CXVI
Metz, September 12, 1846.
It is extremely fortunate that you decided to write to me before my departure, else I should have gone to Germany without any news of you. Your letter came just as I was about to start. Upon the promises you give me, and whose accomplishment I expect with over-confidence, perhaps, I shall return early in October, probably the first. I hope a few leaves will still remain. We shall see if you are as good as your word.
To-morrow I go to Trèves, and from there either to Mayence or to Cologne, according as the weather is inviting or not. In any case it would be well for you to write to me at once at Aix-la-Chapelle, and then immediately afterwards at Brussels. I need not tell you to write something pleasant which will tempt me to return. When I have started, once on the way, I have the greatest difficulty in stopping, and it will require promises of the most alluring kind to keep me from pushing on as far as Laponia.
I believe I mentioned making two portraits of you. I have now at least three, and with each unsuccessful attempt I begin again, without destroying the former effort. Well, you shall see whether my memory has played me false or true. You ask me which gown? To tell the truth, I gave little consideration to that, but the resemblance lies elsewhere than in the gown. I despair of being able ever to catch the indefinable expression on your face.
I have just arrived here after a sleepless night in a stage-coach, and my head is excessively giddy. My candles seem to be dancing around on the table. A yachting trip is arranged for to-morrow. We shall be stranded frequently, for the Moselle is extremely shallow, but this is not cause sufficient to prevent me from sleeping.
I shall write to you probably from some German inn, and most certainly from Lille, where I shall stop. I may be able by that time to announce the day of my arrival. I learn with great satisfaction that you are tired of ——; I predicted that you would be so. Any one who lives in Paris can not possibly be contented in the country. One says and does such a lot of extravagances that would not be noticed in Paris, but which at —— are as big as a house. Knowing you as I do, I fancy that you have already had this experience.
I shall forgive everything if you will tell me of your return the first or second of October.
CXVII
Bonn, September 18, 1846.
I have been for six days in this beautiful land—not of Bonn, I mean, but of Rhenish Prussia—where civilisation is very advanced, except in the matter of beds, which are always four feet long, while the sheets are only three. I am leading a German life, that is, I rise at five o’clock and go to bed at nine, after having eaten four meals. So far, this sort of life agrees with me very well, and it is not a bad thing to do nothing but open my mouth and bat my eyes. The German women have become horribly ugly since my last visit.
Here is a sketch of the prettiest hat I have seen; it was while on a steamboat going between Trèves and Coblenz; the surroundings are not shown in the illustration, which I give on the next page. It is a capote, around which is draped a piece of plaid stuff, falling over the edge, and one corner of which is looped up on the left side of the hat by means of a small green, white, and red rosette. The capote is black, the German lady very fair, with feet like those in the drawing.
N. B.—The drawing is made to the scale of a centimètre for a mètre. I wish you would introduce these hats. You would make them fashionable.
Speaking of monuments, I have seen none that I cared for; the German architects seem to me worse than ours. The Münster at Bonn has been looted, and the Abbey of Laahr painted a colour calculated to make one gnash his teeth. The scenery on the Moselle is much overdrawn. In reality it is not remarkable. Since passing the Tmolus I have seen nothing to stir my sense of the beautiful. My admiration extends no farther than its shade trees, and the way in which cookery is understood; in this land the all-important business is zu speisen. After having dined at one o’clock, all good people have tea and cake at four, then at six they take a roll with sliced tongue, out in the garden; this enables them to exist until eight o’clock, when they go to the hôtel for supper. What becomes of the women during this time I can not imagine; what is certain is that from eight until ten o’clock not a man is at home. Every one goes to his favourite hôtel to drink, eat, and smoke. The explanation is found, I fancy, in the feet of the women and the excellence of the Rhine wine.
I suppose you will be in Paris in a few days. When I see the woods along the Rhine and the Moselle still green, I picture to myself those of our climate as bare as broomsticks. This, unfortunately, is only too probable. It is as you wished it. Good-bye. I regret that I did not ask you to write to me at Cologne, but it is now too late.
CXVIII
Soissons, October 10, 1846.
It appears that you were very cross last Saturday; but, save a few little clouds still floating in your letter, you had recovered your serenity by Sunday. To continue the metaphor, I should like to see you some day under settled conditions of weather, without previous storms. Unfortunately, it is a habit that you have formed. We part almost always better friends than when we met. Let us try to have, one of these days, the unbroken amiability of which I have sometimes dreamed. I think we should both find it to our advantage.
You make me threats for the sole pleasure of depriving me of the consolations of expectation, and you are so conscious of this fault that you say you are excusable concerning a certain promise you have already made me once, and which you are now unwilling to keep. Is it not the result of mere chance that you are enabled to say you had kept your word? You were unwilling to see me longer than a quarter of an hour, which shows intentional treason on your part. I know your opinion of these subterfuges, and am willing to abide by your own judgment. You have it in your power to make me very happy or very unhappy; it is for you to decide which.
The frightful weather which has continued since Saturday is the same, doubtless, that you have in Paris. It causes me no vexation, except in thinking of our woods, with the leaves scattered by the wind, and the ground soaked by the rain, and of the remoteness of our next walk. While tramping over the fields yesterday, in a veritable deluge of rain, I could think of nothing else. And do you regret the rain for the same reason, or only because it prevents you from going shopping?
What day were you at the Italian Opera? Was it by any chance Thursday, and might we have been near each other without suspecting it? I should like to have caught a glimpse of you surrounded by your court, in order to see if you act when in society as I should wish.
I hope to be in Paris Thursday evening, or Friday at the latest. If it is fine weather Saturday, will you go for a long walk? In the opposite case, we might take a short one, or else go to the Museum. The memory of these walks is both a delight and an affliction. It is an impression that needs constant renewal, else it would become a torment.
