Letters
Dover, 25th May 1820
My dearest Helena,
Man proposes, and God disposes. Or at least Lord Liverpool does. According to our esteemed prime minister, my private pursuits must play second fiddle to the nation’s needs.
I’m off to St. Petersburgh to solve a horrid diplomatic tangle for the Tsar. A horrid tangle that threatens to play havoc with the India trade, so you can imagine how the East India Company is up in arms about it all.
I have no idea how long I’ll be away. Liverpool said it could be as much as three months.
Damn it, Helena, the ship is about to sail to catch the tide. I have so much to say to you, most of which I know you’re not ready to hear. I’m sadly aware that we have years of past hurts to bridge.
Write to me at the embassy in St. Petersburgh.
Yours in haste.
West
P.S. I’m consigning Artemis to your care. If you won’t accept her as a gift, consider her a loan. No, as an expression of intentions that at present I’m too far away to make reality.
***
London 26th May 1820
Lord West,
I wish you safe and swift travels – straight to the devil!
You have no right to call me your dearest, and only a regrettable childhood association gives you the smallest right to use my Christian name. Don’t bother writing to me. I won’t read your letters. And I won’t set up a cozy correspondence as though we’re anything more than the merest acquaintances. The thought of the nation’s welfare in your careless hands gives me the shivers. It’s even less likely that I’d entrust my person to you.
Sir, as far as I’m concerned, the Russians are welcome to you.
With no respect whatsoever.
Helena Crewe
P.S. Most unwillingly, I’ve found Artemis a place in my stables. Inquiries indicate you have closed up your London house for the duration of your absence. I’m now making arrangements to send her down to Cranham. Your lack of care for her is yet another indication that you’re the same irresponsible boy you always were.
***
St. Petersburgh, 30th June 1820
My lovely Firebrand,
Your sweet missive was waiting when I reached St. Petersburgh yesterday. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your words had the bracing effect on my spirits that I’m sure you intended. In comparison, I found myself thinking fondly back on the hellish journey across the Continent.
I hope the letters I wrote on the way have warmed you up a little since then. It’s a good thing I like a challenge—which must be why they sent me on this plaguy quest to solve Russia’s quarrels in the first place.
We arrived last night, and so far I’ve had little chance to see the city. We’re billeted in a pink and white palace on the Neva, with icing sugar decoration and big china stoves in every room. It doesn’t get dark at night at all. There are canals everywhere. It’s a most elegant place. I wish you were here to share your acerbic opinions and remind me I haven’t wandered into a fairy tale. Although I imagine once the Tsar’s negotiations start, any magic will vanish in a puff of bureaucratic pomposity.
I also wish you were here because I find myself missing you and all your prickles. I’ll think of you as my dear little hedgehog. There, does that not melt your heart?
Tomorrow the ambassador presents me to his Imperial Majesty, the Tsar. I’m sure you’ll want to hear about that, so I hope you won’t tear up the letter the moment arrives.
With my dearest wishes.
West