously  married.  If  it  is  yet  undone,  let 


A    BRUTAL    LETTER.  73 

us  once  more  talk  together.  If  you  have  abandoned 
your  children  and  your  religion,  God  forgive  your 
wickedness  ;  if  you  have  forfeited  your  fame  and 
your  country,  may  your  folly  do  no  further  mischief. 
If  the  last  act  is  yet  to  do,  I,  who  have  loved  you, 
esteemed  you,  reverenced  you,  and  served  you,  I, 
who  long  thought  you  the  first  of  womankind,  en- 
treat that  before  your  fate  is  irrevocable  I  may  once 
more  see  you.  I  was,  I  once  was,  madam,  most 
truly  yours,  SAM.  JOHNSON. 

"Jutv,  »,  1784. 

"  I  will  come  down  if  you  will  permit  it." 

To  this  brutal  missive  Mrs.  Thrale  replied 
with  becoming  dignity,  bidding  Johnson 
farewell  until  he  should  change  his  tone. 
Her  firmness  elicited  the  following  more 
moderate  and  yet  pathetic  communica- 
tion : 

"LONDON,  July  8,  1784. 

"  DEAR  MADAM, — What  you  have  done,  however 
I  may  lament  it,  I  have  no  pretence  to  resent,  as  it 
has  not  been  injurious  to  me.  I  therefore  breathe 
out  one  sigh  more  of  tenderness,  perhaps  useless,  but 
at  least  sincere. 

"  I  wish  that  God  may  grant  you  every  blessing, 
that  you  may  be  happy  in  this  world  for  its  short 
continuance,  and  eternally  happy  in  a  better  state, 
and  whatever  I  can  contribute  to  your  happiness  I 


74         DR.  JOHNSON    AND   MRS.  THRALE. 

am  very  ready  to  repay  for  that  kindness  which 
soothed  twenty  years  of  a  life  radically  wretched. 

"  Do  not  think  slightly  of  the  advice  which  I  now 
presume  to  offer.  Prevail  upon  Mr.  Piozzi  to  settle 
in  England.  You  may  live  here  with  more  dignity 
than  in  Italy,  and  with  more  security.  Your  rank 
will  be  higher  and  your  fortune  more  under  your 
own  eyes.  I  desire  not  to  detail  all  my  reasons,  but 
every  argument  of  prudence  and  of  interest  is  for 
England,  and  only  some  phantoms  of  imagination 
seduce  you  to  Italy. 

"  I  am  afraid,  however,  that  my  counsel  is  vain, 
yet  I  have  eased  my  heart  by  giving  it. 

"  When  Queen  Mary  took  the  resolution  of  shel- 
tering herself  in  England,  the  Archbishop  of  St.  An- 
drew's, attempting  to  dissuade  her,  attended  her  on 
her  journey ;  and  when  they  came  to  the  irremeable 
stream  that  separated  the  two  kingdoms,  walked  by 
her  side  into  the  water,  in  the  middle  of  which  he 
seized  her  bridle,  and,  with  earnestness  proportioned 
to  her  danger  and  his  own  affection,  pressed  her  to 
return.  The  queen  went  forward.  If  the  parallel 
goes  this  far,  may  it  go  no  further.  The  tears  stand 
in  my  eyes. 

"I  am  going  into  Derbyshire,  and  hope  to  be 
followed  by  your  good  wishes,  for  I  am,  with  great 
affection,  Yours,  &c. 

"Any  letters  that  come  for  me  hither  will  be  sent 
to  me." 


LOVE   TURNED   TO    HATRED.  75 

In  a  memorandum  endorsed  on  this  letter 
Mrs.  Thrale  says  :  "  I  wrote  him  a  very  kind 
and  affectionate  farewell."  How  keenly  he 
felt  her  loss  appears  from  the  record  which 
Madame  d'Arblay  makes  of  her  last  visit  to 
him,  Nov.  25,  1784,  four  months  after  Mrs. 
Thrale's  marriage,  and  only  nineteen  days 
previous  to  his  death  : 

' '  I  had  seen  Miss  Thrale  the  day  before.  '  So, 
said  he,  '  did  I.'  '  Did  you  ever,  sir,  hear  from  her 
mother?'  'No, 'cried  he,  '  nor  write  to  her.  If  I 
meet  with  one  of  her  letters  I  burn  it  instantly.  I 
have  burned  all  I  can  find.  I  never  speak  of  her, 
and  I  desire  never  to  hear  of  her  more.  I  drive  her, 
as  I  said,  wholly  from  my  mind.'  " 

Contrary  to  Johnson's  gloomy  forebod- 
ings, Mrs.  Thrale's  marriage  was  eminently 
happy.  Her  new  husband  was  of  her  own 
age,  gentle  in  his  manners,  and  sufficiently 
intellectual  and  accomplished  to  be  an 
agreeable  companion.  She  lived  with  him 
awhile  in  Italy,  and  then  returned  to  Lon- 
don,where  she  was  received  in  a  friendly  if 
not  in  a  cordial  manner.  In  1795  the  couple 
removed  to  Wales,  and  Piozzi  died  there  in 
March,  1809.  In  1814  Mrs.  Piozzi  returned 


76        DR.  JOHNSON    AND   MRS.  THRALE. 

to  England,  residing,  until  her  death,  alter- 
nately at  Bath  and  at  Clifton,  with  occasion- 
al visits  to  her  old  home  at  Streatham.  When 
she  was  nearly  eighty  she  took  a  fancy  to  an 
actor  named  Conway,  who  was  a  handsome 
man,  six  feet  tall,  but  with  little  mind.  Some 
letters  are  extant  purporting  to  have  been 
written  by  her  to  him,  but  their  authenticity 
is  doubtful  and  their  contents  not  remark- 
able. On  the  ayth  of  January,  1820,  she  gave 
at  Bath,  to  between  six  and  seven  hundred 
people,  a  concert,  a  ball,  and  a  supper  in  cel- 
ebration of  her  eightieth  birthday,  though, 
unless  all  the  records  are  wrong,  she  could 
not  on  that  day  have  been  older  than  seven- 
ty-nine. In  May,  182 1,  she  died,  having  pre- 
served her  faculties  to  the  last. 


GOETHE. 


GOETHE    AND    CHARLOTTE   VON 
STEIN. 


AMONG  the  many  love  affairs  in  which  the 
poet  Goethe  was  engaged  during  his  long 
and  brilliant  career,  that  between  him  and 
Charlotte  von  Stein  is  distinguished  by  the 
comparatively  high  social  rank  of  the  lady, 
the  depth,  tenderness,  and  duration  of  her 
lover's  affection  for  her,  the  influence  it  had 
upon  him,  the  mystery  attending  its  sudden 
interruption,  and  the  fact  that  the  thousand 
or  so  letters  which  he  wrote  to  her  during  its 
continuance  were  carefully  preserved  by  her, 
and  since  her  death  have  been  published. 
Recently,  also,  an  interesting  controversy 
took  place  in  Germany  over  the  nature  of 
the  relations  between  the  pair,  some  writers 
insisting  that  they  were  criminal,  but  the 


78     GOETHE   AND   CHARLO1TE   VON   STEIN. 

great  majority  adhering  to  the  opinion  that 
they  were  perfectly  pure. 

Goethe  first  became  acquainted  with  Frau 
von  Stein  on  his  arrival  at  Weimar  towards 
the  close  of  the  year  1775.  She  was  then 
thirty-three  years  of  age,  and  had  been  mar- 
ried eleven  years,  during  the  first  nine  of 
which  she  had  been  the  mother  of  seven 
children.  Of  these  children  only  three  sons 
had  survived,  the  youngest,  Fritz,  who  after- 
wards became  Goethe's  pet,  being  then  three 
years  old.  Her  husband,  the  Freiherr  Fried- 
rich  von  Stein,  was  Stallmeister,  or  Master 
of  the  Horse,  to  the  Duke  of  Weimar. 
He  was  seven  years  older  than  his  wife,  and 
is  described  as  a  handsome,  well-made  man, 
of  prepossessing  appearance  and  manners, 
and  a  perfect  courtier,  but  dull  and  unim- 
pressionable, and  almost  painfully  pious. 
His  official  duties  kept  him  most  of  the  time 
at  court,  and  he  even  took  most  of  his  meals 
there,  so  that  his  wife  and  family  saw  but 
little  of  him.  Charlotte  herself  was  famil- 
iar with  court  life,  having  been  for  seven 
years  previous  to  her  marriage  maid-of-hon- 
or  to  the  duke's  mother.  Her  husband's 


CHARLOTTE'S  CHARACTER.  79 

title  of  "  Freiherr  "  is  usually  translated  in 
English  "baron,"  and  hence  she  is  called 
by  English  writers  "  baroness,"  but  in  Ger- 
many she  is  always  spoken  of  simply  as 
"  Frau  "  von  Stein  and  "  Goethe's  Friend  " 
(Goethes  Freundin).  Her  father,  Wilhelm 
von  Schardt,  occupied  in  the  ducal  court 
the  position  of  "  Hofmarschall,"  or  Intend- 
ant  of  the  Household.  On  her  mother's 
side  she  was  of  Scotch  descent,  being  re- 
lated to  the  Irvings  of  Drum,  and  it  is  worth 
mentioning  that  her  younger  sister,  Louise, 
became  the  second  wife  of  that  Baron  Im- 
hof  who  accepted  from  Warren  Hastings  a 
large  sum  of  money  for  his  consent  to  a  di- 
vorce from  his  first  wife  in  order  that  Hast- 
ings might  marry  her. 

Of  Frau  von  Stein's  personal  appearance 
and  characteristics  our  information  is  mea- 
gre. Goethe  himself  nowhere  praises  her 
beauty;  and  Schiller,  writing  in  1787,  when 
she  was  near  forty-five,  says  that  she  could 
never  have  had  any.  She  suffered,  more- 
over, greatly  from  ill-health,  the  result  of  a 
naturally  weak  constitution,  frequent  child- 
bearing,  and  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  all  her 


80     GOETHE   AND    CHARLOTTE   VON    STEIN. 

infant  daughters.  Goethe  wrote  under  her 
silhouette,  taken  in  1773,  which  he  saw  at 
Strasburg  in  the  possession  of  the  famous 
Dr.  Zimmermann,  author  of  the  work  on 
"  Solitude,"  in  July,  1775,  some  months  be- 
fore he  made  her  personal  acquaintance : 
"  It  were  a  glorious  spectacle  to  observe  how 
the  world  mirrors  itself  in  this  soul.  She 
sees  the  world  as  it  is,  and  yet  through  the 
medium  of  love.  So,  gentleness  is  the  gen- 
eral impression."  A  month  later  he  gave  to 
the  physiognomist  Lavater  the  following 
analysis  of  the  character  indicated  by  the 
same  silhouette  :  "  Firmness,  pleased,  un- 
changed permanence  of  state,  contentment 
in  self,  lovable  pleasingness,  naivete',  and 
goodness,  self-flowing  speech,  yielding  firm- 
ness, benevolence,  constancy,  conquers  with 
nets."  Knebel,  an  intimate  friend  of  Goethe, 
writes  of  her,  in  a  letter  addressed  to  his  sis- 
ter about  the  same  time :  "  She  is  without  pre- 
tension and  affectation,  straightforward,  nat- 
ural, free,  not  too  heavy  and  not  too  light, 
without  enthusiasm  and  yet  with  spiritual 
warmth,  takes  an  interest  in  all  rational  and 
human  subjects,  is  well  informed  and  has 


CHARLOTTE  VON   STEIN. 


UNHAPPY   CHILDHOOD.  8 1 

fine  tact  and  even  aptitude  for  art."  Schil- 
ler, also,  while  denying  to  her  the  posses- 
sion of  beauty,  calls  her  "  a  truly  original, 
interesting  person."  "  Her  countenance,"  he 
says,  "  has  a  gentle  earnestness  and  a  very 
peculiar  openness.  Sound  understanding, 
feeling,  and  truth  lie  in  her  being."  Fritz 
von  Stolberg  mentions  among  the  "lovely 
little  women  of  the  court "  the  "  beautiful- 
eyed,  lovely,  gentle  Stein,"  and  speaks  of 
her  as  "the  beautiful  Stein."  Evidently  her 
eyes  and  her  expression  made  up  for  her 
physical  defects,  and  produced  at  least  the 
impression  of  loveliness. 

Charlotte's  childhood  and  youth,  appar- 
ently, were  not  happy.  Her  mother  was  a 
mild,  earnest,  and  deeply  pious  woman,  de- 
voted to  her  household  duties.  Her  fa- 
ther was  stern  and  hard,  and,  like  her  hus- 
band, much  of  the  time  away  from  home, 
absorbed  in  his  official  work.  Her  biog- 
rapher, Duntzer,  says  that  she  never  played 
with  a  doll,  and  was,  as  a  child,  fond  of  gaz- 
ing at  the  stars !  The  means  of  the  family 
were  limited,  and  she  seems  to  have  re- 
ceived little  education  until  after  she  be- 
6 


82     GOETHE   AND   CHARLOTTE   VON    STEIN. 

came,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  maid-of-honor. 
She  then  acquainted  herself  with  French 
literature,  learned  to  play  the  piano  and  the 
guitar,  to  draw,  and  to  do  various  sorts  of 
women's  work.  In  later  life  she  cultivated 
her  talent  for  painting  assiduously,  and  fre- 
quent references  to  the  fruits  of  her  skill  in 
this  art  are  made  by  Goethe  in  his  letters. 
She  also  wrote  a  number  of  poems,  a  collec- 
tion of  which  was  published,  set  to  music, 
and  a  tragedy  called  "  Dido,"  which  has  con- 
siderable merit.  To  women  she  seems  to 
have  been  especially  attractive.  The  youth- 
ful Duchess  Louise  contracted  with  her  a 
life-long  intimacy,  she  deeply  attached  to 
herself  Schiller's  wife,  and  the  companions 
of  her  old  age  spoke  of  her  with  affection- 
ate tenderness.  It  is  related  that  Knebel, 
Goethe's  friend,  was  so  affected  by  her 
death  that  he  wept  like  a  child. 

When  Goethe  arrived  at  Weimar  he  was  a 
little  more  than  twenty-six  years  old.  His 
literary  reputation  had  been  established  by 
the  publication  of  "  Gotz  von  Berlichingen," 
the  "  Sorrows  of  Werther,"  "  Clavigo,"  "  Stel- 
la," "  Erwin  and  Elmira,"  and  countless  lit- 


GOETHE'S  BEAUTY.  83 

tie  poems.  Personally  he  was  of  almost  god- 
like beauty.  Lewes,  in  his  biography,  says 
of  him  that,  at  twenty,  when  he  entered  a 
restaurant,  people  laid  down  their  knives 
and  forks  to  look  at  him.  His  features  re- 
sembled those  of  the  Vatican  Apollo ;  he 
was  above  the  middle  height,  strong,  quick 
in  his  movements,  and  versed  in  all  kinds  of 
manly  exercises.  Of  his  appearance  when 
he  was  twenty-five,  skating  on  the  ice  at 
Frankfort,  wrapped  in  a  crimson  cloak,  his 
delighted  mother  said  :  "  Anything  so  beau- 
tiful is  not  to  be  seen  now.  I  clapped  my 
hands  for  joy.  Never  shall  I  forget  him,  as 
he  darted  out  from  under  one  arch  of  the 
bridge  and  in  again  under  the  other,  the 
wind  carrying  the  train  behind  him  as  he 
flew  !"  This  personal  beauty  he  retained  till 
his  death,  and  his  friend  Eckermann  says 
of  his  corpse  as  it  lay  stretched  out  for  bur- 
ial- "  I  was  astonished  at  the  god-like  splen- 
doi  of  his  limbs.  The  breast,  above  all, 
mighty,  broad,  and  arched.  Arms  and 
thighs  full  and  gently  muscular,  the  feet  ele- 
gant and  of  the  purest  shape,  and  nowhere 
in  the  whole  body  a  trace  either  of  fat  or 


84     GOETHE   AND   CHARLOTTE   VON   STEIN. 

leanness  and  falling  away.  A  perfect  man 
lay  in  great  beauty  before  me,  and  the  de- 
light that  it  gave  me  made  me  for  a  mo- 
ment forget  that  the  immortal  soul  had  de- 
parted from  such  an  envelope."  Nor  were 
his  powers  of  pleasing  inferior  to  his  phys- 
ical attractions.  If  his  successes  with  wom- 
en were  not  enough  to  prove  this,  we  have 
the  favorable  impression  which  he  made 
not  only  upon  his  patron,  the  Duke  of  Wei- 
mar, but  upon  the  whole  court.  The  enthu- 
siastic friendships  which  he  aroused  in  men 
also  attest  in  him  the  possession  of  that 
most  desirable  of  all  qualities,  the  ability  to 
bind  the  hearts  of  others  to  one's  own. 

It  was  not  without  reason,  therefore,  that 
Dr.  Zimmermann  warned  Frau  von  Stein 
against  the  fascinations  of  this  handsome 
young  genius.  The  doctor  had  attended 
her  at  the  baths  of  Pyrmont  in  1773,  and 
obtained  from  her  there  the  silhouette  which 
he  showed  to  Goethe  in  1775,  and  the  sight 
of  which,  he  assured  her,  had  cost  Goethe 
three  sleepless  nights.  She,  in  return,  hav- 
ing expressed  a  wish  to  make  Goethe's  ac- 
quaintance, the  doctor  wrote  to  her  :  "  But, 


NUMEROUS    LOVE   AFFAIRS.  85 

my  poor  friend,  you  do  not  reflect.  You 
desire  to  see  him,  and  you  do  not  know  how 
dangerous  to  you  this  lovable  and  charm- 
ing man  may  become."  Goethe's  loves  had 
been  notorious,  and  his  engagement  to  Anna 
Schonemann  (Lili)  which  had  just  then  been 
broken  off,  was  only  the  last  of  a  series  of 
like  affairs  which  began  when  he  was  but 
fifteen  years  of  age.  But  his  sweethearts  had 
all  been  of  his -own  citizen  rank.  Gretchen, 
the  first,  was  scarcely  respectable,  Katharina 
Schonkopf  was  the  daughter  of  a  tavern- 
keeper,  and  Charity  Meixner  of  a  merchant 
in  Worms.  Then  followed  his  entanglement 
with  his  dancing -master's  daughter,  and 
next,  that  with  Frederika  Brion,  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  pastor  of  Sesenheim.  In  Wetzlar 
he  fell  in  love  with  Charlotte  Buff,  the  orig- 
inal of  Werther's  Charlotte,  who  was  the 
daughter  of  a  law  official.  Next  came  Max- 
imiliane  Laroche,  afterwards  Madame  Bren- 
tano,  whose  father  and  husband  were  both 
merchants.  Anna  Sybilla  Munch  was  of  a 
Frankfort  citizen  family,  and  Lili,  whom  he 
came  so  near  to  marrying,  had  a  rich  bank- 
er for  father.  In  Frau  von  Stein  he  loved 


86  GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

for  the  first  time  in  his  life  a  woman  of  the 
world  and  a  lady  of  rank.  Her  birth,  her 
connections,  her  training,  and  her  manners 
were  all  superior  Jo  those  of  the  women  to 
whom  he  had  been  accustomed,  and  must 
have  impressed  his  artistic  sense  with  a  new 
idea  of  femininity.  It  is  difficult  for  us 
Americans  to  conceive  of  the  gulf  which 
existed  in  Germany  a  century  ago,  and 
which  has  not  yet  been  obliterated,  between 
patricians  and  plebeians,  the  noble  and  the 
citizen.  It  was  not  merely  a  matter  of  birth 
and  position,  but  one  of  breeding,  manners, 
and  habits.  Goethe  himself  was  conscious 
of  his  deficiencies  in  this  respect,  and  took 
great  pains  to  repair  them.  So  late  as  1782, 
when  he  had  been  six  years  living  at  court 
in  Weimar,  he  writes  to  Frau  von  Stein,  who 
had  undertaken  to  form  him :  "I  strive  after 
all  that  we  last  discussed  concerning  con- 
duct, life,  demeanor,  and  elegance,  let  myself 
go,  am  always  attentive,  and  I  can  assure 
you  that  all  whom  I  observe  play  more  their 
own  parts  than  I  do  mine."  Two  years  later 
he  makes  Wilhelm  Meister  *  discuss  the  dif- 
*  Lehrjahre,  Book  V. ,  chap.  3. 


A    NEW    EXPERIENCE.  87 

ference  between  citizens  and  nobles  in  a 
way  which  evidently  expresses  his  own  ideas 
on  the  subject.  "  I  know  not  how  it  is  in 
foreign  lands,  but  in  Germany  only  to  a  no- 
bleman is  a  certain  universal,  so  to  speak, 
personal  education  possible.  A  citizen  may 
gain  merit  for  himself  and  at  most  educate 
his  mind,  but  his  personality  is  lost,  present 
himself  as  ke  will,  whereas  it  is  the  duty  of 
a  nobleman,  who  deals  with  the  elegant,  to 
give  himself  an  elegant  -demeanor,  while  this 
demeanor,  since  no  door  is  shut  to  him,  be- 
comes free,  and,  since  he  must  pay  with  his 
figure  and  with  his  person,  be  it  in  the  court 
or  in  the  army,  he  has  a  reason  for  thinking 
something  of  himself,  and  for  showing  that 
he  thinks  something  of  himself."  Indeed, 
although  early  ennobled  by  patent,  Goethe, 
to  the  end  of  his  life,  never  became  a  thor- 
ough patrician.  The  etiquette  of  the  Wei- 
mar court,  the  observance  of  which  to  Frau 
von  Stein  was  second  nature,  wearied  him 
immensely.  He  hated  the  entertainments 
which  he  was  obliged  to  attend,  and  was  ir- 
ritated because  his  beloved  took  pleasure 
in  them  and  was  gracious  and  complaisant 


88     GOETHE   AND    CHARLOTTE   VON    STEIN. 

to  the  men  she  met  at  them.  His  great 
delight  was  to  steal  off  from  time  to  time 
to  Jena,  and  there  join  in  revelry  with  the 
students,  and,  as  we  shall  see  hereafter,  his 
coarseness  in  dealing  with  women  ultimately 
led  to  a  breach  between  him  and  the  object 
of  his  adoration. 

Precisely  when  and  where  Goethe  first 
met  Frau  von  Stein  face  to  face  does  not 
anywhere  appear,  nor  is  it  known  what  im- 
pression each  then  made  upon  the  other. 
Goethe  reached  Weimar  Nov.  7,  1775,  and 
the  records  of  the  court  make  no  mention 
of  Frau  von  Stein  at  any  of  the  entertain- 
ments at  which  he  was  present  about  that 
time.  She  was,  however,  well  acquainted 
with  the  family  of  which  he  was  the  guest, 
and  that  within  a  month  he  paid  her  a 
visit  at  her  husband's  country-seat,  Koch- 
berg,  appears  from  an  inscription  on  a  writ- 
ing-table still  preserved  there,  "Goethe 
den  6  Dcbr.  75."  Ten  years  later  he  re- 
minded his  beloved  of  this  first  visit  in  a  let- 
ter written  on  the  same  spot :  "  I  think  of 
thee,  my  love,  in  the  old  castle,  where,  ten 
years  ago,  I  first  visited  thee,  and  where 


CHARLOTTE'S  FASCINATIONS.          89 

them  heldest  me  so  fast  through  thy  love." 
This  indicates  that  even  at  that  time  he 
was  enamoured  of  his  new  acquaintance,  and 
then,  or  very  soon  thereafter,  began  the  ro- 
mance in  action  between  the  pair  which  is 
the  most  remarkable  in  Goethe's  career. 
He  had  just  broken  off  his  engagement  with 
Lili,  and  his  susceptible  heart  abhorred  a 
vacuum.  He  was  therefore  prepared  for  the 
installation  of  a  new  idol,  and  he  found  one 
in  Frau  von  Stein.  He  had  come  to  Wei- 
mar for  a  visit  to  the  young  duke  of  only  a 
few  weeks,  but  her  fascinations  kept  him 
there,  first,  during  the  winter,  then  for  an- 
other year,  until  finally  he  became  a  per- 
manent resident  of  the  place  and  died  in  it. 
Indeed,  he  repeatedly  says,  as  he  does  in 
the  letter  just  above  quoted,  that  Frau  von 
Stein  was  the  tie  which  held  him,  and  but 
for  which  he  would  have  soon  departed. 

The  ten  years  and  eight  months  which 
elapsed  between  Goethe's  first  acquaint- 
ance with  Frau  von  Stein  at  the  end  of 
1775,  and  his  departure  for  Italy  in  Sep- 
tember, 1786,  may  be  called  the  golden  pe- 
riod .of  their  intercourse.  Of  his  965  pub- 


90     GOETHE    AND    CHARLOTTE    VON    STEIN. 

lished  letters  to  her,  821  were  written  dur- 
ing this  period,  and,  as  the  few  extracts 
hereafter  given  will  show,  they  embody  the 
most  ardent  emotions  of  which  a  lover's 
soul  is  capable.  It  is,  indeed,  comforting  to 
ordinary  men,  who  are  aware  that,  at  some 
time  or  other  in  their  lives,  love  has  made 
fools  of  them,  to  find  that  a  great  genius 
like  Goethe  was  also  the  victim  of  the  same 
and  even  greater  madness.  What  the  let- 
ters fail  to  exhibit,  however,  is  the  gentle, 
refining  influence  which  Frau  von  Stein  ex- 
ercised upon  her  lover.  It  was  under  the 
sway  of  his  intercourse  with  her  that  he 
wrote  his  "  Iphigenia,"  "  Tasso,"  "  Egmont," 
and  the  first  part  of  "Wilhelm  Meister,"  be- 
sides a  number  of  graceful  little  plays  and 
spectacles  for  the  Weimar  theatre,  and 
many  dainty  short  poems,  like  the  "  Wan- 
derer's Night  Song  "  and  "  Ueber  alle  Gip- 
fel,"  which  are  printed  with  the  letters.  In 
her  companionship,  also,  he  practised  draw- 
ing and  painting,  studied  English,  Dutch, 
and  Italian,  and  experimented  with  the  mi- 
croscope. Her  children  were  frequent  vis- 
itors at  his  house.  He  played  with  them, 


LETTER- WRITING.  91 

told  them  stories,  and  sometimes  kept  them 
with  him  overnight.  The  youngest,  Fritz, 
he,  in  a  manner,  adopted,  took  him  with 
•him  on  his  journeys  to  the  neighboring 
towns,  helped  to  educate  him,  and,  finally, 
established  him  in  an  official  position.  His 
letters  indicate  that  his  visits  to  her,  except 
when  interrupted  by  her  absence  from  Wei- 
mar or  his  own,  were  made  almost  daily, 
and  that  she,  in  turn,  visited  him  as  often. 
In  short,  there  was  between  the  two  that 
freedom  of  thought  and  complete  confi- 
dence which  is  the  ideal  of  friendship,  if 
not  of  love. 

By  the  end  of  December,  1775,  or  early 
in  January,  1776,  Goethe  began  to  pour  out 
his  feelings  to  Frau  von  Stein  in  the  long 
series  of  letters  of  which  mention  has  been 
made.  As  he  jokingly  warned  her  at  the 
outset :  "  If  this  goes  on  thus  from  morning 
to  night  there  will  be  a  perfect  disease  of 
notes  between  us."  Some  days  he  wrote 
to  her  morning,  noon,  and  night,  and  the 
average  of  the  letters  for  ten  years  is  one 
in  four  days.  It  is  much  to  be  regretted 
that  the  corresponding  letters  from  Frau 


92      GOETHE   AND    CHARLOTTE   VON    STEIN. 

von  Stein  to  him  no  longer  exist,  but,  short- 
ly before  her  death,  she  made  him  return 
them  to  her,  and  remorselessly  destroyed 
them,  together  with  the  autograph  manu- 
scripts of  a  number  of  poems  which  he  had 
sent  her.  There  is  a  pretty  legend  that 
Goethe  retained  one  of  her  notes,  burned 
it,  and  preserved  the  ashes  as  a  memorial, 
but  this  is  unsupported  by  evidence.  She, 
on  her  part,  carefully  kept  his  letters  to  her, 
and  they  are  now  in  the  possession  of  her 
descendants.  The  first  edition  of  them 
appeared  about  1850,  and  a  second,  in  two 
large  octavo  volumes,  corrected  and  im- 
proved, and  enriched  with  a  mass  of  valu- 
able notes,  was  published  in  1883. 

