Valentia’s wedding comes on: perhaps you will be of the Party. [127b] I think it would be one more of
Sorrow than of Gladness to me: but perhaps that may be the case with most Bridals.
It is very cold here: ice of nights: but my Tulips and Anemones hold up still: and Nightingales sing. Somehow, I don’t care for those latter at Night. They ought to be in Bed like the rest of us. This seems talking for the sake of being singular: but I have always felt it, singular or not.
And I am yours always
E. F.G.
XLVIII.
[June, 1877.]
My dear Mrs. Kemble,
I only write now on the express condition (which I understand you to accept) that you will not reply till you are in Switzerland. I mean, of course, within any reasonable time. Your last Letter is not a happy one *: but the record of your first Memoir cannot fail to interest and touch me.
I surmise—for you do not say so—that you are alone in London now: then, you must get away as soon as you can; and I shall be very glad to hear from yourself that you are in some green Swiss Valley, with a blue Lake before you, and snowy mountain above.