Dear friend, good-bye; I am very grateful for all the tenderness shown in your letter; what there is of unkindness and coldness I shall endeavour to forget. I believe you indulge this proclivity as a sort of ornament of fancy, behind which you screen your true self. I love to know that beneath it you are all heart and all soul: this is evident, notwithstanding all your efforts to conceal it.
CXIX
Paris, September 22, 1847.
The Revue is bothering me to death about Don Pèdre. I should like to know your opinion concerning it. I am torn between avarice and modesty, and shall be obliged, also, to ask you to read a part of it. The work seems to me to have the disadvantage of everything that has taken long and painstaking efforts to accomplish. I have given myself a great deal of trouble to achieve an accuracy for which nobody will thank me.
You will readily see that since your departure I have had frequent visits from the blue devils....
The opinion you express of Don Pèdre pleases me very well, because it harmonizes with my own wishes and with what I consider to my advantage. There is one point, however, on which my heart fails me, and which has prevented me from concluding the whole business before I leave. I should be glad to have your advice, verbally, and I shall then point out a few little things from which you will be better able to judge.
I have never been more sadly impressed than on my last visit by the stupidity of the people of the North, as well as by their inferiority to those of the South. The average Picardian seems to me to be more unintelligent than the very lowest of the Provençals. In addition, I should freeze to death in any one of the inns where I am driven by my sorrowful fate.
CXX
Saturday, February 26, 1848.[12]
I believe you are now a little better. I don’t know why you could be so uneasy about your brother. No wonder you have no news. Bad ones come very soon. I begin to get accustomed to the strangeness of the thing, and to be reconciled to the strange figures of the conquerors who, what’s stranger still, behave themselves as gentlemen. There is now a strong tendency to order. If it continues I shall turn a staunch republican. The only fault I find with the new order of things is that I do not very clearly see how I shall be able to live, and that I can not see you.
I hope, though, it will not be long before the coaches can go on.
CXXI
Paris, March, 1848.
I am distressed to know of the failure of the —— house, in which, I fear, you have investments. Reassure me on this point, I pray you, and if any disaster comes to you, let us endeavour to comfort each other. For a long time to come, each day will bring us new calamities. We must sustain each other and share with each other the grain of courage that is still left in us. Will you see me to-morrow, or later? It seems a century since we met. Good-bye; you were very kind the other day, and I regret that you were not kind for a longer time.
CXXII
Paris, March, 1848.
I think you are too easily alarmed. Affairs are no worse than they were yesterday, which does not mean that they are right, and that there is no danger. As to your proposition to go away, it is exceedingly difficult to advise you, or to see distinctly through this dense fog veiling our future. There are people who think that, everything considered, Paris is a safer place than the provinces. I myself share this opinion.
I do not believe there will be any fighting in the city, because, in the first place, there is not yet a sufficient motive, and, again, because courage and intrepidity are on one side, while on the other I see only bombast and poltroonery. If civil war were to break out, it is in the provinces, I think, that it would be first declared. There exists already a deep-seated objection to the dictatorship of the capital, and it may be that manœuvres which can not now be foreseen will lead to this result in the west or elsewhere. As to riots and their consequences, remember what they accomplished in Paris during the first revolution, and what they amounted to more recently in the provinces.
The Department of Indre, where you wish to go, passed through one two years ago at Buzançais, more deplorable in its results than any of ‘93.
Understand that I am not advising you, and that I am reasoning only theoretically. I do not believe there is any immediate danger, and, moreover, even in the event that conditions should become more serious, Paris would still be the safest refuge. Anyway, between Indre and Boulogne, I should choose the latter place, which has the advantage of proximity to the sea. I should be deeply distressed, however, to have you leave without seeing me. Could you not delay your departure a few days? You see that everything passed quietly yesterday. We shall have such parades for a long time to come before any shots are fired, even if this timid country ever comes to such a point. Good-bye.
CXXIII
Saturday, March 11, 1848.
The weather is taking a hand in thwarting our wishes. I hope it will be more favourable towards us Monday. This continued rain and cold makes me anxious about your sore throat. Take good care of yourself, and try to turn your thoughts from all that is taking place. I am aching and stiff after a night at the guard-house; but, after all, fatigue is an advantage in such weather as this.
I should like to see something more than your shadow. I am sorry that you retired so early. The happiness of seeing you is as great under the Republic as under the Monarchy; it will not do to be too sparing of it. In what a strange world are we living! The most important thing I have to say to you is that I love you more and more every day, I believe, and also that I wish you would gain courage enough to tell me the same.
CXXIV
Paris, May 13, 1848.
I hoped you would not go away so soon, and without saying good-bye. I even wrote to you yesterday, expecting to see you to-day. I do not know why I can not become reconciled to this journey. You do not say, however, how long you intend to remain away, drinking milk, and that is the essential consideration. I should be glad to have you attend the reception in a new bonnet at the Academy, Thursday, for new bonnets will be seen there seldom hereafter, I fear. I make this request to you purely in the interest of the Academy. In my own, I count on a beautiful walk with you for next Saturday. If you should decide to go to the Academy Thursday, send to my house before noon for the tickets.
CXXV
Paris, Wednesday, May 15, 1848.
Everything went as well as possible, because they are so stupid that, notwithstanding all the faults of the Chamber, the latter was stronger than they. There are no killed or wounded, and perfect quiet reigns. The National Guard and the people are in perfect sympathy. All the leaders of the mob have been arrested, and the city is so full of armed troops that for some time to come there will be nothing to fear. I shall hope to see you Saturday. In fact, everything has happened for the best. I have been present at some extremely dramatic scenes, which interested me intensely, and which I will describe to you.
CXXVI
June 27, 1848.
I returned home this morning after a short campaign of four days, in which I was exposed to no danger, but wherein I have been enabled to appreciate all the horrors of the time and of this land of ours. In the midst of my grief and sorrow I am impressed above all else with the stupidity of this nation. It is without parallel. I do not know whether it will ever be possible for her to turn her back upon the savage barbarism in which she is so prone to wallow.
