LXXXIV
Paris, December 13, 1843.
We left each other in anger; but to-night, when I reflect upon it calmly, I regret nothing that I said, unless it be a few hasty words, for which I ask your pardon. Yes, we are great fools. We should have realised it sooner. We should have seen how contrary were our sentiments and our feelings about everything. The concessions we have made to each other have had no other result than to make us more unhappy. More far-seeing than you, I blame myself bitterly for this mistake. To prolong an illusion of which I should never have dreamed, I have caused you the keenest anguish.
Forgive me, I pray you, for I, too, have suffered. I would I could leave with you more joyous memories of me. I hope you will attribute to circumstances the vexation I may have caused you. Never in your presence have I appeared as I wished to be, or rather as I had intended to appear in your eyes. I had too much self-confidence. My heart has sought to struggle against that which my better judgment has demonstrated. Everything considered, perhaps you will come to see in our folly only its lovely side, to remember none but the moments of happiness which we have spent together. I do not upbraid you in any way. You have tried to reconcile two incompatible beings, and you have not succeeded. Should I not be grateful to you for having tried to accomplish for me the impossible?
LXXXV
Paris, Tuesday night, 1843.
All day I have expected a letter from you. This is not what has kept me from writing before, but I have been frightfully busy. I believe the fine weather to-day has had a solacing effect on my mood. I am no longer angry, even if I was so, and I can think with less sorrow of your lecture of yesterday. The clouds, perhaps, are greatly to blame for what happened between us. Once before we quarrelled in stormy weather; it is because our nerves get the better of us. I have a strong desire to see you, and to know your state of mind. Suppose we attempt to-morrow to take that walk in which we failed so disastrously yesterday? What do you think of it? Your pride will, of course, not respond to this suggestion, but I am now appealing to your heart.
It will be very kind of you to send me an answer before noon to-morrow, whether you will or will not come. Do not come, however, if you are in a bad humour or if you have a previous engagement, and, above all, if you have the slightest doubt that our walk will obliterate the hideous impressions of yesterday.
LXXXVI
Paris, Saturday night, January 15, 1844.
I am grieved to know that you are ill, but you must permit me to form my own opinion as to the manner in which you caught this cold. An accident of this kind seldom keeps one in the house; still more seldom does it confine one to the house as long as you remain there. All your illnesses have occurred too conveniently not to be a little suspicious. Formerly you were more unreserved. You wrote me simply a page of reproaches, and admitted that you were angry. Now you follow a different system. You write me sweet little coquettish notes, and say you have taken a sudden cold, or that you are ill. I believe I prefer the former method. Luckily, you get over your sulks and recover from your illnesses.
I hope to see you Tuesday in a cheerful mood, if you think it worth while to be agreeable. Your treatment of me is like the sun, which appears only once in a month. If I were in better spirits, I could pursue the comparison still further; but I, too, am ill, only I am not so fortunate as you in being petted by all who come near me, and of being fond of tea made of dates and figs.
You ask me to make you a sketch of our woods. This would be almost impossible without seeing them again. You can no longer remember Bellevue, you say; you should understand, therefore, how difficult it would be for me to draw it from memory. Besides that, I am not as close an observer as you. When with you I see nothing else. Yes, these woods are beyond belief, so close to Paris as they are, and yet so far away. If you insist upon it, I will do the best I can, but you must first tell me what you want to have, that is, what part of the woods.
Good-bye. I am not especially pleased with you. A month passed without seeing you is a little too much. I have, to-morrow and the day after, two unpleasant duties to perform. I will tell you about them. Good-bye.
LXXXVII
Paris, February 5, 1844.
You chide me for my harshness, and, perhaps, with some reason. It seems to me, however, that it would be more reasonable for you to call it anger or impatience. It might also be fitting on your part to reflect whether this anger or this harshness is justifiable or not.
Consider if it is not a most discouraging thing for me to be engaged in an incessant struggle with your pride, and to see your pride get the better of me. I confess that I fail to understand your meaning when you speak of your obedience, which always puts you in the wrong, and which gives you no credit for anything you do. The contrary, it seems to me, is nearer the truth; but on your part it is a question of neither wrong nor merit. Recall for a moment frankly what you are to me. You agree to come with me on those walks which are my life; but your coldness, perpetually renewed, which disheartens me more and more; the pleasure designed, or, as I prefer to believe, instinctive, which you take in making me desire that which you refuse obstinately, may be an excuse for my harshness.
If you have done any wrong, however, it is most certainly that you let your pride take the precedence over your affections. The first sentiment is to the second as a colossus to a pygmy. Your pride is, in reality, only a variety of selfishness. Will you some day abandon this grievous fault, and be as lovable to me as you know how to be? Willingly would I accept this condition, if you would promise to be entirely frank, and if you had the courage to keep your promise. It would be for me, perhaps, a sad experience; nevertheless, I should accept it joyfully, since in any case you would be happy, you say.
Good-bye, and may it not be for long. Wear your seven-league boots, and we shall have a lovely walk; if the weather were no worse than it has been for several days, you would run no risk of catching cold. I am suffering severely from headache and dizziness, but I hope you will cure me.
LXXXVIII
Paris, March 12, 1844.
That is all right. As if I had not vexations enough of every kind! A hundred calls to make! A library which orders me to write and discuss forty pages of prose matter! Proofs to correct! It seems to me that, knowing all this, you might at least send me a few lines of encouragement. I have almost reached the end of my courage, and of my patience. Fortunately, it will all end next Thursday.[9] Thursday, at one o’clock, I shall become once more an ordinary biped. In the meantime, is it too much to ask you to send me a few words of affection, such as you found to say the last time I saw you? It is three o’clock, and I must leave you for my proofs of Mademoiselle Arsène Guillot. Monday, or, rather, Tuesday.
LXXXIX
Thursday night, March 15, 1844.
