I received your letter at breakfast-time this morning with a pleasure my
eloquence is unable to express and your modesty unable to conceive. It
is so delightful to be remembered at this time of the year in your house
where we have been so happy, and in dear old Lausanne, that we always
hope to see again, that I can't help pushing away the first page of
"Copperfield" No. 10, now staring at me with what I may literally call a
blank aspect, and plunging energetically into this reply.
What a strange coincidence that is about Blunderstone House! Of all the
odd things I have ever heard (and their name is Legion), I think it is
the oddest. I went down into that part of the country on the 7th of
January last year, when I was meditating the story, and chose
Blunderstone for the sound of its name. I had previously observed much
of what you say about the poor girls. In all you suggest with so much
feeling about their return to virtue being cruelly cut off, I concur
with a sore heart. I have been turning it over in my mind for some time,
and hope, in the history of Little Em'ly (who _must_ fall--there is no
hope for her), to put it before the thoughts of people in a new and
pathetic way, and perhaps to do some good. You will be glad to hear, I
know, that "Copperfield" is a great success. I think it is better liked
than any of my other books.
We had a most delightful time at Watsons' (for both of them we have
preserved and strengthened a real affection), and were the gayest of the
gay. There was a Miss Boyle staying in the house, who is an excellent
amateur actress, and she and I got up some scenes from "The School for
Scandal" and from "Nickleby," with immense success. We played in the old
hall, with the audience filled up and running over with servants. The
entertainments concluded with feats of legerdemain (for the performance
of which I have a pretty good apparatus, collected at divers times and
in divers places), and we then fell to country dances of a most frantic
description, and danced all night. We often spoke of you and Mrs. Cerjat
and of Haldimand, and wished you were all there. Watson and I have some
fifty times "registered a vow" (like O'Connell) to come to Lausanne
together, and have even settled in what month and week. Something or
other has always interposed to prevent us; but I hope, please God, most
certainly to see it again, when my labours-Copperfieldian shall have
terminated.
You have no idea what that hanging of the Mannings really was. The
conduct of the people was so indescribably frightful, that I felt for
some time afterwards almost as if I were living in a city of devils. I
feel, at this hour, as if I never could go near the place again. My
letters have made a great to-do, and led to a great agitation of the
subject; but I have not a confident belief in any change being made,
mainly because the total abolitionists are utterly reckless and
dishonest (generally speaking), and would play the deuce with any such
proposition in Parliament, unless it were strongly supported by the
Government, which it would certainly not be, the Whig motto (in office)
being "_laissez aller_." I think Peel might do it if he came in. Two
points have occurred to me as being a good commentary to the objections
to my idea. The first is that a most terrific uproar was made when the
hanging processions were abolished, and the ceremony shrunk from Tyburn
to the prison door. The second is that, at this very time, under the
British Government in New South Wales, executions take place _within the
prison walls_, with decidedly improved results. (I am waiting to explode
this fact on the first man of mark who gives me the opportunity.)
Unlike you, we have had no marriages or giving in marriage here. We
might have had, but a certain young lady, whom you know, is hard to
please. The children are all well, thank God! Charley is going to Eton
the week after next, and has passed a first-rate examination. Kate is
quite well, and unites with me and Georgina in love to you and Mrs.
Cerjat and Haldimand, whom I would give a good deal (tell him) to have
several hours' contradiction of at his own table. Good heavens, how
obstinate we would both be! I see him leaning back in his chair, with
his right forefinger out, and saying, "Good God!" in reply to some
proposition of mine, and then laughing.
All in a moment a feeling comes over me, as if you and I have been still
talking, smoking cigars outside the inn at Martigny, the piano sounding
inside, and Lady Mary Taylour singing. I look into my garden (which is
covered with snow) rather dolefully, but take heart again, and look
brightly forward to another expedition to the Great St. Bernard, when
Mrs. Cerjat and I shall laugh as I fancy I have never laughed since, in
one of those one-sided cars; and when we shall again learn from
Haldimand, in a little dingy cabaret, at lunch-time, how to secure a
door in travelling (do you remember?) by balancing a chair against it on
its two hind-legs.
I do hope that we may all come together again once more, while there is
a head of hair left among us; and in this hope remain, my dear Cerjat,
Your faithful Friend.
1850.