I hope all is well with your brother. I do not think his regiment has had any serious engagement. At the same time, we are overcome with fatigue, having had no sleep for four nights.
Have but little confidence in the newspaper reports of the dead, wounded, etc. Day before yesterday I passed along the rue Saint Antoine, where I saw many windows shattered by cannon and fronts of shops injured; but, except for this, the destruction is not as great as I had supposed or as has been reported. These are the most extraordinary things I saw, which I shall describe briefly, in order to go to bed: 1. The prison has been defended for several hours by the National Guard, and surrounded by insurgents. They said to the National Guard: “Do not fire on us, and we will not fire on you. Take care of the prisoners.” 2. I entered a house on the corner of the Place de la Bastille: it had just been captured from the insurgents. I asked the residents there: “Did they take much from you?” “Nothing was stolen,” was the reply. Add to this that I took to prison a woman who was cutting off the heads of the militiamen with her kitchen-knife, and a man whose arms were red with blood from having bathed them in the gore of a wounded man, whose body he had ripped open, and you will have some conception, will you not, of this glorious nation? One thing is certain, and that is that we are going to the dogs!
When do you mean to return? The fighting will be over in six weeks at the most.
CXXVII
Paris, July 2, 1848.
I need very much to see you to cheer me up a little after the painful experiences of last week, and it is with the keenest pleasure that I learn of your intended return, sooner than I had dared to hope. Paris is quiet, and will continue so for some time to come. I do not think the civil war, or rather the socialist war, is over, but another battle as horrible as the last seems to me impossible. It was brought on by an incalculable number of circumstances, which can not occur again.
You will find, when you return, few of the hideous traces of the battle which your imagination probably pictures to you. The larger part of them have been effaced by the glazier and the house-painter. Still I can readily imagine that you will find us all with long faces, and much sadder than when you left. Well, how can we help it? It is the fashion of the day, and we must accustom ourselves to it. We shall gradually reach the point when we shall cease to look forward to the morrow, and consider ourselves fortunate when we wake in the morning and find ourselves alive.
What I really miss more than anything else in Paris is yourself, and if you were here, I believe all the other conditions would be more supportable. It has rained for the last three days. At present I watch it as it falls with the utmost indifference; but I should not care to have it continue too long.
You speak so indefinitely of your return that I have no ground on which to build, and you are aware that I am anxious to know how long I shall have to remain in purgatory. You mentioned six weeks when you said good-bye, and you now say that you will return sooner than that. How much sooner? That is what I should like to know. Let me hear, also, the result of the disagreeable affairs which kept you from being present at my birthday fête, celebrated by the firing of cannon and guns.
Good-bye; in order to be patient I need to hear from you very often. Write to me at once, and send some remembrance. I am thinking of you constantly. I thought of you even while looking at those deserted houses in the rue Saint Antoine, and during the fight at the Bastille.
CXXVIII
Paris, July 9, 1848.
You are like Antæus, who regained strength as soon as he touched the earth. No sooner do you reach your native land than you fall again into your old faults. You reply very prettily to my letter. I begged you to tell me how much longer you intended to stay away eating amiles; a date was not much trouble to write, yet you preferred three pages of circumlocutions, of which I can understand nothing, except that you would have come if you had not remained. I see, also, that you are spending your time most agreeably. I had no idea that Madame ——’s scarf was bought to use as a memento. You might have told me, at least, on whom you had thought proper to bestow it. In short, I am not at all pleased with your letter.
The days here are very long and tolerably warm, but as peaceful as could be wished, or rather hoped, under the Republic. All indications point to a long truce. The disarmament is carried on vigorously, and is producing good results. One curious symptom is observed. In the insurgent neighbourhoods are numerous informants willing to point out the hiding-places and even the leaders of the barricades. It is an encouraging sign, you know, when wolves begin to fight among themselves.
I went yesterday to Saint-Germain to order the dinner for the Bibliophilist Society, and came across a cook who was not only very capable, but, moreover, eloquent. He told me he considered it a pity that so many people object to artichokes served à la barigoule, and he understood instantly the most fantastic dishes that I proposed. This great man resides in the wing of the Château Neuf where Henry IV was born. From this spot one enjoys the most entrancing view imaginable.
Two steps away you find yourself in a forest of magnificent trees and of beautiful undergrowth, and not a living soul to enjoy it all! ‘Tis true, it takes fifty-five minutes to reach this charming place, but would it be impossible to go there some day for dinner or luncheon with Madame ——? Good-bye. Write to me soon.
CXXIX
Paris, Monday, July 19, 1848.
You divine things perfectly when you are willing to take the trouble, and you have sent me, besides, what I asked for. What matters it if it be a repetition! Am I not like the poor ex-king? “I receive always with renewed pleasure,” etc. What I can not express is my delight in receiving this familiar perfume, which is all the more delicious because it is familiar, and is associated in my mind with so many memories. At last you have decided to speak the important word. ‘Tis true that it is a month since you went away, and that in leaving you said you should return in six weeks; from which it follows that I ought to see you in two weeks. But you begin at once to reckon the six weeks in your own fashion, that is, from the day you write to me. This resembles somewhat the devil’s method of calculation, for, as you know, he has a very different arrangement of figures from that used by good Christians. Appoint a day, then, and let it be the most distant that I can grant you, say the 15th of August.