The  total  number  of  the  letters  in  the 
manuscript  collection  is  1624,  including 
some  from  others  than  Goethe.  Those 
published  are  numbered  up  to  965.  The 
originals  are  described  by  the  editor  as  be- 
ing mostly  on  paper  of  letter  and  of  note  size 
of  various  colors,  with  printed  borders,  and 
written  partly  in  ink  and  partly  in  pencil. 
Others  are  on  leaves  torn  out  of  note  books, 
and  on  scraps  evidently  caught  up  in  haste 


UNROMANTIC   TOPICS.  93 

from  the  desk  or  table  at  which  Goethe  was 
sitting,  engaged  in  his  official  duties.  Many 
of  them  were  sent  unsealed,  and  carelessly 
folded,  as  if  there  was  no  desire  to  conceal 
their  contents.  Some  of  them  bear  no  date, 
and,  although  Frau  von  Stein  had  put  them 
in  order,  yet,  during  the  plunder  of  her 
house  by  the  French  in  1806,  they  were 
mixed  up,  and  now  their  true  succession  is 
in  many  cases  a  matter  of  conjecture.  Still, 
by  patient  labor  and  research,  an  arrange- 
ment of  them  has  been  made  which  for 
practical  purposes  is  sufficient. 

Unromantically  enough,  the  very  first 
of  the  letters,  presumably  written  early  in 
January,  1776,  begins  with  thanks  for  the 
gift  of — a  sausage !  and  details  of  a  hurt 
to  Goethe's  eye,  caused  by  the  blow  of  a 
whip  lash.  Likewise,  all  through  the  letters 
frequent  mention  is  made  of  presents  of 
fruit,  vegetables,  game,  and  even  cooked 
dishes,  with  an  abundance  of  details  re- 
specting the  bodily  health  of  both  the  lov- 
ers. The  next  letter  is  more  sentimental, 
and  the  next, dated  Jan.  15,  begins:  "I  am 
glad  that  I  am  coming  away,  to  wean  my- 


94     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON   STEIN. 

self  from  you."  Other  like  expressions  in- 
dicate a  passion  that  had  already  reached 
a  high  pitch.  A  day  or  two  after  this  he 
calls  Charlotte  his  "soother"  (JBesatiftig- 
eriri).  By  the  28th  of  January  he  became 
bolder  : 

"  DEAR  ANGEL, — I  shall  not  come  to  the  concert, 
for  I  am  so  well  that  I  cannot  see  people.  Dear 
angel,  I  sent  for  my  letters,  and  it  vexed  me  that 
there  was  not  among  them  one  word  from  thee,  not 
even  in  pencil — no  good-night.  Dear  lady,  suffer  it 
that  I  hold  thee  so  dear.  If  I  can  love  any  one 
more,  I  will  tell  thee,  will  leave  thee  in  peace. 
Adieu,  Gold,  thou  comprehendest  not  how  I  love 
thee." 

It  will  be  observed  that  in  this  letter 
Goethe  drops  from  the  formal  "  you  "  into 
the  familiar  "  thou,"  a  liberty  in  Germany, 
as  in  France  and  Italy,  permissible  only 
to  an  intimate  friend.  On  Feb.  12  he  ad- 
dresses to  his  lady-love  his  "Wanderer's 
Night  Song,"  which  closes  with  the  words, 
"  Sweet  peace,  come,  oh,  come,  into  my 
heart!"  This  little  poem  Frau  von  Stein 
must  have  shown  to  her  mother,  for  on  the 
back  of  it  are  written  in  that  pious  lady's 


CHARLOTTE'S  PIETY.  95 

hand  these  words  from  the  Gospel  of  St. 
John :  "  Peace  I  leave  with  you,  my  peace 
I  give  unto  you.  Not  as  the  world  giveth 
give  I  unto  you.  Let  not  your  heart  be 
troubled,  neither  let  it  be  afraid."  Frau 
von  Stein  herself,  also,  from  first  to  last  ex- 
hibited a  religious  turn  of  mind.  She  went 
to  church  regularly  every  Sunday,  and,  al- 
though neglected  by  her  husband  and  sore- 
ly pressed  by  her  impetuous  young  lover, 
she  never  for  a  moment,  except  perhaps 
at  the  very  last,  faltered  in  the  observance 
of  her  wifely  obligations.  She  seems  even 
at  times  to  have  regarded  her  acceptance 
of  Goethe's  devotion  as  a  sin,  and,  as  we 
shall  see  further  on,  speaks  of  it  as  such. 

Towards  the  end  of  February  Goethe 
writes :  "  O,  that  my  sister  had  a  brother 
such  as  I  in  thee  have  a  sister !  Think  of 
me,  and  press  thy  hand  to  thy  lips,  for  thou 
will  never  wean  Gusteln  from  his  naughti- 
ness, which  will  only  end  with  his  unrest 
and  love  in  the  grave."  A  month  later 
he  says :  "  I  see  well,  dear  lady,  when 
one  loves  thee  it  is  as  if  seed  were  sown, 
and  springs  unnoticed,  unfolds  and  stands 


96     GOETHE   AND    CHARLOTTE   VON    STEIN. 

there — and   God   give   his   blessing   to    it. 
Amen !" 

On  the  1 4th  of  April  Goethe  sends  a  long 
poem,  in  which  occur  the  lines  : 

' '  Ah  !  thou  wert  in  a  former  life 
Either  my  sister  or  my  wife." 

And  again,  on  the  i6th,  he  writes :  "Adieu, 
dear  sister,  since  so  it  must  be."  Evidently 
Frau  von  Stein  had  sought  to  repress  the 
ardor  of  her  young  admirer,  and,  as  other 
women  have  tried  to  do  in  like  circum- 
stances, to  keep  his  passion  within  the 
bounds  of  a  sisterly  affection.  As  usual, 
too,  she  failed  at  an  early  stage  of  the 
game.  On  May  i  her  lover  breaks  out 
with :  "  To-day  will  I  not  see  you.  Your 
presence  yesterday  made  such  a  wonderful 
impression  on  me  that  I  do  not  know 
whether  it  be  weal  or  woe  with  me  in  the 
affair.  Farewell,  dearest  lady." 

Failing  to  check  him  otherwise,  Frau  von 
Stein  must  soon  after  this  have  appealed 
to  his  regard  for  her  reputation,  and  have 
begged  him  to  consider  what  the  world 
would  say  of  his  attentions.  In  reply  he 


A   PASSIONATE  OUTBURST.  97 

writes  May  24,  falling  back  partially  into 
the  formal  "  you :" 

"And  so,  a  relation,  the  purest,  the  most  beauti- 
ful, the  truest  that  I  have  ever  had  with  any  woman, 
except  my  sister,  that  also  is  interrupted  !  I  was 
prepared  for  it.  I  suffered  infinitely  for  the  past 
and  the  future,  and  for  the  poor  child  who  went 
forth,  and  whom  I  devoted  that  moment  to  such 
suffering.  I  will  not  see  you.  Your  presence  would 
make  me  sad.  If  I  cannot  live  with  you,  your  love 
helps  me  as  little  as  the  love  of  my  absent  ones  in 
which  I  am  so  rich.  Presence  in  the  moment  of 
need  decides  all,  assuages  all,  strengthens  all.  The 
absent  comes  with  his  fire  hose  when  the  fire  is  un- 
der. And  all  that  on  account  of  the  world.  The 
world,  which  can  be  nothing  to  me,  will  not  allow 
thee  to  be  anything  to  me.  You  do  not  know  what 
you  do.  The  hand  of  the  lonely  prisoner,  who 
hears  not  the  voice  of  love,  presses  hard  where  it 
rests.  Adieu,  best  one." 

To  this  passionate  outburst  she  must 
have  replied  soothingly,  for  the  next  day 
he  writes :  "  You  are  always  the  same,  al- 
ways endless  love  and  goodness.  Forgive 
that  I  make  you  suffer.  I  will  hereafter 
strive  to  learn  to  bear  it  alone."  On  the 
ist  of  June  he  becomes  sarcastic.  "I  am 
7 


98     GOETHE   AND    CHARLOTTE   VON   STEIN. 

here  again,  and  have  come  as  willingly  as  I 
live — but  it  must  not  be — my  absence  will 
have  consoled  the  world  somewhat." 

For  some  weeks  after  this  things  ran  on 
smoothly,  and  the  letters  indicate  more 
tranquillity  in  the  writer.  July  9  he  says  : 

"  Last  night  I  lay  in  bed  half  asleep.  Philip  [his 
servant]  brought  me  a  letter.  I  read  it  in  a  doze — 
that  Lilli  is  betrothed  !  turned  over  and  slept  on. 
How  I  prayed  destiny  to  deal  so  with  me  !  So  all 
in  good  time.  Dear  angel,  good-night." 

Early  in  September  his  beloved  seems  to 
have  been  again  obliged  to  repress  his  de- 
monstrations, and  again  he  bursts  out : 

' '  Why  shall  I  plague  thee,  dearest  creature  ? 
Why  cheat  myself  and  plague  thee,  and  so  on? 
We  can  be  nothing  to  one  another,  and  are  too  much 
to  one  another.  Believe  me,  if  I  spoke  as  plain  as 
a  string,  thou  art  at  one  with  me  in  all.  But  just 
because  I  see  things  as  they  are,  that  makes  me 
wild.  Good-night,  angel,  and  good-morning.  I 
will  not  see  thee  again.  Only — thou  knowest  all — 
I  have  my  heart.  It  is  all  stupid  what  I  could  say. 
I  see  thee  henceforth  as  one  sees  a  star.  Think  on 
that." 

A   little  later  he  writes :    "  You   have   a 


A    DESPAIRING   APPEAL.  99 

way  of  giving  pain,  as  fate  has.  One  can- 
not complain  of  it,  however  much  it  hurts." 
Again,  on  the  yth  of  October,  he  utters  this 
passionate  cry : 

"  Farewell,  best  one  !  You  go,  and  God  knows 
what  will  happen.  1  ought  to  have  been  thankful 
to  Fate,  which  let  me  clearly  feel  the  first  moment  I 
saw  you  again  how  dear  I  held  you.  I  ought  to 
have  been  satisfied  with  it  and  never  have  seen  you 
more.  Forgive  me  ;  I  see  now  how  my  presence 
plagues  you  ;  how  pleasing  it  is  to  me  that  you  go. 
In  the  same  city  I  cannot  endure  it.  Yester- 
day I  brought  you  flowers  and  peaches,  but  could 
not  give  them  to  you  as  you  were,  and  so  I  gave 
them  to  your  sister.  You  seem  to  me  at  times  like 
the  Madonna  ascending  to  heaven.  In  vain  the 
bereaved  one  stretches  out  his  arms  to  her  ;  in  vain 
his  piercing,  tearful  sight  wishes  his  own  down 
again,  she  has  vanished  in  the  glory  which  sur- 
rounds her,  full  of  eagerness  for  the  crown  which 
floats  over  her  head.  Yet,  adieu,  my  love." 

Frau  von  Stein,  touched  by  this  de- 
spairing appeal,  and  apparently  conscious 
of  the  impression  which  her  ardent  young 
lover  had  made  upon  her  heart,  wrote 
on  the  back  of  the  paper  the  following 
lines : 


100     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

' '  Whether  what  I  feel  be  wrong, 
And  if  I  must  expiate  my  sin  so  dear, 
My  conscience  will  not  say  to  me, 
Cancel  it,  thou,  O  Heaven !  if  ever  it  accuses  me." 

After  this  the  intercourse  between  the 
pair  seems  to  have  settled  down  into  a 
quiet,  confidential  friendship,  which  lasted 
many  months.  Goethe's  letters  contain  fre- 
quent inquiries  after  his  beloved's  health, 
written  mostly  on  rising  in  the  morning 
and  going  to  bed  at  night,  with  informa- 
tion concerning  his  own  condition  and 
feelings,  besides  references  to  his  literary 
work. 

In  the  winter  of  1777-8,  Goethe  made  an 
expedition  into  the  Harz  Mountains,  dur- 
ing which  he  wrote  almost  daily  to  Frau 
von  Stein.  In  September,  1779,  he  went 
on  a  trip  to  Switzerland,  and  on  the  way 
stopped  at  Sesenheim,  where  he  saw  again 
his  old  love  Frederika  Brion,  the  pastor's 
daughter.  He  writes  a  full  account  of  the 
interview  to  Frau  von  Stein,  and  assures  her, 
as  he  did  Frederika,  that  no  trace  of  his 
former  passion  remained  in  his  heart.  The 
rest  of  1779  he  devoted  to  the  Swiss  tour, 


WILD    LONGING.  IOI 

sending  a  full  narrative  of  it  to  Frau  von 
Stein  in  letters  which  he  afterwards  worked 
over  and  published  under  the  title  "  Letters 
from  Switzerland."  After  returning  to  Wei- 
mar he  resumed  the  customary  tenor  of  his 
life,  but  it  was  again  disturbed  by  outbreaks 
of  wild  longing.  Thus,  June  24,  1780,  he 
writes  : 

"  From  my  unutterable  desire  to  see  you  again  I 
just  begin  to  feel  how  I  love  you.  Things  hang 
wonderfully  together  in  men.  This  craving  for  you 
hits  exactly  the  nerve  where  the  old  pain,  caused 
by  not  seeing  you  in  Kochberg  the  first  year,  had 
healed  itself  ;  brings  the  very  sensation  forth,  and 
reminds  me,  like  an  old  melody,  of  that  time." 

Some  time  in  September,  1780,  he  gave 
vent  to  his  feelings  in  the  beautiful  song 
commencing  "  Ueber  alle  Gipfel  findest  du 
Ruh,"  which  Frau  von  Stein  copied  on  the 
back  of  one  of  his  letters.  In  October  we 
find  him  breaking  out  once  more  into  a 
passionate  complaint,  almost  untranslatable 
into  English,  so  confused  and  involved  is 
its  language : 

' '  What  you  last  said  to  me  early  this  morning  has 
pained  me  deeply,  and  if  the  duke  had  not  gone 


102     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

with  me  up  the  mountain  I  should  have  wept  bit- 
terly. One  trouble  follows  another.  Yes  ;  it  is  a 
rage  against  one's  own  flesh,  when  an  unhappy  one, 
to  get  air  for  himself,  strives  through  it  to  injure  his 
dearest,  and,  if  it  were  only  a  paroxysm  of  temper 
and  I  could  be  conscious  of  it !  But  I  am  by  my 
thousand  thoughts  so  reduced  again  to  a  child,  un- 
acquainted with  the  moment,  doubtful  of  myself, 
that  I  consume  the  belongings  of  another  as  with  a 
blazing  fire. 

' '  I  shall  never  give  myself  peace  until  you  render 
me  a  verbal  account  of  the  past,  and  for  the  future 
endeavor  to  persuade  yourself  into  so  sisterly  a  state 
that  nothing  of  the  kind  can  again  affect  it.  Other- 
wise, I  must  avoid  you  in  the  very  moments  when  I 
have  most  need  of  you.  It  seems  horrible  to  me  to 
spoil  the  best  hours  of  life,  the  moments  of  our  com- 
panionship ;  with  you,  for  whom  I  would  willingly 
pull  every  hair  from  my  head,  if  I  could  change  it 
into  a  pleasure,  and  yet  to  be  so  blind,  so  dumb  ! 
Have  pity  on  me !  That  all  came  to  the  state 
of  my  soul,  in  which  it  seemed  a  pandemonium 
filled  with  invisible  spirits,  and  to  the  spectator, 
fearful  as  he  was,  presented  only  an  infinite,  empty 
vault." 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  he  writes :  "  It 
is  wonderful,  and  yet  it  is  so,  that  I  am 
jealous  and  stupid,  like  a  boy,  when  you 
meet  others  in  a  friendly  manner,"  which 


A   PEACEFUL   RECORD.  103 

may  possibly  indicate  that  his  trouble  was 
caused  by  her  favorable  treatment  of  some 
other  admirer. 

The  following  months  exhibit  a  peaceful 
record,  and  how  sweet  and  soothing  her  in- 
fluence upon  him  was,  during  this  period, 
appears  from  the  concluding  paragraph  of 
a  long  letter  written  by  him  from  Neunhei- 
ligen,  March  n,  1781 : 

"Adieu,  sweet  support  of  my  inmost  heart.  I 
see  and  hear  nothing  good  that  I  do  not  at  the  same 
moment  share  with  thee.  And  all  my  observations 
of  the  world,  and  of  myself,  direct  themselves,  like 
Mark  Antony,  not  to  my  own,  but  to  my  second 
self.  By  means  of  this  dialogue,  in  which,  in  re- 
spect of  everything,  I  think  what  you  would  say  to 
it,  all  becomes  brighter  and  worthier  to  me." 

The  next  day  he  continues  the  strain : 

"  My  soul  has  grown  fast  to  thine.  I  will  make 
no  word.  Thou  knowest  that  I  am  inseparable  from 
thee,  and  that  neither  height  nor  depth  can  sunder 
me  from  thee.  I  would  that  there  were  some  vow 
or  sacrament  that  would  make  me  thine,  visibly  and 
lawfully.  What  would  it  be  worth  to  me  !  And 
my  novitiate  has  been  long  enough  to  make  it  worth 
thinking  of.  I  can  no  longer  write  '  you,'  as  I 
could  not  for  a  long  time  say  '  thou.' 


104     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

' '  On  my  knees  I  beg  thee  to  end  thy  work  and  to 
make  me  quite  good.  Thou  canst,  not  only  if  thou 
lovest  me ;  but  thy  power  is  infinitely  increased 
when  thou  knowest  that  I  love  thee.  Farewell." 

March  22,  he  writes : 

"Thy  love  is  like  the  morning  and  the  even- 
ing star — it  sets  after  the  sun  and  rises  before  it. 
Rather,  it  is  like  the  pole  star,  which  never  sets, 
and  which  weaves  over  our  heads  an  ever-living 
garland.  I  pray  that  the  gods  may  never  dim  it  for 
me  over  the  path  of  my  life." 

On  the  27th  of  March  : 

"  The  openness  and  peace  of  my  heart  which 
thou  hast  again  given  me  be  for  thee  alone,  and  all 
good  to  others  and  to  myself  which  springs  from  it 
be  also  thine.  Believe  me,  I  feel  quite  changed  ; 
my  old  benevolence  comes  back,  and  with  it  the  joy 
of  my  life.  Thou  hast  given  me  delight  in  good, 
which  I  had  quite  lost." 

Again,  April  22  : 

' '  Last  night  I  had  a  great  mind  to  throw  my  ring 
into  the  water,  like  Polycrates,  for  I  counted  up  my 
happiness  in  the  stillness  and  found  a  monstrous 
sum." 

May  30,  he   says :    "  My  heart   hath  hid 


ECSTASY.  105 

nothing  from  thine,  and  when  I  conceal 
faults  from  thee  it  is  in  order  not  to  dis- 
tress thy  love."  Again,  Oct.  29 :  "  Thy 
love  is  the  beauteous  light  of  all  my  days, 
thy  applause  my  best  renown,  and  if  I 
prize  a  good  name  abroad  it  is  for  thy 
sake,  that  I  may  not  shame  thee." 

Later,  this  feeling  swelled  to  a  state  re- 
sembling ecstasy,  as  the  following  extracts 
will  show : 

"  Feb.  ii,  1782. — Say  one  word  to  me,  Lotte.  It  is 
with  me  in  thy  love,  as  if  I  dwelt  no  longer  in  tents 
and  huts,  but  as  if  I  had  received  the  gift  of  a  well- 
founded  house  in  which  to  live  and  die  and  keep  all 
my  possessions.  Before  ten  I  will  see  thee  a  mo- 
ment. I  cannot  say  farewell,  for  I  never  leave  thee." 

"March  20. — O,  thou  best  one!  All  my  life  I 
have  had  an  ideal  wish  how  I  would  fain  be  loved, 
and  have  ever  sought  its  fulfilment  in  vain  in  dreams 
of  fancy.  Now  that  the  world  daily  becomes  bright- 
er to  me,  I  find  it  at  last  in  thee,  in  a  manner  that 
I  never  can  lose  it." 

"March  22. — Farewell,  dear  life.  When  thou 
writest  me  that  thou  hast  slept  well,  it  gives  me 
new  strength  for  the  whole  day.  God  keep  thee. 
Since  1  have  had  in  thy  love  rest  and  an  abiding 


106     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

place,  the  world  is  so  bright  and  so  dear  to  me  ! 
Among  people  I  name  thy  name  silently  to  myself, 
and  I  live  away  from  thee  only  for  thy  sake." 

"April  9. — Over  thy  last  letter  I  have  had  many 
sad  thoughts,  and  one  night  1  wept  bitterly  as  I 
figured  to  myself  that  I  might  lose  thee.  Against 
all  which  can  probably  happen  to  me  I  have  a 
counterpoise  in  myself,  but  against  this  one  thing 
nothing.  Hope  helps  us  to  live,  and  I  think  again 
thou  art  well  and  will  be  well  when  thou  receivest 
this." 

"  May  12. — Thou  hast  set  in  my  eyes  and  in  my 
ears  little  sprites  who  from  all  that  I  see  and  hear 
exact  a  tribute  of  reverence  for  thee." 

"June  5. — Tell  me,  my  best,  if  thou  art  well.  I 
have  no  joyous  hour  so  long  as  thou  art  ill." 

The  month  of  July,  1782,  seems  to  have 
been  troubled  by  a  lovers'  quarrel,  the  nat- 
ure of  which  does  not  appear.  The  refer- 
ences to  it  in  the  letters  are  these  : 

"July  19. — Tell  me,  dear  Lotte,  how  wert  thou 
on  getting  up.  Tell  me,  is  it  physical,  or  hast 
thou  something  on  thy  soul  which  makes  thee  ill  ? 
Thou  dost  not  believe  how  thy  condition  yesterday 
pained  me.  The  only  interest  of  my  life  is  that  you 
should  be  open  with  me.  I  cannot  endure  reserve." 


A    LOVERS'    QUARREL.  1 07 

"July  22. — I  will  not  be  troublesome,  but  only 
say  this  much,  that  I  have  not  deserved  it.  That  I 
feel,  and  keep  silence." 

"July  23. — So,  thank  God,  it  was  a  misunder- 
standing that  led  thee  to  write  thy  note.  I  am  still 
stunned  by  it.  It  was  like  death.  There  is  only 
one  word  and  no  idea  for  such  a  thing." 

"July  24. — I  hope  it  will  be  so,  yet  I  sit  and  look 
before  me.  It  is  like  a  void  in  my  whole  being.  A 
thousand  thanks  for  thy  love.  I  cannot  collect  my- 
self. Do  not  worry.  Thou  canst  do  anything.  Oh, 
beloved,  I  will  come  as  soon  as  1  can." 

"  July  25. — I  slept  long  and  well ;  thy  early  mes- 
sage has  been  received,  and  is  the  first  greeting  of 
the  new  day.  I  am  a  deal  better,  yet  feel  lame, 
like  one  struck  by  lightning,  but  this  will  soon  pass 
off  if  the  one  medicine  is  employed.  When  I  think 
of  it  I  shudder  again,  and  I  shall  never  rest  until  I 
am  safe  for  the  future." 

Then  came  another  tranquil  period  : 

"  Aug.  23. — Whatever  I  write  to  thee,  my  pen  will 
say  only,  I  love  !  I  love  !" 

"Aug.  24. — Thou  knowest,  Lotte,  how  I  love 
thee.  Thanks  for  thy  note.  Good-night.  My 
thoughts  never  leave  thee." 


io8  'GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

"Aug.  25. — At  last  I  get  thy  leaflet.  O,  thou 
love  !  I  believe  and  feel  that  I  am  ever  in  thy 
presence." 

''Nov.  17. — I  roamed  over  my  deserted  house  as 
Melusina  did  over  hers,  to  which  she  was  not  to 
return,  and  I  thought  of  the  past,  of  which  I  un- 
derstand nothing,  and  of  the  future,  of  which  I 
know  nothing.  How  much  I  have  lost  since  I  had 
to  leave  that  quiet  abode  !  It  was  the  second  tie 
that  held  me  ;  now  I  hang  on  thee  alone,  and, 
thank  God,  this  is  the  strongest.  For  some  days 
I  have  been  looking  over  the  letters  which  have 
been  written  to  me  the  last  ten  years,  and  I  com- 
prehend less  and  less  what  I  am  and  what  I  ought 
to  be. 

''  Abide  with  me,  dear  Lotte,  thou  art  my  anchor 
between  these  reefs." 

"Nov.  21. — Farewell,  thou  sweet  dream  of  my 
life,  thou  anodyne  of  my  sorrows." 

"  Nov.  28. — I  wish  to  be  only  where  thou  art,  for 
where  thou  art  there  is  my  heaven." 

"Dec.  26. — Adieu,  my  inmost  beloved,  to  whom 
I  turn  all  my  thoughts,  to  whom  I  refer  everything." 

"  Dec.  29. — O,  dear  Lotte,  I  am  indebted  to  thee 
for  my  happiness  at  home  and  my  pleasure  abroad. 
The  peace,  the  equanimity  with  which  I  accept  and 
give,  rests  on  the  foundation  of  thy  love." 


MUSICAL    ILLUSTRATIONS.  109 

"April  8,  1783. — Farewell,  thou  sweet  joy  of  my 
life,  thou  only  desire  of  my  whole  being." 

"April  16. — How  I  think  of  thee,  how  present 
thou  art  to  me,  how  thy  love  guides  me  like  a  famil- 
iar star,  I  will  not  tell  thee.  I  would  not  increase  my 
longing  while  I  write  to  thee.  The  skies  brighten, 
and  I  hope  for  some  good  days.  I  am  busy  and 
employ  myself  with  earthly  things  on  earthly  ac- 
counts. My  inner  life  is  with  thee,  and  my  king- 
dom not  of  this  world.  Adieu,  best  one." 

Here  are  some  musical  illustrations,  of 
various  dates : 

' '  Thou  art  heartily  good  and  dear,  and  yet  thou 
canst  not  do  too  much.  For,  only  a  breath,  only  a 
sound  which  comes  over  from  thee  to  me,  out  of 
tune,  changes  the  whole  atmosphere  around  me." 

"As  music  is  nothing  without  the  human  voice, 
so  would  my  life  be  nothing  without  thy  love." 

"As  a  sweet  melody  lifts  us  on  high,  and  forms 
under  our  cares  and  sorrow  a  soft  cloud,  so  is  to  me 
thy  being  and  thy  love." 

"  The  very  sight  of  the  Imhof  [Charlotte's  sister] 
gave  me  pain.  She  is  like  the  seventh,  which  makes 
the  ear  long  for  the  chord. " 

About  the  beginning  of  May,  1783,  the 


110     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

serenity  of  the  poet's  mind  seems  to  have 
been  again  troubled  by  some  occurrence 
which,  owing  to  the  loss  of  Frau  von  Stein's 
letters,  cannot  be  now  explained.  May  4  he 
writes  : 

' '  The  way  in  which  thou  saidst  to  me  yesterday 
evening  that  thou  hadst  a  story  to  tell  me  worried 
me  a  moment.  I  feared  it  was  something  referring 
to  our  love,  and  I  know  not  why.  I  have  been  for 
some  time  in  anxiety.  How  wonderful  that  the 
entire  weight  of  one's  happiness  should  hang  on 
a  single  thread  like  this." 

Peace  seems  to  have  been  restored  to 
him  soon  after,  and  he  writes : 

"July  3. — The  memory  of  thy  love  is  ever  with 
me,  and  my  inclination  to  thee,  like  the  fear  of  God^ 
is  the  beginning  of  wisdom." 

"  Sept.  9. — I  wish  you  could  be  with  me  all  day 
invisibly,  and  in  the  evening  when  I  am  alone  step 
forth  out  of  the  wall.  Thou  wouldst  feel  what  I  feel 
with  so  much  joy,  that  I  am  and  can  be  thine  alone. 
How  I  hope  to  see  thee  again  a  moment.  Thou 
hast  bound  me  to  thee  with  every  bond." 

This  happy  state  continued  to  the  end  of 
1783  and  through  the  first  half  of  1784 : 


QUIET    HAPPINESS.  Ill 

"Jan.  24,  1784. — Yesterday  evening  I  sat  up  late, 
and  restrained  my  longing  to  be  with  thee.  I  thank 
thee  that  thou  dost  possess  so  much  love  for  me.  It 
is  my  best  fortune." 

"  March  8. — Surely  thou  must  have  thought  of  me 
on  awaking  as  I  did  on  thee,  for  such  a  love  cannot 
be  one-sided." 