It[10] has pleased me the more keenly because I expected to be defeated. The returns were reported to me as they were counted. It seemed impossible for me to win. My mother, who had been suffering for several days from an acute attack of rheumatism, was cured on the spot. Now I have all the greater desire to see you. Come and find out if I love you more or less, and that as soon as possible. I am now suffering for all the visits I have made, for I must thank everybody, friends and enemies alike, to show that I am magnanimous. I had the good fortune to be black-balled by some men I detest, for it is a cause for thankfulness not to be obliged to carry a burden of gratitude to people whom you dislike. Write to me, I pray you, and tell me when you will allow me to see you.
I have a great desire to take a long walk with you.
You are a witch, indeed, to have foreseen the result as you did. My Homer deceived me, or, it may be, it was to M. Vatout that his threatening prediction was directed.
Good-bye, dearest friend! Between my proof-reading, my reports to make out, and, in a measure also, the worry that I have endured for three days, I have scarcely found time to sleep. I am going to try now. I have some amusing incidents to tell you of men and things.
XC
March 17, 1844.
I thank you for your congratulations, but I want something more. I want to see you, and take a long walk. I think you have taken the matter too tragically. Why do you weep? The forty seats were not worth one little tear. I am exhausted, used up, demoralised, and completely out of my wits. Besides this, Arsène Guillot made a notorious fiasco, and raised against me a storm of indignation of all the so-called virtuous people, especially of the fashionable women who dance the polka and go to hear the sermons of P. Ravignan. At all events, it was reported that I behave like the monkeys, who climb to the top of the trees, and then, from the uppermost branch, make grimaces at the world beneath them. I am sure that this scandalous story has cost me many votes; but I have won them from another side. There are certain members who black-balled me seven times and who now assure me that they were my warmest partisans. Do you not think that all this is well worth the trouble of lying, especially for the goodwill I bear these people? This world in which I have lived almost exclusively for the last two weeks makes me wish all the more ardently to see you. We, at least, are sure of each other, and when you tell me fibs I can scold you for them, and you know how to win my forgiveness. Love me, venerable as I have become during the last three days.
XCI
Paris, March 26, 1844.
I fear the address may have seemed a little long to you. I hope it was not as cold where you were as it was on my side. I am still shivering. We ought to have taken a short walk after the ceremony. You noticed what a shocking cough I have. It might have been considered almost as intentional. Before the meeting the orator insisted that I should tell him in what part of the hall was sitting the lady to whom he had sent the invitations. Did you like him better in his costume than in a dress suit? You may persuade me of many things, but you will never be able to convince me that you were not speaking seriously about cakes when you were hungry. I uphold the use of my adjective, and you yourself even have recognised the justice of it. That was readily proved by your anger. You say you can only dream and amuse yourself. You know, besides that, how to conceal your thoughts, and this is what grieves me. Why is it, when we have become all we are to each other, that you must reflect for several days before replying frankly to the simplest question of mine? One would suppose that you suspected traps set for you on every side. Good-bye. I was delighted to see you there. I had some difficulty in finding you, hidden away behind your neighbour’s bonnet. Another example of your childishness! Did you see what I sent you, in full view of the Academy? But you are never willing to see anything.
XCII
Monday night, March, 1844.
I am beginning, I imagine, to solve your enigma. Upon reflection, by a sort of instinctive divination, I have come to the following conclusion: without doubt, my most dangerous enemy to your heart, or, if you prefer, my strongest rival, is your pride. Whatever wounds that, excites your indignation. This notion you carry out, perhaps unconsciously, in the most trifling matters. Is it not, for instance, your pride which is satisfied when I kiss your hand? This, you have said to me, makes you happy, and to this sensation you abandon yourself, because a demonstration of humility is gratifying to your pride. You are willing that I should be a statue, so that you may breathe life into my soul, but you are not willing, in your turn, to be a statue; above all, you are unwilling that this equality of happiness should be reciprocal, because anything like equality is distasteful to you.
What am I to say to all this? If your pride would be content with my obedience and humility, it ought to be satisfied; I shall yield to it always, provided it allows your heart to follow its good impulses. So far as I am concerned, I shall never place in the same rank my happiness and my pride, and if you were to suggest to me any new forms for my humility to assume, I should adopt them unhesitatingly. Yet, why should there be any question of pride, that is to say, selfishness, between us? Is the joy of self-forgetfulness for the other’s sake a matter of indifference to you? That extraordinary sentiment of affection which we both sometimes feel, which this morning, for instance, took us where we had not the slightest reason for going—is not the influence of such an emotion far sweeter and more intense than that exerted by your demon of pride? You were so sweet this morning that I am both unwilling and unable to scold you. Nevertheless, I am in a beastly humour.
I told you I was invited to a tiresome dinner. Only fancy, I made a mistake in the day, and mortally offended the people, who were not expecting me, and who, in my turn, tired me to death. I spent the entire evening lamenting that I had not remained at home with my thoughts. I am now expecting a disagreeable letter from you. I wanted to write to you first, because I shall be furious, without doubt, day after to-morrow. How did you endure the cold the other day? Does the cold to-day not daunt you? I do not know whether you had better go out to-morrow. I fear to take the responsibility of advising you, and prefer that you should decide. More humility for you!
XCIII
Strasburg, April 30, 1844.
I am still here, thanks to the procrastination of the Municipal Council. I was obliged to spend one day making use of all my most stately eloquence to persuade them to restore an old church. They reply that they need tobacco more than monuments, and that they intend to make a shop of my church. I shall leave to-morrow for Colmar, and hope the next day, that is, Thursday, to be in Besançon. I shall remain there only long enough to lay a few flowers on Nodier’s tomb, and then I shall try to return quickly to our woods. The season here seems more advanced than in Paris. The country is exquisite, of a green that no painter could reproduce.
I am glad to find you so merry; I can not say as much for myself. I believe I have fever every night, and I am in a horrible mood. The cathedral, which I used to admire so extravagantly, now appears ugly, and even the wise and foolish Sabine virgins of Steinbach have barely found favour in my eyes.