The 14th of July passed very quietly, notwithstanding the sinister predictions made to us. The truth is, if one can succeed in discerning the truth in the government under which we have the good fortune to live, that the crisis is over and our chances of tranquillity are distinctly improved. It required several years for organisation and four months for arming the insurgents for the riots of the last week of June. A second exhibition of that bloody tragedy seems to me impossible, so long, at least, as present conditions are not materially changed. At the same time, an occasional conspiracy, an assassination now and then, even a few riots are likely still to occur. We may need a half century, perhaps, to perfect ourselves, the one side in constructing defences, and the other in the art of destroying them. Paris at this moment is being stored with shells and mortars, ammunition which is very portable and efficacious. This is a modern and a valuable argument, it is said. But let us stop war talk. You can form no idea of the pleasure you will give me by accepting my invitation to breakfast with Lady ——.
CXXX
Paris, Saturday, August 5, 1848.
There is renewed talk of fighting, but I pay no attention to it. This evening, however, my friend, M. Mignet, was strolling with Mademoiselle Dosne in the little garden which is in front of the home of M. Thiers. A shot, fired silently from some point above them, struck the house close by Madame Thiers’ window; and as every shot carries its message, this had one for a corpulent person who was sitting just outside the garden railing, holding on her lap a little twelve-year-old girl. The shot was extracted skilfully, and, except a slight scar, she will suffer no ill effects from the wound. But for whom was it designed? For Mignet? That seems impossible. For Mademoiselle Dosne? Even more so. Madame Thiers was not at home, nor M. Thiers either. The report was heard by no one; at the same time, the shot was of the sort used in war, and air-guns are of much weaker calibre. For my own part, I believe it was a Republican attempt at intimidation, about as imbecile as everything else done nowadays. To my mind, these are the only shot to fear.
General Cavaignac said: “They will kill me, and Lamoricière will succeed me, then will follow the duc d’Isly, who will sweep away all before him.” Do you not find in these words something prophetic? Very little confidence is expressed in Italian interference. The Republic will prove to be even more craven than the Monarchy. It may be, however, that some pretence will be made of an attempt at intervention, in the hope of obtaining thereby delays, a conference, treaties. A friend of mine who has just come from Italy was seized by Roman Volunteers, who find travellers of better fighting quality than Croatians. He insists that it is impossible to induce the Italians to fight, with the exception of the Piedmontese, who can not be everywhere at once.
I am telling you all this political news in the hope that it will cause no change in your plans. The Navy Bureau is making great preparations for the transportation of six hundred of the gentlemen taken prisoners in June; this will be the first convoy. I should not be unwilling to believe that on the day when the transport sails several thousand tearful widows will be on hand at the door of the Assembly; but of brand-new insurgents, do not believe it.
Have done with Romaic, in admiring which you are making a great mistake, for it will play you the same trick it did me. I found it impossible to learn, and now I have also forgotten classical Greek. I am astonished that you can understand anything at all of the jargon. Besides, it will fall into disuse before long. Already Greek is spoken in Athens, and if this custom continues, Romaic will soon be spoken only by the rabble. Since 1841 not a single Turkish word, heard so frequently in the τραγἡδιον of M. Fauriel, has been pronounced by the aristocracy of Greece.
Have I ever translated for you a very pretty ballad of a Greek who returns to his home after a long absence, and is not recognised by his wife? Like Penelope, she questions him for information about his family; he answers correctly, but she is not convinced. She examines him for other proofs, is convinced, and then recognises him. I leave all this for your divination.
Good-bye. I am waiting to hear from you.
CXXXI
Paris, August 12, 1848.
The warm weather will soon be over, and in a few days the cold season, which I dislike so heartily, will be upon us. I can not tell you how angry I am with you. Besides this, apricots and plums are almost gone, when I had anticipated the pleasure of eating some with you. I am perfectly sure that if you had really wished to come you would be already in Paris. I am horribly lonely, and have a great mind to go away without waiting to see you. The best I can do is to give you until the 25th, at three o’clock, not an hour more.
We are very peaceful. There is still some talk, it is true, that M. Ledru will stir up an insurrection as a means of protest against the investigation, but this is not to be taken seriously. The first condition of a fight is that both sides shall be armed with guns and ammunition. At present it is all in the possession of one side. Day before yesterday, at the Annual Prize Competition, a youngster named Leroy took a prize. The other youngsters all shouted: “Vive le roi!” General Cavaignac, who was present at the ceremony, I do not know why, laughed and took it with good grace. But when the same little rascal won another prize, the cries became so boisterous that the General lost his equanimity, and twisted his beard as if he would have enjoyed tearing it out.
Good-bye. I am terribly cross with you! Write to me immediately.
CXXXII
Paris, August 20, 1848.
I begin to doubt if I shall see you this year. There is talk of a renewal of hostilities, and coming of the cholera will cause a complication of affairs. It is said to be already in London, and it is certainly in Berlin. For several days a fray has been expected. It is said that the discussions at the investigation will be settled by means of gun-shots. I am so obstinate in my opinions that I can not yet believe it, but I am alone in my judgment. The condition of affairs is extremely confused. It resembles the situation in Rome during the conspiracy of Catiline as closely as one drop of water resembles another. Only, here we have no Cicero.
As to the result of an insurrection, I have no doubt of the triumph of the cause of right. No one doubts this, and yet, where fools are concerned, it is useless to count on any rational move. I am wrong, it may be, to believe that the hopelessness of the cause will prevent the uprising from taking place. We shall see, however, next week. The investigation is to begin Wednesday. It seems to me to prove one thing at least, and that is the wide division existing among the Republicans. No two of them seem to be of the same mind. What is even more to be regretted is that Citizen Proudhon has an immense number of followers, and that his little sheets are sold in the slums by the thousand. All this is very sad; but, whatever may happen, the present state of affairs will continue for many days, and we must make the best of it.
Of paramount importance to me is to know if you will return the 25th. If there is to be a battle, it will be either lost or won on that day. Therefore, form no plans yet, or rather decide to come home and witness our victory, or our burial, on the 25th.