"June  5. — Since  I  am  away  from  thee  I  have  no 
object  in  life.  I  know  not  what  use  to  make  of 
a  day  when  I  do  not  see  thee.  It  pains  me  most 
when  I  enjoy  something  good  without  sharing  it  with 
thee." 

"June  12. — I  would  like  to  talk  to  thee  always 
only  of  my  love.  How  lonely  I  am  words  cannot 
express.  I  see  nobody,  and  when  I  see  anybody  I 
see  only  one  form  before  me  in  the  company." 

"June  17. — I  continually  feel  my  nearness  to 
thee,  thy  presence  never  leaves  me.  In  thee  I  have 
a  standard  for  all  women,  yea,  for  all  human  beings, 
and  in  thy  love  a  standard  for  every  lot.  Not  that 
it  makes  the  rest  of  the  world  seem  dark,  it  rather 
brightens  it.  I  see  right  plainly  what  people  are, 
what  they  wish  to  think,  do,  and  enjoy.  I  grant 
them  what  is  theirs,  and  delight  myself  secretly  in 
comparing  my  possession  of  so  indestructible  a 
treasure." 

"June  28. — Yes,  dear  Lotte,  now  is  it  first  plain 


112     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

how  thou  hast  become  and  remainest  my  own  half. 
I  am  no  individual,  independent  being.  All  my 
weaknesses  have  I  hung  upon  thee,  have  protected 
my  vulnerable  points  by  thee,  have  supplied  by  thee 
all  my  defects.  When  I  am  far  from  thee  my  con- 
dition is  a  strange  one.  On  one  side  I  am  armored 
and  weaponed,  on  the  other  like  a  raw  egg,  for  I 
have  neglected  to  harness  myself  where  thou  art 
shield  and  shelter.  I  delight  in  belonging  entirely 
to  thee,  and  in  soon  seeing  thee  again.  I  love  every- 
thing about  thee,  and  everything  makes  me  love  thee 
more." 

In  August,  1784,  Goethe  accompanied  the 
duke  on  a  short  visit  to  Brunswick ;  and  as 
French  was  the  language  used  at  that  court, 
his  beloved  imposed  on  him  the  task  of 
writing  to  her  in  that  language.  He  obeyed 
reluctantly,  saying  that  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  express  his  true  sentiments  in  a 
foreign  tongue.  "Nevertheless,"  he  says, 
"  I  will  persevere,  for  if  I  ever  learn  that 
language  which  every  one  thinks  he  knows, 
it  will  be  by  thee,  and  I  shall  take  pleasure 
in  owing  to  thee  this  talent,  as  I  owe  thee  so 
many  things  worth  much  more."  A  dozen 
long  letters  in  French  were  the  result,  and 
in  the  course  of  them  he  says : 


LETTERS    IN    FRENCH.  113 

"Aug.  21. — Ah,  my  only  friend,  dear  confidante 
of  all  my  thoughts,  how  I  feel  the  need  of  talking  to 
thee  and  communicating  all  my  reflections  !  Thou 
hast  isolated  me  in  the  world.  I  have  nothing  to  say 
to  anybody.  I  talk,  not  to  be  silent,  and  that  is  all." 

"  Aug.  30. — No  !  My  love  for  thee  is  no  longer  a 
passion  ;  it  is  a  disease — a  disease  dearer  to  me  than 
the  most  perfect  health,  and  of  which  I  wish  not  to 
be  cured." 

This  characterization  of  love  as  a  disease 
has  been  adopted  by  Stendhal  in  his 
"L' Amour,"  and  he  is  generally  supposed 
to  have  originated  it. 

The  letters  continue  in  a  strain  of  intense 
devotion  all  through  1785  and  the  first  half 
of  1786.  Goethe  was  busy  with  his  official 
duties,  with  his  literary  work,  and  with  su- 
perintending the  theatrical  entertainments 
of  the  court.  June  25, 1786,  he  writes  :  "  Do, 
my  love,  whatever  seems  best,  and  it  will  be 
so  to  me  also.  Keep  only  love  for  me,  and  let 
us  at  least  preserve  a  good  which  we  shall 
never  find  again,  although  there  be  mo- 
ments when  we  cannot  enjoy  it."  In  August 
he  spent  a  fortnight  with  his  beloved  at 
Carlsbad,  in  the  same  house  with  her,  and 
8 


114     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

accompanied  her  to  Schneeberg,  returning 
alone  to  Carlsbad.  From  this  place  he  de- 
parted suddenly  and  secretly  for  Italy  on 
Sept.  3,  under  an  assumed  name,  and  Frau 
von  Stein  did  not  hear  again  from  him  un- 
til she  got  his  letter  from  Verona  dated 
Sept.  18. 

Endless  speculation,  in  the  absence  of 
positive  knowledge,  is,  of  course,  possible 
as  to  the  causes  which  led  to  this  sudden 
interruption  of  the  lovers'  relations.  Among 
others  the  celebrated  critic,  Adolf  Stahr,  in- 
sists that  it  resulted  from  Frau  von  Stein's 
tyranny.  A  review  of  Goethe's  letters, 
which  he  wrote  upon  their  appearance  in 
1851,  he  heads  with  this  quotation  from 
"Vanity  Fair:"  "She -did  not  wish  to  mar- 
ry him,  but  she  wished  to  keep  him.  She 
wished  to  give  him  nothing,  but  that  he 
should  give  her  all :  a  bargain  not  infre- 
quently levied  in  love,"  and  he  goes  on  to 
intimate  that  Goethe,  like  Dobbin,  finally 
became  impatient  of  the  yoke  which  Frau 
von  Stein  had  imposed  upon  him  : 

"  It  was  not  Goethe's  fault  that  his  love  for  Frau 
von  Stein  did  not  find  its  natural  and  reasonable  re- 


FLIGHT   TO    ITALY.  115 

suit  and  conclusion.  From  the  very  first,  he  sought 
and  strove  for  this  only  true  moral  conclusion  with 
all  his  strength.  Charlotte  von  Stein  ought  to  have 
been  his  wife,  the  sole  companion  of  his  entire  ex- 
istence. That  she  did  not  bring  herself  to  this, 
that  the  strength  of  her  love  was  not  equal  to  what, 
in  her  case,  the  duty  of  true  morality  commanded, 
was,  if  she  shared  Goethe's  love  in  full  measure, 
either  a  weakness  of  character,  which  set  form  above 
substance,  worldly  appearance  above  the  essence  of 
morality,  or  it  was  a  sin  against  her  lover.  It  was  a 
sin  if  her  soul  entirely  belonged  to  him,  and  not  less 
a  sin  if,  as  it  seems  to  me,  she  wanted  to  be  at  once 
the  virtuous  spouse  of  an  unloved  and  insignificant 
husband,  and  the  beloved,  the  soul-friend,  the  queen 
of  the  greatest  genius  of  his  time.  It  was  a  sin  also 
against  his  future,  against  his  destiny,  against  his 
happiness,  against  the  happiness  which  he  so  ar- 
dently desired,  and  which  he  knew,  like  few,  hpw 
to  appreciate  ;  against  the  happiness  which  the  pos- 
session of  a  home  and  a  family  assures  in  marriage. 
If  Goethe's  development  here  exhibits  a  gap,  his  fate 
here  a  dark  place,  yea,  in  his  later  career  a  heart- 
breaking tragedy,  a  portion  of  the  blame  can  never 
be  removed  from  a  woman  who  was  too  petty  for 
the  fortune  which  the  favor  of  destiny  offered  her  in 
preference  to  so  many  thousands." 

This  means — if  it  means  anything — that 
Frau  von  Stein  ought  to  have  obtained  a 


Il6     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

divorce  from  her  husband,  and  to  have 
married  Goethe,  as  the  first  wife  of  Baron 
Imhof  was  divorced  from  him  and  mar- 
ried to  Warren  Hastings !  With  notable 
inconsistency  the  same  critic  a  few  years 
later  advanced  the  opinion  that  Frau  von 
Stein  had  all  the  while  maintained  criminal 
relations  with  Goethe,  and,  as  has  been 
said,  a  controversy  thereupon  sprang  up, 
in  which  several  prominent  writers  took 
part.  Unless  we  mistake  greatly,  the  read- 
er who  has  paid  attention  to .  the  facts 
which  have  been  presented  and  has  pe- 
rused the  extracts  given  from  Goethe's  let- 
ters will  have  no  difficulty  in  coming  to  a 
conclusion  entirely  acquitting  both  him 
and  his  beloved  of  the  offence  imputed  to 
them.  If  direct  testimony  were  needed, 
that  of  Schiller  ought  to  be  decisive,  and 
he,  writing  from  Weimar  in  1787,  the 
year  after  Goethe's  departure  for  Italy, 
says  of  Frau  von  Stein :  "  This  lady  pos- 
sesses over  a  thousand  letters  from  Goethe, 
and  he  has  written  to  her  from  Italy  every 
week.  They  say  that  their  intercourse 
(umgang)  is  entirely  pure  and  blameless." 


OPINION   OF   WEIMAR.  117 

This  being  the  verdict,  on  the  spot  and 
at  the  time,  of  a  little  gossipy  town  like 
Weimar,  where  everybody  knew  everything 
about  everybody  else,  it  is  idle  to  seek  to 
reverse  it  at  this  late  day.  Certainly  the 
letters  of  Goethe  express  the  feelings,  not 
of  a  triumphant  seducer,  but  of  a  humble  and 
unsuccessful  suppliant,  and  show  that  the  ob- 
ject of  his  passion,  so  far  from  yielding  to  it, 
checked  and  resisted  it  to  the  utmost. 

In  confirmation  of  this  view,  it  may  be 
further  remarked  that  up  to  the  commence- 
ment of  his  acquaintance  with  Frau  von 
Stein  all  Goethe's  love  affairs,  so  far  as 
anything  is  known  of  them,  had  been  pure- 
ly romantic.  Women  loved  him  devotedly, 
but  he  never  took  advantage  of  their  love 
to  do  them  a  wrong.  Nearly  all  of  them 
married,  as  Lili  did,  respectable  husbands, 
which  could  not  have  been  the  case  if  they 
had  fallen  from  virtue.  To  suppose  that  a 
lady  in  Frau  von  Stein's  position  should 
have  been  Goethe's  first  victim  is  to  violate 
all  probability.  The  fact  that,  subsequent- 
ly, Christiane  Vulpius  became  his  mistress, 
proves  nothing,  since  he  always  treated  her 


Il8     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON   STEIN. 

as  his  wife,  and  finally  married  her  in  due 
legal  form. 

The  truth,  probably,  is  that  the  love  of 
Frau  von  Stein  for  Goethe,  sincere  as  it 
may  have  been,  was  not  that  which  a  wom- 
an should  feel  for  a  man  with  whom  she  is 
to  hold  wifely  relations.  She  was  seven 
years  his  senior.  His  youth  and  beauty 
aroused  her  maternal  instincts,  his  devo- 
tion flattered  her  vanity,  and,  proud  of  his 
genius  and  his  reputation,  she  was  willing 
to  have  her  name  linked  with  his  in  public 
fame.  Goethe,  on  his  part,  saw  her  "through 
the  medium  of  love."  His  fervid  imagina- 
tion, like  that  of  all  lovers,  invested  her  with 
charms  of  his  own  creation,  and  the  disen- 
chantment which  finally  came  would  have 
come  earlier  if  she  had  yielded  herself  to 
him.  De  Musset  is  right  when  he  says, 
"  La  f emme  qui  aime  un  peu,  et  qui  resiste, 
n'aime  pas  assez,"  but  he  is  not  right  when 
he  adds,  "  et  celle  qui  aime  assez  et  qui 
resiste,  sait  qu'elle  est  moins  aime'e."  Love, 
like  gratitude,  is  a  lively  sense  of  favors  ex- 
pected. It  is  but  a  step  from  satisfaction 
to  satiety,  and  satiety  is  the  grave  of  love. 


A   NEW   THEORY.  119 

Whether  she  loved  little  or  much,  Frau  von 
Stein,  if  she  had  not  resisted  Goethe,  would 
not  only  have  been  loved  less  by  him,  but 
soon  would  not  have  been  loved  at  all. 
That  she  did  that  which  Stahr  blames  her 
for  doing  was  the  reason  why  she  kept 
her  lover's  affection  so  long,  and  if  she  had 
not  done  it  his  character  would  never  have 
been  refined  and  improved  as  it  was. 

It  is,  nevertheless,  possible,  but,  as  the 
hypothesis  has  never  before  been  advanced 
by  any  one  who  has  written  upon  the  sub- 
ject, it  is  submitted  here  with  diffidence, 
that  Frau  von  Stein,  worn  out  with  Goethe's 
importunities,  or  perhaps,  yielding  to  the 
passion  which  his  ardent  devotion  kindled 
in  her  heart,  had,  during  his  stay  with  her  in 
Carlsbad  in  August,  1786,  consented  to  fly 
with  him  to  Italy,  and  there  spend  the  rest 
of  her  days  with  him.  At  the  last  moment, 
however,  she  repented  of  her  promise,  and 
refused  to  keep  it.  Goethe,  none  the  less 
loving  her,  would  not  and  did  not  change 
his  plans,  and,  since  she  would  not  accom- 
pany him,  he  went  without  her.  It  was  an 
act  of  revolt  against  her  on  his  part,  which 


120     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

she  felt  to  be  the  beginning  of  his  emanci- 
pation from  her  influence,  as,  in  fact,  it  was. 
Hence  her  grief  at  his  going,  and  hence  the 
accepted  opinion  that  his  projected  journey 
was  as  much  a  secret  to  her  as  it  was  to  the 
rest  of  the  world.  But  she  knew  of  his 
plans  and  was  informed  by  him  of  his  in- 
tended departure.  It  was  no  surprise  to 
her,  and  the  pain  it  caused  her  arose  not 
from  his  want  of  confidence,  but  from  the 
fact  that  he  left  her  at  all. 

The  proof  that  Goethe  once  expected 
Frau  von  Stein  to  accompany  him  to  Italy 
is  found  in  his  letter  to  her  dated  at  Carls- 
bad, Aug.  23,  1776,  which,  in  the  collection 
as  originally  published,  is  the  last  written 
before  he  went  away.  In  this  letter  the 
following  passage  occurs : 

"In  any  event,  I  must  stay  another  week,  but 
then,  also,  all  will  gently  come  to  an  end  and  the 
fruit  fall  ripe.  And  then  will  I  live  with  thee  in 
the  free  world,  and,  in  happy  solitude,  without  name 
and  rank,  come  nearer  to  the  earth  out  of  which  we 
were  taken." 

The  obvious  meaning  of  this  language  is 
that  Frau  von  Stein  was  to  go  with  Goethe. 


WHAT   GOETHE    EXPECTED.  121 

In  his  previous  letters  he  had  frequently,  as 
we  have  seen,  expressed  his  overwhelming 
desire  to  have  her  with  him  constantly,  and 
he  again  and  again  laments  the  necessity  of 
being  separated  from  her  even  for  a  few 
days.  It  is  true  that  he  made  his  prepara- 
tions for  the  journey  to  Italy  with  great  se- 
crecy and  started  upon  it  under  an  assumed 
name.  But  that  Frau  von  Stein  did  not 
know  that  he  was  going,  letters  from  Goethe 
to  her,  first  published  by  the  Goethe  Gesell- 
schaft  in  1886,  show  to  be  an  error.  These 
letters  appear  to  have  been  sent  back  to 
Goethe  along  with  the  rest  of  his  letters 
from  Italy  to  enable  him  to  make  up  his 
"  Italian  Journey,"  and  thus  were  not  print- 
ed with  the  others.  In  that  dated  Aug.  30, 
1776,  a  week  after  the  letter  last  above 
mentioned,  he  wrote  from  Carlsbad  : 

"  Now,  dearest,  the  end  approaches.  Sunday,  the 
3d  September,  I  think  I  shall  get  away  from  here. 

' '  When  shall  I  hear  from  thee  again  ?  I  am  thine 
with  my  whole  soul,  and  enjoy  life  only  in  thee. 
From  here  I  will  write  once  again. " 

On  Sept.  i  he  writes  from  the  same  place : 


122     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

"Yet  one  more  farewell  from  Carlsbad.  Mrs. 
Waldner  will  bring  this  with  her.  Of  all  that  she 
can  tell,  I  say  nothing,  but  I  repeat  to  thee  that  I 
love  thee  heartily,  that  our  last  journey  to  Schnee- 
berg  made  me  right  happy,  and  that  only  thy  assur- 
ance that  joy  comes  to  thee  from  my  love  can  bring 
joy  to  my  life.  I  have  hitherto  borne  much  in  si- 
lence, and  have  desired  nothing  so  longingly  as  that 
our  relation  may  put'itself  upon  such  a  footing  that 
no  power  can  affect  it.  Else  I  will  not  dwell  near 
thee,  and  will  rather  remain  lonely  in  the  world  into 
which  I  am  now  going  forth.  If  I  am  not  out  in 
my  calculation,  thou  canst,  by  the  end  of  Septem- 
ber, secure  a  roll  of  drawings  from  me,  but  which 
thou  must  show  to  no  one  in  the  world.  Then  shall 
thou  learn  whither  thou  canst  write  to  me. 

' '  Thou  shalt  soon  hear  from  me.     Adieu. " 

Finally,  on  Sept.  2,  he  writes : 

"At  last,  at  last,  I  am  ready,  and  yet  not  ready, 
for  properly  I  have  eight  days'  work  to  do  here,  but 
I  will  away,  and  say  to  thee  once  more  adieu  !  Fare- 
well, thou  sweet  heart.  I  am  thine. 

"  Night.  To-morrow,  Sunday,  Sept.  3, 1  go  from 
here.  No  one  knows  it  yet ;  no  one  guesses  my  de- 
parture to  be  so  near." 

These  same  letters  contain  instructions 
to  Frau  von  Stein  respecting  the  use  of 
those  which  he  was  to  write  to  her  from 


LAST   WORDS   OF   LOVE.  123 

Italy  and  of  the  diary  of  his  travels  which  he 
promised  to  send  to  her  from  time  to  time. 
That  he  had  no  idea  of  escaping  from  her 
is  shown  by  his  first  letter  from  Italy  dated 
at  Verona,  Sept.  18  : 

"On  a  little  leaflet  give  I  my  beloved  a  sign  of 
life,  without  yet  telling  her  where  I  am.  I  am  well, 
and  wish  to  share  with  thee  every  good  that  I  enjoy, 
a  wish  which  often  comes  over  me  with  longing. 

"  Tell  nobody  anything  of  what  you  receive.  It 
is  for  the  present  for  thee  alone. 

"  Greet  me  Fritz.  It  troubles  me  often  that  he 
is  not  with  me.  Had  I  known  what  I  now  know  I 
had  brought  him  with  me." 

From  Venice,  in  October,  he  writes  in  a 
similar  strain,  and  then,  in  the  original  pub- 
lished collection,  we  find  the  following,  dat- 
ed at  Terni,  Oct.  27  : 

' '  Again  sitting  in  a  cavern  which  a  year  ago  suf- 
fered an  earthquake,  I  direct  my  prayer  to  thee,  my 
dear  guardian  angel.  I  feel  now  for  the  first  time 
how  spoiled  I  have  been  living  ten  years  with  thee, 
loved  by  thee,  and  now  in  a  strange  world.  I  fore- 
saw it,  and  only  the  highest  necessity  could  compel 
me  to  make  the  decision. 

"Let  us  have  no  other  thought  than  to  end  our 
lives  together." 


124     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

This  last  sentence  indicates  that  he  had 
not  yet  given  up  hope  of  persuading  his 
beloved  to  link  herself  to  him  permanent- 
ly, and  in  all  the  other  letters  which  he 
wrote  to  her  from  Italy  similar  expressions 
of  devotion  abound. 

But  Goethe,  as  Frau  von  Stein  seems  to 
have  felt,  had,  unconsciously  to  himself,  en- 
tered upon  an  experience  which  was  des- 
tined to  produce  a  fundamental,  revolution 
in  his  character,  and  to  break  up  forever 
his  tender  relations  with  her.  His  stay  in 
Italy,  which  was  originally  intended  to  last 
only  six  months,  was  prolonged  to  a  year, 
and  finally  to  nearly  two  years.  He  visited 
picture-galleries,  palaces,  and  cities,  he  stud- 
ied art,  music,  and  science,  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  distinguished  men  and  wom- 
en, and,  what  was  more  destructive  than 
anything  else  to  Frau  von  Stein's  dominion 
over  him,  he  fell  desperately  in  love  with  a 
pretty  girl  from  Milan.  When,  therefore,  in 
June,  1788,  he  returned  to  Weimar,  he  was 
no  longer  the  same  Goethe  that  he  was 
when  he  went  away.  His  twenty -two 
months  of  absence  had  done  the  work  of 


CHRISTIANE   VULPIUS. 


CHRISTIANE   VULPIUS.  125 

many  years.  His  friends  noticed  the 
change,  and,  as  was  natural,  he  thought  it 
had  taken  place  in  them.  Frau  von  Stein 
especially,  who  during  his  absence  had 
been  saddened  by  the  death  of  her  son 
Ernest,  he  reproached  with  receiving  him 
coldly,  and  he  was  particularly  offended 
because  she  refused  to  listen  to  the  rev- 
elations which,  with  a  singular  want  of 
delicacy,  he  offered  to  make  her  concern- 
ing his  Italian  love  affair.  He  could  not 
comprehend  how  repulsive  to  a  woman  of 
refinement  such  stories  are,  and  she,  on 
her  part,  was  properly  disgusted  with  his 
coarseness.  He  proceeded  to  justify  her 
opinion  of  his  deterioration  by  taking,  in 
practical  though  not  formal  marriage, 
Christiane  Vulpius,  a  curly  -  haired,  red- 
cheeked,  plump  young  damsel,  whose  only 
merits  were  her  health,  physical  beauty, 
and  skill  in  housekeeping.  Within  less 
than  a  month  he  had  installed  this  female 
in  his  house,  and  was  living  with  her  as 
his  wife.  Frau  von  Stein  did  not  learn 
of  the  relation  between  the  pair  until  the 
following  year,  and  then,  although  Goethe 


126     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

'  blunderingly  tried  to  convince  her  that  it 
would  not  conflict  with  his  devotion  to 
her,  she  insisted  that  he  must  give  up 
either  Christiane  or  herself.  He,  man-like, 
stood  by  his  new  love,  and,  thereafter,  for 
years,  his  intercourse  with  Frau  von  Stein 
was  purely  casual.  She  refused  to  answer 
his  letters,  and  had  his  portrait  taken  down 
from  the  wall  of  her  room.  He  met  her 
at  court  and  at  friends'  houses,  but  she 
treated  him  as  a  stranger. 

How  keenly  Frau  von  Stein  felt  Goethe's 
defection  may  be  imagined.  It  was  to  her 
a  calamity  worse  than  his  death.  The 
dead  are  buried  out  of  sight,  and  their 
memory  is  refined  and  glorified  by  the  very 
affection  which  they  inspired.  But  the  liv- 
ing, fallen  in  our  esteem,  and,  as  it  were, 
degrading  the  ideal  we  once  had  of  them, 
are  a  constant  thorn  in  the  flesh.  What 
they  are  reminds  us  only  too  painfully  of 
what  they  once  were,  and  does  not  allow 
the  wounded  heart  to  heal.  This  was  the 
effect  produced  upon  Frau  von  Stein  by 
the  presence  of  Goethe  after  his  return 
from  Italy.  Caroline  von  Beulwitz  writes 


END   OF   THE    ROMANCE.  127 

of  her  to  Schiller  in  1789  :  "  She  was  sunk  in 
silent  grief  over  her  relations  with  Goethe, 
and,  so,  appeared  to  me  truer  and  more 
harmonious  than  in  unnatural  indifference 
or  contempt."  In  1791  Frau  von  Stein 
herself  writes  to  her  son  Fritz  :  "  Write  to 
Goethe ;  there  are  already  letters  from  the 
living  to  the  dead."  In  1795  she  says  to 
Schiller's  wife :  "  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had 
for  some  years  been  shut  up  in  a  South 
Sea  island,  and  had  only  just  begun  to 
think  of  the  way  home."  In  another  letter 
to  Schiller's  wife  in  1796  she  says,  refer- 
ring to  Herder's  cynicism  :  "  Nothing  cures 
one  of  such  a  condition  like  having  a  real- 
ly painful  experience.  Thus  was  I,  by 
Goethe's  departure,  cured  of  all  my  pre- 
vious sorrows.  I  can  bear  everything  and 
forgive  everything."  With  all  this  she 
evinced  a  certain  degree  of  feminine  pique. 
Her  friend  the  Duchess  Louise  had  to 
chide  her  for  the  bitterness  with  which  she 
spoke  of  her  old  lover,  and  her  resentment 
against  the  woman  who  had  taken  him 
from  her  knew  no  bounds.  She  called  her 
"  that  creature,"  Goethe's  "  demoiselle,"  and 


128  GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

as  late  as  1801  she  wrote  to  her  son  Fritz 
that  Goethe  had  passed  her  in  the  park 
with  his  "  chambermaid  "  at  his  side,  and 
that  she  put  up  her  parasol  to  avoid  salut- 
ing him.  She  even  ridiculed  Goethe's  own 
personal  appearance,  saying  in  a  letter  to 
Fritz,  in  1796,  that  he  seemed  to  her  to 
have  grown  "  horribly  fat,"  and,  referring 
to  his  own  phrase  in  his  letter  from  Carls- 
bad of  Aug.  23,  1776,  before  quoted,  she 
remarks :  "  He  has,  indeed,  gone  back  to 
the  earth  from  whence  we  were  taken." 
Elsewhere  she  calls  him  "  poor  Goethe " 
and  "the  fat  privy -councillor,"  and  says 
that  she  pities  him.  His  literary  produc- 
tions she  depreciates  in  the  same  way. 
She  finds  them  inferior  in  refinement  and 
elevation  to  his  earlier  works,  remarking  of 
"  Hermann  and  Dorothea,"  which  appeared 
in  1797  :  "It  is  a  pity  that  the  illusion  of 
the  wife  who  cooks  at  the  cleanly  hearth 
should  be  destroyed  by  Miss  Vulpius." 
Speaking  also  of  the  second  part  of  "Wil- 
helm  Meister,"  published  in  1796,  she  char- 
acterizes the  female  personages  in  it  as 
"women  of  indecent  behavior,"  and  says 


RESENTMENT   AND    RECONCILIATION.     129 

that  "where  noble  feelings  in  human  nat- 
ure are  occasionally  brought  into  action 
the  whole  is  daubed  with  mud,  in  order  to 
leave  nothing  heaven-like,  and  as  if  the 
devil  wished  to  show  that  the  world  is  not 
mistaken  in  him,  and  that  no  one  should 
believe  him  to  be  better  than  he  is." 

But  time,  which  deadens  all  passions, 
finally  allayed  much  of  the  irritation  which 
Frau  von  Stein  felt  towards  Goethe,  while 
his  uniform  good-nature  and  the  kindness 
with  which  he  cared  for  her  son  Fritz 
helped  to  soften  her  feelings  towards  him. 
His  friendship  with  Schiller,  whose  wife 
was  also  her  intimate  friend,  created  an 
additional  bond  of  union ;  his  dangerous 
illness  in  1801  revealed  to  her  how  dear 
he  was  still  to  her  at  the  bottom  of  her 
heart,  and  thus,  step  by  step,  something 
like  affection  was  restored  between  the 
pair.  But  the  charm  of  the  old  days  was 
gone,  the  formal  "you"  appears  in  his 
letters  to  her  in  place  of  the  "  thou  "  which 
marks  those  of  the  former  years,  and  they 
were  no  longer  the  impetuous  autographs 
sent  two  or  three  times  a  day,  but  were 
9 


130     GOETHE  AND  CHARLOTTE  VON  STEIN. 

written  at  great  intervals  and  by  the  hand 
of  a  secretary. 

Frau  von  Stein  died  peacefully  of  old  age 
in  1827,  five  years  before  Goethe,  having 
left  instructions  that,  in  order  to  avoid  giv- 
ing him  pain,  her  coffin  should  not  be  car- 
ried past  his  dwelling.  He  himself  did  not 
attend  her  funeral,  but  sent  his  son  to  rep- 
resent him.  Since  her  burial  a  new  path 
has  been  laid  out  in  the  cemetery  over  her 
grave,  and  nothing  now  marks  the  spot 
where  her  remains  repose. 


MOZART   AND   ALOYSIA  WEBER. 