You are right to love Paris. It is, after all, the only city in which one really lives. Where else should we find such promenades, such museums, where we have quarrelled so many times, and said so many tender words also? I should like to believe your promise, that we shall continue our interrupted conversation as if we had never parted. I am sure of what awaits me. A thick crust of ice will envelop you, and you will not even recognise me. Yet, even though there be another scene, that is better than not to see you at all.
Good-bye.
XCIV
Paris, Saturday, August 3, 1844.
I suppose you went to the country, taking French leave, in spite of your promises. That is very kind of you. I have been silly enough to expect every day some sign from you. It is difficult for one to change his habits. In case you should be in Paris, which is scarcely probable, or in case, which is still more improbable, that you should care to attend a meeting of the Academy, I have two cards of admission for you. It will be very tiresome. Meanwhile, I have done my best in my difficult task, which is almost finished. I shall then go away for a month or two. If this caused you any regret, or, what I should like better, the wish to see me, you could make me soon forget my moroseness.
XCV
Paris, August 19, 1844.
It is settled definitely that I am to leave for Algiers from the 8th to the 10th of next month. I shall remain there, or, rather, I shall travel here and there until driven away by the fever or the rainy season. In any case, I shall not see you before January. You ought to have thought of that before going away. When I say that you shall not see me until next year, I mean that it will depend on you. While you have been learning Greek, I have been studying Arabic, but it seems to me a diabolical language, and I shall never succeed in knowing two words of it. Apropos of Syra, that chain which you like has been in Greece, and in many other places besides. I selected it because it is of very antique workmanship, and I fancied it would please you. Does it recall our long walks and our interminable conversations?
I dined Sunday with General Narvaez, who was entertaining in honour of his wife’s birthday. There were scarcely any but Spanish women present. I saw one who is trying to starve herself for love, and is gradually and quietly passing away. This mode of death must seem to you the height of cruelty. There was another, Mademoiselle ... whom General Serrano stationed there for his Catholic Majesty; but she is far from dead, and even appears to be in excellent health. There was also Madame Gonzalez Bravo, a sister of the actor Romea, and sister-in-law of the same Majesty, who has, it is said, an immense number of sisters-in-law. This one is extremely pretty and clever.
Good-bye....
XCVI
Paris, Monday, September, 1844.
We parted the other day equally vexed the one with the other. We were both wrong, for it was simply the force of circumstances that was to blame. It would have been better not to meet for a long time. It is evident that we can not see each other without disagreeing. We both want the impossible: you, that I should be a statue; I, that you should not be one. Each new proof of the impossibility of that which in our hearts we have never doubted causes bitterness to us both. I regret all the distress I may have caused you. I am too ready to yield to my absurd quick temper. As well get into a passion because ice is cold.
I hope you will forgive me now. I am no longer angry, only very sorrowful. I should not feel so bad if we had not parted as we did. Farewell, since we can be friends only at a distance. When we have grown old, perhaps we shall meet again with pleasure. Meanwhile, in happiness or in distress, do not forget me. I asked you this, I don’t know how many years ago. We hardly ever thought then of quarrelling.
Again, good-bye, while I have the courage to say it.
XCVII
Paris, Thursday, September 6, 1844.
It seems to me like a dream that I have seen you. We were together such a little time that I told you nothing of what I wished to say. You yourself appeared to be uncertain whether I was a reality. When shall we meet again? I am at present engaged in a most servile and tiresome business, that of canvassing for membership in the Academy of Inscriptions. Some of my experiences are ridiculous, and I am often tempted strongly to laugh at myself, a temptation which I repress, however, for fear of shocking the gravity of the Academicians. I have embarked upon this business—or, rather, others have pushed me into it—somewhat blindly. My chances are not bad, but the solicitation of votes is most repugnant to me, and the worst feature of the whole thing is that I must wait such an age for the result, certainly until the last of October, and perhaps longer.
I am uncertain whether I shall be able to go to Algiers this year. My one consoling thought is that I shall then remain in Paris, and shall, therefore, see you. Will that give you any pleasure? Tell me that it will, and humour me. I have become so callous from all these tiresome visits that I need all the tender indulgence you can grant me to put a little new courage and energy into me.
You have no cause to be jealous of the Academy. It is, of course, a matter of selfinterest for me to win, just as I should wish to win a game of chess with a skilful adversary, and yet, I fancy, neither losing nor winning will affect me a quarter as much as one of our quarrels. But what an obnoxious business is that of canvassing for votes! Have you ever seen dogs entering a badger’s hole? After they have had some experience in this occupation, they make, on entering, a desperate show of fierceness, and not infrequently come out much faster than they go in, for the badger is an ugly beast to visit. I never touch the doorbell of an Academician’s that I am not reminded of the badger, and compare myself, in my mind’s eye, to the dog I have just described. I have not yet been bitten, however, but I have had some ludicrous encounters.
Good-bye.
XCVIII
Paris, September 14, 1844.
All our preparations were made to start to-day, when there came a commotion which scattered our plans to the winds. There was a collision between the Department of War and the Department of the Interior. War will not have us. We shall remain, therefore, or, to be more accurate, I am not going to Africa. I shall be out of town on business for a fortnight, and shall then return to Paris. Aside from the vexation one feels when a plan miscarries, and the keen regret for having wasted two months in acquiring a lot of useless information, I am taking my disappointment with the greatest imperturbability. Perhaps you can guess why.
In your last letter there are several disagreeable sentences, about which I might well pick a quarrel with you, were it not that I find it profitless—as you say you do—and, what is even worse, dangerous and depressing to dispute with each other at a distance.
I can not imagine how you spend the twenty-four hours of the day. I am able to guess how you employ fourteen of them, but I should like to be informed in detail as to the other ten. Do you still read Herodotus? What a pity that you do not attempt a little of the original, with the translation of Larcher, which you have, I think. You would encounter no difficulties, except the excessive use of the Ionian η. If you can get a copy of Zenophon’s Anabasis, you might enjoy it, especially if you have a map of Asia beside you as you read. I no longer remember The Dialogues of the Sea-gods (of Lucian). Read, rather, Jupiter Convicted or Jupiter the Tragedian, or even The Festival or The Lapethæ, unless you are keeping them for me as a surprise.
