A.D. 1847-1849
HOME LIFE
In 1847 a new interest entered the life of Charlotte Tucker. The three little ones of her brother Robert and his wife,—Louis, Charley, and Letitia,—came to live at No. 3, and were made her especial charge. All of them, but particularly the pretty little dark-eyed Letitia, then only two years old, were thenceforward as her own; first in her thoughts, and among the first in her love. She taught them, trained them, devoted herself to them; and their names will often be found in her letters. The death of Letitia, nearly twenty years later, was one of the heaviest sorrows she ever had to endure. One is disposed to think that the care and responsibility of three little ones, undertaken in the midst of a full and busy family life, and in addition to all the duties of that life, could have been no sinecure, and must have been fraught with many a difficulty.
The Tuckers were much in society, as may indeed have been already gathered. Mr. Tucker was a man greatly sought after, alike on account of his position and influence, and because of his personal attractiveness. Open house was kept; and the large circle of friends and acquaintances never failed to find a welcome. So many indeed would drop in and out, that three lunches in succession were occasionally known to take place at No. 3; and so frequent were the ‘parties’ to which the family was[63] invited, that sometimes they would appear at three different houses in the course of one evening. ‘Party’ in those days was a wide term, embracing divers kinds of entertainment, from a simple musical gathering to a large ball.
Dinner-parties also were numerous. In reference to these, Charlotte Tucker wrote rather drolly to her sister late in life, speaking of—‘those formal affairs, which you and I remember in our earlier days. We must ask So-and-so; and how shall we find gentlemen to counterbalance Mrs. and Miss out of one house? Slow concerns those great dinner-parties were; a kind of social duty, which cost much trouble and expense, and gave not much pleasure. A kind of very stiff jelly, with not many strawberries in it.’
An amusing story is told about these large dinners. In those days the custom of ‘drinking healths’ had gained sway to an absurd and objectionable extent; gentlemen being expected to respond to every toast, and not only to sip their wine, but very often to empty their glasses, under pain of giving serious offence. Mr. Tucker always had by his side a decanter of toast and water, from which his glass was filled for the various toasts; and probably those not in the secret counted him a marvellously hard-headed man. One day a guest requested leave to taste this especial wine, which was kept for the host alone, supposing it to be of some very rare and choice vintage. His request was immediately complied with; and the face of the bon-vivant may be imagined when he discovered himself to be drinking toast-and-water.
No doubt these dinners were a ‘social duty’; and no doubt some of them may have been extremely dull. Yet it must not be supposed that Charlotte did not thoroughly enjoy London society, and did not fully appreciate intercourse with polished and intellectual minds. That which in her old age would have been a mere weariness to[64] her, was no weariness in youth and early middle age. One of her brothers remarks: ‘She was very sociable, lively, and threw her whole heart into the kindly entertaining of guests of all ages.’ Such powers of entertaining as she possessed could not but have gone with enjoyment in the use of those powers.
Moreover, the study of different characters, the drawing out of other people’s thoughts, the gaining of new ideas for herself, must have had some fascination. And, despite all her kindness, all her readiness to see the best in everybody, she could not, with her keen sense of humour, have failed to be a good deal amused with the various foibles and absurdities which certain people are wont to display, even in the best society, and when upon their most circumspect behaviour.
Ever merry, and ever making others merry, she could, as one friend says, ‘keep a whole tableful laughing and talking,’ without difficulty. In fact, whatever the dinner-parties may have seemed to herself, her own presence, her bright smile and sparkling conversation, effectually prevented sensations of dulness on the part of others who were there.
Whether Charlotte ever had what, in the language of fifty or sixty years ago, was delicately termed a ‘preference’ for anybody, cannot be known. Her hand was at least once sought in marriage, while she was still a girl; and some signs seem to have been visible that she was disposed to ‘like’ the gentleman in question. Her parents, however, disapproved of the match, and it came to nothing. If at any time she really were in love, it is pretty certain that she never would have revealed the fact to any mortal being until sure that her ‘preference’ was returned. The reticence which was so marked a feature in her otherwise frank and open nature would undoubtedly have had sway in this direction.
[65]
Speaking to a friend, long after in old age, she said that in her young days ‘at home,’ when a certain nameless gentleman was supposed to be paying his addresses to Fanny, the other sisters were ‘very indignant’ at the idea of any man wishing to break into their sisterly circle. This probably preceded her own little affair, since Fanny was four years her senior. The pretty notion of home-life and of the unbroken sisterly circle had in time to yield before stern facts, as first one sister and then a second proved faithless to nursery traditions.
