With an intolerable pen and no ink, I am going to write a few lines to
you to report progress.
I got to Strasburg on Monday night, intending to go down the Rhine. But
the weather being foggy, and the season quite over, they could not
insure me getting on for certain beyond Mayence, or our not being
detained by unpropitious weather. Therefore I resolved (the malle poste
being full) to take the diligence hither next day in the afternoon. I
arrived here at half-past five to-night, after fifty hours of it in a
French coach. I was so beastly dirty when I got to this house, that I
had quite lost all sense of my identity, and if anybody had said, "Are
you Charles Dickens?" I should have unblushingly answered, "No; I never
heard of him." A good wash, and a good dress, and a good dinner have
revived me, however; and I can report of this house, concerning which
the brave was so anxious when we were here before, that it is the best I
ever was in. My little apartment, consisting of three rooms and other
conveniences, is a perfect curiosity of completeness. You never saw such
a charming little baby-house. It is infinitely smaller than those first
rooms we had at Meurice's, but for elegance, compactness, comfort, and
quietude, exceeds anything I ever met with at an inn.
The moment I arrived here, I enquired, of course, after Macready. They
said the English theatre had not begun yet, that they thought he was at
Meurice's, where they knew some members of the company to be. I
instantly despatched the porter with a note to say that if he were
there, I would come round and hug him, as soon as I was clean. They
referred the porter to the Hotel Brighton. He came back and told me that
the answer there was: "M. Macready's rooms were engaged, but he had not
arrived. He was expected to-night!" If we meet to-night, I will add a
postscript. Wouldn't it be odd if we met upon the road between this and
Boulogne to-morrow?
I mean, as a recompense for my late sufferings, to get a
hackney-carriage if I can and post that journey, starting from here at
eight to-morrow morning, getting to Boulogne sufficiently early next
morning to cross at once, and dining with Forster that same day--to wit,
Saturday. I have notions of taking you with me on my next journey (if
you would like to go), and arranging for Georgy to come to us by
steamer--under the protection of the English captain, for instance--to
Naples; there I would top and cap all our walks by taking her up to the
crater of Vesuvius with me. But this is dependent on her ability to be
perfectly happy for a fortnight or so in our stately palace with the
children, and such foreign aid as the Simpsons. For I love her too
dearly to think of any project which would involve her being
uncomfortable for that space of time.
You can think this over, and talk it over; and I will join you in doing
so, please God, when I return to our Italian bowers, which I shall be
heartily glad to do.
They tell us that the landlord of this house, going to London some week
or so ago, was detained at Boulogne two days by a high sea, in which the
packet could not put out. So I hope there is the greater chance of no
such bedevilment happening to me.
Paris is better than ever. Oh dear, how grand it was when I came through
it in that caravan to-night! I hope we shall be very hearty here, and
able to say with Wally, "Han't it plassant!"
Love to Charley, Mamey, Katey, Wally, and Chickenstalker. The
last-named, I take it for granted, is indeed prodigious.
Best love to Georgy.
Ever, my dearest Kate,
Affectionately yours.
P.S.--I have been round to Macready's hotel; it is now past ten, and he
has not arrived, nor does it seem at all certain that he seriously
intended to arrive to-night. So I shall not see him, I take it for
granted, until my return.
[Sidenote: Mrs. Charles Dickens.]
PIAZZA COFFEE HOUSE, COVENT GARDEN,
_Monday, Dec. 2nd, 1844._