16th October 1817.
So you do not come to-night love, nor any night; you are always away, and this absence is long and becomes each day more dreary. Poor Curran! so he is dead, and a sod on his breast, as four years ago I heard him prophesy would be the case within that year.
Nothing is done, you say in your letter, and indeed I do not expect anything will be done these many months. This, if you continued well, would not give me so much pain, except on Alba’s account. If she were with her father, I could wait patiently, but the thought of what may come “between the cup and the lip”—between now and her arrival at Venice—is a heavy burthen on my soul. He may change his mind, or go to Greece, or to the devil; and then what happens?
My dearest Shelley, be not, I entreat you, too self-negligent; yet what can you do? If you were here, you might retort that question upon me; but when I write to you I indulge false hopes of some miraculous answer springing up in the interval. Does not Longdill[30] treat you ill? he makes out long bills and does nothing. You say nothing of the late arrest, and what may be the consequences, and may they not detain you? and may you not be detained many months? for Godwin must not be left unprovided. All these things make me run over the months, and know not where to put my finger and say—during this year your Italian journey shall commence. Yet when I say that it is on Alba’s account that I am anxious, this is only when you are away, and with too much faith I believe you to be well. When I see you, drooping and languid, in pain, and unable to enjoy life, then on your account I ardently wish for bright skies and Italian sun.
You will have received, I hope, the manuscript that I sent yesterday in a parcel to Hookham. I am glad to hear that the printing goes on well; bring down all that you can with you.
If we were free and had no anxiety, what delight would Godwin’s visit give me; as it is, I fear that it will make me dreadfully miserable. Cannot you come with him? By the way you write I hardly expect you this week, but is it really so?
I think Alba’s remaining here exceedingly dangerous, yet I do not see what is to be done. Your babes are well. Clara already replies to her nurse’s caresses by smiles, and Willy kisses her with great tenderness.—Your affectionate
Mary.
P.S.—I wish you would purchase a gown for Milly,[31] with a little note with it from Marianne,[32] that it may appear to come from her. You can get one, I should think, for 12s. or 14s.; but it must be stout; such a kind of one as we gave to the servant at Bath.
Willy has just said good-night to me; he kisses the paper and says good-night to you. Clara is asleep.