Flemming is
doing perfectly well physically; but I must confess that the
irritable and morbid state of mind into which he has fallen causes
me a great deal of uneasiness. He is the last man in the world who
ought to break his leg. You know how impetuous our friend is
ordinarily, what a soul of restlessness and energy, never content
unless he is rushing at some object, like a sportive bull at a red
shawl; but amiable withal. He is no longer amiable. His temper has
become something frightful. Miss Fanny Flemming came up from
Newport, where the family are staying for the summer, to nurse him;
but he packed her off the next morning in tears. He has a complete
set of Balzac's works, twenty-seven volumes, piled up near his
sofa, to throw at Watkins whenever that exemplary serving-man
appears with his meals. Yesterday I very innocently brought
Flemming a small basket of lemons. You know it was a strip of
lemonpeel on the curbstone that caused our friend's mischance.
Well, he no sooner set is eyes upon those lemons than he fell into
such a rage as I cannot adequately describe. This is only one of
moods, and the least distressing. At other times he sits with bowed
head regarding his splintered limb, silent, sullen, despairing.
When this fit is on him--and it sometimes lasts all day--nothing
can distract his melancholy. He refuses to eat, does not even read
the newspapers; books, except as projectiles for Watkins, have no
charms for him.
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