LIKE  all  men  of  artistic  temperament, 
Mozart  was  extremely  impressible  by  the 
charms  of  women.  His  love  affairs,  which 
commenced  early,  were  many  and  frequent, 
but  only  one  of  them,  the  last  before  his 
marriage,  was  at  all  serious,  or  productive 
of  any  great  effect  upon  his  character.  The 
object  of  his  passion  in  this  instance  was 
Aloysia  Weber,  a  cousin  of  the  composer, 
Carl  Maria  von  Weber,  and  the  elder  sister 
of  the  Constance  Weber  who  afterwards  be- 
came his  wife. 

Mozart's  wonderful  musical  genius  and 
the  surpassing  excellence  of  his  produc- 
tions have  quite  overshadowed,  in  common 
estimation,  his  personal  merit.  Indeed,  a 
conviction  prevails  that  his  intellectual  abil- 


132         MOZART   AND    ALOYSIA    WEBER. 

ities  were  inferior,  his  character  weak,  and 
his  habits  dissipated.  The  truth,  on  the 
contrary,  is  that  he  was  extremely  intelli- 
gent, his  weakness  was  nothing  but  the 
necessary  accompaniment  of  a  warm  and 
affectionate  temper,  and  his  dissipation  al- 
most entirely  imaginary.  He  was,  indeed, 
fond  of  wine,  as  he  was  of  women,  but  he 
was  as  far  from  being  a  drunkard  as  he 
was  from  being  a  libertine.  All  the  evi- 
dence goes  to  show  that  his  conduct  was, 
from  first  to  last,  morally  irreproachable, 
and  that  his  misfortunes  came  from  his  un- 
selfishness, and  from  the  too  great  confi- 
dence which  he  placed  in  those  who  pre- 
tended to  be  his  friends.  As  is  not  un- 
common with  men  of  genius,  he  lacked 
worldly  wisdom,  and  had  little  of  the  busi- 
ness talent  requisite  for  worldly  success. 

Mozart  as  a  child  was  distinguished 
not  more  by  his  precocious  musical  tal- 
ents than  by  his  loving  disposition.  An- 
dreas Schlachtner,  the  court  trumpeter, 
who  was  an  intimate  friend  of  the  Mozart 
family  and  a  constant  companion  of  the 
little  boy,  says  that  "Ten  times  a  day  at 


MOZART'S  CHARACTER.  133 

least  he  would  ask  me  whether  I  loved 
him,  and  when  I  sometjjnes  said,  for  fun, 
that  I  did  not,  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes,  so 
tender  and  kindly  was  his  good  heart." 
Every  night  before  he  went  to  bed  he 
would  stand  on  a  chair  and  sing  with  his 
father  a  little  tune  which  he  had  himself 
composed  to  some  nonsense  words  resem- 
bling Italian,  and  during  the  singing  and 
after  it  he  would  kiss  his  father  on  the  tip 
of  his  nose.  When  he  was  ten  years  old 
he  happened  to  make  a  visit  to  a  convent, 
and  to  find  there  a  former  friend  to  whom 
he  was  much  attached.  He  immediately 
climbed  upon  him,  patted  his  cheeks,  and 
greeted  him  in  a  brief  chant,  which  he  af- 
terwards wrote  out  into  an  offertory  and 
sent  to  his  friend  as  a  birthday  gift.  For 
his  father  and  mother  and  only  sister  his 
love  knew  no  bounds,  and  he  used  as  a 
child  to  say  that  when  his  father  grew  to 
be  old  he  would  put  him  in  a  glass  case  to 
keep  him  safe  and  have  him  always  with 
him.  His  generosity  made  him  a  constant 
victim  of  those  with  whom  he  had  dealings. 
He  gave  away  some  of  his  finest  composi- 


134        MOZART   AND   ALOYSIA   WEBER. 

tions,  was  defrauded  of  his  copyright  on 
many  others,  and  he  did  an  endless  amount 
of  work  for  which  he  received  no  compen- 
sation. 

This  natural  lovingness  and  confiding- 
ness  were  encouraged  rather  than  repressed 
by  his  education.  His  father,  though 
stern,  was  most  affectionate,  and  his  moth- 
er was  as  devoted  to  him  as  he  was  to  her. 
Both  parents  were  pious  Roman  Catholics, 
and  brought  up  their  son  in  the  strictest 
religious  and  moral  principles.  The  fa- 
ther's letters  to  him,  long  after  he  was 
grown  up,  contain  frequent  injunctions  to 
observe  his  devotional  duties,  and  his  an- 
swers show  that  these  injunctions  were 
heeded.  His  filial  respect  and  obedience 
were  as  remarkable  as  his  filial  affection. 
His  favorite  saying  was,  "  Next  to  God, 
papa,"  and,  as  we  shall  see,  he  never  let  his 
own  inclinations  stand  in  the  way  of  the 
parental  commands.  Of  his  principles  in 
regard  to  women,  he  says  himself,  writing 
to  his  father  at  the  age  of  twenty-two :  "  Be- 
lieve what  you  please  of  me,  only  nothing 
bad.  There  are  people  who  think  no  one 


ROMANTIC    IDEAS.  135 

can  love  a  poor  girl  without  evil  designs. 
But  I  am  no  Brunetti,  no  Misliweczeck.  I 
am  a  Mozart,  and  though  young,  still  a 
high  -  principled  Mozart."  His  lofty  and 
romantic  ideas  of  marriage  are  likewise 
charmingly  exhibited  in  another  letter  to 
his  father,  in  which  he  says  : 

"  Mr.  von  Scheidenhofen  might  have  let  me  know, 
through  you,  that  his  wedding  was  soon  to  take  place, 
and  I  would  have  composed  a  new  minuet  for  the  oc- 
casion. I  cordially  wish  him  joy  ;  but  his  is,  after  all, 
only  one  of  those  money  matches,  and  nothing  else  ! 
I  hope  never  to  marry  in  this  way.  I  wish  to  make 
my  wife  happy,  but  not  to  become  rich  by  her  means ; 
so  I  will  let  things  alone,  and  enjoy  my  golden  free- 
dom till  I  am  so  well  off  that  I  can  support  both  wife 
and  children.  Mr.  von  Scheidenhofen  was  forced  to 
marry  a  rich  wife  :  his  rank  imposed  this  on  him. 
The  nobility  must  never  marry  from  liking  and  love, 
but  from  interest  and  various  other  considerations. 
It  would  not  at  all  suit  a  grandee  to  love  his  wife  af- 
ter she  had  done  her  duty  and  brought  into  the  world 
an  heir  to  the  property.  But  we  poor  humble  people 
are  privileged  not  only  to  choose  a  wife  who  loves  us 
and  whom  we  love,  but  we  may,  can,  and  do  take 
such  a  one  because  we  are  neither  noble  nor  high 
born  nor  rich,  but,  on  the  contrary,  lowly,  humble, 
and  poor.  We  therefore  need  no  wealthy  wife,  for 
our  riches,  being  in  our  heads,  die  with  us,  and  these 


136         MOZART   AND   ALOYSIA    WEBER. 

no  man  can  deprive  us  of  unless  he  cut  them  off,  in 
which  case  we  need  nothing  more. " 

While  intellectually,  apart  from  his  musi- 
cal endowments,  Mozart  was  not  a  great 
man,  his  letters  and  all  the  anecdotes  re- 
lated of  him  show  him  to  have  been  lively, 
witty,  and  agreeable.  He  could  read,  write, 
and  speak  Italian  and  French  as  well  as  he 
could  German,  and  on  occasion  could  turn 
out  rhymes  with  great  facility.  In  society, 
he  was  noted  for  his  rollicking  fun  and  gay- 
ety,  and  his  remarks  were  often  irresistibly 
droll.  These  qualities,  and  his  convivial 
habits,  are  what  gave  him  the  reputation  of 
being  dissipated,  but  unjustly  so.  He  was 
also  a  good  dancer,  and  played  billiards  and 
skittles  with  great  zeal  and  skill. 

Though  Mozart  was  extremely  susceptible 
of  love  for  women,  and  his  talents  should 
have  commended  him  to  their  favor,  his  ex- 
ternal appearance  rather  interfered  with  his 
success  with  them.  His  father  and  mother 
were  reputed  to  be  the  handsomest  couple 
in  Salzburg,  where  they  lived,  but  they  failed 
to  transmit  to  him  their  advantages.  He 
was,  indeed,  slim  and  well  proportioned,  but 


PERSONAL   APPEARANCE.  137 

his  stature  was  small  and  his  figure  insignif- 
icant. His  complexion  was  pale,  and  his 
face  in  no  respect  striking,  except  when  it 
was  illuminated  by  the  fire  of  his  genius  in 
playing  or  in  composing.  His  eyes  were 
well  formed  and  of  a  good  size,  with  fine  eye- 
brows and  lashes,  but  as  a  rule  they  looked 
languid,  and  his  gaze  was  restless  and  ab- 
sent. Like  all  little  men,  he  was  very  par- 
ticular about  his  dress,  and  wore  a  great 
deal  of  embroidery  and  jewelry. 

Until  he  was  twenty- one  Mozart  seems 
never  to  have  been  allowed  to  go  out  into 
the  world  alone.  In  all  his  professional 
travels  he  was  accompanied  by  his  father, 
who  did  not  leave  him  for  a  moment.  At 
last,  in  September,  1777,  the  anxious  parent 
reluctantly  consented  to  remain  in  Salz- 
burg, while  his  son  went  with  his  mother  on 
a  tour  to  Munich  and  other  cities,  with  the 
purpose  of  ultimately  visiting  Paris.  He 
bore  up  bravely  till  the  travellers  actually 
started,  and  then  went  to  his  bedroom  ex- 
hausted with  the  anguish  of  parting.  Sud- 
denly he  remembered  that  in  his  distress 
he  had  forgotten  to  give  his  son  his  bless- 


138         MOZART   AND    ALOYSIA    WEBER. 

ing.  He  rushed  to  the  window  with  out- 
stretched hand,  but  the  carriage  was  al- 
ready out  of  sight. 

How  Mozart  enjoyed  his  newly  acquired 
liberty,  and  the  use  he  made  of  it,  espe- 
cially with  reference  to  the  fair  sex,  are 
summed  up  by  his  father  in  a  letter  which 
he  wrote  to  him  at  Mannheim  in  February, 
1778.  The  details  given  in  this  letter  pre- 
sent an  accurate  picture  of  Mozart's  charac- 
ter as  it  appeared  to  one  who  knew  him  best. 

"  Your  journey  led  you  to  Munich  ;  you  know  the 
purpose ;  it  was  not  to  be  accomplished.  Well- 
meaning  friends  wished  to  have  you  there  ;  you  want- 
ed to  stay  there.  You  fell  into  the  notion  of  bring- 
ing a  company  together.  I  cannot  repeat  the  par- 
ticulars. At  that  moment  you  thought  the  project 
feasible.  I  did  not ;  read  over  what  I  said  in  an- 
swer to  you.  You  are  a  man  of  honor  ;  would  it 
have  done  you  honor  to  depend  upon  ten  persons 
and  their  monthly  charity?  Then,  you  were  won- 
derfully captivated  by  a  little  singer  of  the  theatre, 
and  wanted  nothing  better  than  to  help  the  German 
stage.  Then,  you  explained  that  you  could  never 
write  a  comic  opera  !  No  sooner  were  you  outside 
of  the  gate  of  Munich  than  your  whole  friendly  com- 
pany of  subscribers  forgot  you,  and  what  would  have 
happened  in  Munich  now  ? 


MANNHEIM.  139 

"In  the  end  God's  providence  showed  itself.  In 
Augsburg  you  had  another  little  scene — a  merry 
time  with  my  brother's  daughter,  who  must  needs 
send  you  her  portrait.  The  rest  I  wrote  you  in  my 
first  letter  to  Mannheim.  In  Wallerstein  you 
cracked  a  thousand  jokes,  danced  here  and  there, 
so  that  people  thought  you  a  jolly,  merry,  foolish, 
occasionally  absent-minded  creature,  which  gave  Mr. 
Beecke  the  opportunity  of  depreciating  your  merit, 
which  by  your  compositions  and  by  the  playing  of 
your  sister  had  been  set  in  another  light  with  the 
two  gentlemen,  for  she  always  said:  '  I  am  only  my 
brother's  pupil,'  so  that  they  had  the  greatest  re- 
spect for  your  skill,  and  preferred  it  to  the  bad  work 
of  Beecke. 

"  In  Mannheim  you  did  nicely,  to  ingratiate  your- 
self with  Mr.  Cannabich  !  It  would  have  been  fruit- 
less if  he  had  not  sought  a  twofold  end.  The  rest  I 
have  already  written  to  you.  The  daughter  of  Mr. 
Cannabich  was  overwhelmed  with  praises,  the  picture 
of  her  temperament  expressed  in  the  adagio  of  the 
sonata ;  in  short,  she  was  now  the  favorite  person. 
Then  you  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Wendling. 
He,  now,  was  the  noblest  friend,  and  what  happened 
I  need  not  repeat.  In  a  moment  comes  the  acquaint- 
ance with  Mr.  Weber.  Everything  else  passes  away; 
this  family  is  now  the  honestest,  Christianest  family, 
and  the  daughter  is  the  chief  person  of  the  tragedy 
to  be  enacted  between  her  family  and  yours,  and  all 
that  you,  in  the  giddiness  in  which  your  good  heart, 


140         MOZART   AND   ALOYSIA    WEBER. 

open  to  everybody,  has  put  you,  imagine  her  without 
sufficient  consideration  to  be." 

Mozart  had  been  at  Mannheim  since  the 
end  of  October,  1777.  The  city  was  the 
capital  of  the  Palatinate,  the  elector  of 
which,  Charles  Theodore,  was  a  noted  pa- 
tron of  both  music  and  literature,  and  had 
gathered  at  his  court,  besides  writers  like 
Lessing,  Wieland,  and  Klopstock,  some  of 
the  finest  musicians  and  composers  in  Ger- 
many. Among  them  were  Schweitzer,  who 
set  to  music  Wieland's  "Alceste;"  the  pian- 
ist Vogler,  the  celebrated  tenor  Raaff,  for 
whom  Mozart  wrote  some  beautiful  airs ; 
the  singers  Dorothea  Wendling  and  Fran- 
cisca  Danzi,  the  violinists  Cannabich  and 
Cramer,  the  flutist  Wendling,  the  oboists 
Le  Brun  and  Raum,  the  bassoonist  Ritter, 
and  the  horn-player  Lang.  Mozart,  indeed, 
complains  in  one  of  his  letters  that  the 
elector's  orchestra  surpassed  his  singers  so 
much  that  he  had  to  write  his  music  more 
for  the  instruments  than  for  the  voices. 
That  he  enjoyed  staying  in  the  place  im- 
mensely appears  not  only  from  his  father's 
account  just  quoted,  but  from  his  own.  The 


ALOYSIA'S  TALENT.  141 

Cannabich  of  whom  his  father  speaks  was 
the  leader  of  the  orchestra  as  well  as  a 
violinist,  and  to  his  daughter  Mozart  gave 
lessons  on  the  piano,  besides  writing  for 
her  a  sonata.  He  next  met  Wendling,  the 
flute-player,  who  also  had  a  daughter,  Rosa, 
who  played  the  piano,  and  for  her,  too,  he 
composed  a  sonata. 

Finally,  about  the  beginning  of  the  year 
1778  Mozart  was  introduced  to  the  Weber 
family  and  became  captivated  with  the  sing- 
ing of  the  second  daughter,  Aloysia,  a  girl 
of  only  fifteen,  who  inspired  him,  first  by 
her  musical  talent,  and  afterwards  by  her 
personal  charms,  with  profound  affection. 
His  biographer,  Jahn,  calls  it  "  a  passionate 
love,"  and  Nohl,  "  his  first  true  love."  The 
beginning  of  their  acquaintance  and  of  his 
attachment  to  her,  Mozart  describes  in  a 
letter  dated  Jan.  17,  1778  : 

"  Next  Wednesday  I  am  going  for  some  days  to 
Kirchheim-Poland,  the  residence  of  the  Princess  of 
Orange.  I  have  heard  so  much  praise  of  her  here 
that  at  last  I  have  resolved  to  go.  A  Dutch  officer, 
a  particular  friend  of  mine,  was  much  upbraided  for 
not  bringing  me  with  him  when  he  went  to  offer  his 


142        MOZART   AND   ALOYSIA   WEBER. 

New- Year's  congratulations.  I  expect  to  receive  at 
least  eight  louis  d'or,  for  as  she  has  a  passionate  ad- 
miration of  singing,  I  have  had  four  airs  copied  out  for 
her.  I  will  also  present  her  with  a  symphony,  for  she 
has  a  very  nice  orchestra  and  gives  a  concert  every  day. 
' '  Besides,  the  copying  of  the  airs  will  not  cost  me 
much,  for  a  certain  Mr.  Weber,  who  is  going  there 
with  me,  has  copied  them.  He  has  a  daughter  who 
sings  admirably  and  has  a  lovely  pure  voice.  She  is 
only  fifteen.  She  fails  in  nothing  but  stage  action  ; 
were  it  not  for  that  she  might  be  the  prima-donna  of 
any  theatre.  Her  father  is  a  downright  honest  Ger- 
man, who  brings  up  his  children  well,  for  which  very 
reason  the  girl  is  presented  here.  He  has  six  chil- 
dren, five  girls  and  a  son.  He  and  his  wife  and 
children  have  been  obliged  to  live  for  the  last  four- 
teen years  on  an  income  of  200  florins,  but,  as  he  has 
always  done  his  duty  well,  and  has  lately  provided  a 
very  accomplished  lady  singer  for  the  elector,  he  has 
now,  actually,  400  florins.  My  aria  for  De  Amicis 
she  sings  to  perfection,  with  all  its  tremendous  pas- 
sages. She  is  to  sing  it  in  Kirchheim-Poland." 

The  visit  to  Kirchheim  was  made  as  in- 
tended, and  by  Feb.  2,  1778,  Mozart  was 
writing  to  his  father  from  Mannheim  an  ac- 
count of  it.  The  party  left  Mannheim,  he 
says,  on  a  Friday  morning  in  a  covered 
carriage,  and  reached  Kirchheim  at  four  in 


MOZART  S    ADMIRATION.  143 

the  afternoon.  On  Saturday  evening  Miss 
Weber  sang  at  court,  and  again  on  Tues- 
day and  Wednesday,  besides  playing  the 
piano  twice.  Of  her  performance  on  this 
instrument  Mozart  speaks  in  high  praise, 
and  adds:  "What  surprises  me  most  is  that 
she  reads  music  so  well.  Only  think  of  her 
playing  my  difficult  sonatas  at  sight,  slowly, 
but  without  missing  a  single  note.  I  give 
you  my  honor  I  would  rather  hear  my  sona- 
tas played  by  her  than  by  Vogler."  For  his 
services  and  for  the  four  symphonies  which 
he  presented  to  the  princess  he  received 
seven  louis  d'or,  and  Aloysia,  for  her  sing- 
ing, five,  which  disappointed  him,  as  he  had 
expected  that  each  of  them  would  get  eight 
louis  d'or.  With  characteristic  cheerfulness 
he  adds  :  "  We  were  not,  however,  losers,  for 
I  have  a  profit  of  forty-two  florins,  and  the 
inexpressible  pleasure  of  becoming  better 
acquainted  with  worthy,  upright  Christian 
people  and  good  Catholics.  I  regret  much 
not  having  known  them  long  ago." 

What  attractions  Aloysia  possessed  be- 
yond her  musical  gifts  is  unknown.  She 
never  became  celebrated  for  her  beauty,  and 


144        MOZART   AND   ALOYSIA   WEBER. 

her  character,  at  her  age,  must  have  been 
still  undeveloped.  Mozart  himself,  writing 
of  her  three  years  after,  says  she  was  un- 
grateful to  her  parents  and  left  them  with- 
out assistance  when  she  was  making  money 
for  herself  as  a  singer,  and  a  little  later, 
when  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  sister, 
he  speaks  of  her  as  "false,  unprincipled, 
and  a  coquette."  But  of  her  excellent  sing- 
ing and  playing  there  was  no  question,  and 
in  listening  to  her,  teaching  her,  and  com- 
posing for  her  Mozart  was  enraptured. 

One  consequence  of  this  attachment  was 
to  put  an  end  to  a  project  which  Mozart 
had  formed,  with  the  approval  of  his  moth- 
er, of  proceeding  to  Paris  in  company  with 
the  flute-player,  Wendling,  and  his  daugh- 
ter Rosa,  Ramm,  the  oboist,  and  Ritter,  the 
bassoonist.  Wendling  was  to  direct  the 
party,  as  he  professed  to  have  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  Paris  and  its  ways.  How 
completely  Mozart's  opinion  of  him  had 
changed  will  appear  from  what  he  writes 
soon  after  the  trip  to  Kirchheim  : 

"  Now  comes  something  urgent,  about  which  I  re- 
quest an  answer.  Mamma  and  I  have  discussed  the 


PLANNING   A   TOUR.  145 

matter,  and  we  agree  that  we  do  not  like  the  sort  of 
life  the  Wendlings  lead.  Wendling  is  a  very  honor- 
able and  kind  man,  but,  unhappily,  devoid  of  re- 
ligion, and  the  whole  family  are  the  same.  I  say 
enough  when  I  tell  you  his  daughter  was  a  most  dis- 
reputable character.  Ramm  is  a  good  fellow,  but  a 
libertine.  I  know  myself,  and  I  have  such  a  sense 
of  religion  that  I  shall  never  do  anything  which  I 
would  not  do  before  the  whole  world  ;  but  I  am 
alarmed  even  at  the  very  thought  of  being  in  the  so- 
ciety of  people  whose  mode  of  thinking  is  so  entirely 
different  from  mine  (and  from  that  of  all  good  peo- 
ple). But,  of  course,  they  must  do  as  they  please.  I 
have  no  heart  to  travel  with  them,  nor  could  I  enjoy 
one  pleasant  hour,  nor  know  what  to  talk  about,  for, 
in  short,  I  have  no  great  confidence  in  them.  Friends 
who  have  no  religion  cannot  be  long  our  friends.  I 
have  already  given  them  a  hint  of  this  by  saying 
that  during  my  absence  three  letters  had  arrived,  of 
which  I  could  divulge  nothing  further  than  that  it 
was  unlikely  I  should  be  able  to  go  with  them  to 
Paris,  but  that  perhaps  I  might  come  later,  or  possi- 
bly go  elsewhere  ;  so  they  must  not  depend  on  me. 
I  shall  be  able  to  finish  my  music  now  quite  at 
my  ease  for  De  Jean,  who  is  to  give  me  200  florins 
for  it. 

"  I  can  remain  here  as  long  as  I  please,  and  neither 
board  nor  lodging  costs  me  anything.     In  the  mean- 
time Mr.  Weber  will  endeavor  to  make  various  en- 
gagements for  concerts  with  me,  and  then  we  shall 
IO 


146         MOZART  AND   ALOYSIA   WEBER. 

travel  together.  If  I  am  with  him  it  is  just  as  if  I 
were  with  you.  This  is  the  reason  that  I  like  him 
so  much ;  except  in  personal  appearance  he  resem- 
bles you  in  all  respects,  and  has  exactly  your  charac- 
ter and  mode  of  thinking.  If  my  mother  were  not,  as 
you  know,  too  comfortably  lazy  to  write,  she  would 
say  precisely  what  I  do.  I  must  confess  that  I  much 
enjoyed  my  excursion  with  them.  We  were  pleased 
and  merry.  I  heard  a  man  converse  just  like  you.  I 
had  no  occasion  to  trouble  myself  about  anything ; 
what  was  torn  I  found  repaired.  In  short,  I  was 
treated  like  a  prince. 

"I  am  so  attached  to  this  oppressed  family  that 
my  greatest  wish  is  to  make  them  happy,  and  per- 
haps I  may  be  able  to  do  so.  My  advice  is  that  they 
should  go  to  Italy,  so  I  am  all  anxiety  for  you  to 
write  to  our  good  friend  Lugiati,  and  the  sooner  the 
better,  to  inquire  what  are  the  highest  terms  given  to 
a  prima-donna  in  Verona  ;  the  more  the  better,  for  it 
is  always  easy  to  accept  lower  terms.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  possible  to  obtain  the  Ascensa  in  Venice. 
I  will  be  answerable  with  my  life  for  her  singing  and 
her  doing  credit  to  my  recommendation.  She  has 
even  during  this  short  period  derived  much  profit 
from  me,  and  how  much  further  progress  she  will 
have  made  by  that  time  !  I  have  no  fears,  either,  with 
regard  to  her  acting. 

"If  this  plan  be  realized,  Mr.  Weber,  his  two 
daughters,  and  I  will  have  the  happiness  of  visiting 
my  dear  papa  and  sister  for  a  fortnight  on  our  way 


MUSICAL  AMBITION.  147 

through  Salzburg.  My  sister  will  find  a  friend  and 
companion  in  Miss  Weber,  for,  like  my  sister  in  Salz- 
burg, she  enjoys  the  best  reputation  here,  owing  to 
the  careful  way  in  which  she  has  been  brought  up ; 
the  father  resembles  you,  and  the  whole  family  that 
of  Mozart.  They  have,  indeed,  detractors,  as  with  us, 
but  when  it  comes  to  the  point  they  must  confess  the 
truth,  and  truth  lasts  longest.  I  should  be  glad  to  go 
with  them  to  Salzburg,  that  you  might  hear  her.  My 
air  that  De  Amicis  used  to  sing,  and  the  bravura  air 
Parto  m'affretto,  and  Dalla  sponda  tenebrosa,  she 
sings  splendidly.  Pray  do  all  you  can  to  insure  our 
going  to  Italy  together.  You  know  my  greatest  de- 
sire is  to  write  operas. 

"  I  will  gladly  write  an  opera  for  Verona  for  thirty 
zecchini,  solely  that  Miss  Weber  may  acquire  fame 
by  it ;  for  if  I  do  not  I  fear  she  may  be  sacrificed. 
Before  then  I  hope  to  make  so  much  money  by  visit- 
ing different  places  that  I  shall  be  no  loser.  I  think 
we  shall  go  to  Switzerland,  perhaps  also  to  Holland: 
pray  write  me  soon  about  this.  Should  we  stay  long 
anywhere  the  eldest  daughter  would  be  of  the  great- 
est use  to  us  ;  for  we  could  have  our  own  manage,  as 
she  understands  cooking. 

"Send  me  an  answer  soon,  I  beg.  Don't  forget 
my.  wish  to  write  an  opera.  I  could  almost  weep 
from  vexation  when  I  hear  or  see  an  aria.  But  Ital- 
ian, not  German — stria,  not  buff  a  !  I  have  not  writ- 
ten you  all  that  is  in  my  heart.  My  mother  is  satis- 
fied with  my  plan." 


148         MOZART   AND   ALOYSlA   WEBER. 

Mozart  was  mistaken  about  his  mother's 
approval,  for  she  adds  to  his  letter  this 
postscript : 

1 '  No  doubt  you  perceive  by  the  accompanying 
letter  that  when  Wolfgang  makes  new  friends  he 
would  give  his  life  for  them.  It  is  true  that  she 
does  sing  incomparably  ;  still  we  ought  not  to  lose 
sight  of  our  own  interests.  I  never  liked  his  being 
in  the  society  of  Wendling  and  Ramm,  but  I  did 
not  venture  to  object  to  it,  nor  would  he  have  list- 
ened to  me,  but  no  sooner  did  he  know  these  We- 
bers  than  he  instantly  changed  his  mind.  In  short, 
he  prefers  other  people  to  me,  for  I  remonstrate 
with  him  sometimes,  and  that  he  does  not  like.  I 
write  this  quite  secretly,  while  he  is  at  dinner,  for 
I  don't  wish  him  to  know  it." 

