To Mrs. Martin

26 Devonshire Street:  Wednesday, [about August 1851].

My ever dearest Mrs. Martin,—­I am not ungrateful after all, but I wanted to write a long letter to you (having much to say), and even now it is hard in this confusion to write a short one.  We have been overwhelmed with kindnesses, crushed with gifts, like the Roman lady; and literally to drink through a cup of tea from beginning to end without an interruption from the door-bell, we have scarcely attained to since we came.  For my part I refuse all dinner invitations except when our dear friend Mr. Kenyon ‘imposes himself as an exception,’ in his own words.  But even in keeping the resolution there are necessary fatigues; and, do you know, I have not been well since our arrival in England.  My first step ashore was into a puddle and a fog, and I began to cough before we reached London.  The quality of the air does not agree with me, that’s evident.  For nearly five years I have had no such cough nor difficulty of breathing, and my friends, who at first sight thought me looking well, must forbear all compliments for the future, I think, I get so much paler every day.  Next week we send Wilson to see her mother near Sheffield and the baby with her, which is a great stroke of fortitude in me; only what I can’t bear is to see him crying because she is gone away.  So we resolve on letting them both go together.  When she returns, ten days or a fortnight after, we shall have to think of going to Paris again; indeed Robert begins to be nervous about me—­which is nonsense, but natural enough perhaps.

In regard to Colwall, you are both, my very dear friends, the kindest that you can be.  Ah, but dearest, dearest Mrs. Martin, you can understand, with the same kindness that you use to me in other things.  There is only one event in my life which never loses its bitterness; which comes back on me like a retreating wave, going and coming again, which was and is my grief—­I never had but one brother who loved and comprehended me.  And so there is just one thought which would be unbearable if I went into your neighbourhood; and you won’t set it down, I am sure, as unpardonable weakness, much less as affectation, if I confess to you that I never could bear it.  The past would be too strong for me.  As to Hope End, it is nothing.  I have been happier in my own home since, than I was there and then.  But Torquay has made the neighbourhood of Hope End impossible to me.  I could not eat or sleep in that air.  You will forgive me for the weakness, I am certain.  You know a little, if not entirely, how we loved one another; how I was first with him, and he with me; while God knows that death and separation have no power over such love.

After all, we shall see you in Paris if not in England.  We pass this winter in Paris, in the hope of my being able to bear the climate, for indeed Italy is too far.  And if the winter does not disagree with me too much we mean to take a house and settle in Paris, so as to be close to you all, and that will be a great joy to me.  You will pass through Paris this autumn (won’t you?) on your way to Pau, and I shall see you.  I do long to see you and make you know my husband....