From H. E. Litchfield to Emma Darwin 13 [September 1871]

Dearest Mother—

I think you'll like t have a catalogue raisonée of my ailments—that is of my state—for ailments I have none. It struck me as I was taking a solitary loaf in the woods (for R. has got a headache, I'm sorry to say) that you might think it funny my making such a fuss about being tired & imagine there was something behind we didn't choose t mention.

[Will] I had one access of tire at Canterbury—a moderate one. I got better of that & went t Dover feeling well—then I had another access of tire wh. stopped us crossing on the very calmest day the sea ever brewed. I got better of that & went slap away to Beckenried as fresh as possible—came on up here & was only quite reasonably tired on Saturday. Then on Sunday after attempting to get up I suddenly got t feel quite utterly collapsed—cold & sort of half fainting exhausted feeling I never had before except in an illness— I confess we both thought I was in for something that morning but by evening I got better & my pulse rose to 58 (I sh^d think it must have been 40 in the morning) & there was no fewer so we felt comfortable again—but I have felt ever since as if I had had an illness & was convalescent—my knees so ridiculously weak—but I do drag myself a few steps further day by day & today I feel I have made a decided step— I can sit up t a table & write this like a QQQQ. It is very good feeding here & my appetite is rather also as if I'd had a fever & I enjoy mountain milk & quinine & sitting out on our little balcony when I feel too stupid t go further. R. is a jewel of a nurse. Today I've been able t pay him back a little in his own coin, as I have had [most] go in me, & have put him t bed etc etc— I say we feel very married each lying sick on our beds as if we'd been at it 30 years like Father & you. My hot water is cooling away & my tea which I have just brewed in my [Ana] ready so I thk I'll say good night. I've had a m. m. bustling day today & so feel I've earned my bed. No friends here thank goodness to see me walk up the hills at the rate of 1 mile an hour & pity R. for his sik wife. We plan many pious works but we dont carry them out. Marcus Aurelius R. greek—me english—Heine's poems, Wilhelm Tell wh. is v. suitable here—but we mostly talk away the blessed day—except when I succeed in chivying R. away for a walk— which doesn't often happen. I do think I'm on the mend but twill be a slow affair I don't doubt. R. philosophically remarks that if I'd been healthy I'd have married someone else, so it is all for the best.

Ever yours dear Mother yr happy tho' sik | H. E. L.

This letter is written Wednesday night so you see I've been 3 days without another collapse so I thk we may look upon the Sunday as the finishing crisis of engagement illness for I reckon it was that—

2^nd letter

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