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Dead Letters
THE letters in this book are re-printed from the Morning Post, to the Proprietor and Editor of which newspaper the author owes his thanks for the permission to reproduce them here.
DEDICATION
To Lord Lucas
MY DEAR BRON,
I WISH to begin this bundle of "Dead Letters," collected from the Dead Letter Office of the World, with a living letter to you.
These letters are not meant to be either historical documents or historical studies or aids to the understanding of history, or learning of any kind with or without tears. They are the fruits of imagination rather than of research. The word research is not even remotely applicable here, for in my case it means the hazy memories of a distant education indolently received, a few hurried references to Smith's " Classical Dictionary," a map of Rome which is in the London Library, and Bouillet's "Biographic Universelle." So that if you tell me that my account of the Carthaginian fleet is full of inaccuracies, or that the psychology of my Lesbia conflicts with the historical evidence, I shall be constrained to answer that I do not care. Yet amidst this chaff of fancy there are' a few grains of historical truth. By historical truth I mean the recorded impressions (they may be false, of course, and the persons who recorded them may have been liars, in which case it is historical falsehood) of men on events which were contemporary with them. One of the letters is entirely composed of such grains. I will not tell you which one it is until some of our common friends, who are historical experts, have singled it out as being the one letter which oversteps all bounds of historical possibility and probability. (It is not the letter on Heine, part of the substance of which was taken from Memoirs and freely blended with fiction.) Such singling out has already occurred with regard to certain details of the letters as they appeared week by week in the " Morning Post." But I confess that I have so far suffered more from the credulity than from the scepticism of my readers, and I was tempted at one moment rather to insert the impossible than to make the possible appear probable. For correspondents wrote to me, asking me to give them from my secret store further details with regard to Lady Macbeth's housekeeping, Lord Bacon's business affairs, and the table talk of the Emperor Claudius.
On the other hand, a sceptic asked to be supplied with the historical evidence for Guinevere's extravagance in dress. I am conscious that in some of these letters I may have laid myself open to the charge of irreverence towards certain themes which are hallowed by romance and overshadowed by the wings of the great poets. I plead " Not guilty." I am sure that you, of all people, will acquit me; for those (such as you) whose enjoyment of the great poets is vital and whose belief in the permanence of Romance is robust are seldom offended at a levity which they have no difficulty in recognizing to be the familiarity, not breeding contempt but begotten of awe, of the True Believer, nor have they any difficulty in distinguishing such laughter from the scoff of the Infidel. To end on a less pompous note, let me add that if you like this book that is enough for me; and the blame of the rest of the world, although it will ultimately affect my purse—and a purse, as Shakespeare says, is trash—will disturb neither my peace of mind nor my digestion and will therefore not vex me.
On the other hand there is no amount of praise which a man and an author cannot endure with equanimity. Some authors can even stand flattery. I hope, therefore, to earn a certain measure both of your approval and others*; while theirs will be the more profitable, yours will be the more prized.
MAURICE BARING.
DEDICATION
To Lord Lucas
MY DEAR BRON,
I WISH to begin this bundle of "Dead Letters," collected from the Dead Letter Office of the World, with a living letter to you.
These letters are not meant to be either historical documents or historical studies or aids to the understanding of history, or learning of any kind with or without tears. They are the fruits of imagination rather than of research. The word research is not even remotely applicable here, for in my case it means the hazy memories of a distant education indolently received, a few hurried references to Smith's " Classical Dictionary," a map of Rome which is in the London Library, and Bouillet's "Biographic Universelle." So that if you tell me that my account of the Carthaginian fleet is full of inaccuracies, or that the psychology of my Lesbia conflicts with the historical evidence, I shall be constrained to answer that I do not care. Yet amidst this chaff of fancy there are' a few grains of historical truth. By historical truth I mean the recorded impressions (they may be false, of course, and the persons who recorded them may have been liars, in which case it is historical falsehood) of men on events which were contemporary with them. One of the letters is entirely composed of such grains. I will not tell you which one it is until some of our common friends, who are historical experts, have singled it out as being the one letter which oversteps all bounds of historical possibility and probability. (It is not the letter on Heine, part of the substance of which was taken from Memoirs and freely blended with fiction.) Such singling out has already occurred with regard to certain details of the letters as they appeared week by week in the " Morning Post." But I confess that I have so far suffered more from the credulity than from the scepticism of my readers, and I was tempted at one moment rather to insert the impossible than to make the possible appear probable. For correspondents wrote to me, asking me to give them from my secret store further details with regard to Lady Macbeth's housekeeping, Lord Bacon's business affairs, and the table talk of the Emperor Claudius.