Wide as was the circle of family acquaintances, the girls possessed few intimate outside friends. Mr. Tucker rather discouraged such intimacies, considering that his five daughters ought to be content with the close companionship of one another. Charlotte had above all her Laura, whom she devotedly loved; and so satisfying was this friendship that she probably cared little for others by comparison.
Mrs. Tucker, in her quiet way, was no less a power in the house than was her husband. Though less brilliantly gifted, she was very observant, very quaint, very wise, a most affectionate Mother, intensely loved and revered by all her children. She had her own peculiar mode of looking upon things. For instance,—having noticed that girls in an evening party, glancing at a mirror, were apt to be disquieted to find their dresses disorganised, she resolved to have no mirrors at all in her rooms, hoping thereby to secure greater peace of mind among her guests. It does not seem to have occurred to her, that a vague uneasiness about the state of their attire might possibly trouble them quite as much as even an uncomfortable certainty.
Another short story of Mrs. Tucker, showing her quiet, incisive force of character, may well come in here. She had a very strong objection to unkind discussion of[66] people behind their backs. On one occasion, when in the drawing-room of a certain lady, other callers beside herself were present, and one of the latter rose to leave. No sooner was the unfortunate lady gone, than the hostess began to speak of her in disparaging terms. Mrs. Tucker made no immediate observation; but presently, turning to the hostess, she said mildly, ‘I ought to be going,—but I really am afraid to do so.’ Much surprised, the other asked why. ‘Because,’ Mrs. Tucker replied, ‘I am afraid that when I have left the room you will begin to speak of me as you did just now of Mrs. ——.’ The courteously uttered reproof—a pretty sharp one, however gently bestowed—was accepted in an equally courteous spirit; and the hostess earnestly assured her that nothing of the kind should take place.
There is no need to imagine, because Charlotte was gay and bright in society, that she never knew the meaning of depression. Shadows of loss and sorrow had not yet begun to fall across her pathway; yet even in those happy days she must have grasped the meaning of ‘down’ as well as ‘up.’ Rather curiously, she spoke of herself in old age as having been when young ‘subject to very low spirits’; or more strictly, she said that she would have been so subject, but for the counteracting influences of ‘religion’ and ‘work,’ the latter arising from the former. High spirits seldom exist without some tendency to occasional re-action. But certainly the sense of depression, whenever it may have assailed her, was not allowed to be a weight upon others in her everyday life.
It was most likely somewhere between 1847 and 1849 that she began to feel uneasy about going to certain kinds of amusement. Fanny was the first to dwell upon this subject, and to be unhappy as to exactly what she ought or ought not to do. Long years after Charlotte Tucker wrote: Sweet Fanny suffered much from her[67] sensitiveness of conscience’; and the words may perhaps in part have borne reference to such debatings as these.
Fanny’s gentle, yielding nature went no farther than being troubled. She did not speak out. But when the same questionings spread to the younger sister, matters were different. Charlotte was not one who would hesitate as to action, in the face of her own conscience. To some extent here lies the gist of the matter. While she could go with a clear and perfectly easy conscience, able to enjoy herself, and untroubled by doubts, she probably did so without harm to herself, so long as her life was not ‘given to pleasures,’ that is to say, so long as she did not unduly love these things, or allow them to occupy a wrong place in her life. The moment conscience became uneasy, however, there was nothing for her but to stand still and carefully to consider her next step. For ‘he that doubteth is condemned if he eat,’ even though the eating may not be actually and intrinsically evil. Whether or no the things were in their essence wrong,—and to decide this, each thing would have to be regarded apart, entirely on its own merits,—they became wrong for Charlotte, so soon as she could no longer accept them with a free and happy mind. They became wrong, at least, unless she felt her doubts to be overridden by the duty of obedience.
Fanny had doubted and hesitated; Charlotte doubted, and did not hesitate. She went straight to her parents, told them frankly what she felt, and asked whether she might give up going to such places of entertainment as caused her uneasiness.
Wisely and generously Mr. and Mrs. Tucker yielded. If it had become a matter of conscience with her, she might remain at home. Although they did not view the question in precisely the same light, they would not make their conscience the rule for her actions, but would leave her free to be guided by the dictates of her own.