The  project  which  Mozart  had  formed  of 
giving  up  his  proposed  visit  to  Paris  and  of 
attempting  instead  to  establish  his  beloved 
as  a  prima-donna  in  an  Italian  town  seemed 
to  his  father  sheer  lunacy.  He  took  time 
to  prepare  himself,  and  in  two  long  letters, 
one  dated  Feb.  12  and  the  other  Feb.  16, 
he  went  over  the  ground  carefully,  and  ex- 
hausted every  argument  of  prudence,  rea- 
son, and  affection  to  defeat  the  scheme. 
He  recounted  his  own  privations,  the  per- 


PATERNAL   REMONSTRANCES.  149 

sonal  sacrifices  he  had  made  to  educate 
his  son,  and  the  dependence  of  the  entire 
family  upon  his  success  in  his  career.  "The 
future  destiny  of  your  old  parents  and  of 
your  loving  sister  is  in  your  hands."  "  I 
place  in  your  filial  love  all  my  confidence 
and  all  my  hope."  "  It  depends  on  your 
decision  whether  you  shall  be  a  common 
musician  whom  the  world  forgets,  or  a  re- 
nowned composer  of  whom  posterity  and 
history  shall  speak ;  whether,  infatuated 
with  a  pretty  face,  you  one  day  breathe 
your  last  upon  straw,  your  wife  and  chil- 
dren starving,  or  whether,  after  a  happy, 
Christianly  spent  life,  you  die  in  honor  and 
wealth,  respected,  as  well  as  your  family, 
by  the  whole  world."  And  he  ends  with 
this  touching  appeal : 

1 '  I  know  that  you  love  me  not  alone  as  your  fa- 
ther, but  as  your  truest  and  surest  friend  ;  that  you 
know  and  consider  that  our  fortune  and  misfortune, 
yes,  my  longer  life  or  early  death,  are,  so  to  speak, 
under  God,  in  your  hands.  If  I  know  you,  I  have 
nothing  but  happiness  to  expect,  which  in  your  ab- 
sence, which  robs  me  of  the  fatherly  pleasure  of  see- 
ing you  and  embracing  you,  is  my  only  comfort. 


150        MOZART   AND   ALOYSIA   WEBER. 

Live  as  a  good  Catholic  Christian,  love  and  fear  God, 
pray  to  Him  with  devotion  and  faith  and  full  earnest- 
ness, and  conduct  yourself  in  so  Christian  a  manner 
that  if  I  never  see  you  again  my  deathbed  may  not  be 
sorrowful.  I  give  you  from  my  heart  my  fatherly 
blessing,  and  I  am  till  death  your  faithful  father  and 
surest  friend." 

The  result  to  which  all  these  affectionate 
exhortations  were  directed  was  to  induce 
Mozart  to  quit  Mannheim  at  once  and  start 
for  Paris.  "  Off  with  you  to  Paris,  and  that 
soon ;  put  yourself  into  the  company  of 
great  people.  Aut  Cassar,  aut  nihil 7  The 
single  thought  of  seeing  Paris  ought  to  have 
preserved  you  from  passing  fancies.  From 
Paris  proceeds  fame  and  name  for  a  man  of 
great  talent,  over  the  whole  world.  The 
nobility  treat  genius  with  the  greatest  con- 
descension, esteem,  and  courtesy." 

The  appeal  was  successful.  Mozart  re- 
plied on  the  i  gth  of  February,  submissively : 

' '  I  always  thought  that  you  would  disapprove  of  my 
journey  with  the  Webers,  but  I  never  had  any  such 
intentions — I  mean,  under  present  circumstances.  I 
gave  them  my  word  of  honor  to  write  to  you  to  that 
effect.  Mr.  Weber  does  not  know  how  we  stand, 


FILIAL   SUBMISSION.  151 

and  I  certainly  shall  tell  it  to  no  one.  I  wish  my 
position  had  been  such  that  I  had  no  cause  to 
consider  any  one  else,  and  that  we  were  all  inde- 
pendent ;  but  in  the  intoxication  of  the  moment  I 
forgot  the  present  impossibility  of  the  affair,  and  also 
to  tell  you  what  I  had  done.  The  reasons  of  my  not 
being  now  in  Paris  must  be  evident  to  you  from  my 
last  two  letters.  If  my  mother  had  not  first  begun 
on  this  subject  I  certainly  should  have  gone  with  my 
friends  ;  but  when  I  saw  that  she  did  not  like  it  I 
began  to  dislike  it  also.  When  people  lose  confi- 
dence in  me  I  am  apt  to  lose  confidence  in  myself. 
The  days  when,  standing  on  a  chair,  I  sang  Oragna 
fiagata  fa,  and  kissed  the  tip  of  your  nose,  are  in- 
deed gone  by  ;  but  still,  have  my  reverence,  love,  and 
obedience  towards  yourself  ever  failed  on  that  ac- 
count ?  I  say  no  more." 

The  surrender  cost  Mozart  an  illness 
which  for  two  days  confined  him  to  the 
house,  and  on  the  22d  of  February  he 
writes :  "  You  must  forgive  my  not  writing 
much  at  this  time.  But  I  really  cannot.  I 
am  so  afraid  of  bringing  back  my  headache, 
and  besides  I  feel  no  inclination  to  write  to- 
day. It  is  impossible  to  write  all  we  think, 
at  least  I  find  it  to  be  so.  I  would  rather 
say  it  than  write  it.  My  last  letter  told  you 
the  whole  thing  just  as  it  stands."  The 


152         MOZART   AND   ALOYSIA    WEBER. 

next  week  he  devoted  to  composing  an  aria 
suited  to  Aloysia's  voice,  and  gave  it  to  her 
as  a  farewell  present.  On  the  7th  of  March 
he  writes  to  his  father  again  : 

' '  I  have  received  your  letter  of  the  26th  February, 
and  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  all  the  trouble  you 
have  taken  about  the  arias,  which  are  quite  accurate 
in  every  respect.  '  Next  to  God,  papa, '  was  my 
motto  when  a  child,  and  I  still  think  the  same.  You 
are  right  when  you  say  that  '  knowledge  is  power ; ' 
besides,  except  your  trouble  and  fatigue,  you  will 
have  no  cause  for  regret,  and  Miss  Weber  certainly 
deserves  your  kindness.  I  only  wish  that  you  could 
hear  her  sing  my  new  aria,  which  I  lately  mentioned 
to  you.  I  say  hear  her  sing  it,  because  it  seems  made 
expressly  for  her ;  a  man  like  you,  who  really  un- 
derstands what  portamento  in  singing  means,  would 
certainly  feel  the  most  intense  pleasure  in  hearing 
her." 

Having  taken  his  resolution,  Mozart  lost 
no  time  in  executing  it.  He  went  around 
and  bade  adieu  to  his  friends,  ending  with 
the  Webers.  He  describes  his  parting  visit 
to  them  in  the  first  letter  which  he  wrote  to 
his  father  from  Paris.  After  recounting 
how  Mrs.  Weber  knitted  two  pairs  of  mit- 
tens for  him,  and  how  Mr.  Weber  gave  him 


A  SORROWFUL    PARTING.  153 

a  copy  of  Moliere's  plays,  saying  to  his 
mother  that  he  was  the  family's  benefactor 
and  best  friend,  he  concludes  : 

"The  day  before  I  set  off  they  would  insist  on  my 
supping  with  them,  but  I  managed  to  give  them  two 
hours  before  supper  instead.  They  never  ceased 
thanking  me  and  saying  they  only  wished  they  were 
in  a  position  to  testify  their  gratitude,  and  when  I 
went  away  they  all  wept  Pray  forgive  me,  but  real- 
ly tears  come  to  my  eyes  when  I  think  of  it.  Weber 
came  down-stairs  with  me,  and  remained  standing 
at  the  door  till  I  turned  the  corner  and  called  out 
'Adieu.' " 

Mozart  arrived  in  Paris  with  his  mother 
March  13,  1778,  and  immediately  set  about 
visiting  great  people,  giving  concerts,  and 
writing  music.  He  gained  reputation  by 
his  efforts,  but  not  much  money,  and  had 
besides  to  suffer  the  affliction  of  losing  his 
mother  by  death,  about  the  end  of  July. 
At  last,  weary,  sad,  and  hopeless  of  suc- 
cess, he  gave  up,  at  the  beginning  of  Octo- 
ber, and  turned  his  face  homeward.  Dur- 
ing his  stay  in  Paris  he  had  but  little  cor- 
respondence with  Miss  Weber,  though  he 
frequently  mentions  her  in  his  letters  to  his 


154        MOZART   AND   ALOYSIA    WEBER. 

father,  and  expresses  his  satisfaction  with 
her  success  in  her  profession.  The  elector 
of  the  Palatinate  had  early  in  the  year  be- 
come elector  of  Bavaria,  and  had  removed 
his  court  from  Mannheim  to  Munich,  which, 
naturally,  compelled  the  removal  with  him 
of  all  the  artists  dependent  upon  his  pat- 
ronage, the  Webers  among  them.  This  was 
the  cause  of  the  final  catastrophe.  Mo- 
zart's beloved  had  obtained  the  appoint- 
ment of  court  singer  at  Munich,  with  a  lib- 
eral salary,  and  in  her  new  surroundings 
had  ceased  to  love  the  man  whose  depart- 
ure she  had  wept  over  a  few  months  be- 
fore. He  arrived  at  Munich  on  the  25th 
of  December,  full  of  eagerness  to  see  her, 
and  hastened  to  call  upon  her.  She  re- 
ceived him  like  a  stranger,  and  the  story 
goes  that,  immediately  on  perceiving  the 
alteration  in  her  sentiments,  he  sat  down 
at  a  piano  in  the  room  and  sang  aloud  the 
song,  "  I  gladly  leave  the  maid  who  will 
have  none  of  me."  But  that  her  incon- 
stancy deeply  affected  him  appears  from 
the  letter  he  wrote  to  his  father  a  day  or 
two  afterwards : 


ALOYSIA'S  INCONSTANCY.  155 

"  I  write  from  the  house  of  Mr.  Becke.  I  ar- 
rived here  safely,  God  be  praised,  on  the  25th,  but 
I  have  been  unable  to  write  to  you  till  now.  I  re- 
serve everything  till  our  glad,  joyous  meeting,  when 
I  can  once  more  have  the  happiness  of  conversing 
with  you,  for  to-day  I  can  only  weep.  I  have  far 
too  sensitive  a  heart.  In  the  meantime  I  must  tell 
you  that  the  day  before  I  left  Kaisersheim  I  re- 
ceived the  sonatas ;  so  I  shall  be  able  to  present 
them  myself  to  the  electoress.  I  only  delay  leav- 
ing here  till  the  opera  is  given,  when  1  intend  im- 
mediately to  leave  Munich,  unless  I  were  to  find  it 
would  be  very  beneficial  and  useful  to  remain  here 
for  some  time  longer.  In  this  case,  I  feel  con- 
vinced, quite  convinced,  that  you  would  not  only 
be  satisfied  I  should  do  so,  but  would  yourself  ad- 
vise it. 

"  I  naturally  write  very  badly,  for  I  never  learned 
to  write  ;  still,  in  my  whole  life  I  never  wrote  worse 
than  this  very  day,  for  I  am  really  unfit  for  any- 
thing ;  my  heart  is  too  full  of  tears.  I  hope  you 
will  soon  write  to  me  and  comfort  me.  Address  me 
paste  restante  and  then  I  can  fetch  the  letter  myself. 
I  am  staying  with  the  Webers.  I  think,  after  all, 
it  would  be  better,  far  better,  to  enclose  your  letter 
to  our  friend,  Becke. 

"I  intend  (I  mention  it  to  you  in  the  strictest 
secrecy)  to  write  a  mass  here.  All  my  best  friends 
advise  my  doing  so.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  friends 
Cannabich  and  Raaff  have  been  to  me.  Now  fare- 


156         MOZART  AND   ALOYSIA   WEBER. 

well,  my  kindest  and  most  beloved  father  !    Write  to 
me  soon. 

' '  A  happy  new  year  !  More  I  cannot  bring  my- 
self to  write  to-day." 

Aloysia's  conduct  was  not  unnatural 
nor  inexplicable.  She  was  but  fifteen 
years  old,  and,  most  probably,  never  had 
any  deeper  feeling  for  Mozart  than  ad- 
miration of  his  talents  and  gratitude  for 
his  devotion  to  her.  Had  he  remained 
constantly  in  company  with  her  he  might 
have  retained  his  place  in  her  heart,  but 
"out  of  sight  out  of  mind.",  A  girl  of 
fifteen  easily  forgets  and  quickly  changes. 
Consequently,  when  Aloysia  Weber  saw 
Mozart  in  December,  he  was  to  her  quite 
another  being  than  the  Mozart  whom  she 
had  loved,  after  a  childish  fashion,  in 
March.  Years  afterwards  she  confessed 
that  when  he  came  to  her  at  Munich  all 
she  saw  in  him  was  that  he  was  a  little 
man,  and  from  other  sources  we  learn  that 
she  was  displeased  at  his  coat,  which,  as 
he  was  in  mourning  for  his  mother,  was,  af- 
ter the  Paris  fashion,  black,  with  red  but- 
tons !  On  such  trifles  hang  men's  success 


WONDERFUL   VOICE.  157 

with  women,  and  especially  with  women  of 
Aloysia's  age  and  character. 

Mozart  seems  to  have  made  no  effort  to 
recover  his  lost  ground  with  Aloysia.  Per- 
haps he,  too,  was  less  deeply  interested 
than  he  thought  he  was,  and  enjoyed  the 
restoration  of  his  freedom  more  than  he 
was  pained  by  his  beloved's  faithlessness. 
Notwithstanding  his  disappointment,  he  con- 
tinued to  cherish  for  her  the  admiration  of 
a  musician,  and  in  January,  1779,  within  a 
fortnight  after  the  painful  interview  with 
her  just  mentioned,  he  composed  for  her  a 
florid  air,  specially  adapted  to  show  off  the 
capacities  of  her  voice,  which  ranged  from 
G  in  the  treble  clef  to  the  G  two  octaves 
higher,  and,  as  one  of  her  critics  says,  was 
like  a  Cremona  violin.  The  accompani- 
ment was  also  written  for  oboe  and  bas- 
soon, obligati,  to  be  played  by  his  friends 
Ramm  and  Ritter.  The  text  was  from 
Gluck's  "Alceste,"  and  commences  with  the 
words  "  Popoli  di  Tessaglia"  That  he  did 
not  for  a  long  time  cease  to  love  her  ap- 
pears from  a  passage  in  one  of  his  letters 
from  Vienna,  written  in  May,  1781,  after  her 


158         MOZART   AND   ALOYSIA   WEBER. 

marriage  with  the  actor  Lange  :  "  With  the 
Lange  .  I  was  a  fool,  it  is  true ;  what  is  a 
man  not  when  he  is  in  love?  Yet  I  loved 
her  really,  and  I  feel  that  she  is  not  yet 
without  interest  to  me,  which  is  lucky  for 
me,  because  her  husband  is  a  jealous  fool, 
and  allows  her  no  freedom,  and  I  am,  there- 
fore, seldom  able  to  see  her."  He  had  the 
satisfaction  to  find,  as  time  went  on,  that  his 
opinion  of  her  musical  ability  had  been 
sound,  and  not  biassed  by  a  lover's  parti- 
ality, and  he  continued  to  write  music  for 
her,  and  to  take  pleasure  in  her  triumphs. 
From  Munich  she  went  to  Vienna,  be- 
came there  a  prima-donna  of  the  foremost 
rank,  and  married,  as  has  been  said,  an 
actor.  She  did  not  live  happily  with  her 
husband,  and  Nohl,  one  of  Mozart's  biog- 
raphers, speaks  of  her  career  as  follows : 

' '  Neither  happiness  nor  riches  brightened  Aloy- 
sia's  life,  nor  the  peace  of  mind  arising  from  the 
consciousness  of  purity  of  heart.  Not  till  she  was 
an  aged  woman,  and  Mozart  long  dead,  did  she 
recognize  what  he  really  had  been.  She  liked  to 
talk  about  him  and  his  friendship,  and  in  thus  re- 
calling the  brightest  memories  of  her  youth,  some 


TARDY    REGRET.  159 

of  that  lovable  charm  that  Mozart  had  imparted  to 
her,  as  he  did  to  all  with  whom  he  had  intercourse, 
seemed  to  revive.  Every  one  was  captivated  by  her 
gay,  unassuming  manner,  her  freedom  from  all  the 
usual  virtuoso  caprices  in  society,  and  her  readiness 
to  give  pleasure  by  her  talent  to  every  one  who  had 
any  knowledge  or  love  of  music.  It  seems  as  if  a 
portion  of  the  tender  spirit  with  which  Mozart  once 
loved  her  had  passed  into  her  soul  and  brought  forth 
fresh  leaves  from  a  withered  stem." 

Further  evidence  of  Aloysia's  tardy  re- 
gret for  her  youthful  lover  is  found  in  some 
words  in  Italian  which  she  wrote  at  the  end 
of  an  autograph  copy  of  an  air  composed 
by  him  for  her  in  Vienna  in  1788.  "  In  thy 
happy  days  think  sometimes  of  l  Pop  oh  di 
Tessaglia,"1 "  referring  to  the  composition  at 
Munich  in '1779.  She  died  in  1827. 

After  a  year  spent  with  his  father  in  Salz- 
burg, Mozart  went  back  to  Munich,  and 
thence  to  Vienna,  to  join  his  patron,  the 
Archbishop  of  Salzburg,  who  was  in  attend- 
ance at  the  imperial  court.  Here  he  con- 
tinued his  intimacy  with  the  Webers,  and, 
by  a  not  uncommon  metamorphosis  of  sen- 
timent, transferred  to  Constance  Weber  the 
love  which  he  had  formerly  felt  for  her  sis- 


160        MOZART   AND   ALOYSIA   WEBER. 

ter.  After  much  opposition,  both  from  his 
father  and  her  mother,  and  the  usual  lovers' 
quarrels,  the  couple  were  married  in  Au- 
gust, 1782.  Mozart  died  nine  years  later, 
in  November,  1791,  at  a  little  less  than  thir- 
ty-six years  of  age.  His  trials  and  troubles, 
his  artistic  achievements,  and  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  his  fortune  hold  a  prominent  place 
in  the  records  of  the  lives  of  men  of  genius. 
His  wife  seems  to  have  been  more  of  a  bur- 
den than  a  help  to  him,  yet  he  loved  her 
tenderly,  and  his  letters  to  her  are  char- 
acterized by  the  sweetest  and  most  affec- 
tionate spirit.  For  his  old  love,  her  sister, 
he  retained  friendship  to  the  last. 


CAVOUK 


CAVOUR  AND  THE  UNKNOWN. 


AMONG  the  private  papers  of  the  cele- 
brated Italian  statesman,  Count  Camillo  di 
Cavour,  were  found,  after  his  death  in  1861, 
a  series  of  letters  from  a  lady,  whose  name 
has  never  been  divulged  to  the  public, written 
at  various  dates  from  1830  to  1839,  an<^  ^ec^ 
away  by  him  as  if  for  permanent  preserva- 
tion. In  a  diary  he  had  kept  from  1833  to 
1835,  were  also  found  a  number  of  entries 
referring  to  the  writer  of  the  letters  in  ques- 
tion. These  documents,  with  many  others, 
were  intrusted  by  his  niece  and  represen- 
tative, the  Marchesa  Giuseppina  di  Cavour, 
to  Domenico  Berti,  the  historian,  for  the 
preparation  of  a  biography  of  her  uncle 
during  his  early  years,  which  was  published 
at  Rome  in  1866,  under  the  title  of  "  II  Conte 


1 62         CAVOUR    AND   THE    UNKNOWN. 

di  Cavour  avanti  il  1848."  One  chapter  of 
this  work  is  devoted  to  the  narrative  of  Ca- 
vour's  connection  with  the  lady  whose  letters 
he  had  so  carefully  preserved,  giving  extracts 
from  them,  and  passages  from  his  diary  ex- 
plaining them. 

The  first  of  the  letters  is  dated  about  the 
middle  of  the  year  1830.  Cavour  was  then 
an  officer  of  engineers,  barely  twenty  years 
of  age,  and  was  stationed  at  Genoa.  His 
acquaintance  with  the  writer  of  the  letters 
apparently  began  at  Turin  the  previous  win- 
ter. The  lady  was  presumably  nearly  of  Ca- 
vour's  own  age,  but  who  she  was,  except  that 
she  was  of  noble  family,  we  are  not  told. 
Cavour  calls  her  "L'Inconnue"  (the  Un- 
known), and  Berti  adopts  the  appellation. 
Whether,  when  Cavour  first  knew  her  she 
was  married  or  single,  also  does  not  appear, 
but  Berti,  referring  to  events  which  took 
place  in  1835,  speaks  of  her  as  then  having 
a  husband.  He  begins  his  narrative  ab- 
ruptly : 

' '  Camillo  Cavour  had  not  yet  surrendered  his 
commission  when  he  met  a  lady  who  was  to  make  a 
profound  and  permanent  impression  upon  his  heart. 


INTELLECTUAL    SYMPATHY.  163 

"  Sympathy  and  affection  sprang  up  between  the 
two  simultaneously.  He  loved  in  her  the  grace,  the 
charms  of  her  person  ;  the  sweetness,  the  elevation  of 
her  soul ;  the  cultivation  and  the  keenness  of  her  in- 
tellect. She  loved  in  him  his  noble,  generous,  honest 
nature,  the  vivacity  of  his  person  and  fascinating 
manners,  and,  above  all,  his  vigorous  genius.  '  I 
am  sure,'  she  writes  in  her  first  letter,  '  that  the  day 
will  come  when  your  genius  will  be  appreciated.  My 
warmest  wishes  are  that  everything  may  turn  out  as 
you  desire.' " 

Of  course,  the  youthful  Cavour  of  1830 
was  not  the  Cavour  whose  career  as  a  jour- 
nalist, a  politician,  and  a  statesman  fairly 
commenced  only  eighteen  years  afterwards ; 
but  he  had  already  begun  to  manifest  the 
ability  which  in  later  years  made  him  fore- 
most among  his  countrymen.  That  the  ob- 
ject of  his  love  was  unusually  intelligent,  as 
well  as  personally  attractive,  is  plain  both 
from  the  portions  of  her  letters  which  Berti 
copies  and  from  what  is  said  of  her  in  an 
obituary  notice  which  he  appends  to  his 
narrative.  She  cultivated  her  mind  assid- 
uously, could  read,  write,  and  speak  Eng- 
lish, German,  Italian,  and  French,  though, 
like  Cavour,  who,  born  and  educated  in  Sa- 


164         CAVOUR   AND  THE   UNKNOWN. 

voy,  did  not  master  Italian  until  he  was  thir- 
ty, she  usually  employed  French  in  conver- 
sation and  in  her  correspondence.  She 
wrote  much  which  was  never  published, 
among  other  things  an  essay  on  Shake- 
speare's "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  which  she 
sent  to  Cavour,  and  which,  as  Berti  tells  us, 
he  set  above  Rousseau's  "Julie."  In  pol- 
itics she  took  a  lively  interest,  and  was  a 
more  ardent  republican  than  Cavour,  who, 
however,  eventually  converted  her  to  his 
less  extreme  views.  Her  temperament,  nat- 
urally melancholy,  was  rendered  still  more 
so  by  ill-health,  and,  apparently,  by  unhap- 
py family  relations.  As  we  shall  see,  she 
was  capable  of  the  most  passionate  and  ro- 
mantic love,  and  she  carried  her  devotion 
to  Cavour  to  a  pitch  that  made  her  family  at 
one  time  think  her  reason  was  affected. 

Whatever  led  to  the  first  meeting  of  the 
lovers,  they  soon  separated,  and  Berti  tells 
us  that  among  the  lady's  letters  to  Cavour 
are  found  only  one  dated  in  1830,  one  in 
1831,  two  in  1832,  one  in  1833,  an<^  nothing 
in  1834  before  June.  Cavour  takes  upon 
himself  the  blame  for  this  estrangement. 


A   LONG   SEPARATION.  165 

"  I  preserved  a  tender  and  painful  remem- 
brance of  her ;  I  found  myself  often  regret- 
ting that  my  own  stupidity,  coupled  with 
unfortunate  circumstances,  had  prevented 
my  forming  with  this  sweet  and  lovable 
woman  a  connection  which  would  have 
thrown  such  a  charm  over  my  sad  and 
monotonous  existence ;  but,  to  tell  the 
truth,  there  remained  in  my  heart  for  her 
no  sentiment  of  love  nor  of  passion.  All 
my  desire  was  limited  to  seeing  her  again, 
to  being  useful  to  her,  and  to  vowing  to  her 
a  sincere  and  disinterested  friendship." 
Whether  this  means  he  might  have  married 
her  but  did  not,  or  whether  what  he  regret- 
ted was  something  less  honorable,  is  not 
plain.  Anyway,  towards  the  end  of  June, 
1834,  when  he  was  at  Grinzane,  a  town  half 
a  day's  journey  distant  from  Turin,  he  re- 
ceived from  her  a  little  note  saying  she  was 
at  Turin,  and  wanted  to  see  him.  He  had 
not  heard  from  her  since  January,  1833, 
when  she  answered  a  letter  which  he  had 
written  her  "to  express  to  her," he  says  in 
his  diary,  "the  sympathy  which  her  long 
misfortunes  had  excited  in  me."  He  knew 


l66         CAVOUR   AND   THE   UNKNOWN. 

only  that  she  had  been  living  at  Milan  in  a 
continual  state  of  suffering  and  sickness. 
His  diary  continues : 

"  I  cannot  describe  the  sentiments  which  at  this 
moment  agitated  my  heart.  Uncertainty  as  to  the 
motives  which  led  the  Unknown  to  the  step  troubled 
me  cruelly.  Was  it  a  simple  desire  to  explain  her 
past  conduct,  and  to  establish  with  .me  amicable  re- 
lations in  conformity  with  the  sentiments  she  had 
expressed  to  me  in  her  last  letter  ?  Or,  had  she  sud- 
denly succumbed  to  the  passion  against  which  she 
had  vainly  so  long  struggled  ?  I  fancied  I  could  de- 
tect in  the  few  phrases  of  which  her  short  note  was 
composed,  desires,  and  an  ill-repressed  tenderness, 
but  this  must  have  been  only  an  illusion  of  my  vani- 
ty, for  there  was  not  one  word  which  indicated  a 
change  in  my  favor.  I  could  not  contain  myself. 
Tormented  by  the  fear  of  finding  her  no  longer  in 
Turin,  by  uncertainty  as  to  the  reception  she  had  ar- 
ranged for  me,  and  by  an  irresistible  desire  to  ex- 
press to  her  all  the  gratitude,  affection,  and  devotion 
with  which  her  behavior  to  me  had  inspired  me,  I 
resolved  to  set  out  instantly.  Abandoning  fifty  mat- 
ters of  business  which  remained  for  me  to  finish,  and 
braving  the  insupportable  heat  of  the  sun,  I  started 
at  one  o'clock.  Changing  horses  at  Bra,  without  stop- 
ping, I  arrived  at  Turin  at  eight.  I  ran  home,  changed 
my  dress,  and,  without  losing  a  moment,  flew  to  the 
hotel  where  the  Unknown  was  staying.  I  was  told 


AN    ECSTATIC    MEETING.  167 

that  she  had  just  gone  to  the  opera.  Without  delay 
I  ran  thither,  plunged  into  the  pit,  ran  my  eye  over 
the  boxes,  and  in  the  sixth  from  the  left  on  the  first 
tier  I  perceived  a  lady  in  deep  mourning,  and  wear- 
ing on  the  sweetest  of  countenances  the  traces  of 
long  and  cruel  suffering.  It  was  she.  She  recog- 
nized me  at  once  ;  she  had  followed  me  with  her 
eyes  until  I  left  the  pit  to  come  to  her.  God  !  what 
charm  in  her  look  ;  how  much  tenderness  and  love  ! 
Whatever  I  may  do  for  her  in  future,  I  can  never 
repay  her  the  happiness  she  made  me  feel  in  that 
moment.  Her  box  was  full,  and  insupportable  bores 
overwhelmed  my  poor  friend  with  the  most  vapid 
and  insipid  talk.  Vainly  did  our  eyes  endeavor  to 
express  the  sentiments  of  our  hearts.  We  burned 
with  impatience.  At  last  we  were  left  alone  a 
moment,  but  the  abundance  of  the  things  we  had  to 
say  choked  the  words  in  our  throats.  After  a  long 
silence  she  said  to  me  :  '  What  have  you  thought  of 
me  ?'  '  Can  you  ask  me  ?'  I  answered.  '  You  have 
suffered  a  great  deal.'  '  Have  I  suffered  ?  Oh,  yes  ! 
I  have  suffered  much."  These  are  all  the  words  I 
remember."  .  .  . 

Cavour  goes  on  to  say  that  he  quitted 
the  Unknown  that  evening  full  of  hope, 
love,  regret,  and  remorse.  He  believed 
in  the  sincerity  of  her  passion,  he  was 
proud  to  intoxication  of  a  love  so  pure,  so 
constant,  and  so  disinterested,  but,  on  the 


1 68         CAVOUR   AND   THE   UNKNOWN. 

other  hand,  when  he  thought  of  his  con- 
duct towards  her,  and  represented  to  him- 
self the  terrible  sufferings  which  she  had 
endured  because  of  him,  and  of  which  he 
had  always  before  his  eyes  the  traces  upon 
her  beautiful  and  sad  countenance,  he  was 
enraged  with  himself  and  accused  himself 
of  insensibility,  of  cruelty,  of  infamy. 

