Lucy comes back next Saturday. She met, she tells me in her last letter, Lady Harrowby,[101] and Newman the Russian, and Pahlen the Prussian, and Lady Ebrington[102] behind her parasol and Lord Ebrington, and Lady Mary Ryder, and Ed. Montagu; in short, as she says, the whole cavalcade of Click.
We have just now my cousins Cootes[103] staying with us, I have always a sort of nervous fear of seeing them vanish, they seem so like bad visions.
Miss FitzGerald to Miss Eden.
October 3, 1819.
I cannot say how much your long satisfactory letter delighted me, that’s something like a letter. I ought not to have been surprised at the tidings you give of dearest Mary, for when people marry there is nothing we may not expect them to do, and it is our own fault if we allow ourselves to be astonished at anything.
Lucy came back yesterday week, fat, well, in high force, delighted with all she has seen and done; in short, for you can bear with my obliquities, her spirits were a peg or two higher than my own, which trod me down very much at first....
I have been spending a day at Bushy with the Mansfields.[104] I like her infinitely the best of the two, she really is sensible, amiable, and as clever as need be. He seems to have a cloudy unhappy temper, and some pretensions which he has not ability enough to either disguise or excuse.
Mr. Rose[105] was there (the Court of Beasts Rose), and I like him much better on acquaintance. With wretched health he manages to keep up an even flow of spirits. He appears to indulge himself in his whims and oddities for his own amusement, and to divert his mind from dwelling upon the sufferings of his body, which makes one very lenient towards his jokes, poor man! even when they are not good. He seems amiable, and when one can get him to speak seriously his conversation is very charming, for with great information he is perfectly natural and easy; it is very odd he should like dirty jokes. I wonder whether it is inherent, or merely the consequence of bad health which catches at anything for relief and distraction.
What are your plans? When do you go your travels, or has not the Comical Dog told you anything about it, but means to have you off at a moment’s warning, bundled into the carriage, with one arm in your sleeve, and only one shoe on?
What do you think? Is there any hope of your going to Bowood? Are you to live all October in the papered up rooms in Grosvenor St. with brown paper draperies?