I am sure you are looking smart with your dazzling gowns and your flowers, and yet I am taking it on myself to advise Greek readings for you! Good-bye. Write to me soon, and do not ridicule me. I am going away Monday to gracious knows where, but it will not be far, according to all indications.
XCIX
Poitiers, September 15, 1844.
If I have delayed a reply to your letter of last month, which I found on my arrival here, it is not, as your guilty conscience will whisper, in retaliation for your remissness in sending me any word of yourself. You let ten days pass without even so much as thinking of writing me a line, which was very bad of you.
You speak in your letter of your reflections while at D. I suppose you enjoyed yourself there very much, and I am compelled to believe that you enjoy yourself only when you have an opportunity to play the coquette. Since leaving Paris I have had the most tedious sort of time. Like Ulysses, I have seen many customs, men, and cities, and I have found them all hideeously ugly. Then, I have had fever several times, which has surprised and also annoyed me, for it means that I am losing health. The country about here is the most level and the most uninteresting in France; yet there are a great many woods, with magnificent trees, and solitudes where I should love to have met you.
Your memory is now associated in my mind with a host of places, but I like to think of you especially in the woods and the museums. If it is any pleasure to you to know that you occupy a place—a large place, too—in my thoughts, you may be gratified to know that you are not forgotten in the midst of the busy life I am leading. Each tree recalls such and such a conversation. I spend my time meditating on our rambles.
I applaud Scribe most heartily for having made a virtuous and non-Catholic audience laugh at the expense of virtue. I am equally astonished at what you tell me of his delivery. Formerly he read like a cabby. One must believe that it is the Academic uniform which imparts this self-possession, and this thought consoles me not a little.
Since leaving Paris I have not unrolled my dissertation twice. If this continues, I do not believe, really, that I shall be able to change a line of it, and I have no doubt that at the last moment I shall be terror-stricken because of the quantity of nonsense I have allowed to remain. Until I have really set my sails in the direction of Paris I shall not know with any certainty the date of my departure. If the government does not compel me to go farther than Saintes, I fancy we shall reach Paris about the same time. What happiness if I could see you the next day! Good-bye. Write to me at Saintes; I expect to reach there soon, and to remain several days.
C
Parthenay, September 19, 1844.
Your letter, which I received while at Saintes, proved a slight diversion to the tribulations which I endured there. I was forcibly prevented from plunging into despair four thousand of my fellow-citizens who sent delegations to me with extravagant appeals.
Between my sense of duty and my natural tenderness of heart, I was miserably unhappy. Finally, I took the wisest course, and acted the proconsul, but I shall not dare to show my face in Saintes next year. I observe with delight that you still remember Paris. I feared you had forgotten our woods and our grassy sward. As for me, every day makes me more eager to see them again, especially now that I have started towards Paris. From the indications, I shall reach there in advance of you. I shall be there in ten days at the latest, barring accidents impossible to foresee.
And you? This is the all-important thing. To be in Paris without you will seem infinitely harder than tramping over the country, as I am doing at present. I am thirsting to see you, with a craving which to you is incomprehensible. Can you, will you come once more to say farewell to your domains on the left bank? I try not to think about it, but I can not succeed. In order to prepare myself for disappointments, like Scapin returning from his travels, I try to imagine your ladyship as a statue, armed against me as she has sometimes appeared. ‘Tis of no use; I can picture you only as you were the last time we were together, seated so comfortably on a mass of rock. To tell the truth, I think of this because, in the first place, you gave me your promise, and again, I can never persuade myself that we have changed, united in thought as we have been in our separation. If you have any thought of returning, write to me at Blois, where I shall soon be.
After the twenty-fifth, write to me in Paris, and tell me when I shall see you, and make it as soon as possible. I am writing to you from a wretched town, infested with owls, and with but one abominable inn, where they keep up an infernal noise. I find so many hairs in my food that I can hardly eat. I saw to-day at Saint-Maixent women who dressed their hair in the style of the fourteenth century, and with bodices belonging to almost the same period, which were made so as to show the shirt, which was of coarse linen, buttoned below the neck and split open like that worn by men. In spite of the ginger-bread on the lower edge, it seemed to me very pretty. I almost sprained my hand to-day, and it is not strong enough to write longer.
Good-bye.
CI
Perpignan, November 14.
You have been such a long time writing to me that I began to be very uneasy. Besides, I have been harassed by an absurd idea which I have not dared to tell you before. I was visiting the amphitheatre at Nîmes with an architect of the department, who was explaining to me at length the repairs which he had made there, when I saw, ten feet away, a lovely bird, a little larger than a tomtit, with a linen-gray body and wings of red, black, and white. This bird was perched on a cornice, gazing at me fixedly. I interrupted the architect, who is a great sportsman, to ask him the name of the bird. He told me he had never seen one like it. I approached, and, until I was close enough to touch it, the bird did not take flight, perching a few steps beyond, and still watching me. Wherever I went, the bird seemed to follow, for I saw it on every tier of the amphitheatre. It had no companion, and its flight was noiseless, like that of a bird of night.
The next day I returned to the amphitheatre, and there was my bird again. I had brought some bread with me, which I threw to it. The bird looked at the food, but would not touch it. I then tempted it with a big grasshopper, thinking from the shape of the bill that it would eat insects, but the bird paid no attention to the grasshopper. The most learned ornithologist in the city told me that no birds of that species lived in the country.
Finally, when I visited the amphitheatre for the last time, I found my bird again, still pursuing my steps, following me even into a narrow, dark corridor, where, bird of light that it was, it should not have dared to venture.