On the other hand, a sceptic asked to be supplied with the historical evidence for Guinevere's extravagance in dress. I am conscious that in some of these letters I may have laid myself open to the charge of irreverence towards certain themes which are hallowed by romance and overshadowed by the wings of the great poets. I plead " Not guilty." I am sure that you, of all people, will acquit me; for those (such as you) whose enjoyment of the great poets is vital and whose belief in the permanence of Romance is robust are seldom offended at a levity which they have no difficulty in recognizing to be the familiarity, not breeding contempt but begotten of awe, of the True Believer, nor have they any difficulty in distinguishing such laughter from the scoff of the Infidel. To end on a less pompous note, let me add that if you like this book that is enough for me; and the blame of the rest of the world, although it will ultimately affect my purse—and a purse, as Shakespeare says, is trash—will disturb neither my peace of mind nor my digestion and will therefore not vex me.
On the other hand there is no amount of praise which a man and an author cannot endure with equanimity. Some authors can even stand flattery. I hope, therefore, to earn a certain measure both of your approval and others*; while theirs will be the more profitable, yours will be the more prized.
MAURICE BARING.
264 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 28, 2010
2 people want to read
About the author
Maurice Baring
181 books35 followersMaurice Baring OBE (27 April 1874 – 14 December 1945) was an English man of letters, known as a dramatist, poet, novelist, translator and essayist, and also as a travel writer and war correspondent, with particular knowledge of Russia. During World War I, Baring served in the Intelligence Corps and Royal Air Force.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
October 13, 2019
History is bunk, as these (supposed) letters by or about some of the leading people and events of the past consistently prove. History is also ripe for comedy, something they don't prove consistently enough.
The oldest set of faux-correspondence are between various figures connected with the Trojan War and are an amusing example of the rich ironies abounding in such a conceit. In a letter from Clytemnestra to Aegisthus just after the Greek fleet has landed at Aulis she is happy to report that 'Iphigenia writes that she is enjoying herself immensely.' Ten years later Penelope has a simple request for her husband Odysseus: 'Mind you come back the moment it is over...'
How about the Romans? A friend of Cleopatra notes the queen's response when Julius Caesar told her about the Idea of March: "if he paid attention to such trifles people would begin to say that he was an old woman". A Greek traveller granted an audience with Nero is informed that the Christians were merely a "fad," although he was concerned that "they are getting the women on their side". Never a thing to be taken lightly.
Moving on to characters synonymous with Shakespeare, according to Rosaline, Romeo's jilted lover, his marriage to Juliet was "a sheer case of coercion" arranged by Lady Capulet and in reality he loved her all along. In a letter from Lady Macbeth to Flora McDuff we learn that she loved Duncan so much that she spent the time before his arrival 'making those flat scones he used to be so fond of.' The Macbeth's didn't murder him.
What of Shakespeare himself? A contemporary Frenchmen's epistle informs us that Shakespeare's plays were written by either Ben Shicksperry or Will Johnson, his sonnets written by the Earl of Southampton rather than about him. Alternatively, an exchange of letters between Bacon and his agent proves beyond doubt that he wrote the plays, Shakespeare merely tarted them up for the lowbrow audience at the Globe Theatre.
Who knew?
The oldest set of faux-correspondence are between various figures connected with the Trojan War and are an amusing example of the rich ironies abounding in such a conceit. In a letter from Clytemnestra to Aegisthus just after the Greek fleet has landed at Aulis she is happy to report that 'Iphigenia writes that she is enjoying herself immensely.' Ten years later Penelope has a simple request for her husband Odysseus: 'Mind you come back the moment it is over...'
How about the Romans? A friend of Cleopatra notes the queen's response when Julius Caesar told her about the Idea of March: "if he paid attention to such trifles people would begin to say that he was an old woman". A Greek traveller granted an audience with Nero is informed that the Christians were merely a "fad," although he was concerned that "they are getting the women on their side". Never a thing to be taken lightly.
Moving on to characters synonymous with Shakespeare, according to Rosaline, Romeo's jilted lover, his marriage to Juliet was "a sheer case of coercion" arranged by Lady Capulet and in reality he loved her all along. In a letter from Lady Macbeth to Flora McDuff we learn that she loved Duncan so much that she spent the time before his arrival 'making those flat scones he used to be so fond of.' The Macbeth's didn't murder him.
What of Shakespeare himself? A contemporary Frenchmen's epistle informs us that Shakespeare's plays were written by either Ben Shicksperry or Will Johnson, his sonnets written by the Earl of Southampton rather than about him. Alternatively, an exchange of letters between Bacon and his agent proves beyond doubt that he wrote the plays, Shakespeare merely tarted them up for the lowbrow audience at the Globe Theatre.
Who knew?
Displaying 1 of 1 review