The cause of my not having written to you is too obvious to need any
explanation. I have worn myself to death in the month I have been at
work. None of my usual reliefs have been at hand; I have not been able
to divest myself of the story--have suffered very much in my sleep in
consequence--and am so shaken by such work in this trying climate, that
I am as nervous as a man who is dying of drink, and as haggard as a
murderer.
I believe I have written a tremendous book, and knocked the "Carol" out
of the field. It will make a great uproar, I have no doubt.
I leave here to-morrow for Venice and many other places; and I shall
certainly come to London to see my proofs, coming by new ground all the
way, cutting through the snow in the valleys of Switzerland, and
plunging through the mountains in the dead of winter. I would accept
your hearty offer with right goodwill, but my visit being one of
business and consultation, I see impediments in the way, and
insurmountable reasons for not doing so. Therefore, I shall go to an
hotel in Covent Garden, where they know me very well, and with the
landlord of which I have already communicated. My orders are not upon a
mighty scale, extending no further than a good bedroom and a cold
shower-bath.
Bradbury and Evans are going at it, ding-dong, and are wild with
excitement. All news on that subject (and on every other) I must defer
till I see you. That will be immediately after I arrive, of course. Most
likely on Monday, 2nd December.
Kate and her sister (who send their best regards) and all the children
are as well as possible. The house is _perfect_; the servants are as
quiet and well-behaved as at home, which very rarely happens here, and
Roche is my right hand. There never was such a fellow.
We have now got carpets down--burn fires at night--draw the curtains,
and are quite wintry. We have a box at the opera, which, is close by
(for nothing), and sit there when we please, as in our own drawing-room.
There have been three fine days in four weeks. On every other the water
has been falling down in one continual sheet, and it has been thundering
and lightening every day and night.
My hand shakes in that feverish and horrible manner that I can hardly
hold a pen. And I have so bad a cold that I can't see.
In haste to save the post,
Ever faithfully.
P.S.--Charley has a writing-master every day, and a French master. He
and his sisters are to be waited on by a professor of the noble art of
dancing, next week.
[Sidenote: Mrs. Charles Dickens.]