I recalled then that the Duchess of Buckingham had seen her husband in the form of a bird the day of his assassination, and the thought came to me that you were dead, perhaps, and that you had assumed this form in order to visit me. In spite of myself I could not shake off this foolish idea, and I was delighted, I assure you, to see that your letter bore the date of the day when I had first seen my inexplicable bird.
I arrived here during atrocious weather. A rain, the like of which is never seen in the north, has deluged the entire country, cutting up the roads and transforming the rivulets into great rivers. It is impossible for me to leave the city to go to Serrabonne, where I have business. I do not know how long this condition of things will continue.
There is a fair in progress at Perpignan. Besides, most of the Spaniards fleeing from the epidemic come to this town, so that I have not been able to find lodgings at any of the inns. Had I not succeeded in exciting the sympathy of a hat manufacturer I should have been compelled to sleep in the street. The little room in which I am writing is very cold, and I am sitting before a smoky chimney-place, execrating the rain which beats against my window-panes. The servant who attends me speaks only Catalonian, and understands me only when I speak in Spanish. I have no books, and do not know a soul in the place. Finally, and worse than all, if a north wind does not rise I shall be obliged to stay here I don’t know how long. I am unable even to return to Norbonne, for the bridge which might assure my retreat is unsafe, and should the water rise it will be carried away. An admirable situation this for reflection and for writing one’s thoughts. But as for thoughts, I have none left. I can only fume and fret, and have hardly sufficient energy even to write to you. You do not mention having received a letter which I wrote you at Arles. Perhaps it crossed with yours.
I went to the fountain of Vaucluse, where I was tempted to inscribe your name; but there were so many wretched verses there, so many Sophies and Carolines, etc., that I did not wish to desecrate your name by putting it in such bad company. It is the wildest spot imaginable, with nothing there but water and rocks. The only vegetation is a fig-tree which has pushed its way, somehow or other, up through the rocks, and a few lovely capillary plants, of which I enclose a specimen. When you have taken capillary syrup for a cold, you have not known, perhaps, that this plant had such a charming form.
I shall be in Paris about the 15th of next month. I do not know which route I shall take. It is possible that I may return by way of Bordeaux, but if the weather does not improve I shall go by way of Toulouse. In that event I shall reach Paris a fortnight earlier. I shall hope to find a letter from you at Toulouse. If it does not come I shall be mortally offended with you.
Good-bye.
CII
Paris, December 5, 1844.
I had sworn not to write to you, but I am not sure that I could have kept my promise much longer. I did not know, however, that you were suffering. Our walk was so charming that I did not think it possible you could have retained an unpleasant memory of it. Apparently, what annoys you is that I am more stubborn than you. That is a fine reason, is it not, and one of which you should be proud? Should you not rather be ashamed of yourself for having made me so? And then you say that I was harsh, and ask me if I did not realise it? Indeed, no. Why did you not mention it then? If I was so, I beg your pardon. It seems to me that when we parted you gave not the slightest evidence of resentment against me. I supposed that you felt as confidential, as friendly towards me as I did to you. Shall I tell you that this was the sweetest memory I have preserved of our meeting? When I see you so, it makes me very happy. If you were angry at the time, it does credit to your power of dissimulation. But I prefer to believe in your second impulses, rather than that you were insincere. Tell me if I am mistaken.
This evening I began the drawing that you ordered. It is difficult to do, and I should like to have your instructions. Do you really insist on that field of thistles? You say you consider it one of the most beautiful places in the world. I shall bring you the sketch I have made, and also your portrait. I have given your eyes their wicked expression, but do not believe that this is how they look usually. I know a better expression, which I love all the more because I see it so seldom. You shall see it all, however, and I shall hear what you have to say about it. When you come to pay me, you will be good enough to remember that I am not an ordinary painter, and that it is not the work for which you are to pay, it is the trouble and the time. Besides this, it is well always to show generosity towards artists.
While you were recovering from your indignation I have been almost vexed with you. I fancied you would write sooner. It is in part from having expected your letter, and in part owing to a foolish sentiment of pride that I did not anticipate you with a letter. You observe that I accuse myself also for my faults. Pardon me for my injustice; it was not anything in the past, at least, that made me unfair towards you.
Since I saw you I have been ill almost continuously. I think it was due to the Spanish lesson on the “broad earth,” as Homer says. Your letter cured me. I think now it was your manner of leaving me that was responsible for my illness. You did not deign to turn your head to say good-bye. We shall have many pardons to ask of each other, when we meet, for all our uncharitable thoughts!
It is horribly late, my fire has gone out, and I am shivering with cold. Once more good-bye, and I thank you from my heart for having written. I waited a week for your letter. Are you not also stubborn?
CIII
Paris, Thursday, February 7, 1845.
[11] Everything passed better than I expected. I found that I was unusually self-possessed. I do not know if the audience was as satisfied with me as I was with it.
CIV
Friday, February 8, 1845.
Since you did not think me ridiculous, all is well. I should not have been happy to know you were there, looking at my coat of tarragon colour, and my face ditto. Why not to-morrow? Otherwise we should have to wait until next Wednesday, and I have not the courage for that. We have a great many things to tell each other. If I had seen you there I should have lost all my serenity.
CV
Toulouse, August 18, 1845.
I have just found your letter at this place, which is very fortunate, indeed, for I was furious not to have any news from you at Poitiers, as I had expected. You will say, in reply, that I had no business to expect you to think of me sooner than you have done. How could I help it? I can not become accustomed to your ways. You are never so near forgetting me as when you have tried to persuade me that you were thinking of me. Happily for me, between these periods of forgetfulness there are oases of recollections, and it is of these that I think without ceasing.
I see none of those beautiful grottoes of which you tell me, and have no need of them in order that my mind should be filled with thoughts both sad and gay. When it comes to scenery, I am not hard to please, as you know very well. When out walking with you I pay no attention to the scenery.
