To Cp. Walton, Russia.
London, Jan. 19th, 17-.
Outside, Robert, the light is dimming. Through the panes of my drawing room window, rendered opaque by a mist of condensation, I can see the gray stone pathway marking the garden wherein you and I would often walk on brighter days and in fairer seasons. A wily north wind is stirring the bare branches of the trees and whipping the falling snow into a frenzied gigue, conjuring bleak and desolate images in my mind's eye of your surroundings; of ice and narrow crevasses, and overhead, an endless and unconquerable arctic sky. It must indeed be beautiful as you say in your letter; yet I cannot help but think it a perilous and antagonistic place to be, for older though as I am than you in years, and wiser for my age, I never was likewise gifted with greater vision and artistry of thought.
The days pass so much more tediously it seems than nature gave leave when I am forever so anxious to hear word from you. Never does a day pass without my praying for your health and safety, my dear Robert, yet the comfort that the Lord has chosen to grant me is slight relief for my disquiet. How can my heart be at rest, knowing that you are so far away and in so remote and untamed a wilderness? Tormented by apprehension, I can find little peace from my feelings of foreboding. If you come to be ill or missing, or your bold ship rent asunder by a terrible storm, how many weeks, months before the news of it would be to me related? What calamity might you be facing, even now as I compose this missive, that I am so shamefully unaware of? But no more of my dire predictions, for while we mortals have so much left to learn, we know enough not to tempt Fate with 'what if's.
The New Year festivities passed amicably; though, for want of your presence, it could not reach the criterion of being delightful. I now busy myself on engaging a good portion of my days with educating your five-year- old niece Lavinia on her letters, and I am pleased to recount that she is a quick-minded child. Equally talented is she, however, at cunningly leading me astray from what she considers the dull and aimless subject of our lessons. Each afternoon I leave an hour or so vacated that I may then spend in tender and affectionate discourse with both you and Jonathan: my seafaring brother and my beloved husband. Your letters to me I read over again and again that I might feel your souls to be nearer to my own.
Not yet a week has passed since Jonathan departed for the Continent on business affairs and already I feel such keen weakness of spirit and fortitude due to the gulf which separates us. His journey plan, which he informed me of with his usual sobriety, attests that he may well have need to stay in Amsterdam, and then Rome, for at least the remainder of the winter.
The children too, feel his absence, but to a lesser extent than I, so fixed are they in their own activities. Martin is busy with his tutor. When not occupied by his schooling, he devours the contents of our library with an inexhaustible appetite, having discovered, much to his father chagrin and bafflement, a love of poetry and literature not unlike the one that you have retained to this day. Those same stories of voyages, faraway lands, and the ocean which so enthralled you in your youth and which fostered in you the dream of exploration, now holds Martin's mind in a grip of iron.
And finally, dearest brother, a word of love and advice: let not folly but reason rule your intellect. Having tried hard without success to dissuade you from this dangerous enterprise, I can now provide only the voice of warning, and hope that this correspondence shall reach you in the near future.
You loving sister,
Margaret Saville
London, Jan. 19th, 17-.
Outside, Robert, the light is dimming. Through the panes of my drawing room window, rendered opaque by a mist of condensation, I can see the gray stone pathway marking the garden wherein you and I would often walk on brighter days and in fairer seasons. A wily north wind is stirring the bare branches of the trees and whipping the falling snow into a frenzied gigue, conjuring bleak and desolate images in my mind's eye of your surroundings; of ice and narrow crevasses, and overhead, an endless and unconquerable arctic sky. It must indeed be beautiful as you say in your letter; yet I cannot help but think it a perilous and antagonistic place to be, for older though as I am than you in years, and wiser for my age, I never was likewise gifted with greater vision and artistry of thought.
The days pass so much more tediously it seems than nature gave leave when I am forever so anxious to hear word from you. Never does a day pass without my praying for your health and safety, my dear Robert, yet the comfort that the Lord has chosen to grant me is slight relief for my disquiet. How can my heart be at rest, knowing that you are so far away and in so remote and untamed a wilderness? Tormented by apprehension, I can find little peace from my feelings of foreboding. If you come to be ill or missing, or your bold ship rent asunder by a terrible storm, how many weeks, months before the news of it would be to me related? What calamity might you be facing, even now as I compose this missive, that I am so shamefully unaware of? But no more of my dire predictions, for while we mortals have so much left to learn, we know enough not to tempt Fate with 'what if's.
The New Year festivities passed amicably; though, for want of your presence, it could not reach the criterion of being delightful. I now busy myself on engaging a good portion of my days with educating your five-year- old niece Lavinia on her letters, and I am pleased to recount that she is a quick-minded child. Equally talented is she, however, at cunningly leading me astray from what she considers the dull and aimless subject of our lessons. Each afternoon I leave an hour or so vacated that I may then spend in tender and affectionate discourse with both you and Jonathan: my seafaring brother and my beloved husband. Your letters to me I read over again and again that I might feel your souls to be nearer to my own.
Not yet a week has passed since Jonathan departed for the Continent on business affairs and already I feel such keen weakness of spirit and fortitude due to the gulf which separates us. His journey plan, which he informed me of with his usual sobriety, attests that he may well have need to stay in Amsterdam, and then Rome, for at least the remainder of the winter.
The children too, feel his absence, but to a lesser extent than I, so fixed are they in their own activities. Martin is busy with his tutor. When not occupied by his schooling, he devours the contents of our library with an inexhaustible appetite, having discovered, much to his father chagrin and bafflement, a love of poetry and literature not unlike the one that you have retained to this day. Those same stories of voyages, faraway lands, and the ocean which so enthralled you in your youth and which fostered in you the dream of exploration, now holds Martin's mind in a grip of iron.
And finally, dearest brother, a word of love and advice: let not folly but reason rule your intellect. Having tried hard without success to dissuade you from this dangerous enterprise, I can now provide only the voice of warning, and hope that this correspondence shall reach you in the near future.
You loving sister,
Margaret Saville