One other thing vexes me, which is that summer is passing, the warm days are going, and when you return there will be no more peaches. Already the leaves are beginning to wither and to fall. I foresee all the dreariness of the cold and the rain, and this seems to me a matter much more serious and certain than the uprising. For several days I have been ill, and this, perhaps, is why I have the blues. I need not tell you that I should be terribly disappointed to die before our breakfast at Saint Germain. I am hoping still that it may take place.
Good-bye; write to me soon. You ought not to tease people so far away.
CXXXIII
Paris, August 23, 1848.
It was hardly kind of you to delay your reply so long. I suppose I wrote you too gloomy a letter the last time. If life to-day does not appear in rosy tints, it looks at least a pale gray, the gayest colour consistent with the Republic. In spite of myself, they made me believe there would be more fighting; now, however, I no longer think so, or, if it is to be, it will not occur at present.
I imagine you are perishing with cold at the seashore. I am still ill, and neither eat nor sleep; but the very worst of my troubles is the frightful loneliness to which I am a prey. Nevertheless, I am compelled to work, so that it is not from inactivity that I am yawning; yet, no matter in what situation the phenomenon manifests itself, it is exceedingly disagreeable.
I can not comprehend what you find to do at D., and I see no other explanation for your sojourn among the barbarians than that you have made some conquest there of which you are very proud. I am reserving a fine quarrel against your return. Is it to be Friday or Monday? I do not believe it would be prudent for you to wait much longer.
Good-bye. I am leaving you in order to go to hear your favourite, M. Mignet, who is to make an address at the Academy. You may be assured that the investigation will be concluded without any shots; and as for the scandal, as times go now, it has been lost sight of.
CXXXIV
Paris, Saturday, November 5, 1848.
I have been excessively irritated with you, for I needed very much to see you. I have been, and am still, terribly ill, and, what is worse, frightfully despondent. An hour with you would have helped me wonderfully. You did not take the trouble even, as you did formerly, to say something kind to me when you had some mischief in your head. However justly deserved are the reproaches that I make you, I must always forgive you in the end; but I should be glad if you would do something to merit it. Will you make me some fineza, to compensate me for all the loneliness I have endured for the last fortnight? I leave it to you to decide on the form of adequate indemnity.
Did you hear the shooting, and were you afraid? At the first three shots I thought they intended to demolish the Republic. At the fourth, I understood what was the matter.
You still have one of my Greek books. I fear you will injure your Hellenism with this Romaic jargon. At the same time, I think there are some very pretty things in this volume. I am now at work on a new book, of equal historical interest.
CXXXV
London, June 1, 1850.
I have not written before for the reason that, having travelled thirty miles a day, I could not sit down at my desk without falling asleep on the spot. I shall not tell you many of my impressions of the journey, except that most decidedly the English individually are dull, but collectively are an admirable people. All that can be accomplished with money, common sense, and patience, they do; but they have no more conception of the arts than my cat. You would fall in love with the Indian princes. They wear low turbans, bordered all around with immense emerald pendants, and their robes are a mass of satin, cashmere, pearls, and gold! Their complexion is a dark cream colour. They are stunning looking fellows, and are said to be intelligent.
I was interrupted yesterday by a visitor at this point of my letter, and to-day, June 2d, I have not been able to recover the thread of my thoughts. We are going to Hampton Court to avoid the temptations to suicide which the Lord’s Day will not fail to suggest to us. I dined yesterday with a Bishop and a Dean, who made me almost become a Socialist. The Bishop belongs to the school which the Germans call Rationalistic, which means that he does not believe what he teaches, but, in consideration of his ecclesiastical apron of Neapolitan black, lives like a lord on his income of five or six thousand pounds, and spends his time reading Greek.
I have caught cold too, so that I am almost exhausted. Because it is June I am compelled to endure constant exposure to deadly draughts of air.
The women all seem to be made of wax. They wear such enormous bustles that there is room for only one woman to pass on the sidewalk of Regent Street. I spent yesterday morning in the new House of Commons, which is a frightful monstrosity. We had no idea before what could be done with an utter absence of taste and two million pounds sterling. Eating such inordinately good dinners from gold and silver plate, and meeting people who can win fourteen thousand pounds sterling at the Epsom races, I fear will make an out and out Socialist of me. There is, however, no probability of a revolution here. The servility of the lower classes seems strange to our democratic ideas. Every day we see some new evidence of their obsequiousness. The important question is whether they are not happier thus.
Write to me at Lincoln, general delivery. Lincoln is, I think, in Lincolnshire, but I would not swear to it.
CXXXVI
Salisbury, Saturday, June 15, 1850.
I am beginning to have enough of this country. I am exceedingly tired of their perpendicular style of architecture, and of the equally perpendicular manners of the natives. I spent two days at Cambridge and at Oxford with some reverends, and, taking everything into consideration, I prefer the Capucines. I am particularly incensed against Oxford, where a fellow had the insolence to invite me to dinner. There was a fish four inches long in a large silver platter, and a cutlet in another. All this, with potatoes in a carved wooden dish, was served in magnificent style. Meanwhile I was nearly starved. This is an indication of the hypocrisy of those people. They like to make a show to strangers of their temperance, and if they have luncheon they do not dine.
It is deuced windy and wretchedly cold. If it were not still bright daylight at eight o’clock at night one could readily believe it was December. This does not prevent all the women from carrying their parasols raised. I have just committed a blunder. I gave a half-crown to a person in black who showed me the Cathedral, and when I asked him for the address of a gentleman to whom the Dean had given me a letter of introduction, it turned out that it was to himself that the letter was addressed. He looked confused, and so did I, but he kept the money.
I expect to revisit Stonehenge to-morrow, and if the fog lifts I shall dine at night in London. Monday or Tuesday I am going to Canterbury, and hope to reach Paris Friday. I wish you were here in Salisbury. Stonehenge would astonish you greatly. Good-bye. I am going to return to the Cathedral. My letter will start, God knows when! I have just been told that on the Lord’s Day the post-office is closed. I have an abominable cold and cough, and can get nothing but port wine to drink.
