[_Menton, December, 1873._]
MY DEAR BAXTER,--At last, I must write. I must say straight out that I
am not recovering as I could wish. I am no stronger than I was when I
came here, and I pay for every walk, beyond say a quarter of a mile in
length, by one or two, or even three, days of more or less prostration.
Therefore let nobody be down upon me for not writing. I was very
thankful to you for answering my letter; and for the princely action of
Simpson in writing to me, I mean before I had written to him, I was
ditto to an almost higher degree. I hope one or another of you will
write again soon; and, remember, I still live in hope of reading Grahame
Murray's address.
I have not made a joke, upon my living soul, since I left London. O!
except one, a very small one, that I had made before, and that I very
timidly repeated in a half-exhilarated state towards the close of
dinner, like one of those dead-alive flies that we see pretending to be
quite light and full of the frivolity of youth in the first sunshiny
days. It was about mothers' meetings, and it was damned small, and it
was my ewe lamb--the Lord knows I couldn't have made another to save my
life--and a clergyman quarrelled with me, and there was as nearly an
explosion as could be. This has not fostered my leaning towards
pleasantry. I felt that it was a very cold, hard world that night.
My dear Charles, is the sky blue at Mentone? Was that your question?
Well, it depends upon what you call blue; it's a question of taste, I
suppose. Is the sky blue? You poor critter, you never saw blue sky worth
being called blue in the same day with it. And I should rather fancy
that the sun did shine I should. And the moon doesn't shine either. O
no! (This last is sarcastic.) Mentone is one of the most beautiful
places in the world, and has always had a very warm corner in my heart
since first I knew it eleven years ago.
_11th December._--I live in the same hotel with Lord X. He has black
whiskers, and has been successful in raising some kids; rather a
melancholy success; they are weedy looking kids in Highland clo'. They
have a tutor with them who respires Piety and that kind of humble
your-lordship's-most-obedient sort of gentlemanliness that noblemen's
tutors have generally. They all get livings, these men, and silvery hair
and a gold watch from their attached pupil; and they sit in the porch
and make the watch repeat for their little grandchildren, and tell them
long stories, beginning, "When I was private tutor in the family of,"
etc., and the grandchildren cock snooks at them behind their backs and
go away whenever they can to get the groom to teach them bad words.
Sidney Colvin will arrive here on Saturday or Sunday; so I shall have
someone to jaw with. And, seriously, this is a great want. I have not
been all these weeks in idleness, as you may fancy, without much
thinking as to my future; and I have a great deal in view that may or
may not be possible (that I do not yet know), but that is at least an
object and a hope before me. I cannot help recurring to seriousness a
moment before I stop; for I must say that living here a good deal alone,
and having had ample time to look back upon my past, I have become very
serious all over. If I can only get back my health, by God! I shall not
be as useless as I have been.--Ever yours, _mon vieux_,