On  returning  home  he  learned  that  his 
father,  supposing  him  still  to  be  at  Grin- 
zane,  was  coming  to  see  him  the  next  day. 
In  order  to  prevent  this  useless  journey  he 
started  off  at  midnight  on  foot,  being  un- 
able to  procure  a  conveyance,  and  arrived  at 
his  father's  house  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  With  the  expansiveness  of  the 
Latin  races — it  is  said  that  a  Frenchman, 
if  he  cannot  find  any  other  confidant,  will 
tell  of  his  bonnes  fortunes  to  his  mother,  and 
we  shall  see,  later  on,  that  Cavour  actually 
did  this,  and  even  confided  in  his  brother — 
he  related  to  his  father  the  whole  story  and 
obtained  from  him  permission  to  return  to 
Turin.  At  half-past  eight  in  the  evening 
that  same  day  he  called  on  the  Unknown 
at  her  hotel  in  Turin  and  had  the  good 


VOWS   OF    FIDELITY.  169 

fortune  to  find  her  alone.  Her  depressed 
air  and  sombre  attire  produced  on  him  the 
most  painful  impression.  She  was  the  im- 
age of  suffering,  and  who  had  caused  that 
suffering?  Explanations  were  made  on 
both  sides,  and,  finally,  emboldened  by  the 
sweetness  of  her  looks,  Cavour  took  her 
hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  "  Do  you 
forgive  me  ?"  he  said.  She  could  resist  no 
longer.-  She  bent  her  brow  to  his,  and  her 
lips  sought  his  in  a  kiss  of  love  and  of 
peace.  Then  she  told  him  the  whole  story 
of  her  sad  life,  in  doing  which  she  endeav- 
ored by  all  means,  he  says,  to  avoid  re- 
proaching him,  but  vividly  portraying  the 
violence  of  her  passion  for  him. 

Cavour  was  transported.  He  writes  in 
his  diary :  "  Unhappy  man !  I  am  unworthy 
of  so  much  love !  How,  how  shall  I  recom- 
pense it  ?  Ah  !  I  swear  never,  never  to  for- 
get, never  to  abandon  this  celestial  woman. 
My  existence  shall  be  consecrated  to  her. 
She  shall  be  the  purpose  of  my  life,  the 
sole  object  of  my  care,  of  my  efforts.  May 
the  curse  of  Heaven  smite  my  head  if  I 
ever  wilfully  cause  her  the  least  pain  or 


170         CAVOUR   AND   THE    UNKNOWN. 

offend  the  least  sentiment  of  this  perfect 
and  adorable  heart."  And  for  a  few 
months  he  makes  only  occasional  refer- 
ences to  the  political  matters  which  had 
previously  engrossed  his  mind.  Once  he 
says :  "  Lord  Grey  and  his  whole  Ministry 
have  resigned  without  my  paying  attention 
to  it.  It  is  astounding.  I  recognize  my- 
self no  longer." 

Four  days  after  this  interview  the  Un- 
known left  Turin  for  a  bathing  resort,  but 
she  had  hardly  departed  before  Cavour 
wrote  her  a  fiery  letter,  expressing  at  length 
his  passion  for  her.  Not  getting  an  an- 
swer so  soon  as  he  expected,  he  wrote  in 
the  same  strain  a  second  letter,  more  pas- 
sionate than  the  first,  begging  her  to  break 
up  her  existing  relations  and  fly  with  him 
to  another  country.  Upon  reflection,  how- 
ever, he  saw  the -madness  of  this  proposi- 
tion, and  confessed  that  he  had  done  wrong 
to  ask  the  woman  he  loved  to  violate  her 
duty.  Then  came  the  answer  to  his  first 
letter,  and  the  sweetness  and  tenderness  of 
its  tone  confirmed  him  in  his  good  resolu- 
tions. "  My  God,"  he  writes  in  his  diary, 


AN   EPISTOLARY   OUTPOUR.  171 

"turn  away  from  this  angel  of  grace  and 
affection  the  cup  of  bitterness  and  I  will 
drink  it  to  the  dregs !"  Still  he  could  not 
refrain  from  joining  her,  and  remaining  in 
her  company  three  days,  when  she  went 
back  to  Turin. 

The  pair  had  hardly  separated  before  the 
Unknown  wrote  to  her  lover  a  letter,  in  the 
course  of  which  she  says  : 

"I  do  not  know  why  happiness  leaves  in  me 
more  profound  traces  than  unhappiness.  These 
three  days,  I  assure  you,  have  effaced  the  remem- 
brance of  many  cruel  years.  I  preserve  them  in 
my  memory  as  an  inexhaustible  treasure  of  consola- 
tion for  the  days  of  sadness  which  await  me.  I  shall 
reflect,  then,  that  time  passes,  but  that  love  abides 
forever.  We  know  it  will,  we  who,  not  content  to 
live  here  for  fleeting  years,  dare  look  forward  to  an 
endless  future  of  love  and  of  happiness.  I  have  told 
you,  Camillo,  my  soul  is  only  a  reflection  of  thine  ; 
without  thee  I  am  nothing ;  let  the  light  be  inter- 
cepted, and  I  shall  cease  to  exist.  I  shall  follow 
thee  everywhere  ;  let  no  one  hope  to  separate  me 
from  thee.  Relatives,  friends,  I  renounce  all  rather 
than  cease  to  see  thee  and  to  write  to  thee.  I  shall 
perhaps  encounter  opposition.  I  foresee  it  without 
alarm.  I  feel  my  strength.  I  feel  that  nothing  can 
subdue  me  so  long  as  I  am  as  sure  as  I  am  of  thy 


172          CAVOUR   AND  THE    UNKNOWN. 

love.  Thy  heart  answers  to  mine,  and  between  us 
it  is,  as  thy  motto  says  :  'For  life  or  for  death.'  If 
I  deceive  myself  may  I  fall  to  dust  before  being  un- 
deceived !" 

She  continues  in  this  strain  at  length, 
and  two  hours  later  she  adds  a  postscript, 
telling  of  an  encounter  in  regard  to  him 
she  had  with  her  mother  in  the  presence  of 
her  family.  Her  mother  had  reproached  her 
for  her  conduct,  saying  that  it  was  useless 
for  her  to  love  when  her  life  was  so  soon  to 
end;  to  which  she  had  answered  that  for 
that  very  reason  she  ought  to  satiate  her- 
self with  love. 

Shortly  after  these  events  the  Unknown 
quitted  Turin,  taking  with  her  Cavour's  let- 
ters, which  she  read  over  and  over  in  her 
carriage,  writing  to  him  whenever  she  halt- 
ed. This  epistolary  outpour  she  kept  up 
after  her  arrival  home,  writing  sometimes 
thrice  a  day.  She  had  nothing  new  to  say, 
but  repeated  the  same  sentiments  of  love  in 
various  forms. 

As  Cavour  had  confided  to  his  father  the 
renewal  of  his  intimacy  with  the  Unknown, 
so,  as  his  passion  swelled  in  volume  and 


RELIGIOUS   SENTIMENTS.  173 

intensity,  his  breast  was  unable  to  contain 
it  and  it  overflowed  upon  his  mother.  He 
went  to  see  her,  opened  his  whole  heart  to 
her,  and  gave  her  the  letters  of  his  beloved 
to  read.  His  mother,  Berti  tells  us,  was 
moved  to  tears  by  them,  and  when  Cavour 
communicated  this  manifestation  of  ma- 
ternal sympathy  to  the  Unknown,  she  re- 
sponded with  an  equal  gush  of  affection : 
"  Oh,  Camillo,"  she  writes,  "  why  cannot  I 
throw  myself  at  thy  mother's  feet,  and  ex- 
press to  her  all  the  gratitude,  respect,  and 
love  which  are  inspired  by  the  tender  in- 
terest she  takes  in  me !"  And  she  adds 
that  she  sees  in  the  mother's  approval  an 
excuse  for  a  passion  regarded  by  the  world 
as  a  fault. 

A  long  letter  from  the  Unknown  is  de- 
voted to  the  subject  of  religion.  She  had 
early  discovered  the  emptiness  of  mere 
religious  formalities,  but,  as  she  says,  with- 
out losing  her  religious  sentiments,  her  ad- 
miration of  the  Scriptures — particularly  the 
Psalms  and  the  Gospels — and  her  belief  in 
a  life  after  death,  "  I  perceived  the  absurdity 
of  the  practices  of  Catholicism,  and  by  the 


174         CAVOUR   AND   THE   UNKNOWN. 

greatest  good  fortune  did  not -cease  to  be- 
lieve, so  that  my  heart  was  not  depressed. 
Since  then  my  religion  has  made  me  regard 
death  not  only  with  joy  as  the  end  of  my 
sufferings,  but  also  as  the  commencement 
of  an  existence  which  shall  fulfil  my  desire 
at  once  of  loving  and  of  knowing." 

In  another  letter  she  discusses  the  future 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  concluding 
that  it  must  become  more  free  and  liberal 
if  it  would  continue  to  exist. 

As  has  been  said  before,  the  Unknown 
was  in  politics  more  radical  than  Cavour. 
She  deified  Armand  Carrel  and  regarded 
Raspail  and  Trelat  as  heroes,  admired 
Mazzini,  and  contributed  money  to  the 
support  of  the  revolutionary  journal,  the 
Giovane  Italia.  Cavour  was  willing  that 
she  should  worship  Armand  Carrel,  but  he 
ridiculed  all  her  other  idols  until  she  gave 
them  up,  saying,  "Thou  hast  only  to  tell 
me  what  to  will  and  to  think,  and  I  will  will 
and  think  it." 

Though  Cavour  had  not  at  this  time  en- 
tered upon  his  active  political  career,  he 
was  fitting  himself  for  it  by  a  careful  study 


DISINTERESTED   LOVE.  175 

of  the  history  of  Europe,  of  the  institutions 
and  government  of  other  countries,  and  of 
social  and  educational  science.  The  fruits 
of  his  labors  he  occasionally  embodied  in 
writing  and  submitted  to  his  beloved.  On 
her  part,  she  eagerly  aided  him  by  her 
counsel  and  her  criticisms,  and  she  jealous- 
ly insisted  that  she  should  be  the  first  to 
read  his  productions,  reproaching  him  bit- 
terly on  one  occasion  for  publishing  an  es- 
say without  first  showing  it  to  her.  Every- 
thing goes  to  prove  that  after  the  outburst 
of  passion  which  followed  their  meeting  at 
the  opera  in  Turin,  her  relations  with  Ca- 
vour  were  purely  sentimental  and  intellect- 
ual. Her  beauty,  according  to  all  that  we 
are  told,  was  not  of  the  kind  which  creates 
a  desire  for  actual  possession ;  and  even  if 
it  had  been,  she  was  separated  from  her 
lover  too  effectually  by  distance  and  by  the 
barriers  interposed  by  her  family  for  it  to 
exercise  its  power.  Her  love  was  purely 
the  desire  of  loving,  coupled  with  admira- 
tion for  her  lover's  talents.  She  writes  to 
him  :  "  To  find  a  being  who  should  accept 
the  wreck  of  my  existence,  partake  my  sor- 


176         CAVOUR   AND    THE    UNKNOWN. 

rows,  love  me,  in  a  word,  was  a  happiness 
I  had  no  right  to  expect.  Fate  has  mark- 
ed thee  for  my  last  support  —  thee,  full  of 
strength,  life,  talent  —  thee,  destined  per- 
haps to  run  the  most  brilliant  career,  to 
contribute  to  the  welfare  of  the  world.  I 
am  thine — dost  thou  comprehend  it? — thine, 
soul  of  my  life !  It  is  my  happiness,  it  is 
all  that  I  could  dream  of  as  the  most  beau- 
tiful, the  most  brilliant.  In  return,  O 
Camillo,  I  ask  nothing  of  thee !  Follow 
only  the  dictates  of  thy  heart.  May  they 
lead  thee  to  thy  constant  friend  !"  And  to 
the  very  end  she  protested  that  she  desired 
no  more  of  him  than  this.  His  feelings 
seem  to  have  been  those  of  pity  and  ten- 
derness—  not,  perhaps,  without  some  alloy 
of  gratified  vanity — rather  than  those  of  vig- 
orous manly  affection. 

That  such  was  the  case  is  proved  by  the 
fact  that  at  the  end  of  six  months  passed 
in  this  delightful  epistolary  intercourse,  he 
grew  tired  of  it.  His  letters  began  to  be 
less  frequent,  and,  finally,  in  the  course  of 
1835,  they  ceased  altogether.  Engrossed 
with  his  work,  his  studies,  and  the  care  of 


PATIENT   SUBMISSION.  177 

his  father's  landed  estates,  he  seems  almost 
entirely  to  have  forgotten  the  woman  to 
whom  he  had,  only  the  year  before,  vowed 
to  consecrate  his  life.  On  her  part,  though 
she  continued  to  cherish  for  him  ardent  at- 
tachment, she  meekly  accepted  her  fate. 
As  Berti  says,  "  Her  very  supreme  sweet- 
ness was  more  fitted  to  inspire  respect  and 
friendship  than  to  bind  a  man  strongly  to 
her."  The  case  was  only  one  among  many 
exemplifications  of  the  familiar  lines  in 
"  Don  Juan  :" 

' '  Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart ; 
'Tis  woman's  whole  existence." 

When,  after  a  while,  her  friends  urged 
upon  the  Unknown  a  reconciliation  with 
her  family,  Cavour  sided  with  them,  and 
she  obeyed  him.  For  the  next  few  years 
nothing  more  is  recorded  of  her.  She  re- 
tired from  the  world  and  lived  in  seclusion, 
with  only  two  lady  friends  for  companions. 
Cavour  set  out  upon  a  tour  through  France 
and  England,  and  Berti  hints  that  other 
objects  received  from  him  the  adoration 
he  once  so  passionately  bestowed  upon  the 

12 


178         CAVOUR   AND  THE   UNKNOWN. 

Unknown,  and  that  she  knew  it.  But  she 
only  buried  her  love  more  deeply  in  the  re- 
cesses of  her  heart,  and  kept  it  there. 

At  last,  early  in  1839,  a  slanderous  attack 
upon  Cavour  called  forth  a  letter  of  sympa- 
thy to  him  from  the  Unknown,  to  which  he 
must  have  replied,  because  she  writes  to 
him  on  the  3d  of  March  as  follows,  using 
the  formal  "you"  instead  of  the  affection- 
ate "  thou  "  of  her  earlier  epistles  : 

' '  I  have  not  spoken  of  you  for  many  years,  and 
this  silence  would  perhaps  have  been  prolonged  to 
the  end  of  my  life  if  a  horrible  letter  which  reached 
me  on  Monday  had  not  overthrown  my  most  deter- 
mined resolutions.  Monsieur  D.  has,  without  doubt, 
told  you  what  took  place. 

' '  I  thank  you  for  the  remembrance  you  have  pre- 
served of  me.  I  should  not  answer  you  if  I  thought 
my  duty  forbade  it.  But  time  and  misfortune  have 
entirely  restored  to  me  my  liberty.  No  bond  forbids 
me  to  assure  you  of  my  friendship.  This  letter  I 
might  post  at  the  street  corner.  As  to  the  happiness 
which  you  counsel  me  to  seek,  it  is  perhaps  nearer  at 
hand  than  you  imagine,  for  suffering  and  the  very  in- 
justice I  have  endured  have  essentially  destroyed  my 
peace  of  mind.  Agitation  fatigues  me,  wearies  me. 
My  repose  is,  perhaps,  sombre,  but  I  am  pleased 
with  it,  because  it  is  permanent.  Long-continued 


A   PATHETIC    FAREWELL.  179 

solitude  has  made  me  discover  that  I  do  not  need  di- 
version. I  dare  to  say  that  I  have  learned  to  suffice 
to  myself.  I  have,  however,  a  few  lady  friends  ;  one 
of  them  has  had  the  kindness  to  see  Monsieur  D.,  to 
explain  what  had  been  written  to  me  about  you.  The 
other,  who  is  more  particularly,  more  intimately,  the 
confidant  of  my  heart,  is  an  angelic  young  person 

named .     It  is  she  whom  I  love  most  in 

the  world. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  write  to  me,  but  I  thank  you 
for  having  written.  It  is  sweet  to  be  assured  that 
everything  is  not  effaced  on  this  earth." 

It  will  be  observed  that  in  this  letter  the 
Unknown  hints  both  that  she  was  a  widow 
and  that  her  death  was  approaching.  A 
subsequent  letter,  the  last  of  the  series,  ap- 
parently intended  to  be  delivered  after  the 
catastrophe,  conveys  the  announcement  in 
plain  language,  this  time  reverting  to  the 
tender  "  thou." 

"The  woman  who  loved  thee  is  dead.  She  was 
not  beautiful — she  had  suffered  too  much.  What 
she  lacked  she  knew  better  than  thou.  She  is  dead, 
I  tell  thee,  and  in  the  domain  of  death  she  has  met 
with  former  rivals. 

"  If  she  has  yielded  to  them  the  palm  of  beauty  in 
this  world,  where  the  senses  demand  to  be  seduced. 


l8o         CAVOUR   AND   THE    UNKNOWN. 

here  she  excels  them  all.  None  has  loved  thee  as 
she  did,  none  !  for,  O  Camillo,  thou  hast  never  ap- 
preciated the  vastness  of  her  love.  How  could  she 
have  revealed  it  to  thee?  Human  words  could  not 
express  it ;  no  act,  however  devoted  it  appeared  to 
thee,  was  more  than  the  shadow  of  what  her  heart 
desired  to  produce  for  thee.  So,  thou  hast  often 
seen  me  silent  and  concentrated,  renouncing  an  in- 
complete manifestation,  and  hoping  within  myself 
that  the  truth  would  have  its  day.  What !  does  this 
immense  sentiment  exist  to  be  forever  suppressed  ? 
Shall  not  this  burning  germ  have  its  full  develop- 
ment ?  Is  so  much  love  created  but  to  consume  the 
bosom  that  harbors  it  ? 

' '  Camillo  !  farewell !  At  the  moment  I  write 
these  lines  I  am  firmly  resolved  never  to  see  thee 
again.  Thou  wilt  read  them — I  hope — but  when  an 
insurmountable  barrier  shall  have  been  raised  up  be- 
tween us,  when  I  shall  have  received  the  great  in- 
itiation into  the  secrets  of  the  tomb,  when  perhaps — 
I  tremble  in  supposing  it — thou  shalt  have  forgot- 
ten me." 

How  soon  after  this  letter  was  written 
the  Unknown  died  is  not  told,  but  it 
could  not  have  been  long.  Cavour  prob- 
ably received  no  further  communication 
from  her,  for  this  one  he  seems  to  have 
sent  to  his  brother,  or  to  some  other  inti- 


A    LONELY    LIFE.  l8l 

mate  friend,  to  read,  with  an  endorse- 
ment in  his  own  handwriting :  "  If  you 
doubt  read  this  letter.  Return  it  to  me 
afterwards,  for  it  is  perhaps  the  last 
souvenir  which  I  shall  have  of  her  whom 
I  have  caused  to  suffer  so  much,  with- 
out her  ever  complaining  of  me."  At 
all  events,  with  it  closes  the  story  of  the 
affair,  so  far  as  it  has  been  published. 
Berti  hints  in  a  tantalizing  way  at  a  diary 
kept  by  the  lady,  in  which  she  wrote 
down  the  details  of  her  long  and  pain- 
ful agony,  but  that  is  all.  Cavour 
showed  no  further  interest  in  her  be- 
yond filing  and  keeping  her  letters.  He 
gradually  became  more  and  more  im- 
•mersed  in  political  affairs,  and,  when  the 
revolutions  of  1848  broke  out,  he  enter- 
ed upon  the  public  career  which  made 
him  famous.  He  never  married,  for  the 
reason,  he  says  himself,  that  his  unequal 
character  would  not  permit  him  to  make  a 
woman  happy.  It  is  more  likely  that  ab- 
sorption in  his  work  and  advancing  years 
rendered  him  less  and  less  susceptible  to 
woman's  charms,  and  that  he  finally  be- 


182         CAVOUR   AND    THE    UNKNOWN. 

came  proof  against  them.  Still,  once  in 
his  life,  at  least,  he  knew  what  it  was  to 
be  the  subject  of  the  tender  passion,  not- 
withstanding that  its  reign  in  his  heart 
was  brief,  and  that  the  impression  it  made 
upon  him  was  evanescent 


,' . ,  •••':>jup 


JANE    WELSH    CARLYLE. 


IRVING  AND  MRS.  CARLYLE. 


THE  story  of  the  Rev.  Edward  Irving's 
love  for  Jane  Baillie  Welsh,  afterwards  the 
wife  of  Thomas  Carlyle,  of  her  love  for  him, 
and  of  the  heroic  sacrifice  which  both  made 
of  their  happiness  to  a  lofty  and  perhaps 
mistaken  sense  of  duty,  is  one  of  the  most 
pathetic  ever  known. 

Jane  Baillie  Welsh  was  born  July  14, 
1801,  at  Haddington,  a  small  town  lying 
seventeen  and  a  half  miles  east  of  Edin- 
burgh. Her  father  was  the  leading  physi- 
cian of  the  place,  a  man  of  genial,  kindly 
character,  and  of  considerable  intellectual 
force.  Her  mother  was  also  possessed  of 
a  good  intellect,  and,  as  Carlyle  tells  us, 
"was  unusually  beautiful,  but  strangely  sad. 
Eyes  bright,  as  if  with  many  tears  behind 
them." 


184  IRVING  AND   MRS.  CARLYLE. 

From  both  parents,  therefore,  Jane  in- 
herited talent,  and  from  her  mother  beauty. 
Of  her  appearance  in  childhood  her  friend, 
Miss  Jewsbury,  says  that  "she  was  remark- 
able for  her  large  black  eyes,  with  their 
long,  curved  lashes;  As  a  girl  she  was  ex- 
tremely pretty;  a  graceful  and  beautifully 
formed  figure,  upright  and  supple ;  a  deli- 
cate complexion  of  creamy  white,  with  a 
pale  rose  tint  in  the  cheeks ;  lovely  eyes, 
full  of  fire  and  softness,  and  with  great 
depths  of  meaning.  Her  head  was  finely 
formed,  with  a  noble  arch  and  a  broad 
forehead.  Her  other  features  were  not 
regular,  but  they  did  not  prevent  her  con- 
veying all  the  impression  of  being  beauti- 
ful. Her  voice  was  clear  and  full  of  subtle 
intonations  and  capable  of  great  variety  of 
expression.  She  had  it  under  full  control." 
To  this  Mr.  Froude,  her  friend  and  biog- 
rapher, adds :  "  But  beauty  was  only  the 
second  thought  which  her  appearance  sug- 
gested, the  first  was  intellectual  vivacity ;" 
and  speaking  of  her  as  he  first  saw  her, 
when  she  was  forty-eight,  he  says :  "  Her 
features  were  not  regular,  but  I  thought  I 


MRS.  CARLVLE    AS    A    GIRL.  185 

had  never  seen  a  more  interesting-looking 
woman.  Her  hair  was  raven  black,  her 
eyes  dark,  soft,  sad,  with  dangerous  light 
in  them."  Her  charms,  whatever  they  were, 
must  have  been  great,  to  win  for  her  as 
they  did  the  title  of  the  "  Flower  of  Had- 
dington,"  and  to  captivate  two  such  men 
as  Irving  and  Carlyle ;  and  Miss  Jewsbury 
says  that  "a  relative  of  hers  told  me  that 
every  man  who  spoke  to  her  for  five  min- 
utes felt  impelled  to  make  her  an  offer  of 
marriage." 

Jane  was  an  only  child,  and  as  it  had 
been  a  great  disappointment  to  her  father 
that  she  was  not  a  boy,  he  resolved  to  ed- 
ucate her  as  a  boy.  In  this  purpose  his 
wife  did  not  agree  with  him,  and  the  pair 
had  frequent  discussions  of  the  subject,  to 
which  the  little  girl  listened  attentively  and 
with  a  better  comprehension  than  was  sus- 
pected. The  result  is  thus  told  by  Irving's 
biographer,  Mrs.  Oliphant : 

"Her  ambition  was  roused  ;  to  be  educated  like 
a  boy  became  the  object  of  her  entire  thought,  and 
set  her  little  mind  working  with  independent  proj- 
ects of  its  own.  She  resolved  to  take  the  first  step 


186  IRVING   AND    MRS.   CARLYLE. 

in  this  awful  but  fascinating  course  on  her  own  re- 
sponsibility. Having  already  divined  that  Latin 
was  the  first  grand  point  of  distinction,  she  made  up 
her  mind  to  settle  the  matter  by  learning  Latin.  A 
copy  of  the  Rudiments  was  quickly  found  in  the 
lumber  room  of  the  house,  and  a  tutor  not  much 
further  off  in  a  humble  student  of  the  neighborhood. 
The  little  scholar  had  a  dramatic  instinct.  She  did 
not  pour  forth  her  first  lesson  as  soon  it  was  ac- 
quired, or  rashly  betray  her  secret.  She  waited  the 
fitting  place  and  moment.  It  was  evening,  when 
dinner  had  softened  out  the  asperities  of  the  day  ; 
the  doctor  sat  in  luxurious  leisure  in  his  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  sipping  his  coffee,  and  all  the 
cheerful  accessories  of  the  fireside  picture  were  com- 
plete. The  little,  heroine  had  arranged  herself  un- 
der the  table,  under  the  crimson  folds  of  the  cover, 
which  concealed  her  small  person.  All  was  still ; 
the  moment  had  arrived.  '  Penna,  penntz,pennam  !' 
burst  forth  the  little  voice  in  breathless  steadiness. 
The  result  may  be  imagined  ;  the  doctor  smothered 
his  child  with  kisses,  and  even  the  mother  herself 
had  not  a  word  to  say  ;  the  victory  was  complete." 

Another  account  of  the  same  incident, 
substantially  agreeing  with  Mrs.  Oliphant's, 
was  given  to  Carlyle,  shortly  after  his  wife's 
death,  by  Miss  Jewsbury,  as  she  heard  it 
from  Mrs.  Carlyle  herself.  Miss  Jewsbury's 


PRECOCIOUS  TALENT.  187 

version  contains  the  further  detail  that,  af- 
ter reciting  her  noun,  the  little  girl  went  up 
to  her  father  and  said  :  "  I  want  to  learn 
Latin  ;  please  let  me  be  a  boy."  At  all 
events,  she  carried  her  point.  She  had  al- 
ready, under  her  mother's  supervision,  ac- 
quired proficiency  in  the  usual  accomplish- 
ments of  a  girl,  music,  dancing,  drawing, 
and  modern  languages,  and  now  she  was 
sent  to  the  public  school  of  Haddington  for 
more  solid  instruction.  Besides  Latin,  she 
studied  arithmetic  and  algebra,  the  latter  in 
company  with  the  boy  pupils  of  the  school, 
who  felt  for  her  not  only  affection  but  a  re- 
spect which  she  is  said  to  have  enforced  on 
one  occasion  by  striking  with  her  fist  the 
nose  of  a  boy  who  had  been  impertinent, 
and  making  it  bleed.  The  master  happened 
to  see  the  gory  results  of  the  blow,  and  de- 
manded who  had  inflicted  it.  The  boys 
were  all  chivalrously  silent,  and  were 
threatened  with  a  flogging  to  make  them 
tell.  Upon  this  Jane  confessed  her  guilt,  and 
was  punished  by  relegation  to  the  girls' 
room.  Another  story  told  of  her  is  that, 
emulating  the  boys  in  their  difficult  feats  of 


l88  IRVING   AND    MRS.   CARLYLE. 

strength  and  agility,  she  lay  down  on  her 
face  and  crawled  from  one  end  to  the  other 
of  a  narrow  parapet  of  a  bridge  at  the  im- 
minent risk  of  either  breaking  her  neck  or 
drowning.  Exploits  of  this  kind  seem  to 
have  made  her  famous  in  the  town,  for 
when,  some  forty  years  afterwards,  she  re- 
visited Haddington,  and,  too  impatient  to 
wait  for  the  sexton  to  come  and  unlock  the 
gate  of  the  graveyard,  she  climbed  over  the 
wall,  the  old  man,  on  finding  her  inside, 
and  being  told  how  she  got  in,  exclaimed : 
"Lord's  sake, then, there  is  no  end  to  you!" 
Soon  after  little  Jane  began  to  attend  the 
school  at  Haddington,  Irving  was  appointed 
its  master,  and  was  engaged  by  Dr.  Welsh  as 
private  tutor  for  his  daughter.  This  was 
the  beginning  of  their  acquaintance.  It  was 
in  1810,  when  Jane  was  nine  years  old,  and 
Irving,  who  was  born  in  1792,  was  eighteen. 
Irving's  father  was  a  poor  tanner  in  Annan, 
a  town  on  the  shores  of  the  broad  Solway, 
so  graphically  described  by  Walter  Scott  in 
"  Redgauntlet,"  and  from  whose  swiftly  ris- 
ing tide  Irving  was  once  saved  while  a  child, 
together  with  his  little  brother,  by  an  uncle 


plti; 

v  iu*r  / ' 


EDWARD    IRVING. 


