Volume Iii Part 42 (1/2)

BROADSTAIRS, KENT, _Sat.u.r.day, August 23rd, 1851._

MY DEAR STONE,

A ”dim vision” occurs to me, arising out of your note; also presents itself to the brains of my other half.

Supposing you should find, on looking onward, a possibility of your being houseless at Michaelmas, what do you say to using Devons.h.i.+re Terrace as a temporary encampment? It will not be in its usual order, but we would take care that there should be as much useful furniture of all sorts there, as to render it unnecessary for you to move a stick. If you should think this a convenience, then I should propose to you to pile your furniture in the middle of the rooms at Tavistock House, and go out to Devons.h.i.+re Terrace two or three weeks _before_ Michaelmas, to enable my workmen to commence their operations. This might be to our mutual convenience, and therefore I suggest it. Certainly the sooner I can begin on Tavistock House the better. And possibly your going into Devons.h.i.+re Terrace might relieve you from a difficulty that would otherwise be perplexing.

I make this suggestion (I need not say to _you_) solely on the chance of its being useful to both of us. If it were merely convenient to me, you know I shouldn't dream of it. Such an arrangement, while it would cost you nothing, would perhaps enable you to get your new house into order comfortably, and do exactly the same thing for me.

Ever affectionately.

P.S.--I antic.i.p.ated your suggestion some weeks ago, when I found I couldn't build a stable. I said I ought to have permission to take the piece of ground into my garden, which was conceded. Loaden writes me this morning that he thinks he can get permission to build a stable one storey high, without a chimney. I reply that on the whole I would rather enlarge the garden than build a stable with those restrictions.

[Sidenote: Mr. Henry Austin.]

BROADSTAIRS, _Sunday, September 7th, 1851._

MY DEAR HENRY,

I am in that state of mind which you may (once) have seen described in the newspapers as ”bordering on distraction;” the house given up to me, the fine weather going on (soon to break, I daresay), the painting season oozing away, my new book waiting to be born, and

NO WORKMEN ON THE PREMISES,

along of my not hearing from you!! I have torn all my hair off, and constantly beat my unoffending family. Wild notions have occurred to me of sending in my own plumber to do the drains. Then I remember that you have probably written to prepare _your_ man, and restrain my audacious hand. Then Stone presents himself, with a most exasperatingly mysterious visage, and says that a rat has appeared in the kitchen, and it's his opinion (Stone's, not the rat's) that the drains want ”compo-ing;” for the use of which explicit language I could fell him without remorse. In my horrible desire to ”compo” everything, the very postman becomes my enemy because he brings no letter from you; and, in short, I don't see what's to become of me unless I hear from you to-morrow, which I have not the least expectation of doing.

Going over the house again, I have materially altered the plans--abandoned conservatory and front balcony--decided to make Stone's painting-room the drawing-room (it is nearly six inches higher than the room below), to carry the entrance pa.s.sage right through the house to a back door leading to the garden, and to reduce the once intended drawing-room--now school-room--to a manageable size, making a door of communication between the new drawing-room and the study. Curtains and carpets, on a scale of awful splendour and magnitude, are already in preparation, and still--still--

NO WORKMEN ON THE PREMISES.

To pursue this theme is madness. Where are you? When are you coming home? Where is the man who is to do the work? Does he know that an army of artificers must be turned in at once, and the whole thing finished out of hand? O rescue me from my present condition. Come up to the scratch, I entreat and implore you!

I send this to Laet.i.tia to forward,

Being, as you well know why, Completely floored by N. W., I _Sleep_.

I hope you may be able to read this. My state of mind does not admit of coherence.

Ever affectionately.

P.S.--NO WORKMEN ON THE PREMISES!

Ha! ha! ha! (I am laughing demoniacally.)

[Sidenote: Mr. Henry Austin.]

BROADSTAIRS, _Sunday, September 21st, 1851._

MY DEAR HENRY,