[68]
Had they not so responded, had they insisted on having her with them still wherever they went, Charlotte would have given way. Hers was a high ideal of filial submission; and though she had reached an age when she had a right to an independent opinion, yet obedience to them ranked in her mind before the necessity to decide for herself, in a question where opinions might so greatly differ. If they desired her to go, she would go. If the matter were left to herself, she would be on the safe side in all cases which seemed to her dubious, and would remain at home.
There is little or nothing in her letters of that date bearing on this subject; but the above seems to have been her manner of regarding it. While feeling the need to draw for herself some line of demarcation between things expedient and things inexpedient, she does not appear to have fallen into the error, so common amongst really earnest and excellent people, of counting that the line which she rightly drew for herself must of necessity be the only right line for everybody else. Such a view leads to many a harsh and un-Christian judgment. What is dangerous for one may not be perilous for another, who is differently constituted. What is needless for one may be an absolute duty for another, who is in quite a different position. Probably Charlotte saw this. It is worth remarking that, while she kept aloof from many entertainments out of the house, she never, either then or in later years, refused to join in home-parties, or failed to do her utmost to entertain the guests. There was nothing morbid or repellent about the development of her sense of duty.
TO MISS D. LAURA TUCKER.
‘July 12, 1848.
‘You are my lovely, loving, and lovable Laura; a Diamond among gems, and a Rosebud among flowers. Why do you mention[69] so often the mere handwriting of your letters? Do you think that I see anything in them but the kindness of her who has, in the midst of all her engagements, found so much time to devote to me? My own Mother too—how very good to me she has been! I am grateful to her for all her most kind endeavours to set my mind quite at ease on the subject of the poor little Robins....
‘We have taken it into our heads that, what between music and teaching and writing and visiting, you may have more work on your hands than may suit your taste. Under this idea, Fanny, like a dear Quixote as she is, formed a grand plan of rushing up to town on Thursday by coach with uncle Charlton, who happened to be coming, and turning you off the music-stool, or snatching the spelling frame from your delicate hand instanter.
‘But I opposed this double-quick march for several reasons, which I hope you may think cogent. In the first place, I hope that you are not so hard-worked that it would be too much for you for a few days more to go on with only the assistance of the fair Sibella and Clara. 2ndly, The country seems really doing sweet Fan good. She told me yesterday that she did not know when she had felt so well. I too am perfectly well. 3rdly, I think at your full table on Friday our room would be better than our company. 4thly, We are engaged to take tea with Mrs. Edgecombe on that day. 5thly, For Fanny to start off by coach and me to follow by fly, would appear to me both an extravagant and extraordinary procedure. So, after all these reasons, I thought that we had better fix on Saturday for the day of our departure, until I heard that Aunt must come up to Town on Monday. She offered to take us up with her, but as it would of course be more agreeable to her to come with us, I think that we shall find ourselves in dear old Portland Place on Monday morning.
‘I am so much obliged to dearest Mamma for her kind intention of taking me to Thalberg’s splendid Concert on Monday. It would really give me more pleasure if I might present my ticket to dear Fanny Lanzun, who has been all kindness and attention to us. You know how we wished that one of our family might hear Jenny Lind. Now I can hear through your ears; and none of the Lanzuns have had that treat, you know.’
TO MISS D. L. TUCKER.
‘Oct. 13, 1848.
‘Many thanks for your last sweet note to me, and kind consent to fill my place.... I do hope that you may not find teaching the[70] wearisome task which I sometimes do. Perhaps Aunt Laura may succeed better in fixing the attention of her little pupils. At all events, I am grateful to you for undertaking the trouble. You are dear to a sister’s heart, sweet Laura, and I hope that you are one of the blessings for which I am not unthankful....
‘I had two delightful games of chess yesterday with my dear Father.... What an awful state Vienna is in! Is not the murder of Count Latour dreadful?’
TO THE SAME.
‘Oct. 10, 1849.
‘Another sweet note from my darling Laura. I am rich in letters to-day, for I have received three such nice ones.
‘Yesterday evening I spent about an hour at the piano. I did not, however, sing any of your especial songs. I began one day—‘The world is so bright’—but my heart and voice failed, because you were away. However, I daresay that I shall try again this evening. How it would cut up my music, were you to go to any great distance, for most of my favourite songs are yours. How I have enjoyed hearing you sing them.... Farewell, sweet Laura. I must go and hear my children their lessons. I hear their little feet and voices above me.’