#21, p.1

MRS. R. L. S. TO R. L. S.

[Letter written at St. Marcel, a suburb of Marseille.

Dated in an unknown hand: Jan? 1883].

My dearest Louis,

Don't you dare to come back to this home of . . . until you are really better. I do not see how you are to come back at all under the circumstances-- deserting your family, and being hunted down and caught by your wife. I believe the heart of the proprietor of your hotel misgave him when he assured me that you had sortied, and he meant to give you a little chance. It was well meant. Are they still so friendly? And does it--but I know it does not, show in the bill? Madame desires me to say that *she* knows what is keeping you in Nice: it is another lady. Her conversation this morning meant to be most sympathetic, verged on impropriety. I told her that instead of amusing yourself with another lady you were weeping for me and home and your Wogg. She was greatly touched at that, and almost wept herself into her dustpan. Sam goes tomorrow, and tonight takes a preparatory cockle. I wish I knew how you are. I cannot even get a hint from your letters. Bob is a sweet being, is he not? By this time the Hammond will have either seen or written to Colvin, and that will be something. I know you left me Colvin's address, but I cannot find it, naturally. Just write it out in full for me to copy like a lesson, and I will write to him. Is it not dreadful that I cannot write to Hammond to save my life? I couldn't find his letter to send to you, but I will find it. Your Mother's letter I cannot find either. The truth is I am too tired and lazy to look. I have been making cakes and things for Sam to cocker him up in selfishness so that he [three lines of letter torn away here] I suppose Madame . . . came hunting you. Mind that you are very ill, too ill to live in St. Marcel. That is what I told Mademoiselle. You positively could and would not live

#21, p.2

here. Have you had your teeth done? Mind you do, you are a dear creature
and I love you, but I am not going to say I am lonesome lest you come
flying back to this den of death. I hope the old father will go to sleep
and not wake. I think he will. How little mind, education, any of the
things we think so much of have to do with being a human hero. [About
three lines of the letter torn away here]

MRS. R. L. S. TO R. L. S.

[Letter written at Marseille, on stationery of the Terminus Hotel in that city (in January, 1883?)].

My darling, Here we are, at the hotel as you see, all right, but a little tired, and a very uncomfortable diaphragm. There were some people on the train, the typical Yankee, who was English and impertinent beyond belief, his wife, a melon belly, who calmly took my paper from me, spent two hours reading it, and then handed it to her daughter. She refused to let me have a foot warmer because her feet were not cold; however, I insisted, and had it, much to her anger. She fastened the window at her side of the carriage for fear of taking cold, and refused to allow my window to be shut even when the rain was driving into my eyes. Her husband said he thought it looked so funny to see me start when a big drop struck me directly in the eye. I shut it with my own hand, and stood up against it for a second time. At last I broke down and gave up, but I do not think I am any the worse for it. A Frenchman went to sleep with a newspaper in his hand, which M. belly abstracted with violence, and the Frenchman became idiotic with dismay and terror. There was another man in a corner, who went out a moment. Mr M. belly told me that it was an American, and sneered with great disgust at the thought. I told him I was positive that he was American. His wife was amazed at that. Afterwards the supposed American came to me and said that he was Colvin's friend and his name was Basil Hammond, and he was also Symonds's friend. He insists upon staying here tomorrow to go to Michell and Bellason with me, so you need not write to Bellason. He says he will work him off. And he will find out through Michell how I will pack and send our things. I say that the divine garden drops heavenly manna all around his friends footsteps. Mr H. says he was apalled at the melons impertinance. Only think! Of the books Sam got there were two, only, first volumes of the lady Maud. Sam will send you one at once, you can, if possible, change it for a second volume, it is rather disappointing, that; Sam says don't forget the Doneys. I say I forgot the blue stones, wont you get them for me. Please do, for I want them and I will be sorry afterwards if I dont get

them. That franc piece (Sam says) which you gave him, is exactly like a five franc piece, a years difference in date, but with a more perfect impression of Charles the 19th head, so he will keep the five franc piece. I hope you are well you dear. A note has just come to me from the Nice police saying that you are there. Suppose I had waited for them. Sam sends his love. We heard about 12... giving the silly call all at once. Fanny.

#22, p.1

MRS. R. L. S. TO R. L. S.

