Читать книгу The Tsar's Window - Lucy Hamilton Hooper - Страница 4
Оглавление
CHAPTER II.
LETTERS FROM THOMAS AND GRACE CATHERWOOD.
London, Nov. 27.
MY DEAR MOTHER,—I have not quite recovered my land legs, and Grace is completely knocked up after our long sea-voyage. We were eleven days on the water, and though it is humiliating to confess it, I was absurdly sick. Grace was wretched in body and mind, and Dorris did the cheerfulness for the whole party. She was irrepressible, and for two days was the only lady at table. We landed yesterday in Liverpool, and came directly here, where we have found nothing but fog and rain. Grace has succumbed to her miseries, and a bad attack of homesickness. There is a suspicious redness about her eyes, and she avoids looking me directly in the face. She told me that nothing would induce her to write a letter to-day, and has retired to her room with a novel to cry; but I shall take her on to Paris in a day or two, where I hope Worth's influence will revive her.
I don't care much for London at this season, myself, and if Grace were not homesick, I might be so, but I feel obliged to differ from my wife. It ruins women to agree with them, which is the reason, dear mother, I have always given you so much trouble.
Dorris has set her energies doggedly to work to study up Russia, and is buried in books which treat of that subject. I never saw such a woman for finding amusement in trifles, and for picking up information on all occasions, from all sorts of people. I only hope she will not set up for an intellectual woman. She is the best traveller I ever saw.
This note will inform you of our safe arrival, and I dare say Grace will write from Paris, and tell you about the fashions. I have considered your feelings in writing this, and have refrained from slang. You should give me a great deal of credit, for I deserve it.
Grace and Dorris send love, and so does
Your affectionate son,
Thomas.
Paris, Nov. 30.
My dear sister,—Tom is really too dreadful. He was prowling all over the city last night until after twelve o'clock, with that young Mr. Lane whose father used to be in love with Aunt Emma. I wanted him to write to his mother, but he said that he wrote to her in London, and he would go off. Dorris only laughs at him, but I shall use my influence to get him started for your country next week, if our dresses are finished. I am longing to see you, and your dear little girl, and your Russian home; but if I have my gray brocade trimmed with fringe, it will take two days longer, for the fringe has to be made, and Dorris says it will be hideous without the fringe; so our departure depends on my decision about that dress. These dressmakers are really too aggravating.
We had such a rough passage across the channel that I was very glad of my new ulster which I bought in London. Tom's mother sent you a mince-pie, for she remembered that you used to like them. I took it out of my trunk when we were in London, to make room for Karamsin's History of Russia, in six volumes, which Dorris bought, and packed in with my collars and cuffs, so you can imagine how they looked when we got here! The pie was done up in brown paper, and Tom thought that the parcel contained his slippers, and he put all his boots and shoes on top of it; it looks now as if some one had been sitting on it, but I shall keep it for you.
Dorris does nothing but read, and she says she does not believe that old Mr. Lane was in love with Aunt Emma. Tom is so much handsomer than he used to be, I can hardly wait for you to see him.
Dorris looks as young as I do. She does n't seem to care about getting married since that sad engagement of hers, though that was eight years ago. I never could understand how she could fall in love with a man who was dying of consumption. Tom never has had an ill day since I married him except last summer when he was poisoned,—and how cross he was!
Dorris behaves just like a widow. Some widows don't act much like it, though. That Mrs. Miller used to flirt awfully with Tom before he was engaged to me, but he never thought she was pretty. I think I shall have the fringe on that dress. The milliner has brought some bonnets for me to look at, so I must leave my letter.
Kiss your baby for me, and give my love to Nicolas.
Your loving sister,
Grace Catherwood.
Berlin, Dec. 8.
Dear mother,—We are on our way to the North Pole, having left the fascinations of Paris behind us. I made a discovery in that city which is worth a fortune to me. I found the emperor of all tailors, a man perfect in his profession, which is a thing you can rarely see. You will be delighted with the results of our acquaintance when you behold them.
Grace has purchased every article which was recommended to her to keep us warm on the journey, and the consequence is, my big black bag is completely filled with her traps. It flew open at the Paris station, and startling were the secrets which were disclosed.
We are all delighted at the prospect of getting out of this beastly hole. We have been in a chronic state of shivering ever since we landed in Europe, and Grace is looking forward to getting warm in St. Petersburg, for she says that Alice never mentions the cold in her letters, so she does not believe it can be as cold as London and Paris. Never say anything more to me, my dear mother, about the beauty of this Berlin street, "Unter den Linden," or some such name. It does not compare with Fifth Avenue. The "Linden" is the poorest apology for a tree that I ever beheld. I shall be glad to take my departure to-night, and as I have some accounts to settle with the courier, I must leave you now.
Your devoted son,
Thomas.