I should like to flatter you as you ask me to do, but I am in too bad a humour. For two weeks I have been in a continuous rage, first with the weather, then with the architects, and finally with you and myself. The weather, which has been abominable all this time, cleared unexpectedly yesterday, but the heat is now overpowering, accompanied by a sirocco, which is most exhausting to the vitality. I spent twenty-four hours at the home of a representative, and if I had ever had the ambition to be a politician, that visit would have caused me to change my mind. What an occupation! What kinds of people one must visit, and be on good terms with, and flatter! I will say with Hotspur: “I had rather be a kitten and cry mew.” If one must be a slave, I prefer the court of a despot: most despots, at least, wash their hands.
I regret to learn that you were starting so late for D., which means, I fear, that it will be an age before you return. What enables me to endure my present occupation with patience is the thought that upon my return I shall see you again standing beside the lions of the Institute, and that after you have plagued me to death for a quarter of an hour you will make me forget all my troubles. How long shall you remain at D.? This is what I am now anxious to know.
You will go, very likely, to England, and Lady M. will once more expound all her beautiful theories about the baseness of falling in love. I should like to be sure that yours would be the first friendly face to greet me on my return. Unfortunately, this can not be, and you will wait until every leaf has fallen before returning to Paris. God only knows if you will not come back three-quarters an Englishwoman. Give me your promise that this will not be, that you will try not to stay away too long, and that you will not be any worse on your return than you are now. You are well enough as you are.
Write to me at Montpellier, from which place I am going to bring you a hand-bag. Write again to Avignon. I am planning my time so that I shall return September 20. This will be difficult to accomplish, but I hope to succeed in it.
Good-bye. Your letter ends very nicely, but why do you never speak to me in the way you sometimes write?
CVI
Avignon, September 5, 1845.
I am grateful to those people who fell ill and detained you in Paris; and even more grateful to yourself, that is, if you think less about their rheumatism than you do of the pleasure you will give me by remaining. In all probability I shall return in a fortnight, or, rather, I shall stop over for a little while at home between my journey from the South and that North. The next one, I hope, will be but a brief one, not even long enough for you to miss me.
I am rejoiced to know that you are in such robust health. I can not say as much for myself, for I have been ill ever since I came away. I had counted on the lovely weather and warm sunshine of Languedoc to work a cure for me, but I have been disappointed. I returned yesterday in an exhausted condition from a long business errand, in which I caused more vexation than I do ordinarily, except where you are concerned. I am suffering from dizziness, and almost everything appears to my vision in double.
While you are enjoying ripe, luscious peaches, I am eating very acid yellow ones, of a singular flavour, but which are not specially unpleasant to the taste. I should like to have you try them. I am eating figs of all varieties, but have no appetite for any of these things.
The evenings are terribly lonely, and I am beginning to long for the society of bipeds of my own class. The provincials I do not consider as anybody at all. They are tiresome creatures to look at, and altogether foreign to the circle of my ideas. These Southerners are strange people: I think sometimes that they are witty, and again that they are only vivacious. They seem to me this time more unattractive than usual. As I travel this pretty country, the only thing which I should really enjoy would be to dream at my leisure, and for this I have no time. You can guess, can you not, of what I should love to dream, and with whom?
I should like to tell you several good stories, which are well worth sending two hundred leagues, but, unfortunately, none that I have heard will bear repeating.
I saw, the other day, the ravages wrought by a flood, in which a hundred and twenty sheep were drowned, and many houses swept away. You can beat that in Paris, but what you will never see there is a view comparable to that which is unfolded at every step one takes as he travels through the region of Avignon. Come and see it, or, rather, wait for me in Paris, and we will stroll in our woods, which will then be lovely. Write to me at Vézelay (Yonne).
CVII
Barcelona, November 10, 1845.
Here I am, having reached the end of my long journey without encountering either brigands or impassable rivers, which is still more unusual. I was cordially received by the registrar, who had my work-table and my record books already arranged for me, and where I shall certainly lose the little eyesight that still remains to me. To reach his despacho, one has to pass through a Gothic room, built in the fourteenth century, and a marble court-yard, where there are orange trees as high as our roofs, all laden with ripe fruit. It is most poetic, as is also my apartment, which, in point of luxuries and comforts, reminds me of the caravansaries of Asia.
One is, however, more comfortable here than in Andalusia, but the natives are in all respects inferior to the Andalusians. They have, moreover, one crowning fault in my eyes, or, rather, in my ears; that is, that I can not understand one word of their jargon. While at Perpignan I saw two superb gipsies shearing some mules. I spoke to them in caló, to the great horror of the Colonel of Artillery who was with me; but he discovered that I was more familiar with it than they, and that they bore striking testimony to my knowledge, of which I was not a little proud.
To sum up the results gained from my journey, I feel that they were not worth the trouble of travelling so far to get, and that I might just as well have finished my story without coming to disturb the venerable dust on the archives of Aragon. This is an admission of honesty on my part, of which my biographer, I hope, will take account. On my journey, when I was not sleeping, that is to say, for nearly the whole route, I built thousands of air castles, which lack only your approval. Reply immediately, and write the address in very large and legible characters.
CVIII
Madrid, November 18, 1845.
I have been here a week or more. It is extremely cold, with occasional rains, a climate quite like that of Paris. The only difference is that I look out daily on mountains whose summits are hidden in snow, and that I am living on familiar terms with several very beautiful Velasquez paintings. Thanks to the unspeakable slowness of the people of this country, I began only to-day to poke my nose into the manuscripts which I came to consult. An academic deliberation was necessary to grant me permission to examine them, and I can not say how much stratagem in order to obtain information of their existence. After all, it seems a very small matter, and not worth the trouble of such a long journey. I think I shall have concluded my researches in good time, which is to say, before the end of the month.
I find everything here wonderfully changed since my last visit. People who were friends when I left have become mortal enemies. Many of my former acquaintances are now great lords, and are excessively overbearing. In short, I care less for Madrid in 1845 than in 1840. People think aloud, and no one inconveniences himself for another. Their frankness is most astonishing to us Frenchmen, and to me especially, whom you have accustomed to something so different. You should make a journey to the other side of the Pyrenees in order to learn a lesson in veracity.
