[Postmark: August 6, 1846]
Wednesday Night.
Dearest, you did not have my letter, I think — the letter
I wrote on Tuesday, yesterday. These iniquitous postpeople
— who are not likely to see in a vision (like your fat
prophet) the devil cast out of them for the good of the
world ! Indeed it is too bad.
To answer first the question — (You are wise beyond me
in all things . . let me say that in a parenthesis ! ) I will
tell you what I know. Stormie told me the other day that
I had eight thousand pounds in the funds ; of which the
interest comes to me quarterly, the money being in two
different per cents . . (do you understand better than I
do ?) and from forty to forty-five pounds Papa gives me
every three months, the income tax being first deducted.
It may be eight thousand pounds, or more or less, . . it
is difficult to ask about it . . but what comes to me every
three months, I know certainly. Then there is the ship
money . . a little under two hundred a year on an average
. . which I have not used at all (but must for the future
use), and the annual amount of which therefore, has been
added to the Fund-money until this year, when I was
directed to sign a paper which invested it (i.e. the annual
return) in the Eastern Railroad. That investment is to
yield a large percentage, I heard, and Stormie tried to
persuade me to ask Papa to place everything I had, on the
same railroad. Papa had said down-stairs the other day
that it would be best so — and I ought to remind him to do
it, repeated Stormie, as it would very much increase . .
increase by doubling almost . . the available income ; and
without the slightest risk of any kind. But I could not
take the advice under the circumstances — I could not
mention such a word as money to him, giving the appearance
even of trouble about my affairs, now. And he would
wonder how I should take a fancy suddenly to touch such
matters with the end of my finger. Then there are the ten
shares in Drury Lane Theatre — out of which comes
nothing.
You wonder how I can spend, perhaps, the quarterly
forty pounds and upward that come to me ? I do spend
them. Yet let me hold you from being frightened, and
teach you to consider how easy it is to spend money, and
not upon oneself. Never in any one year of my life, even
when I was well, have my expenses in dress (as I told Mr.
Kenyon the other day) exceeded twenty pounds. My
greatest personal expense lately has been the morphine.
Still the money flows out of window and door — you will
understand how it flows like a stream. I have not the gift
(if it is a gift) of making dresses . . in my situation, here.
Elsewhere, all changes, you know. You shall not call me
extravagant — you will see. If I was ‘ surprised ‘ at what
you told me of Mrs. Norton, it was only because I had had
other ideas of her — for my own gown cost five shillings
. . the one I had on when you spoke. So she was better
than I by a mere sixpence. Ah — it came into my head
afterwards that my being ‘ surprised ‘ about Mrs. Norton,
might argue my own extravagance. See ! —
But the Goddess Dulness inspires me to write about it
and about it, to no end. I say briefly at last, that
whatever I have, is mine . . and for use in Italy, as in
England. Papa has managed . . has taken a power of attorney,
to manage for me kindly . . but everything is in my name —
and if it were not, he could not for a moment think of
interfering with an incontestable right of property. Still,
I do see a difficulty at the beginning — I mean that, as I
am here, I could not put my hand out for a large sum, such
as would be necessary perhaps. I have had a great deal to
pay and do lately, — and the next quarter will not be until
the middle of October. Still there would be something,
but less than is necessary. We might either wait on the
road till the required sum were called for and sent — or
get a hundred pounds advanced by someone for a few weeks
until everything was settled . . which would be pleasanter,
if possible. Poor Papa’s first act will be to abandon his
management. Ah, may God grant him to do it rather
angrily than painfully.
A letter, I have written to you, like the chiming of two
penny pieces — a miserable letter ! And there is much to
tell you . . but nothing painful . . do not fear. The
Hedleys dined here, and Mrs. Hedley has been sitting with
me . . keeping me from writing. Good-night now it must
be ! When you write so of caring to be with me, my heart
seems to rock with pleasure. Shouldn’t this letter have
been written on ‘Change, and isn’t it unworthy of all you
are to me . . and even of all I am to you ? But such
things must be, after a fashion. Have I told you right,
dearest? does it make any sense, altogether? You are
wise in little subjects as in great ones, and I will let
you make me wiser if you can. And there is no clay in dear
Mr. Kenyon . . but just the drop in the chrystal you tell me
of — only you shall not divine by him, my Druid, or you will
sit by yourself under the oak tree to the end of the day !
Wholly yours and ever — in the greatest haste —