IRVING'S  PERSONAL  BEAUTY.        189 

on  horseback,  very  much  as  Darsie  Latimer 
was  saved  by  his  uncle.  After  the  usual 
preliminary  schooling  the  lad,  at  the  age  of 
thirteen,  went  to  Edinburgh  to  study  at  the 
university,  and  four  years  later,  in  1809,  took 
his  degree.  He  then  entered  the  Divinity 
School,  and,  as  was  "usual  for  poor  Scottish 
theological  students,  began  teaching  for  his 
support  while  he  was  pursuing  his  studies. 
It  was  thus,  upon  the  recommendation  of  his 
professors,  that  he  obtained  the  appointment 
as  master  of  Haddington  school. 

In  person,  Irving  was  very  handsome. 
He  was  considerably  more  than  six  feet  in 
height  and  powerfully  built;  his  forehead 
was  broad,  deep,  and  expansive;  his  thick, 
black,  projecting  eyebrows  overhung  dark, 
small,  and  rather  deep-set  penetrating  eyes, 
one  of  which  had  an  obliquity,  the  result  of 
long-continued  exposure  while  an  infant  in 
the  cradle  to  a  light  from  a  side  window, 
but  which  did  not  materially  detract  from 
his  looks ;  his  nose  and  his  mouth  were 
finely  shaped,  and  his  whole  head  nobly 
cast,  and  covered  with  a  profusion  of  black 
curly  hair.  It  is  related  of  him  that  when 


IQO  IRVING   AND    MRS.  CARLYLE. 

he  was  preaching  at  Glasgow,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-seven,  he  called  one  day  to  see  a 
lady  who  had  ordered  her  maid-servant  to 
tell  all  visitors  she  was  engaged.  The  girl 
broke  in  upon  her  in  a  state  of  great  ex- 
citement :  "  Mem !  there's  a  wonderful 
grand  gentleman  called.  I  couldna  say 
you  were  engaged  to  him.  I  think  he 
maun  be  a  Highland  chief."  "  That  Mr. 
Irving  !"  exclaimed  another  person,  "  that 
Dr.  Chalmers's  helper!  I  took  him  for  a 
cavalry  officer!"  A  third  told  Dr.  Chal- 
mers himself  that  Irving  looked  like  a 
brigand  chief.  "Well,"  said  Dr.  Chal- 
mers, "  whatever  they  say,  they  never  think 
him  like  anything  but  a  leader  of  men." 

Irving's  strength,  courage,  and  proficien- 
cy in  athletics  were  also  remarkable.  While 
master  of  Haddington  school  he  frequently 
walked  with  several  of  his  scholars  to  Edin- 
burgh and  back  the  same  evening,  a  distance 
of  thirty-five  miles,  to  hear  Dr.  Chalmers 
preach.  At  Kirkcaldy,  two  years  later,  his 
feats  of  swimming  were  the  admiration  of 
the  beholders ;  and  when,  on  a  pedestrian 
excursion  with  a  comrade,  some  tourists 


BODILY   AND    MENTAL    VIGOR.  19 1 

once  attempted  to  exclude  the  two  from 
the  sitting-room  of  the  inn  where  they  had 
ordered  dinner,  he  calmly  threw  open  the 
window,  and,  turning  to  his  companion, 
said,  "  Will  you  toss  out  or  knock  down  ?" 
This  remark,  coupled  with  his  powerful  ap- 
pearance and  determined  expression,  imme- 
diately procured  him  his  rights.  On  anoth- 
er occasion  he  had  escorted  some  ladies  to 
a  public  meeting,  where  a  bullying  official 
attempted  to  make  them  fall  back  from 
where  they  stood.  "  Be  quiet,  sir,  or  I  will 
annihilate  you,"  said  Irving,  raising  in  his 
hand  a  great  stick  he  carried.  The  crowd 
burst  into  laughter,  and  Irving's  party  was 
not  further  disturbed.  With  all  this  he  had 
great  tenderness  of  heart,  and  a  beautiful 
story  is  told  of  him  when  he  was  preaching 
in  London.  It  was  in  the  open  air,  and  a 
great  crowd  surrounded  him.  A  child  who 
had  been  lost  was  held  up  by  a  person  who 
had  found  it,  and  who  wanted  to  know  what 
he  should  do  with  it.  "  Give  me  the  child," 
said  the  preacher,  and  it  was  passed  along 
to  him.  He  stretched  out  his  arms,  and  the 
little  waif  nestled  down  upon  his  shoulder, 


IQ2  IRVING   AND    MRS.   CARLYLE. 

perfectly  happy.  He  then,  with  the  child 
in  this  position,  went  on  with  his  sermon, 
weaving  into  it  the  familiar  narrative  of  the 
Saviour's  blessing  of  little  children,  and  at 
the  end  restored  the  lost  one  to  its  parents. 
Witnesses  of  the  incident  say  that  they 
could  never  think  of  it  without  its  bringing 
tears  to  their  eyes.  His  pastoral  ministra- 
tions, both  in  Glasgow  and  in  London,  were 
marked  by  the  gentlest  sympathy  with  the 
poor  and  the  suffering,  and  countless  anec- 
dotes are  told  of  his  generosity,  his  cour- 
tesy, and  his  success  in  winning  the  hearts 
of  those  with  whom  he  came  into  contact. 
The  poet  Procter  (Barry  Cornwall),  who 
saw  much  of  him  in  London,  pronounced 
him  "  the  most  pure  and  hopeful  spirit 
surely  that  Scotland  ever  produced,"  and 
wrote  of  him : 

"  If  his  manner  had  not  been  so  unassuming  I 
might  have  felt  humble  before  him.  But  he  was  so 
amiable  and  simple  that  we  all  forgot  that  we  stood 
in  the  presence  of  a  giant  in  stature,  with  mental 
courage  to  do  battle  with  any  adversary,  and  who 
was  always  ready  to  enter  into  any  conflict  on  be- 
half of  his  own  peculiar  faith. 


TEACHER   AND    PUPIL.  193 

"  I  never  heard  him  utter  a  harsh  or  uncharitable 
word.  I  never  heard  from  him  a  word  or  a  senti- 
ment which  a  good  man  could  have  wished  unsaid. 
His  words  were  at  once  gentle  and  heroic. 

"No  one  who  knew  him  intimately  could  help 
loving  him." 

These  physical  and  moral  advantages, 
joined  to  that  intellectual  ability  for  which 
afterwards  Irving  was  so  distinguished, 
could  not  fail  to  make  a  profound  impres- 
sion upon  the  susceptible  and  romantic  girl 
who  became  hisr  pupil.  Their  hours  of 
study  were  from  six  to  eight  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  in  winter,  when  the  young  tutor 
arrived,  it  was  still  dark.  His  charge, 
scarcely  dressed,  would  be  peeping  out  of 
her  room,  and,  snatching  her  up  in  his 
arms,  Irving  would  carry  her  to  the  door, 
to  name  to  her  the  stars  still  shining  in  the 
sky.  When  her  regular  lessons  were  over 
he  would  go  on  and  teach  her  logic.  She 
was  soon  dux  in  mathematics,  became  famil- 
iar with  Virgil,  and  was  carried  away  by  the 
reading  of  the  ^Eneid  to  burn  on  a  funeral 
pyre  her  doll,  as  Dido,  dissolving  into  a 
flood  of  tears  as  she  saw  the  last  remnants 


IQ4  IRVING    AND    MRS.   CARLYLE. 

of  it  blaze  up  and  vanish.  It  was  the  rule 
that  her  tutor  should  leave  a  daily  report 
in  writing  of  her  progress,  and  whenever  the 
report  was  bad  she  was  punished.  One 
day,  according  to  Mrs.  Oliphant,  he  paused 
long  before  putting  his  verdict  on  the  pa- 
per. The  culprit  sat  at  the  table,  small, 
downcast,  and  conscious  of  failure.  Irving 
lingered  remorsefully,  wavering  between  jus- 
tice and  compassion.  At  last,  looking  at 
her  pitifully,  he  said,  "Jane,  my  heart  is 
broken,  but  I  must  tell  the  truth,"  and 
down  went  the  dreaded  condemnation. 

This  charming  intercourse  between  the 
youthful  teacher  and  his  precocious  pupil 
lasted  two  years.  Irving  was  a  favorite 
guest  at  Dr.  Welsh's  house,  and  won  the 
affectionate  respect  both  of  him  and  of  his 
wife.  He  also  made  many  other  friends  in 
the  town,  among  them  Gilbert  Burns,  the 
poet's  brother,  and  Dr.  Stewart  of  Erskine. 
But  Haddington  was  a  small  place,  and 
when,  in  1812,  the  mastership  of  a  newly 
established  academy  at  Kirkcaldy,  eleven 
miles  north  of  Edinburgh,  was  offered  him, 
he  accepted  it,  and  abandoned  his  little 


A    THOUGHTLESS    ENGAGEMENT.         195 

darling,  unconscious  of  the  love  which  even 
then  had  begun  to  knit  their  hearts  to- 
gether. 

Irving's  removal  to  Kirkcaldy  led  to  two 
important  results.  It  was  there  that  he 
became  engaged  to  the  young  lady  whom 
he  ultimately  married,  and  there  he  met 
Thomas  Carlyle  and  entered  upon  the  in- 
timacy with  him  which  lasted  during  the 
remainder  of  his  life.  The  parish  minister 
of  Kirkcaldy,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Martin,  had 
several  daughters,  the  eldest  of  whom, 
Isabella,  Carlyle  says,  "was  of  bouncing, 
frank,  gay  manners  and  talk,  studious  to 
be  amiable,  but  never  quite  satisfactory  on 
the  side  of  genuineness.  Something  of  af- 
fected you  feared  always  in  these  fine 
spirits  and  smiling  discourses,  to  which, 
however,  you  answered  with  smiles.  She 
was  very  ill-looking  withal ;  a  skin  always 
under  blotches  and  discolorment ;  muddy 
gray  eyes,  which  for  their  part  never 
laughed  with  the  other  features ;  pock- 
marked, ill-shapen,  triangular  kind  of  face, 
with  hollow  cheeks  and  long  chin ;  de- 
cidedly unbeautiful  as  a  young  woman." 


196  IRVING   AND   MRS.  CARLYLE. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  Carlyle  adds,  she  man- 
aged to  charm  poor  Irving,  "having  per- 
haps the  arena  all  to  herself,"  and  he  be- 
came engaged  to  her,  little  foreseeing  the 
unhappy  consequences  of  his  thoughtless- 
ness. 

Irving  remained  at  Kirkcaldy  seven 
years.  During  this  period  the  little  girl  he 
had  taught  at  Haddington  became  a  wom- 
an. In  1818,  when  she  was  seventeen,  he 
met  her  again  in  Edinburgh,  and  then,  for 
the  first  time,  he  seems  to  have  discovered 
the  real  state  of  his  heart.  Mrs.  Oliphant 
says  of  this  meeting,  apparently  blind  to  its 
importance  : 

"  He  found  her  a  beautiful  and  vivacious  girl, 
with  an  affectionate  recollection  of  her  old  master, 
and  the  young  man  found  a  natural  charm  in  her 
society.  I  record  this  only  for  a  most 'characteristic 
momentary  appearance  which  he  makes  in  the  mem- 
ory of  his  pupil.  It  happened  that  he,  with  natural 
generosity,  introduced  some  of  his  friends  to  the 
same  hospitable  house.  But  the  generosity  of  the 
most  liberal  stops  somewhere.  When  Irving  heard 
the  praises  of  these  same  friends  falling  too  warmly 
from  the  young  lady's  lips,  he  could  not  conceal  a 
little  pique  and  mortification,  which  escaped  in 


DAWNING    LOVE.  197 

spite  of  him.  When  this  little  ebullition  was  over 
the  fair  culprit  turned  to  leave  the  room,  but  had 
scarcely  passed  the  door  when  Irving  hurried  after 
her  and  called,  entreating  her  to  return  for  a  mo- 
ment. When  she  came  back  she  found  the  simple- 
hearted  giant  standing  penitent  to  make  his  confes- 
sion. '  The  truth  is,  I  was  piqued,'  said  Irving.  '  I 
have  always  been  accustomed  to  fancy  that  I  stood 
highest  in  your  good  opinion,  and  I  was  jealous  to 
hear  you  praise  another  man.  I  am  sorry  for  what 
I  said  just  now — that  is  the  truth  of  it.'  It  is  a  fair 
representation  of  his  prevailing  characteristic.  He 
could  no  more  have  retained  what  he  felt  to  be  a 
meanness  on  his  mind  unconfessed  than  he  could 
have  persevered  in  the  wrong." 

It  is  incomprehensible  how  Mrs.  Oli- 
phant,a  woman,  should  not  have  discerned  in 
this  burst  of  jealousy  an  indication  of  love; 
and  still  more  incomprehensible,  in  the 
light  of  facts  now  known  to  every  one,  that 
she  should  speak  of  Irving's  meeting  with 
Miss  Welsh  on  this  occasion  as  "  a  most 
characteristic  momentary  appearance  which 
he  makes  in  the  memory  of  his  pupil."  It 
was,  on  the  contrary,  but  the  beginning  of 
an  intercourse  with  her  which  lasted  for 
years,  and  during  which  not  only  did  Irv- 


198  IRVING  AND  MRS.  CARLYLE. 

ing  become  deeply  enamoured  of  his  former 
pupil,  but  she,  as  she  frankly  confessed  to 
Carlyle  seven  years  afterwards,  learned  to 
love  him  "passionately"  in  return.  He 
frequently  visited  her  at  Haddington,  and, 
as  everything  goes  to  show,  his  visits  were 
those  of  an  accepted  suitor.  It  was  just 
after  the  meeting  in  1818  that  Carlyle  first 
heard  of  her  from  him,  "  some  casual  men- 
tion, the  loving  and  reverential  tone  of 
which  had  struck  me.  Of  the  father  he 
spoke  always  as  one  of  the  wisest,  truest, 
and  most  dignified  of  men,  of  her  as  a 
paragon  of  gifted  young  girls,  far  enough 
from  me  both,  and  objects  of  distant  rev- 
erence and  unattainable  longing  at  that 
time !" 

The  next  year,  1819,  Dr.  Welsh  died, 
leaving  to  his  daughter  all  his  little  proper- 
ty, which,  with  characteristic  generosity, 
she  made  over  to  her  mother,  and  the 
household  went  on  as  before.  Irving  was 
busy  preaching  at  Glasgow,  as  assistant  to 
Dr.  Chalmers  ;  but  he  came  to  Edinburgh 
whenever  he  had  a  holiday,  and  from  there 
walked  out  to  Haddington.  On  one  of 


THOMAS   CARLYLE. 


INTERCOURSE    WITH    CARLYLE.          199 

these  excursions,  in  June,  1821,  he  took 
Carlyle  with  him  to  introduce  him  as  a  fit 
person  to  superintend  Miss  Welsh's  literary 
studies,  being  himself  either  too  much  oc- 
cupied or  else  not  fully  competent.  Car- 
lyle has  left  behind  him  this  account  of  the 
expedition  and  its  results  : 

' '  The  visit  lasted  three  or  four  days,  and  included 
Gilbert  Burns  and  other  figures,  besides  the  one  fair 
figure  most  of  all  important  to  me.  We  were  o'ten 
in  her  mother's  house  ;  sat  talking  with  the  two  for 
hours  almost  every  evening.  The  beautiful,  bright, 
and  earnest  young  lady  was  intent  on  literature  as 
the  highest  aim  in  life,  and  felt  imprisoned  in  the 
dull  element  which  yielded  her  no  commerce  in  that 
kind,  and  would  not  even  yield  her  books  to  read. 
I  obtained  permission  to  send  her  at  least  books 
from  Edinburgh.  Book  parcels  virtually  included 
bits  of  writing  to  and  from,  and  thus  an  acquaint- 
ance was  begun  which  had  hardly  any  interruption 
and  no  break  at  all  while  life  lasted.  She  was  often 
in  Edinburgh  on  visit  with  her  mother  to  '  Uncle 
Robert,'  in  Northumberland  Street,  to  'old  Mrs. 
Bradfute,  in  George's  Square,'  and  I  had  leave  to 
call  on  these  occasions,  which  I  zealously  enough,  if 
not  too  zealously  sometimes,  in  my  awkward  way, 
took  advantage  of.  I  was  not  her  declared  lover, 
nor  could  she  admit  me  as  such,  in  my  waste  and 


200  IRVING  AND  MRS.  CARLYLE. 

uncertain  posture  of  affairs  and  prospects ;  but  we 
were  becoming  thoroughly  acquainted  with  each 
other,  and  her  tacit,  hidden,  but  to  me  visible,  friend- 
ship for  me  was  the  happy  island  in  my  other- 
wise dreary,  vacant,  and  forlorn  existence  in  those 
years." 

Carlyle  evidently  had  as  yet  got  no  idea 
of  the  state  of  affairs  between  Irving  and 
Miss  Welsh,  being,  like  all  incipient  lovers, 
thoroughly  engrossed  with  his  own  feelings. 
The  truth  was  that  Irving  was  negotiating, 
with  great  hope  of  success,  for  a  release 
from  his  engagement  to  Miss  'Martin,  which 
in  both  his  own  and  Miss  Welsh's  view  of 
duty  constituted  a  bar  to  their  marriage. 
But  when,  in  the  following  February,  he  re- 
ceived a  call  from  a  Scottish  church,  Lon- 
don, and  it  became  necessary  to  have  the 
matter  settled,  Miss  Martin  held  him  to  his 
bond.  After  a  struggle  which,  to  use  his 
own  words,  had  almost  "made  his  faith  and 
principles  to  totter,"  he  resigned  himself  to 
his  fate  and  bade  farewell  to  Miss  Welsh  in 
a  characteristic  letter : 

"MY  WELL-BELOVED  FRIEND  AND  PUPIL  :   When 

I  think  of  you  my  mind  is  overspread  with  the  most 


IRVINGS    FAREWELL.  2OI 

affectionate  and  tender  regard,  which  I  neither  know 
how  to  name  or  to  describe.  One  thing  I  know — it 
would  long  ago  have  taken  the  form  of  the  most  de- 
voted attachment,  but  for  an  intervening  circumstance, 
and  showed  itself  and  pleaded  itself  before  your  heart 
by  a  thousand  actions  from  which  I  must  now  restrain 
myself.  Heaven  grant  me  its  grace  to  restrain  my- 
self ;  and,  forgetting  my  own  enjoyments,  may  I  be 
enabled  to  combine  into  your  single  self  all  that 
duty  and  plighted  faith  leave  at  my  disposal.  When 
I  am  in  your  company  my  whole  soul  would  rush  to 
serve  you,  and  my  tongue  trembles  to  speak  my 
heart's  fulness.  But  I  am  enabled  to  forbear,  and 
have  to  find  other  avenues  than  the  natural  ones  for 
the  overflowing  of  an  affection  which  would  hardly 
have  been  able  to  confine  itself  within  the  avenues 
of  nature  if  they  had  all  been  opened.  But  I  feel 
within  me  the  power  to  prevail,  and  at  once  to  sat- 
isfy duty  to  another  and  affection  to  you.  I  stand 
truly  upon  ground  which  seems  to  shake  and  give 
way  beneath  me,  but  my  help  is  in  Heaven.  Bear 
with  thus  much,  my  early  charge  and  my  pres- 
ent friend,  from  one  who  loves  to  help  and  defend 
you,  who  would  rather  die  than  wrong  you  or  see 
you  wronged.  Say  that  I  shall  speak  no  more  of 
the  fearful  struggle  that  I  am  undergoing,  and  I 
shall  be  silent.  If  you  allow  me  to  speak,  then  I 
shall  reveal  to  you  the  features  of  a  virtuous  conten- 
tion, to  be  crowned,  I  trust,  with  a  Christian 
triumph.  It  is  very  extraordinary  that  this  weak 


202  IRVING  AND  MRS.  CARLYLE. 

nature  of  mine  can  have  two  affections,  both  of  so 
intense  a  kind,  and  yet  I  feel  it  can.  It  shall  feed 
the  one  with  faith  and  duty  and  chaste  affection  ;  the 
other  with  paternal  and  friendly  love,  no  less  pure, 
no  less  assiduous,  no  less  constant — in  return  seeking 
nothing  but  permission  and  indulgence. 

' '  1  was  little  comforted  by  Rousseau's  letters, 
though  holding  out  a  most  admirable  moral ;  but 
much  comforted  and  confirmed  by  the  few  words 
which  your  noble  heart  dictated  the  moment  before 
I  left  you.  Oh,  persevere,  my  admirable  pupil,  in 
the  noble  admirations  you  have  taken  up.  Let  af- 
fectionateness  and  manly  firmness  be  the  qualities 
to  which  you  yield  your  love,  and  your  life  shall 
be  honorable  ;  advance  your  admiration  somewhat 
higher,  and  it  shall  be  everlastingly  happy.  Oh  !  do 
not  forbid  me  from  rising  in  my  communications 
with  one  so  capable  of  the  loftiest  conceptions.  For- 
bid me  not  to  draw  you  upward  to  the  love  and 
study  of  your  Creator,  which  is  the  beginning  of 
wisdom.  I  have  returned  Rousseau.  Count  for- 
ever, my  dear  Jane,  upon  my  last  efforts  to  minister 
to  your  happiness,  present  and  everlasting. 

"  From  your  faithful  friend  and  servant, 

"EDWARD  IRVING." 

The  following  June  Irving  took  up  his 
residence  in  London,  and  on  the  second 
Sunday  of  July  began  his  labors  there.  Of 
his  subsequent  career,  at  first  brilliant,  then 


CAREER    IN    LONDON.  203 

eccentric,  and  finally  wildly  erratic,  ending 
in  a  death  preceded  by  something  like  in- 
sanity, it  is  enough  here  to  say  that  he  rap- 
idly became  famous,  and  for  a  considera- 
ble time  preached  to  crowded  audiences  of 
the  most  distinguished  people  in  London. 
Then,  carried  away  by  a  fanciful  theory  of 
prophecy,  he  was  led  to  exalt  into  utter- 
ances of  the  Holy  Ghost  the  rhapsodies  of 
his  more  excitable  hearers,  and  to  ascrib- 
ing them  to  the  gift  of  tongues  mentioned 
in  the  New  Testament.  Of  course  he  did 
not  long  remain  in  connection  with  the 
Church  of  Scotland,  and  he  had  to  form 
an  ecclesiastical  organization  of  his  own, 
fragments  of  which  survive  to  the  present 
day.  At  last,  worn  out  by  excitement  and 
excessive  work,  he  died  in  December,  1834, 
a  physical  and  intellectual  wreck,  at  the 
early  age  of  forty-two. 

The  tender  relations  between  Irving  and 
Miss  Welsh  did  not  entirely  cease  with  his 
farewell  letter.  Even  after  his  marriage, 
which  took  place  Oct.  13,  1823,  he  retained 
for  her  an  affection  which  made  him  shrink 
from  meeting  her.  Mr.  Froude,  in  his  biog- 


204  IRVING  AND  MRS.  CARLYLE. 

raphy  of  Carlyle,  tells  us  that  it  had  been 
intended  that  she  should  pay  Irving  and  his 
wife  a  visit  in  London  as  soon  as  they  were 
settled,  but  Irving  begged  off.  He  wrote  : 

.  "  My  dear  Isabella  has  succeeded  in  healing  the 
wounds  of  my  heart  by  her  unexampled  affection 
and  tenderness  ;  but  I  am  hardly  in  a  condition  to 
expose  them.  My  former  calmness  and  piety  are 
returning.  I  feel  growing  in  grace  and  holiness, 
and  before  another  year  I  shall  be  worthy  in  the 
eye  of  my  own  conscience  to  receive  you  into  my 
house  and  under  my  care,  which,  till  then,  I  should 
hardly  be." 

On  her  part,  Miss  Welsh,  although  Car- 
lyle was  urgently  pressing  his  suit,  seems 
not  to  have  dismissed  Irving  entirely  from 
her  memory,  and  to  have  indulged  a  linger- 
ing hope  that  she  might  yet  be  united  to 
him.  Still,  she  encouraged  Carlyle.  As 
Mr.  Froude  says  :  "  She  had  no  thought  of 
marrying  him,  but  she  was  flattered  by  his 
attachment.  It  amused  her  to  see  the 
most  remarkable  person  she  had  ever  met 
with  at  her  feet.  His  birth  and  position 
seemed  to  secure  her  against  the  possibility 
of  any  closer  connection  between  them. 


CARLYLE   AS   A    LOVER.  205 

Thus  he  had  a  trying  time  of  it.  In  se- 
rious moments  she  would  tell  him  that  their 
meeting  had  made  an  epoch  in  her  history, 
and  had  influenced  her  character  and  life. 
When  the  humor  changed,  she  would  ridi- 
cule his  Annandale  accent,  turn  his  pas- 
sionate expressions  to  scorn,  and  when  she 
had  toned  him  down  again  she  would  smile 
once  more  and  enchant  him  back  into  illu- 
sions. She  played  with  him,  frightened 
him  away,  drew  him  back,  quarrelled  with 
him,  received  him  back  again  into  favor, 
as  the  fancy  took  her."  Once,  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1823,  he  imagined  that  a  letter  which 
she  wrote  him  amounted  to  a  promise  to 
become  his  wife,  and  she  hastened  to  unde- 
ceive him.  She  said : 

"  My  friend,  I  love  you.  I  repeat  it,  though  I 
find  the  expression  a  rash  one.  All  the  best  feelings 
of  my  nature  are  concerned  in  loving  you.  But  were 
you  my  brother  I  should  love  you  the  same.  No. 
Your  friend  I  will  be,  your  truest,  most  devoted 
friend.while  I  breathe  the  breath  of  life.  But  your 
wife  never.  Never,  not  though  you  were  as  rich 
as  Croesus,  as  honored  and  renowned  as  you  yet 
shall  be." 


206  IRVING  AND  MRS.  CARLYLE. 

At  last,  in  April,  1824,  six  months  after 
Irving  had  been  married,  she  consented  to 
a  half  engagement  with  Carlyle.  He  was 
in  Edinburgh  busy  bringing  out  his  transla- 
tion of  Goethe's  "Wilhelm  Meister,"  and 
she  came  to  the  city  on  a  visit  to  a  friend. 
They  met,  and,  as  usual,  quarrelled,  and  on 
making  up  the  quarrel  she  promised  that 
as  soon  as  his  fortune  was  made  she  would 
share  it  with  him.  With  this  crumb  of  com- 
fort he  went  to  London  to  prosecute  his 
literary  labors,  and  there  continued  his  in- 
timacy with  Irving,  in  blissful  ignorance  of 
the  relations  between  him  and  Miss 
Welsh,  as  his  letters  to  her,  full  of  details 
about  Irving,  show.  By  the  beginning  of 
1825  he  saw  his  way  clear  to  supporting  a 
wife  in  the  modest  style  to  which  he  had 
himself  been  accustomed  to  live,  and  he  be- 
gan to  urge  upon  Miss  Welsh  the  fulfilment 
of  her  promise.  But  she  still  hesitated. 
She  wrote  to  him  :  "  In  requiring  you  to 
better  your  fortune  I  had  some  view  to  an 
improvement  in  my  sentiments.  I  am  not 
sure  that  they  are  proper  sentiments  for  a 
husband.  They  are  proper  for  a  brother,  a 


INTELLECTUAL   MASTERY.  207 

father,  a  guardian  spirit,  but  a  husband,  it 
seems  to  me,  should  be  dearer  still."  At 
the  same  time,  when  Carlyle  offered  to  take 
her  at  her  word  and  to  release  her  from  her 
promise,  she  was  unwilling  to  give  him  up. 
She  said :  "  How  could  I  part  from  the  only 
living  soul  that  understands  me  !  I  would 
marry  you  to-morrow  rather;  our  parting 
would  need  to  be  brought  about  by  death 
or  some  dispensation  of  Providence.  Were 
you  to  will  it,  to  part  would  no  longer  be 
bitter.  The  bitterness  would  be  in  think- 
ing you  unworthy."  And  again,  a  little 
later,  she  wrote  to  him :  "  I  know  not  how 
your  spirit  has  gained  such  a  mastery  over 
mine  in  spite  of  my  pride  and  stubbornness. 
But  so  it  is.  Though  self-willed  as  a  mule 
with  others,  I  am  tractable  and  submissive 
towards  you.  I  hearken  to  your  voice  as 
to  the  dictates  of  a  second  conscience, 
hardly  less  awful  to  me  than  that  which 
nature  has  implanted  in  my  breast.  How 
comes  it,  then,  that  you  have  this  power 
over  me  ?  for  it  is  not  the  effect  of  your 
genius  and  virtue  merely.  Sometimes,  in 
my  serious  moods,  I  believe  it  is  a  charm 


208  IRVING  AND  MRS.  CARLYLE. 

with  which  my  good  angel  has  fortified  my 
heart  against  evil." 