[Letter written on stationery of White Hart Hotel, Salisbury,
Nearly Opposite the Cathedral, between 1885 and 1887]

My dear Louis,

I was beginning to get frightened that I did not hear. I knew, of
course that you would soon begin with a hemorrhage: that was a natural
consequence of your illness, and that has a strong reason for taking
your father away. He, dear old man, has behaved _exceedingly_ well, and
has been most kind and thoughtful. He has only been a little cross once,
and that was most justifiable. John had gone out to take a walk without
saying a word to any body, and in his pocket the essential pill of life,
the time for taking which had passed by two hours before John's return.
I was angry with John myself. Yesterday we went to Stone Henge, and even
your father confessed that we had a most delightful drive, and that it was
all very interesting, we stopped at Amesbury coming back, for lunch.

I was a good deal damped to find they had nothing but chops in the house,
but your father rose up nobly and said that there was nothing like boiled
eggs; he had learned that from Walter Ferrier long ago. He drank some
beer, and ate a couple of eggs boiled just to suit him, and was altogether
quite satisfied. I was amused last evening. He was speaking of his
dreadful sufferings saying that _no_ medicine would or could act upon his
bowels; he had been days and days in that condition and it was a most
gloomy lookout. "But," said I, "did Scott's pill that you took last night
fail entirely?" "The same thing," he returned, "it has only acted twice
today!" After he got over his anger with John he talked again more like
himself, and said that after all he ought to [be] thankful that he almost

#22, p.2

never knew what pain meant, which, from what he saw, was what not many men
of his age could say. We went this morning to see a most charming little
spinnet [sic] that would be a love in our drawing room. All the works
could be put in new in proper order, and exactly like the original for
twenty pounds. The whole thing finished, I mean, for twenty pounds. It
is very low to sit at, a little birdy tinkle, and not larger than five
octaves. Henley could not play upon it at all; I wonder if it would not
be worth while to have it? We must have paid nearly that for the piano
already.

I enclose a letter from your mother which has just come. I think we
might go back tomorrow (Friday) sometime. One night alone with John at
Kronhenlog should do your father no harm, and he need not tire you in that inn.
As I am coming so soon, I shall not write any more now. With much love,

F.

I can have the empty case of the spinnet, all dirty, and a hinge broken,
for two pounds. It has to be sent to London to be fitted as they cannot
do it in Salisbury. A piano man came to look at it for me, at a cost of
1/6. Perhaps I could get it put in order in Bournemouth, but it is not
likely. If you wanted, I think the cheapest thing is to let it go to
London from here, and then straight back to Bournemouth. I thought perhaps
that was the kind of noise you liked on a piano. The piano man showed me
what it would sound like, and it seemed rather nice, small, and quaint.
This is to Valentine as well as yourself. The spinnet is of walnut the
color of the cabinet, with a good many brass hinges on it; the black & white
keys go the opposite way from the piano, darks being natural, though as they
should all be new you could have them the same as the piano if you asked.
I think I shall tell Mrs. Jenkins I will take her . . . What thinks Joe?

#23, p.1

MRS. R. L. S. TO R. L. S.

[First 2 pp. of a letter, written in London? between 1885 & 1887].

My dear Louis,

I add a note to enclose with Valentine's--I will change the envelope, come to think of it, in case she should have gone to the farm. I hope she has. I am still ... with great vigor. I asked the head man yesterday about you, and he said he should advise against it. I hope you will like the new shape into which they have pressed my head. Please write to Ruedi about the hair stuff, as they have worn all the hair off the top of my head. We were delighted with the flowers. Yesterday we heard that Mrs. Johnson had been turned out of her lodgings, and not knowing where her husband was (an old story, it seems) had quartered herself and child at Louisa's, Bob being away. Gately begged me to go and turn her out. I went then with an empty trunk, pretending to have just arrived, and said I had come to stay. She, Mrs. J, said, when she arrived, that she was very ill. Louisa sent for Merrill who said that she was not really ill so that a hospital would receive her, and yet was too ill to leave short of Monday. She has a rich mother & friends at Liverpool, so I gave Louisa money enough to buy tickets for herself and the child she has with her, in that place, which has left me with only a pound. On Monday, I told Louisa I should return and if Mrs. J was still there she had to give me the money back, and I should wash my hands of the whole of them for good. Louisa said if I could only see the poor creature I would not be so hard upon her. I said "let me see her, and judge, for I do not want to be too hard upon anybody." She came in with a languishing society air, a bouncing hearty lass as ever

#23, p.2

I saw, with painted eyes, dyed hair, a brazen face--a very low prostitute indeed, with her hands covered with rings a fine large diamond among them.

