1862, Hampton Court
The proper order of the room is still recoverable, though not always at once, and I have found it advisable to begin there. The desk must remain clear except for the current notebook, the latest letters requiring reply, the memoranda on lighthouses and electric matters, and the slips on which names may be set down before they drift from immediate reach; the chemical sketches are to the left, not because they belong there intrinsically, but because they have long belonged there in practice, and practice, if preserved, prevents confusion from acquiring unnecessary dignity. Hampton Court is quiet enough for this arrangement, perhaps too quiet, since in excessive quiet one begins hearing the interval before recollection returns, and the interval is new. Sarah has learned the method better than anyone. She does not hurry the missing word. She waits, and by waiting preserves both the appearance and the use of order. I am grateful for the rooms, the gardens, the consideration. I do not mistake any of it for restoration. Ease is not repair. A diminished faculty set within a noble apartment remains diminished, and if I do not record that with some exactness, others will take the courtesy shown me here as evidence that the system has ended in proper harmony. It has not. It has ended, or is ending, in management.