It would be impossible for you to imagine the expression of their faces when the object of their affections fails to put in a prompt appearance at the place of rendezvous, or the clamorous noise of their sighs, which they have no hesitation in uttering aloud; one is so accustomed to such scenes that there is no gossip or scandal about them. Every one knows that he will do the same on Sunday. Is it right, or is it wrong? I ask myself this question every day, without coming to a decision. I see happy lovers abusing the intimacy and the confidence of their relations. One tells what he has eaten for dinner, another describes his cold, giving every disgusting detail. The most romantic lover of them all has not the slightest conception of what we mean by gallantry. Lovers here are, properly speaking, only husbands unsanctioned by the Church. They are the drudge, the scapegoat of the legal husbands; they attend to all of madame’s errands, and take care of her when she is ill.
It is so cold that I shall abandon my intention to go to Toledo. For the same reason there are no bull-fights in progress. On the other hand, there are no end of balls, which I dislike heartily. I am going, day after to-morrow, to visit Narvaez, where I shall probably see his Catholic Majesty. If you answer by return post, you may write to me here; if not, to Bayonne, poste restante. When I am weary and bored, that is, every day, I think that you will come, perhaps, to meet me on my arrival, and this thought gives me new life. Notwithstanding your fiendish coquetry and your aversion to the truth, I like you better than all these outspoken persons here. Do not take advantage of this confession.
Good-bye.
CIX
Paris, Monday, January 19, 1846.
I regret to know that you are not braver. One should never wait until he has tooth-ache, and it is because one has a dread of the dentist that he prepares the way for such odious suffering. Go, by all means, to see Brewster, or some one else, as soon as possible. I will go with you, if you like, and if necessary will hold you in the chair. Be assured, also, that he is the most skilful man of his profession, and, besides, he is systematically conservative.
You are extremely kind to reproach yourself for the pathetic story you told me. On the contrary, you should have rejoiced that you did a good action. There is nothing for which I have a greater contempt, even detestation, than for humanity in general; but I should like to be rich enough to remove from my knowledge all the pain with which individuals are afflicted.
You do not say a word about that in which I am most interested, that is, when I may see you. This proves that you do not care to see me. Will you take a walk Wednesday? If you have the tooth-ache, do not come. If you have any other ailment, I shall admit of no excuse, for I shall not believe in it.
CX
Paris, June 10, 1846.
When I opened the package of books I was silly enough to think I should find a note from you, and that you would have been inspired by the glorious sunshine. Not a line! So I had to read once more your letter received this morning, which seemed a little stale at the second reading. To-day is not the first time I have observed in your correspondence, and in general in your whole attitude towards me, a sort of impartial equilibrium. You are never nearer committing some act of perversity than when you have just shown me a sign of your affection and amiability. You promised to give me a day soon, but if I were to wait for you to keep your promises the patience with which heaven has endowed me would be exhausted.
The other day you said good-bye to me with as much indifference as that with which you had greeted me. It was not so the previous time. It is a curious phenomenon that water which has boiled freezes more readily than cold water. You are an illustration of this fact in physics. When you left me you were in your sulking mood, so I shall expect you to be charming Wednesday. We must visit our pretty avenues again, after they have been newly gravelled for your benefit. You will give me much pleasure by coming. But this is not the way to appeal to you. If you have any curiosity, I will reward it by showing you a monument of auld lang syne. I will give you something besides; at least, I intended to give you something, but you have treated me so cruelly—first in writing the kind of letter I received this morning, and then in writing nothing at all when you sent the books—that I am not sure whether I shall offer you this present. Still, if you ask for it, I shall probably yield.
As you know, I have become an accomplished weather prophet. The wind is due north-east, and this means several fine days ahead. I wish you would pay as much attention as I do to the sun and the rain.
CXI
Dijon, July 29, 1846.
I hoped to find a letter from you here, but suppose you are enjoying yourself too much to think of writing to me. There was nothing for me at Bar either, which surprised and incensed me. Is it the fault of the mail, or is it yours? I had always believed the mails to be infallible. What are you doing, and where are you at this moment? I do not know, indeed, where to address this letter, so I am taking my chances in sending it to Paris. Write to me next in Paris, and then to Clermont-Ferrand.
I have seen many customs, many men, and many cities since I left you two weeks ago, and, like Ulysses, in my peregrinations I have encountered all sorts of annoyances. Each year I find provincial life more stupid and more unendurable. This time I have the blues, and see everything from a pessimistic stand-point, perhaps because you have neglected me so unmercifully. The only pleasant experience that I have had was in travelling through the dense forests in the Ardennes, and these reminded me of some other forests with pleasanter associations. I fear you seldom think of them.
As a finishing stroke, I have learned what frightful folly has been accomplished here by means of our money. Those who have been guilty of this are silly and virtuous heads of families, against whom I am obliged to hurl my thunderbolts of denunciation as a warning that they will probably die of starvation. This fierce vocation is most obnoxious to me. I need a letter from you to sweeten my temper.
Again I return to my subject. Why have you not written to me? I shall now be, I don’t know how long, without any word from you, for my itinerary is too unsettled to designate any stopping-places. To sum it all up, I see no reason why I should not be furious. In all probability you are perfectly contented where you are, and I have no expectation of seeing you before winter, when the Opera will draw you back to Paris.
Good-bye. When you desire to think of me, you shall see that I know how to be magnanimous. Do not send a letter to Privas, but to Clermont-Ferrand. I have just learned that I shall not be obliged to go to Privas. After leaving Clermont I shall go probably to Lyons, but you shall hear from me beforehand.
CXII
August 10, 1846.
On board a steamship, whose name I
do not know.
