The Autobiography of William Jerdan
Letitia Landon to William Jerdan, [22 June 1834]
“I began a letter to you yesterday, but on taking it
up this morning, I find it is, even to you, scarcely legible, so will begin it
over again. I have also another reason; I wrote on English paper, which is
heavier, and I have to pay the inland postage, and to-day my time ne vaut pas mes sous. We parted on
Thursday, though not at all too soon, much as I regretted it. You cannot think
how I missed you. I really thought the morning never would pass. It did pass,
however, and then I wished it back again. The wind blew directly in our teeth,
and your friend the captain talked doubtingly as to whether we should reach
Boulogne that night. Miss Turin was not out of bed the
whole day. It was impossible to read for three reasons—the sun, the wind, and
the noise. I suppose Lord Byron had the deck
of a steam-vessel in his mind when he said,
‘This is to be alone; This, this is solitude;’ |
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And when I endeavoured to get into a pleasant train of ![]()
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thought, it made me melancholy to think I was leaving my
native country. I was fairly dying with a desire of talking. At last I made a
sort of acquaintanceship with the proprietor of the rabbits, and really but for
his kindness I know not what I should have done afterwards. I am quite cured of
my wish to die for some time to come, as I really think that now I quite
understand what the sensation is. I was not sick—scarcely at all; but so faint!
As to what Boulogne is like from the sea, I cannot tell. I scarcely recollect
anything about my landing. Misfortune first recalled my scattered faculties. At
the Custom House you are searched. I had nothing; but poor Miss
Turin had a lace pelerine, &c., which was seized. Except
that, we have had no trouble. Yesterday is almost a blank. I was scarcely able
to rise from my bed. I only began to revive towards evening, when we walked out
on the pier. Nothing could exceed the beauty—the sea of that peculiar green,
like no colour that I ever saw before—a sky of a soft grey blue, without a
tint—a rich warmth rather than a tint—upon the west—the air so clear and
soft—and such a moon; ‘the luminous vibration’ of her reflection in
the water was not, as we say, silvery, but golden, like sunshine without its
heat or dazzling. The town is a pretty, old-looking town, seemingly surrounded
with English, all looking very vulgar. As for myself, I am a perfect horror.
The sun has scorched my face to such a hideous degree—forehead, nose, and
cheeks are all a ‘lively crimson,’ and swelled till I do not know
myself in the glass. The bread is delicious, so is the wine; but Mr.
Kempe’s house, where we are, is quite English. It is a
disappointment being so comfortable; but there is such a pretty little French
femme de chambre, with such a
high neck, such short petticoats, and ancles so neatly rounded. I find I can
make myself pretty well ![]()
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understood, and understand
perfectly. We could not get places to go to Paris till Sunday. Miss
Turin wanted to have taken the whole coupé, which would have been very comfortable; but
a gentleman has already one place, and it is scarcely worth while waiting till
Tuesday. Moreover, the conducteur
says that ‘c’est un Monsieur si
poli.’ How he has ascertained that fact I do not
know. It has a very odd effect hearing a strange language spoken under our
windows; and now I have told you everything that I can think of, which does not
amount to much. However, I have taken two things for granted, first, that you
would expect my first letter, and also that you would be glad to hear how I
was. I fear I shall never make a traveller. I am already beginning to count the
days for my return. Kind regards to all inquiring friends, and hoping that you
are missing me very much,
“I remain,
“Most truly yours,
Letitia Elizabeth Landon [L. E. L.] (1802-1838)
English poet who came to attention through the
Literary Gazette;
she published three volumes in 1825. She was the object of unflattering gossip prior to her
marriage to George Maclean in 1838.