The  relations  of  the  pair  might  have 
continued  on  this  footing  indefinitely  but 
for  the  unexpected  interference  of  a  well- 
meaning  but  imprudent  friend  of  Irving's. 
This  was  Mrs.  Basil  Montague,  with  whom 
Irving  had  become  intimate  when  he  went 
to  London  to  live,  in  1823,  and  to  whom 
he  had  confided  the  secret  of  the  attach- 
ment between  himself  and  Miss  Welsh. 
Mrs.  Montague  opened  a  correspondence 
both  with  Miss  Welsh  and  with  Carlyle,  at 
first  with  the  ostensible  purpose  of  putting 
an  end  to  any  lingering  love  which  Miss 
Welsh  might  feel  for  Irving,  and  of  recon- 
ciling her  to  a  marriage  with  Carlyle,  but 
finally  writing  to  her  a  letter  dissuading  her 
from  the  marriage.  This  letter  Miss  Welsh 
at  once  indignantly  enclosed  to  her  suitor, 
revealing  to  him,  what  she  had  hitherto  con- 
cealed, how  much  she  had  cared  for  Irving, 
and  throwing  herself  upon  his  generosity 
to  forgive  her  want  of  candor.  His  reply 
was  so  affectionate  and  so  self-depreciating 
that  it  decided  her.  She  went  at  once  to 


UNHAPPY    MARRIED    LIFE.  2OQ 

pay  his  family  a  visit,  and,  after  many  de- 
liberations and  changes  of  plans,  during 
which  she  once  more  offered  to  release  him 
and  he  to  release  her,  the  final  arrangements 
were  made.  She  accepted  him  bravely  as 
her  husband,  and  they  were  married  on  the 
1 7th  of  October,  1826. 
•  Mr.  Froude  has  been  severely  censured 
as  painting  in  too  dark  colors  Carlyle's 
grim,  savage  humor,  his  thoughtless  cruelty 
to  his  wife,  and  her  unhappiness ;  but  the 
documentary  evidence  he  has  presented 
fully  justifies  him.  Mrs.  Carlyle  said  herself, 
not  long  before  her  death :  "  I  married  for 
ambition.  Carlyle  has  exceeded  all  that 
my  wildest  hopes  ever  imagined  of  him ; 
and  I  am  miserable."  Her  husband,  in- 
deed, appreciated  her  talents  and  found 
pleasure  in  her  society,  but  he  never  seems 
to  have  experienced  for  her  the  passion  of 
love  as  it  is  commonly  understood.  The 
pair  had  no  children,  and,  as  Mr.  Froude 
tells  us,  when  Carlyle  was  busy  his  wife 
rarely  so  much  as  saw  him  save  when  she 
would  steal  into  his  dressing-room  in  the 
morning  while  he  was  shaving.  That 
14 


210  IRVING  AND  MRS.  CARLYLE. 

mutual  physical  attraction,  therefore,  which, 
in  spite  of  all  that  may  be  said  to  the  con- 
trary, is  essential  to  complete  conjugal 
union,  was  wanting  to  them,  and  intellect- 
ual sympathy  could  not  fill  its  place.  In 
other  respects,  too,  the  couple  were  un- 
congenial. She  had  been  the  darling  of 
parents  in  easy  circumstances,  and  had 
been  reared  in  luxury  and  accustomed  to 
all  the  refinements  of  life.  He  was  the 
son  of  a  poor  stonemason,  and  his  habits 
were  those  of  a  rough  Scottish  peasant. 
Hardships  which  to  him  were  natural  and 
customary  were  to  her  torture.  After  her 
death,  indeed,  the  truth  burst  upon  him 
and  he  was  justly  overwhelmed  with  re- 
morse for  his  conduct.  He  saw,  too  late, 
how  cruel  he  had  thoughtlessly  been  to 
the  delicate  flower  he  had  taken  into  his 
keeping,  and  he  vainly  sought  to  atone  for  it 
by  lamentation  and  self-reproaches. 

Irving  appears  to  have  met  Mrs.  Carlyle 
only  four  times  after  her  marriage.  The 
first  was  when  she  was  living  at  Edinburgh 
in  1827.  His  call  lasted  but  half  an  hour, 
and  at  the  end  of  it  he  insisted,  with  more 


IRVING'S  LAST  VISITS.  211 

zeal  than  tact,  on  praying  with  her  and  her 
husband.  The  next  year  Carlyle  brought 
him  out  to  spend  two  or  three  days  at  his 
Craigenputtoch  farm,  and  he  seemed  cheer- 
ful and  happy.  Again,  when  the  Carlyles 
went  to  London  on  a  visit  in  1831,  Irving 
came  to  see  them  one  evening,  and  Mr. 
Carlyle,  in  Mrs.  Carlyle's  presence,  and 
with  her  assent,  essayed  to  extricate  him 
from  the  delusions  into  which  he  had 
fallen.  Her  feelings  may  be  guessed  from 
what  she  afterwards  said :  "  There  would 
have  been  no  tongues  had  Irving  married 
me."  In  1834,  the  first  year  of  her  perma- 
nent residence  in  London,  and  the  last  of 
Irving's  life,  he  called  on  her  at  her  house 
in  Cheyne  Row,  and  staid  about  twenty 
minutes.  "  Ah,  yes,"  he  said  to  her,  look- 
ing round  the  room,  "  you  are  like  an  Eve ; 
make  every  place  you  live  in  beautiful."  In 
less  than  two  months  afterwards  he  died. 

Whether  Mrs.  Carlyle  would  have  been 
happier  with  Irving  for  a  husband  instead 
of  Carlyle  is  doubtful.  That  Irving  would 
have  been  to  her  most  tender,  loving,  and 
considerate,  his  treatment  of  the  woman  he 


212  IRVING  AND   MRS.  CARLYLE. 

married,  not  from  love,  but  from  a  sense  of 
duty,  compels  us  to  believe;  but  whether 
his  failure  in  his  career,  and  the  want  of 
that  gratification  of  her  pride  and  satisfac- 
tion of  her  ambition  which  she  got  with 
Carlyle,  would  not  have  been  as  sore  a 
trial  to  her  as  Carlyle's  harshness  is  not 
so  sure.  Irving,  like  Carlyle,  was  a  man 
of  genius,  but  his  genius  was  confined  with- 
in the  narrow  limits  of  religious  enthu- 
siasm, and  he  had  little  or  no  sympathy 
for  anything  that  lay  outside.  He  was 
even  alarmed  when  Carlyle  on  undertak- 
ing Miss  Welsh's  literary  education  in 
1821,  began  to  teach  her  German,  and  to 
open  to  her  the  treasures  of  German  litera- 
ture. He  feared,  as  he  wrote  to  Carlyle, 
that  she  would  escape  altogether  out  of 
the  region  of  his  sympathies.  The  devel- 
opment of  their  respective  minds  could, 
therefore,  scarcely  have  failed  to  result  in 
a  radical  disagreement,  so  that  she  would 
have  been,  in  a  different  way,  as  unhappy 
with  him  as  she  was  with  Carlyle,  without 
the  compensation  that  Carlyle's  talents  and 
fame  afforded. 


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task  of  reading  it  is  finished.  The  author's  lines  must  have  fallen  to 
her  in  very  pleasant  places;  or  she  has,  perhaps,  within  herself  the 
wealth  of  womanly  love  and  tenderness  she  pours  so  freely  into  all 
she  writes.  Such  books  as  hers  do  much  to  elevate  the  moral  tone  of 
the  day— a  quality  sadly  wanting  in  novels  of  the  time. — Whitehall 
Review,  London. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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BY   MARY   E.  WILKINS. 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  NUN,  and  Other  Stories.      16mo, 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 


A    HUMBLE    ROMANCE,  and    Other   Stories.     16mo, 
Cloth,  Extra,  $1  25. 


Only  an  artistic  hand  could  have  written  these  stories,  and  they  will 
make  delightful  reading.  —Evangelist,  N.  Y. 

The  simplicity,  purity,  and  quaintness  of  these  stories  set  them  apart 
in  a  niche  of  distinction  where  they  have  no  rivals. — Literary  World, 
Boston. 

The  reader  who  buys  this  book  and  reads  it  will  find  treble  his  money's 
worth  in  every  one  of  the  delightful  stories. — Chicago  Journal. 

Miss  Wilkins  is  a  writer  who  has  a  gift  for  the  rare  art  of  creating  the 
short  story  which  shall  be  a  character  study  and  a  bit  of  graphic  picturing 
in  one  ;  and  all  who  enjoy  the  bright  and  fascinating  short  story  will  wel- 
come this  volume.  —Boston  Traveller. 

The  author  has  the  unusual  gift  of  writing  a  short  story  which  is  com- 
plete in  itself,  having  a  real  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end.  The  volume 
is  an  excellent  one. — Observer,  N.  Y. 

A  gallery  of  striking  studies  in  the  humblest  quarters  of  American 
country  life.  No  one  has  dealt  with  this  kind  of  life  better  than  Miss 
Wilkins.  Nowhere  are  there  to  be  found  such  faithful,  delicately  drawn, 
sympathetic,  tenderly  humorous  pictures.— .iV.  T.  Tribune, 

The  charm  of  Miss  Wilkins's  stories  is  in  her  intimate  acquaintance 
and  comprehension  of  humble  life,  and  the  sweet  human  interest  she 
feels  and  makes  her  readers  partake  of,  in  the  simple,  common,  homely 
people  she  draws. — Springfield  Republican. 

There  is  no  attempt  at  fine  writing  or  structural  effect,  but  the  tender 
treatment  of  the  sympathies,  emotions,  and  passions  of  no  very  extraor- 
dinary people  gives  to  these  little  stories  a  pathos  and  human  feeling  quite 
their  own. — N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

The  author  has  given  us  studies  from  real  life  which  must  be  the  result 
of  a  lifetime  of  patient,  sympathetic  observation.  ...  No  one  has  done 
the  same  kind  of  work  so  lovingly  and  so  well.—  Christian  Register, 
Boston.  

PUBMSHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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BY  AMELIE   RIVES. 

A  BROTHER  TO  DRAGONS,  AND  OTHER  OLD-TIME 
TALES.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Extra,  $1  00. 

VIRGINIA    OP    VIRGINIA.     A  Story.      Illustrated. 
Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Extra,  $1  00. 


One  is  permitted  to  discover  qualities  of  miud  and  u  proficiency  and 
capacity  in  art  from  which  something  uew  and  distinctively  the  work 
of  genius  may  be  anticipated  in  American  literature. — Boston  Globe. 

Miss  Rives  has  imagination,  breadth,  and  a  daring  and  courage 
nftfiii'-t.  spoken  of  as  masculine.  Moreover,  she  is  exquisitely  poet- 
ical, and  her  ideals,  with  all  the  mishaps  of  her  delineations,  are  of  an 
exalted  order — X.  Y.  Star, 

It  was  little  more  than  two  years  ago  that  Miss  Rives  made  her  first 
literary  conquest,  a  conquest  so  complete  and  astonishing  as  at  once 
to  give  her  fame.  How  well  she  has  sustained  and  added  to  the  repu- 
tation she  so  suddenly  won,  we  all  know,  and  the  permanency  of  that 
reputation  demonstrates  conclusively  that  her  success  did  not  depend 
upon  the  lucky  striking  of  a  popular  fancy,  but  that  it  rests  upon  en- 
during qualities  that  are  developing  more  and  more  richly  year  by 
year.—  Richmond  State. 

It  is  evident  that  the  author  has  imagination  in  an  unusual  degree, 
much  strength  of  expression,  and  skill  in  delineating  character.—  Bos- 
ton Journal. 

There  are  few  yonng  writers  who  begin  a  promising  career  with  so 
much  spontaneity  and  charm  of  expression  as  is  displayed  by  Miss 
Rives. — Literary  World,  Boston. 

The  trait  which  the  author  seems  to  take  the  most  pleasure  in  de- 
picting is  the  passionate  loyalty  of  a  girl  to  her  lover  or  of  a  yonng 
wife  to  her  husband,  and  her  portrayal  of  this  trait  has  feeling,  and  is 
set  off  by  an  unconventional  style  and  brisk  movement. — The  Book 
Buyer,  N.  Y. 

There  is  such  a  wealth  of  imagination,  such  an  exuberance  of  strik- 
ing language  in  the  productions  of  this  author,  as  to  attract  and  hold 
the  reader. — Toledo  Blade. 

Miss  Rives  is  essentially  a  teller  of  love  stories,  and  relates  them 
with  snch  simple,  straightforward  grace  that  she  at  once  captures  the 
sympathy  and  interest  of  the  reader.  .  .  .  There  is  a  freshness  of  feeling 
and  a  mingling  of  pathos  and  humor  which  are  simply  delicious.—  Sew 
London  Telegraph. 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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BY  MRS.  BURTON  HARRISON. 


BAR  HARBOR  DAYS.    A  Tale  of  Mount  Desert.     II- 
lustrated  by  Fenn  and  Hyde.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

A  bright  story  of  life  at  Mount  Desert.  ...  It  is  exceedingly  well 
done,  nud  the  scenery,  the  ways  of  the  people,  and  the  social  methods 
of  the  rusticators  lend  interest  to  the  book. — Christian  Advocate,  N.  Y. 

The  book  is  bright  and  readable. — Courier,  Boston. 

A  delightful  book  about  Mount  Desert,  its  summer  inhabitants, 
their  sayings  and  doings. — N.  Y.  Sun. 

One  of  the  most  attractive  books  of  the  season,  and  will  be  in  great 
demand  by  readers  who  wish  an  original,  captivating  summer  idyl.— 
Hartford  Post, 

HELEN  TROY     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

It  is  a  breezy  little  society  novel,  with  a  pretty  plot  and  a  number 
of  capitally  drawn  characters.  .  .  It  is  always  bright,  fresh,  and  en- 
tertaining, and  has  an  element  of  naturalness  that  is  particularly 
pleasing.  The  descriptions  are  very  spirited,  the  conversations  are 
full  of  point  and  often  genuinely  witty,  and  the  tone  of  the  whole  is 
both  refined  and  delicate.—  Saturd ay  Evening  Gazette,  Boston. 

The  book  is  written  with  exceeding  cleverness,  and  abounds  in  de- 
lightful little  pictures.— The  Critic,  N.  Y. 

Mrs.  Harrison's  style  is  crisp,  epigrammatic,  piquant ;  she  shades 
her  characters  artistically,  paints  from  real  life,  and,  without  hurrying 
the  reader  along,  never  lets  her  story  drag.  .  .  .  The  merit  of  the  work 
lies  in  the  fidelity  of  its  portraiture  and  the  felicity  of  its  utterance. — 
.V.  Y.  Herald. 

GOLDEN  ROD  .  AN  IDYL  OF  MOUNT  DESERT. 
32mo,  Paper,  25  cents ;  Cloth,  40  cents. 

A  very  sweet  little  story  of  a  successful  courtship,  wrought  into  a 
charming  description  of  scenery  and  life  on  Mount  Desert.— Spring- 
field (111.)  State  Journal. 

This  is  a  most  charming  summer  story— "An  Idyl  of  Mount  Des- 
ert"— the  mere  reading  of  which  makes  yon  long  to  be  there,  and  to 
feel  sure  you  will  find  the  delightful  people,  and  just  in  the  particular 
nooks,  you  have  been  reading  about.  —  Galesburg  (111.)  Republican 
Register. 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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BY  HOWARD   PYLE. 


THE  WONDER  CLOCK  ;  OR,  FOUR-AND-TWENTY  MARVEL- 
LOUS TALES:  BEING  ONE  FOR  EACH  HOUR  OP  THE  DAT. 
Written  and  Illustrated  by  HOWARD  PYLE.  Embel- 
lished with  Verses  by  KATHARINE  PYLE.  Large  8vo, 
Ornamental  Half  Leather,  $3  00. 

The  illustrations  fit  the  stories  perfectly,  and  are  as  fantastic  as  the 
warmest  lovers  of  tales  of  magic  can  desire.  The  artist  enters  so 
thoroughly  into  the  spirit  of  the  stories  that  his  wonderful  drawings 
have  an  air  of  reality  about  them.  Some  are  grotesque,  some  exqui- 
sitely graceful ;  all  are  so  spirited,  so  vigorous,  so  admirable  in  design 
and  in  the  expression  of  the  faces  and  figures,  and  so  full  of  action, 
that  it  is  hard  to  say  which  is  the  best. — Boston  Post. 

"The  Wonder  Clock  "  is  truly  a  monument  to  the  genius  and  indus- 
try of  the  author  in  his  line  of  illustrated  tales,  and  also  to  the  enter- 
prise of  the  publishers  in  producing  choice  children's  books. — Brooklyn 
Eagle. 

THE  ROSE  OF  PARADISE.  Being  a  Detailed  Account  of  cer- 
tain Adventures  that  happened  to  Captain  John  Mackra, 
in  Connection  with  the  famous  Pirate,  Edward  England, 
in  the  Year  1720,  off  the  Island  of  Juanna,  in  the  Mozam- 
bique Channel,  writ  by  himself,  and  now  for  the  first 
time  published.  By  HOWARD  PYLE.  Illustrated  by 
the  Author.  Post  8vo,  Ornamental  Cloth,  $1  25. 

One  of  the  most  spirited  and  life-like  stories  of  sen  adventure  that 
we  ever  remember  to  have  read. — If.  Y.  Mail  and  Express. 

A  charming  story  with  an  Old  World  flavor  that  no  one  who  picks 
it  tip  can  lay  down  until  it  is  finished. — St.  Louis  Republican. 

PEPPER  AND  SALT;  OR,  SEASONING  FOR  YOUNG  FOLK. 
By  HOWARD  PYLE.  Superbly  illustrated  by  the  Author. 
4to,  Ornamental  Cloth,  $2  00. 

A  quaint  and  charming  book.  .  .  .  Mr.  Pyle's  wonderful  versatility 
is  shown  in  the  different  kinds  of  subjects  and  the  various  periods  he 
treats,  in  every  gradation  of  humor,  mirth,  and  sly  satire,  with  now 
and  then  a  touch  of  fine  sadness.— The  Critic,  N.  Y. 

It  is  beyond  compare  the  quaintest  and  most  entertaining  book  of 
the  season.  It  is  unique  in  style,  and  as  unique  in  its  contents,  the 
very  turning  over  of  its  leaves  being  enough  to  transport  one  into 
some  unheard-of  region  of  imagination.— Observer,  N.  Y. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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THE  ENTAILED   HAT; 

Or,  Patty  Cannon's  Times.  A  Romance.  By  GEORGE 
ALFRED  TOWNSEND  ("Gatn").  Pages  x.,  566.  16mo, 
Cloth,  $1  50. 


Neither  Hawthorne  nor  Dickens  ever  painted  their  characters  more 
vividly  than  has  Mr.  Townsend  those  of  Vesta  and  Milbuni,  the  owner 
of  "  Steeple  Top."  The  events  which  led  np  to  the  fatal  night  when 
Vesta  was  informed  of  the  true  condition  of  affairs  are  the  creation  of 
genius.  The  entrance  of  Milburn  into  the  aristocratic  home  of  Judge 
Custis,  to  plead  his  own  case,  and  his  manner  of  doing  it,  is  an  artistic 
piece  of  literary  work  which  will  excite  the  admiration  of  the  critical 
reader. — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

The  book  is  remarkable  in  its  local  color,  its  vigorously  drawn  char- 
acters, and  its  peculiar  originality  of  treatment.  The  interest  is  ex- 
ceedingly dramatic,  and  there  is  enough  of  incident  to  furnish  a  half- 
dozen  ordinary  novels.  .  .  .  The  story  is  so  well  told,  and  with  snch 
picturesqueuess  of  effect  generally,  that  the  reader  is  carried  unresist- 
ingly along  in  the  skilfully  stimulated  desire  to  know  the  final  fate  of 
the  actors  iu  the  exciting  drama.  This  romance  is  a  remarkable  one 
in  many  respects.—  Saturday  Evening  Gazette,  Boston. 

Vesta  Custis  and  Hhoda  test  the  power  of  the  author  in  drawing 
feminine  characters,  and  he  has  more  than  met  the  demands  made 
upon  him.  They  stand  out  from  the  pages  like  flesh-and-blood  creat- 
ures. Equally  successful  is  the  delineation  of  Patty  Cannon  and  the 
life  of  the  negro  kidnappers.  The  story  moves  rapidly,  and  the  unflag- 
ging interest  of  the  reader  is  maintained  almost  to  the  end.  It  enti- 
tles Mr.  Townseud  to  a  high  place  iu  the  ranks  of  American  novelists, 
and  it  would  not  be  surprising  if  the  "Entailed  Hat"  held  a  perma- 
nent place  iu  American  literature.  We  know  of  no  story  iu  which 
the  details  of  American  life  have  been  so  skilfully  used,  except  iu  the 
novels  of  Hawthorue  and  Bayard  Taylor. — Philadelphia  Press. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  flud  in  recent  fiction  a  lovelier  woman  than 
Vesta,  or  a  more  touching  one  than  the  exquisite  slave  Virgie,  or  a 
stronger  one  thau  Milburu,  or  better  portraits  of  the  common  life  of 
the  time  and  place  than  Levin  Dennis  and  Jimmy  Phoebus  aud  Jack 
Wonnell.  .  .  .  The  story  has  decided  power  aud  originality,  and  is  a 
marked  contribution  to  our  really  native  fiction.  —  Hartford  Daily 
Courant. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

The  above  work  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the 
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THE  BREAD-WINNERS. 

A  Social  Study,     pp.  320.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 


One  of  the  strongest  and  most  striking:  stories  of  the  last  ten 
years. .  .  .  The  work  of  n  very  clever  nuxn :  it  is  told  with  many  live- 
ly strokes  of  humor ;  it  sparkles  with  epigram ;  it  is  brilliant  with 
wit.  .  .  .  The  chief  characters  in  it  are  actually  alive;  they  are  really 
flesh  and  blood;  they  are  at  once  true  and  new;  and  they  are  em- 
phatically and  aggressively  American.  The  anonymous  author  has  a 
firm  grip  on  American  character.  He  has  seen,  and  he  has  succeeded 
in  making  us  see,  facts  and  phases  of  American  life  which  no  one  has 
put  into  a  book  before.  .  .  .  Interesting,  earnest,  sincere ;  fine  in  its 
performance,  and  finer  still  in  its  promise.— Saturday  Review,  London. 

A  worthy  contribution  to  that  American  novel-literature  which  is  at 
the  present  day,  on  the  whole,  ahead  of  our  own.— Pall  Mall  Gazette, 
London. 

Praise,  and  unstinted  praise,  should  be  given  to  "The  Bread-Win- 
ners." — X.  Y.  Time*. 

It  is  a  novel  with  a  plot,  rounded  and  distinct,  upon  which  every  epi- 
sode has  a  direct  bearing.  . .  .  The  book  is  one  to  stand  nobly  the  test 
of  immediate  re-rending.— Critic,  N.  Y. 

It  is  a  truly  remarkable  book. — A".  Y.  Journal  of  Commerce. 

A*  a  vigorous,  virile-  well-told  American  story,  it  is  long  since  we 
have  had  anything  as  good  as  "The  Bread- Winners." — Philadelphia 
Bulletin. 

Every  page  of  the  book  shows  the  practised  hand  of  a  writer  to 
whom  long  use  has  made  exact  literary  expression  as  easy  and  spon- 
taneous as  the  conversation  of  some  of  those  gifted  talkers  who  are 
at  once  the  delight  and  the  envy  of  their  associates.  .  . .  We  might 
mention  many  scenes  which  seem  to  us  particularly  strong,  but  if  we 

IK-LMII  snch  a  catalogue  we  should  not  know  where  to  stop N.  Y. 

Tribune. 

Within  comparatively  few  pages  a  story  which,  as  a  whole,  deserves 
to  be  called  vigorous,  is  tersely  told.  .  .  .  The  author's  ability  to  de- 
pict the  mental  and  moral  struggles  of  those  who  are  poor,  and  who 
believe  themselves  oppressed,  is  also  evident  in  his  management  of 
the  strike  and  in  his  delineation  of  the  characters  of  Sam  Sleeny,  a 
carpenter's  journeyman,  and  Ananias  Offlt,  the  villain  of  the  story.— 
N.  Y.  Evening  Telegram. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

The  above  nork  sent  by  mail,  pontage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the 
United  States  or  Canada,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


BEN-HUE:  A  TALE  OF  THE  CHKIST. 

By  LEW.  WALLACE.    New  Edition  from  New  Electrotype 
Plates,     pp.  560.    16mo,  Cloth,  $1  50;  Half  Calf,  $3  00. 


Anything  so  startling,  new,  and  distinctive  as  the  lending  feature  of 
this  romance  does  not  often  appear  in  works  of  fiction.  .  .  .  Some  of 
Mr.  Wallace's  writing  is  remarkable  for  its  pathetic  eloquence.  The 
scenes  described  in  the  New  Testament  are  re-written  with  the  power 
and  skill  of  an  accomplished  master  of  style. — A'.  Y.  Times. 

Its  real  basis  is  a  description  of  the  life  of  the  Jews  and  Romans  at 
the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era,  and  this  is  both  forcible  and  brill- 
iant. .  .  .  We  are  carried  through  a  surprising  variety  of  scenes ;  we 
witness  a  sea-fight,  a  chariot- race,  the  internal  economy  of  a  Roman 
galley,  domestic  interiors  at  Antioch,  at  Jerusalem,  and  among  the 
tribes  of  the  desert;  palaces,  prisons,  the  haunts  of  dissipated  Roman 
youth,  the  houses  of  pious  families  of  Israel.  There  is  plenty  of  ex- 
citing incident;  everything  is  animated,  vivid,  and  glowing. — N.  Y. 
Tribune. 

From  the  opening  of  the  volume  to  the  very  close  the  reader's  in- 
terest will  be  kept  at  the  highest  pitch,  and  the  novel  will  be  pro- 
nounced by  all  one  of  the  greatest  novels  of  the  day. — Boston  Post. 

It  is  full  of  poetic  beauty,  as  though  born  of  an  Eastern  sage,  and 
there  is  sufficient  of  Oriental  customs,  geography,  nomenclature,  etc., 
to  greatly  strengthen  the  semblance. — Boston  Commonwealth. 

"  Ben-Hur"  is  interesting,  and  its  characterization  is  fine  and  strong. 
Meanwhile  it  evinces  careful  study  of  the  period  in  which  the  scene  is 
laid,  and  will  help  those  who  read  it  with  reasonable  attention  to  real- 
ize the  nature  and  conditions  of  Hebrew  life  in  Jerusalem  and  Ro- 
man life  at  Antioch  at  the  time  of  our  Saviour's  advent. — Examiner, 
N.Y. 

It  is  really  Scripture  history  of  Christ's  time,  clothed  gracefully  and 
delicately  in  the  flowing  and  loose  drapery  of  modern  fiction.  .  . ,  Few 
late  works  of  fiction  excel  it  in  genuine  ability  and  interest. — N.  Y. 
Graphic. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  and  delightful  books.  It  is  as  real  and 
warm  as  life  itself,  and  as  attractive  as  the  grandest  and  most  heroic 
chapters  of  history.—  Indianapolis  Journal. 

The  book  is  one  of  unquestionable  power,  and  will  be  read  with  un- 
wonted interest  by  many  readers  who  are  weary  of  the  conventional 
novel  and  romance.— Boston  Journal. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

§3T~  The  above  work  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the. 
United  States  or  Canada,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


A     000  759  225     6