I suppose Bob will be angry with me for interfering, though they say that the last time she came he took her by [the] shoulders and shook her with fury, and turned her out. Gately begged me so hard to do something that [the letter breaks off here]

#24, p.1

MRS. R. L. S. TO R. L. S.

[Letter written in Bournemouth between 1885 and 1887]

My dear Louis,

I went to see the doctor today; as soon as I went in he cried out "I know what you have come to say: that I have driven you mad with salysen." I asked how that truth had come to his ears, and he said that Dr. Scott had told him so. He wanted me to go on with it, but I flatly refused, and he proposed then that I should stay here for a week, taking what he gives me with no salysen, and then at the end of the week he will be able to tell something about it. As I went away he said "I suppose it was a little imagination—and a little salysen." He also wants to see if my kidneys are wrong. He thinks they are not, that it is only rheumatism. He says that my nerves are entirely ruined, and always will be, and that I am full of *the unwell* but that he hopes to more or less cure. He says that Sam's acne would not have got any better without treatment until he is thirty; it is an affliction of the skin follicles and has nothing at all to do with health. Sam, like your mother was enchanted with him, so I suppose I was wrong. Sam especially liked his screaming with laughter as Bob used to do, but to me it is a little weird. Sam says "say something about the typewriter." The typewriter stands between him and his wits. It is really a lovely and easy little machine, and I think will be a real acquisition to all concerned. I shall learn it, as I am sure will you. Tomorrow we lunch with Sargent. Sam and I do nothing but eat large quantities of butchers meat. When we first came all the people were shocked at my looks, but already I see a change; it occurs to no one to say whether I look well or ill. Last night we went to the Court theater and saw a very funny, very vulgar play, and enjoyed it

#24, p.2

exceedingly. Sam is beating my life out to buy another tac, a long-haired
blue fellow, old Kitty's color. I do not think I will, knowing nothing of
the gentleman's character. How is your father? I think much of him, dear
old man. Everybody asks for him with great interest. Whatever you do
keep away from his hotel. There is a north pole draught inside the door
that would kill you "by the first intention". Dear Ida [Taylor] was here
today looking very sweet and pretty. We both send dear love to you and
Valentine and Ginger. Especially to Ginger. Ask him if he would like a
blue companion.

F.

#25, p.1

MRS. R. L. S. TO R. L. S.

[Letter written between 1885 and 1887]

My dear Louis,

Perhaps it is better to be a living pen than a dead author but I don't know. What a hideous picture of you poor Olive presents. It is most revolting. Mrs. Henley says she will now swear "by the living pen!" It is comic, the summary disposal of me; "she owned a cottage, and had a son of ten or twelve." What is to be done about Lydie? I was more glad than I can tell to hear that there is nothing seriously wrong with my poor Joe. I wish we knew how to make her life less dreary. If she were a fool it would not be so difficult; but then we should not be so fond of her. I don't know what to say about the mattress. I hate to distress her mother, and yet she might one day reproach us that we did not. I think you had better talk it over with Valentine. I am resting today (not feeling very well) from Sunday. I had permission to rest. I am covered with black and blue marks. I do trust that they spank the dear monument. If they have done that, then I believe in any of their miracles. They say that I shall never be able to walk very well as there is a deposit in my knee joints--and that they cannot remove [it]. If the box is not yet sent off an old black skirt (not the body) with woolen lace down the sides (Valentine knows) might be put in. Otherwise I shall have to buy one as Gately is very stiff about the black. I had to buy a ... costume & shoes, but I got them cheap at the stores. Take good care of the Rodin letter. There is nothing wrong with the corn. It should break out in that way. It should have a seedy plume on top, and tassells hanging out of the fruit. Send me one fruit just as it is. Pick it off the main stalk, but do not

#25, p.2

break the stalk. I want to see what it is like. Henley is writing to you, so I will not mention the things he is speaking of. Teddie has signed to go to America, and Henley's heart is broken. I was very sorry for him. How is my scenario? Dear love to you all from the owner of a cottage (so called) the mother of a boy ten or twelve, & the wife of a living pen.

If you can find the little address book look out the number of the . . .
ticket and send it to me _at once_ as I am in great need of it. . . . . .