The women here wear hoops under their gowns. It is impossible to find anything more ridiculous than an Englishwoman in a hoop-skirt. Who is Miss Jewsberry, who has carroty hair and writes novels? I met her the other evening, and she told me that all her life she had dreamed of a pleasure which she never expected to realise, and this was to see me (I quote). She has written a novel entitled Zoë. You, who read so much, must tell me all about this person, to whom I am a book. In the Zoological Garden there is a baby hippopotamus, which is fed on rice and milk. In Punch, of the 15th, there is a portrait of him, which is a speaking likeness.
Good-bye. Will you try to give me a good walk to make up for my three weeks’ journey?
CXXXVII
Bâle, October 10, 1850.
I have wanted for a long time to write to you, and do not know how it happens that I have been so tardy. In the first place, I have been in places so wild and solitary that the post probably never penetrates them. In the next place, I have had so much gymnastics to do in order to visit the Gothic castles of the Vosges that when evening came I did not have the strength to hold a pen. The weather, which was horrible when I left, became fine for my Alsatian trip, and I have enjoyed thoroughly the mountains, the forests, and an atmosphere which has never been vitiated by coal-smoke, nor vibrated to the tones of the chorus of the Girondins. I experienced the most intense pleasure during my visit to these desolate spots, and wondered how one could be content to live elsewhere. The woods are still green, and are redolent of the delicious odours that recall our walks.
I am at last here in a model Republican country, where there are neither customs officers nor policemen, and where the beds are long enough to lie on, a comfort unknown in Alsace. I am resting here for a day. To-morrow I shall visit the Cathedral of Freibourg, and I shall then go immediately to determine whether the statues there are as beautiful as those of Irwin de Steinbach at Strasburg. I shall leave Strasburg the 12th, and shall be in Paris on the 14th. I hope you will be there. ‘Tis needless to tell you how pleased I shall be to see you; but that will not deter you from going away if you feel inclined.
Good-bye. Indolent as you are, you must be pleased that I am writing to you so late, since you will not be put to the necessity of replying.
CXXXVIII
Paris, Monday, June 15, 1851.
My mother is better, and will, I think, be entirely well again in a few days. I was very anxious, and feared pneumonia. I appreciate the interest you have shown in her health.
I went out yesterday for the first time in a week to see the Spanish dancers, who are on exhibition at the Princess Mathilde’s. They impressed me as mediocre. The dance at the Jardin Mabille has ruined the popularity of the bolero. Moreover, those ladies wore such a quantity of crinoline behind and such a lot of cotton in front that it is easy to see civilisation is invading everything. I was amused especially in watching a little girl of about twelve years, accompanied by an aged duenna. They could not overcome their surprise to find themselves outside of holy ground, and were both as ill at ease and boorish as could be wished.
I have just received your cushion. You are, indeed, a skilled needle-woman, an accomplishment of which I should never have suspected you. Both the selection of colours and the embroidery are remarkably beautiful. My mother admires it extremely. As for the design, the hint which you were good enough to give me was sufficient to make me understand its meaning. I do not know how to thank you.
Saint Evremont joins me here. I lost him, and have had to exert my memory to its utmost ability in order to find him again. You must tell me what you think of Père Canaye. I find that after him it is impossible to read anything more of the nineteenth century.
CXXXIX
London, Saturday, July 22, 1851.
I am disconsolate to hear that you have gone; I hoped on my return to find you in Paris, and can not realise that you will not be there. I have not even the consolation of scolding you. Try to return early in August. I shall not censure you, because you will do your very best, I am sure, to bid me farewell. Think how hard it is for me to spend several months away from you. In short, you know how eagerly I anticipate seeing you, and, if possible, you will give me that pleasure.
The Crystal Palace is a huge Noah’s Ark, marvellous for the singularity of the objects one sees there, but exceedingly commonplace from an artistic standpoint. To sum it up, one can spend a very entertaining day there.
I am so vexed with your letter that I have not the courage to write. Good-bye.
CXL
Paris, Thursday evening, December 2, 1851.
It seems to me that the final battle is being waged, but who shall win? If the President should lose, it looks as if the brave Deputies will have to yield their place to Ledru-Rollin. I have returned horribly fatigued, having met no one, apparently, but a lot of fools. The appearance of Paris reminds me of February 24, only now the soldiers strike terror into the hearts of the citizens. The military say they are confident of success, but you know how much their predictions are worth. This means a postponement of our walk.
Good-bye. Write to me, and tell me if any of your family are engaged in the struggle.
CXLI
Paris, December 3, 1851.
What shall I say? I know no more about it than you do. It is certain that the soldiers have a grim, stern air, and this time frighten the citizens. However it may be, we have just passed a reef, and are sailing towards the unknown. Do not be uneasy, and tell me when I may see you.
CXLII
March 24, 1852.
... I have all sorts of annoyances, besides a great deal of work on hand. In short, I have undertaken, impulsively, a piece of chivalrous work, and you know that one should guard against yielding to impulses. I sometimes turn over a new leaf. The substance of the matter is that after reading the articles written for the defence of Libri, his innocence has been completely demonstrated to me, and I am now writing for the Revue a long dissertation concerning his trial, including all the infamous details connected with it. Pity me; one gains nothing from such work but vituperation; but there are times when one is so shocked by injustice that he makes a fool of himself.
When are we to visit the Museum? I am grieved to learn of the death of some one whom you loved; but this is one more reason for us to meet often, and to prove whether a friendship like ours is a balm for sorrow. I agree with you in thinking that life is a foolish thing, but we must not make it worse than it is. After all, it contains some moments of happiness, and the satisfaction we enjoy in the remembrance of these exceeds the dejection we feel in the recollection of our moments of unhappiness. I experience more pleasure in recalling our friendly talks than I have of sorrow in thinking of our quarrels. We should make ample provision for happy recollections.