I went to the mountains of Ardèche in search of a remote spot where there were neither electors nor candidates, but I found instead such swarms of fleas and of flies that I am in doubt whether elections are not preferable. Before leaving Lyons I received a letter from you which made me very happy, for I was really somewhat uneasy. Although I ought by now to be accustomed to your neglect of me, I can not help thinking, when I do not hear from you, that something extraordinary has happened to you. What would be truly extraordinary would be that you would condescend to think of me as often as I think of you.
I regret to learn that you left for D. much later than you had expected, and that, in consequence, your return will be delayed. I do not doubt that you will enjoy yourself very much at D.; but if some thought of our walks should come to you while the pleasures that you love so well are at their height, you would be doing a meritorious act by hastening your return. I made a tremendous hit last night with my rustic companions by telling them ghost stories so gruesome that their hair stood on end. The moon shone magnificently, lighting up the regular features and sparkling black eyes of the young girls, without showing off their dirty stockings and the grease on their hands. I fell asleep feeling very proud of my success with an audience perfectly new to me. The next day, when I saw my Ardèchoises in the sunlight, with their villainous hands and feet, I almost regretted my eloquence of the preceding night.
This infernal boat causes my pen to skip up and down in the most ridiculous fashion. One would have need of a special system of education to learn to write on a dancing table. I am too sleepy and tired to write another word, so I will say good-night. Write to me the day you arrive in Paris, and the following day we must see our woods again. I shall be in Paris the 18th at the latest; more probably I shall return the 15th.
Again good-night.
CXIII
Paris, August 18, 1846.
I arrived to-day in a middling condition of preservation, but my head is still dizzy from travelling four hundred kilomètres without a stop. I need your bodily presence to restore me. But when do you intend to return? That is the question. I suppose you find the sea and the marine monsters far too captivating to think of coming so soon. I need you very much, however, I do assure you. I can not tell you the number of annoyances and disappointments that have accumulated on me during this short journey. I recall Gloster’s dream: “I would not sleep another such night though I were to live a world of happy days.” Returning here I feel more isolated than usual, and more depressed than in any of the cities I have just left. I feel somewhat as an emigrant who returns to his native land and finds there a new generation.
You will think I have aged shockingly during this journey. ‘Tis true, and I should not be surprised if something like the fate of Epimenides were to happen to me. All this means that I am horribly blue and cross, and that I have a great desire to see you. Alas! You will not hasten the time of your return by one hour. I should be wiser to wait in patience. When your gowns shall have faded in the sea air, or when you receive new and fresh ones from Paris, you will, perhaps, think of me, but I shall be then at Cologne, or may be at Barcelona. I expect to go to Cologne the first of September, and to Barcelona in October, for I am told that marvellous manuscripts are to be found there.
They say that a woman enjoys nothing so much as to display her fine gowns. I have nothing to offer you equivalent to such joys, but I can not endure to think that such things as these constitute your happiness. God is all-wise! Whatever may be the news you have to tell me, write to me promptly. Shall we see each other before all the leaves have fallen? Do you mean to have me eat peaches from Montreuil this year? You know how I love them! If you have any affectionate memory of me, I hope it will inspire you to form a generous resolution. I have fever, and my hand trembles abominably as I write.
CXIV
Paris, August 22, 1846.
Our letters crossed. I hoped that yours would bring me better news, I mean to say, the announcement of your speedy return. Before your departure you seemed to be in a much greater hurry to see me again. I have complained for a long time of the too great variance between your saying and your doing. Apparently you are spending your time so happily, so agreeably, that you do not bestow even a thought to the time of your return to Paris. You ask me if this will give me much pleasure, which is making game of me most wickedly.
I am horribly desolate here, even more so than when travelling, and yet I am too busy to have time to notice the absence of people from Paris; but that makes no difference to me. It is you, it is our walks for which I long. If you liked them half as much as you say, you would not keep me waiting for them so long. I thought of them during all the time of my journey, and now I think of them more than ever. But you, you have forgotten them.
Paris is absolutely minus intelligent inhabitants. Hosiers and representatives are the only people left in the city, which amounts to the same thing. I expect to leave early in September for Cologne. Shall I see you again before then? I fear very much that you will reply that it is not worth coming for so little. Thus half of our year will have passed and you away or ill. I am tempted to go to —— to see you, and I should yield probably if you gave me any encouragement. However, we shall see.
Good-bye. I am in too bad a humour to write more. I end as I began, by repeating that nothing would give me more pleasure than to see you, especially if the pleasure were shared by you. Otherwise, stay where you are as long as you will.
CXV
Paris, September 3, 1846.
I had imagined, in my guilelessness, that you would prefer one or two walks with me to a week more of whitebait, but since you are not of the same opinion, let it be as you will! I am lacking even the courage to refrain from writing to you, as I pledged myself to do, and it is what I should do if I were not so silly. My journey to Cologne has been for two days a little unsettled. One of my travelling companions has decided not to go, and another perhaps can not, so I am running the risk of finding myself without a companion on the blue Rhine. That I shall consider a slight calamity, but I am uncertain if I shall come this way as I return. Thus we are in great danger, at least I am in great danger of not meeting you until November. The responsibility rests with you. I am sure it will weigh on you easily.
I shall not start before the 12th of September. I hope you will let me hear from you before then, and also that you will send me word of any commissions you wish me to do for you. It is possible that I shall be in Paris again about the beginning of October; but if I have the least courage I shall go to Strasburg, to Lyons, and from there to Marseilles. I fear this courage will be lacking, especially if you think of returning. During your absence I have made from memory two full-length portraits of you. They are both like you, but need to be retouched. We shall see if you will like them. I am bored to death, and should like to see it rain in torrents, but the weather is perfectly dry. Nothing falls but the leaves. There will remain not the sign of one in October.
You will be pleased to learn that you are to hear the same husky singers as last season at the Italian Opera, besides having another Brambilla. There are but five new voices, and a Mademoiselle Albini, who had no voice at all in 1839, but who has found one somewhere, it seems, since then.
Good-bye. I do not say it without malice. What exasperates me more than anything else is that you have received my proposition to visit you at —— with the most disdainful silence; but I shall give it no further thought.