(no subject)
To my Brother, residing happily in Melior:
Much is the same. My Aunt is of declining health, as is her state of preference. She laments her inability to go out walking in such fine weather as we have at the manse here in Vitrue. It is very sunny and pretty in the garden with hardly any dirtiness as we usually have for the rain in spring; or so I am told by my fair cousin who is oftener outside than I ever am and her being a Fine Lady besides. I am resigned to dismal lessons. If you have any spare bookishness and studiousness lying around please send it in the next post, I will have much happy use for it. At present there is no greater torture than Sir Ivans' stinking tutelage (excepting the displeasure of Uncle, who thankfully is busily attending Aunt's claims of hovering death when I have never seen her of a more sanguine complexion and believe that her winter chills, fatigue and general invalidity has, since Altamas, long since past. Anyway he is of no temper to demonize me.)
My own health is good and I have no complaints. The horse has not thrown me, I (still) despair of the the lance, I have yet to wring Lar's stringy neck and Katharine is cheerfully bothersome. Kath has recently taken up the harp and believes she is quite good. I haven't the heart to, but Lar has quickly pointed out the deficits in her voice and playing. The only effect of this abuse is her increased persistence and practice, to our dismay. I suppose she is improving, but the pace is painfully slow.
In effect, that is all. My paper and tutor remind me of the limit of length. Give my regards to Mira & her family, your servant & whingeing pest--Renning
Quick jots--Monster Man, gothic/grotesque characterization? Story in which Black Knight survives.
Much is the same. My Aunt is of declining health, as is her state of preference. She laments her inability to go out walking in such fine weather as we have at the manse here in Vitrue. It is very sunny and pretty in the garden with hardly any dirtiness as we usually have for the rain in spring; or so I am told by my fair cousin who is oftener outside than I ever am and her being a Fine Lady besides. I am resigned to dismal lessons. If you have any spare bookishness and studiousness lying around please send it in the next post, I will have much happy use for it. At present there is no greater torture than Sir Ivans' stinking tutelage (excepting the displeasure of Uncle, who thankfully is busily attending Aunt's claims of hovering death when I have never seen her of a more sanguine complexion and believe that her winter chills, fatigue and general invalidity has, since Altamas, long since past. Anyway he is of no temper to demonize me.)
My own health is good and I have no complaints. The horse has not thrown me, I (still) despair of the the lance, I have yet to wring Lar's stringy neck and Katharine is cheerfully bothersome. Kath has recently taken up the harp and believes she is quite good. I haven't the heart to, but Lar has quickly pointed out the deficits in her voice and playing. The only effect of this abuse is her increased persistence and practice, to our dismay. I suppose she is improving, but the pace is painfully slow.
In effect, that is all. My paper and tutor remind me of the limit of length. Give my regards to Mira & her family, your servant & whingeing pest--Renning
Quick jots--Monster Man, gothic/grotesque characterization? Story in which Black Knight survives.