CXLIII
Paris, April 22, at night, 1852.
Your letter has done me much good. At this moment I am indulging in the nervousness which is sure to follow an impulsive action: impulses, as you know, are usually sincere. It is in such moments as this that base and sordid sentiments hold sway.
I am threatened with a suit for contempt of court and attack against the verdict. The case against me is strong, but everything is possible. Y siempre lo peor es cierto. Meanwhile, the École des Chartes is sharpening its claws to tear me to pieces. I shall be obliged, perhaps, to undergo an examination, and to offer an energetic defence. I hope I shall regain my energy when the moment of battle comes. At present I am bewildered and dejected. I thank you for what you tell me. I appreciate it sincerely. Try to keep well, so that, if the case should go against me, you can come to see me in prison.
CXLIV
Friday evening, May 1, 1852.
My dear mother is dead. I hope her sufferings were not great. Her features were calm, and she wore her usual sweet and gentle expression. I thank you for all the interest you have shown in her.
Good-bye. Think of me, and write to me soon.
CXLV
Paris, May 19, 1852.
Has this lovely weather nothing to say to you? It gives me new life, seemingly. I waited for you almost all of yesterday. Why, I do not know; but it seemed to me that you must have known that I was expecting you. Come, then, as quickly as you can, for I have a great many things to say to you. I do not know whether they wish to hang me or not. I am told sometimes one thing, sometimes another. What makes me fidgety is the thought of a public ceremony[13] in the presence of the flower of the rabble, and three black-robed imbeciles, stiff as posts, and imagining that they are somebody. The worst of it is that one does not dare to express the utter contempt he feels for their robes, for themselves, and for their intelligence.
CXLVI
Paris, May 22, 1852.
Did our walk fatigue you? Tell me at once that it did not. I expected a word from you to-day. I am in the hands of my lawyer,[14] who pleases me very much. He seems to be a man of intelligence, not too talkative, and he understands the affair as clearly as I. This raises my hopes.
CXLVII
May, 1852, Wednesday, 5 P.M.
Two weeks of imprisonment and a fine of one thousand francs! My lawyer spoke finely for me; the judges were very polite; I was not in the least nervous. In short, I am less dissatisfied than I might be. I shall not appeal.
CXLVIII
May 27, 1852, at night.
Upon my word, you are very sharp!
I went the other day to see the judges, and was imprudent enough to have in my pocket a thousand-franc note. I have not seen it since, yet it is incredible that, among persons of such high position, pickpockets should find their way. Therefore the note must have vanished of itself; so let us give the matter no more thought.
The same day I had the misfortune to touch a man supposed to have the plague, and it has been thought prudent to quarantine me for two weeks: a great calamity, truly! My friend, M. Bocher, is to go to prison the last of June, and we shall be there together. Meantime, I need very much to see you!
My revenge has begun already. My friend Saulcy was yesterday at a house where they were discussing the judgment against me, whereupon, without seeing how the land lay, my champion rushes heedlessly into the fray, using such severe words as imbecility, fatuity, stupidity, conceit of jackanapes, and the like, and appealing to a gentleman in evening dress, whom he knew by sight, but of whose profession he was ignorant. It happened to be M. ——, one of my judges, who would have preferred, at that moment, to be elsewhere. I imagine the state of mind of the hostess, the guests, and of Saulcy himself, who, informed too late, fell on a sofa, splitting his sides with laughter, and saying: “Indeed, I’ll not retract a word!”
CXLIX
Monday evening, June 1, 1852.
... I spend all my time reading the letters of Beyle. This makes me feel at least twenty years younger. It is as if I were making an autopsy of the thoughts of a man whom I knew intimately, and whose ideas of things and of men have had a singular influence on mine. This makes me alternately sad and cheerful twenty times an hour, and I regret having destroyed the letters that Beyle wrote to me....
CL
Marseilles, September 12, 1852.
... I went to Touraine, where I visited Chambord in a beating rain, and Saint Aignan in showers of rain. I returned to Paris in the rain the 7th, left the same day in a storm, and came down the Rhône through a fog which was thick enough to cut. Not until I reached Canebière did I see the sun once more, and for the last two days it has shone in all its glory. I found there (in Marseilles, not in the sun) my cousin and his wife. I went yesterday to see them off on the Leonidas upon a sea of heavenly blue, and in weather neither cold nor warm. You, who live in the dreary climate of the North, have no conception of such a temperature as this. These are my only living relatives, and are the owners of that salon which you condescended to honour with your approval.
When I saw the last curl of smoke from the Leonidas vanish behind the islands which the descriptions in Monte Cristo have made familiar to you, I was seized with a feeling of desolation and dejection, and felt as if I were an old fogy. I needed your presence, and thought how you would delight in this country which seems to me so dull. I would have you eat twenty different varieties of fruit that you have never tasted: for instance, yellow peaches, white and red melons, medlars, and ripe pistachio nuts. Moreover, you could spent an entire day in the Turkish bazaars and other curiosity shops, where there are many useless articles most fascinating to see and most disheartening to pay for.
I have asked myself often why you have never come to the south of France, and I can find no good reason. I am going to make a three days’ excursion through the mountains, with no companion, and without meeting with a French-speaking biped. I am not sure if, after all, this is not preferable to intercourse with the provincial townspeople, who seem every year to become more intolerable.
Here the mayor and the prefects have lost their heads over the proposed visit of the President. The prefectures are all being scraped and scrubbed, and eagles are set up in every spot where they can perch. There is no absurdity of which they do not think. What amusing people they are! In the midst of all this, I fear the proofs of Démétrius will be lost: I ought to correct them while I am away, and they have not yet arrived....
CLI
Moulins, September 27, 1852.
