Before you read any more, I wish you would take those tablets out of
your drawer, in which you have put a black mark against my name, and
erase it neatly. I don't deserve it, on my word I don't, though
appearances are against me, I unwillingly confess.
I had gone to Geneva, to recover from an uncommon depression of spirits
consequent on too much sitting over "Dombey" and the little Christmas
book, when I received your letter as I was going out walking, one
sunshiny, windy day. I read it on the banks of the Rhone, where it runs,
very blue and swift, between two high green hills, with ranges of snowy
mountains filling up the distance. Its cordial and unaffected tone gave
me the greatest pleasure--did me a world of good--set me up for the
afternoon, and gave me an evening's subject of discourse. For I talked
to "them" (that is, Kate and Georgy) about those bright mornings at the
Peschiere, until bedtime, and threatened to write you such a letter next
day as would--I don't exactly know what it was to do, but it was to be a
great letter, expressive of all kinds of pleasant things, and, perhaps
the most genial letter that ever was written.
From that hour to this, I have again and again and again said, "I'll
write to-morrow," and here I am to-day full of penitence--really sorry
and ashamed, and with no excuse but my writing-life, which makes me get
up and go out, when my morning work is done, and look at pen and ink no
more until I begin again.
Besides which, I have been seeing Paris--wandering into hospitals,
prisons, dead-houses, operas, theatres, concert-rooms, burial-grounds,
palaces, and wine-shops. In my unoccupied fortnight of each month, every
description of gaudy and ghastly sight has been passing before me in a
rapid panorama. Before that, I had to come here from Switzerland, over
frosty mountains in dense fogs, and through towns with walls and
drawbridges, and without population, or anything else in particular but
soldiers and mud. I took a flight to London for four days, and went and
came back over one sheet of snow, sea excepted; and I wish that had been
snow too. Then Forster (who is here now, and begs me to send his kindest
regards) came to see Paris for himself, and in showing it to him, away I
was borne again, like an enchanted rider. In short, I have had no rest
in my play; and on Monday I am going to work again. A fortnight hence
the play will begin once more; a fortnight after that the work will
follow round, and so the letters that I care for go unwritten.
Do you care for French news? I hope not, because I don't know any. There
is a melodrama, called "The French Revolution," now playing at the
Cirque, in the first act of which there is the most tremendous
representation of _a people_ that can well be imagined. There are
wonderful battles and so forth in the piece, but there is a power and
massiveness in the mob which is positively awful. At another theatre,
"Clarissa Harlowe" is still the rage. There are some things in it rather
calculated to astonish the ghost of Richardson, but Clarissa is very
admirably played, and dies better than the original to my thinking; but
Richardson is no great favourite of mine, and never seems to me to take
his top-boots off, whatever he does. Several pieces are in course of
representation, involving rare portraits of the English. In one, a
servant, called "Tom Bob," who wears a particularly English waistcoat,
trimmed with gold lace and concealing his ankles, does very good things
indeed. In another, a Prime Minister of England, who has ruined himself
by railway speculations, hits off some of our national characteristics
very happily, frequently making incidental mention of "Vishmingster,"
"Regeenstreet," and other places with which you are well acquainted.
"Sir Fakson" is one of the characters in another play--"English to the
Core;" and I saw a Lord Mayor of London at one of the small theatres the
other night, looking uncommonly well in a stage-coachman's waistcoat,
the order of the Garter, and a very low-crowned broad-brimmed hat, not
unlike a dustman.
I was at Geneva at the time of the revolution. The moderation and
mildness of the successful party were beyond all praise. Their appeals
to the people of all parties--printed and pasted on the walls--have no
parallel that I know of, in history, for their real good sterling
Christianity and tendency to promote the happiness of mankind. My
sympathy is strongly with the Swiss radicals. They know what Catholicity
is; they see, in some of their own valleys, the poverty, ignorance,
misery, and bigotry it always brings in its train wherever it is
triumphant; and they would root it out of their children's way at any
price. I fear the end of the struggle will be, that some Catholic power
will step in to crush the dangerously well-educated republics (very
dangerous to such neighbours); but there is a spirit in the people, or I
very much mistake them, that will trouble the Jesuits there many years,
and shake their altar steps for them.
This is a poor return (I look down and see the end of the paper) for
your letter, but in its cordial spirit of reciprocal friendship, it is
not so bad a one if you could read it as I do, and it eases my mind and
discharges my conscience. We are coming home, please God, at the end of
March. Kate and Georgy send their best regards to you, and their loves
to Mrs. and Miss Tagart and the children. _Our_ children wish to live
too in _your_ children's remembrance. You will be glad, I know, to hear
that "Dombey" is doing wonders, and that the Christmas book shot far
ahead of its predecessors. I hope you will like _the last chapter of No.
5_. If you can spare me a scrap of your handwriting in token of
forgiveness, do; if not, I'll come and beg your pardon on the 31st of
March.
Ever believe me,
Cordially and truly yours.
[Sidenote: Miss Dickens.]
VICTORIA HOTEL, EUSTON SQUARE,
_Thursday, March 4th, 1847._