When we turned out of your view on that disconsolate Monday, when you so
kindly took horse and rode forth to say good-bye, we went on in a very
dull and drowsy manner, I can assure you. I could have borne a world of
punch in the rumble and been none the worse for it. There was an
uncommonly cool inn that night, and quite a monstrous establishment at
Auxonne the next night, full of flatulent passages and banging doors.
The next night we passed at Montbard, where there is one of the very
best little inns in all France. The next at Sens, and so we got here.
The roads were bad, but not very for French roads. There was no
deficiency of horses anywhere; and after Pontarlier the weather was
really not too cold for comfort. They weighed our plate at the frontier
custom-house, spoon by spoon, and fork by fork, and we lingered about
there, in a thick fog and a hard frost, for three long hours and a half,
during which the officials committed all manner of absurdities, and got
into all sorts of disputes with my brave courier. This was the only
misery we encountered--except leaving Lausanne, and that was enough to
last us and _did_ last us all the way here. We are living on it now. I
felt, myself, much as I should think the murderer felt on that fair
morning when, with his gray-haired victim (those unconscious gray hairs,
soon to be bedabbled with blood), he went so far towards heaven as the
top of that mountain of St. Bernard without one touch of remorse. A
weight is on my breast. The only difference between me and the murderer
is, that his weight was guilt and mine is regret.
I haven't a word of news to tell you. I shouldn't write at all if I were
not the vainest man in the world, impelled by a belief that you will be
glad to hear from me, even though you hear no more than that I have
nothing to say. "Dombey" is doing wonders. It went up, after the
publication of the second number, over the thirty thousand. This is such
a very large sale, so early in the story, that I begin to think it will
beat all the rest. Keeley and his wife are making great preparations
for producing the Christmas story, and I have made them (as an old stage
manager) carry out one or two expensive notions of mine about scenery
and so forth--in particular a sudden change from the inside of the
doctor's house in the midst of the ball to the orchard in the
snow--which ought to tell very well. But actors are so bad, in general,
and the best are spread over so many theatres, that the "cast" is black
despair and moody madness. There is no one to be got for Marion but a
certain Miss ----, I am afraid--a pupil of Miss Kelly's, who acted in
the private theatricals I got up a year ago. Macready took her
afterwards to play Virginia to his Virginius, but she made nothing of
it, great as the chance was. I have promised to show her what I mean, as
near as I can, and if you will look into the English Opera House on the
morning of the 17th, 18th, or 19th of next month, between the hours of
eleven and four, you will find me in a very hot and dusty condition,
playing all the parts of the piece, to the immense diversion of all the
actors, actresses, scene-shifters, carpenters, musicians, chorus people,
tailors, dressmakers, scene-painters, and general ragamuffins of the
theatre.
Moore, the poet, is very ill--I fear dying. The last time I saw him was
immediately before I left London, and I thought him sadly changed and
tamed, but not much more so than such a man might be under the heavy
hand of time. I believe he suffered severe grief in the death of a son
some time ago. The first man I met in Paris was ----, who took hold of
me as I was getting into a coach at the door of the hotel. He hadn't a
button on his shirt (but I don't think he ever has), and you might have
sown what boys call "mustard and cress" in the dust on his coat. I have
not seen Lord Normanby yet, as we have only just got a house (the
queerest house in Europe!) to lay our heads in; but there seems reason
to fear that the growing dissensions between England and France, and the
irritation of the French king, may lead to the withdrawal of the
minister on each side of the Channel.
Have you cut down any more trees, played any more rubbers, propounded
any more teasers to the players at the game of Yes and No? How is the
old horse? How is the gray mare? How is Crab (to whom my respectful
compliments)? Have you tried the punch yet; if yes, did it succeed; if
no, why not? Is Mrs. Cerjat as happy and as well as I would have her,
and all your house ditto ditto? Does Haldimand play whist with any
science yet? Ha, ha, ha! the idea of his saying _I_ hadn't any! And are
those damask-cheeked virgins, the Miss ----, still sleeping on dewy rose
leaves near the English church?
Remember me to all your house, and most of all to its other head, with
all the regard and earnestness that a "numble individual" (as they
always call it in the House of Commons) who once travelled with her in a
car over a smooth country may charge you with. I have added two lines to
the little Christmas book, that I hope both you and she may not dislike.
Haldimand will tell you what they are. Kate and Georgy send their
kindest loves, and Kate is "going" to write "next week." Believe me
always, my dear Cerjat, full of cordial and hearty recollections of this
past summer and autumn, and your part in my part of them,
Very faithfully your Friend.
[Sidenote: Mrs. Charles Dickens.]