... I have been very ill, and am still suffering from languor, which is intensified from the fact that the remedy which brought me around, that is to say, the north wind, has given me a cold. It is excessively enervating, and with my sleepless nights and constant running about, it is not likely to mend. For forty-five hours I have had such a tendency to congestion of the brain that I thought I was soon to see the land of the shades. I was entirely alone, and treated myself, or rather I did not treat myself at all, being in a condition of physical and moral prostration which rendered extremely painful the least exertion. I felt, of course, some disquietude at the thought of going to an unknown world, but to make any resistance seemed to be still more disquieting. It is, I think, through such stolid resignation that one makes his exit from this world, not because illness gains the victory, but because one has become indifferent to everything, and makes no defence.
I am waiting here until a monsignore with whom I have business comes out of retreat. It is highly probable that I shall have to run around for two or three days to find him, after which I shall return to Paris. To-morrow will be my birthday, and I should like to spend it with you. It happens always that I am alone and horribly depressed on this day....
CLII
Carabanchel, September 11, 1853.
... Upon my arrival here I found every one occupied in preparations to celebrate the anniversary of the hostess. They were to play a comedy and to recite a Loa[15] in honour of herself and of her daughter. I was called upon to manufacture skies, mend decorations, design costumes, and so on, not to mention the rehearsals I conducted for five mythological divinities, only one of whom had ever taken part in private theatricals. My goddesses were very pretty yesterday, the eventful day, but they were dying with stage-fright; however, everything passed well. There was loud applause, although no one understood the absurd rigmarole of verses strung together by the poetic author of the Loa.
The comedy, which was a translation of Bonsoir, Monsieur Pantalon, was even better. I admire, indeed, the facility with which young society girls are transformed into fairly good actresses. At the close of the play there was a ball, followed by supper, during which a young ward of the countess improvised some graceful verses, which caused the heroine of the feast to shed tears, and all the guests to drink assiduously. This morning I have a sorry head, and the sun is deuced warm.
I am going to Madrid to see the bull-fights, and must leave my goddesses for two or three days in order to make my visits and work in the library. As there are nine ladies in the house, without a man, they call me in Madrid “Apollo.” Of the nine muses, there are, unfortunately, five who are the mothers or the aunts of the other four; but these four are Andalusians, with severe little airs, which become them charmingly, especially when they wear their Olympian costume, with peplums, which they, from love of euphony, insist on calling peplo.
You have, doubtless, less beautiful weather than we are having here....
CLIII
L’Escurial, October 5, 1853.
I send you a little flower which I found on the mountain behind the ugly convent of the Escurial. I have not seen it since I was in Corsica; they call it there mucchiallo; here, no one knows its name. At night, when the wind passes over it, it has an odour which is to me delicious.
I found the Escurial as gloomy as when I left it twenty years ago, but it has been invaded by civilisation. There are now iron beds, and mutton chops, and all the bugs and monks have vanished. The latter I miss very much, and their absence seems to render all the more ridiculous the heavy style of Herrara’s architecture. I am going to dine in Madrid to-night, for I can not endure another day in this place.
I shall, in all probability, remain in Madrid until the 15th of this month, when I shall go to Valladolid, Toro, Zamora, and Léon, providing the weather, which until now has been superb, does not become cold and rainy. This, however, is improbable. I have been to Toledo and to Madrid. I am going to Ségovia in order to escape the balls, which bore me to death. I went the other night to see the opening of the Grand Opera. Except for the very attractive and comfortable building, and the pretty women who were there in large numbers, it was a pitiable spectacle. The actors are oppressively commonplace.
Were you here, you would see the finest collection of fruits imaginable. There is a fair in Madrid, to which are sent fruits from distant points. Most of them you have probably never seen. It is a pity that they can not be sent to you. If there is anything here that you would like to have, you have but to mention it.
CLIV
Madrid, October 25, 1853.
... Our colony has broken up, the duchess having given birth to a daughter. Her mother has constituted herself the nurse, and the rest of us have come in a body to Madrid. I have caught an odious cold, and to make it worse there is a cursed sirocco blowing.
Notwithstanding this beastly weather, and my sneezing, I went yesterday to see Cucharis, the best matador since Montès. The bulls were so bad that they had to give one to the dogs and excite half of the others with streamers of fire. Two men were tossed into the air, and for a moment we thought they had been killed, which lent a momentary excitement to the fight. Otherwise it was abominable. The animals no longer have any spirit, and the men are little better.
As soon as the weather becomes settled, I wish to set out on my archæological journey. People keep predicting a Martinmas summer, which never comes. If you will send me your instructions, I shall receive your letter probably in time to fulfil them. Unfortunately, I do not know what is worth buying in this country. At all events, I have bought you some handkerchiefs of a very ugly design; but it seems to me that you enjoyed carrying off one of those handkerchiefs which came to me somehow, I do not know how.
One no longer sees any other than French costumes here. At the bull-fight yesterday the women wore hats. Would you like garters and studs? If they are still worn, tell me what kind you wish, but do not delay your reply.
I am reading, or rather I am re-reading, Wilhelm Meister. It is a strange book, in which the most beautiful things and the most ridiculous puerilities alternate. In all that Goethe has written, there is remarkable mingling of genius and German simplicity. Was he making game of himself or of others? Remind me when I return to give you the Elective Affinities. Of all his writings, I consider this the most whimsical and anti-French.
I have had a letter from Paris, speaking in high terms of a book of Alexandre Dumas fils called Un Cas de Rupture, or something of the sort. In Madrid, no one reads. I have wondered how the ladies spend their time when they are not occupied in love-making, but I find no reasonable answer. All of them dream of being an empress. A young lady of Grenada was at the theatre, when some one in her box announced that the countess Teba was to marry the emperor. She rose impetuously, exclaiming: “In this country there is no future!”
Among my diversions, I forgot to mention an Academy of History, of which I am a member. It is almost as amusing as ours.