CLV
Madrid, November 22, 1853.
When I think of the snow still covering the Guadarrama, my courage fails me. Nevertheless, the sun shines magnificently, but it shines in vain: it gives out no warmth. The nights are abominably cold, and the soldiers on sentry duty at the palace are required to stay out only a quarter of an hour each. Before leaving, I wish to attend several meetings of the Cortès, which opened day before yesterday very modestly, and without the formality of a royal speech, His Majesty now being so near his end that he is shielded from all excitement. I keep in touch with the political situation here, and know a good many of the adherents of all the parties, so that now, when we are deprived of seeing bull-fights, I find the Cortès interesting.
Since you do not care for buttons, I will bring you some garters. It was not without difficulty that I have found them. Civilisation is making such rapid strides that on almost all legs elastic has replaced the classic ligas of the past. When I asked the chambermaids here to tell me where the shops could be found, they crossed themselves in indignation, saying that they did not wear such old-fashioned things, and that they were fit only for the common people. French fashions are making frightful progress. Mantillas are seldom seen. Hats, and such hats! replace them. You would be highly amused to see the masterpieces of the dressmakers in this capital.
Several years ago I spent a part of the day at Aranjuez, at the house of my friend, M. Salamanca, a stock-broker. He is a bachelor, and the wittiest and jolliest fellow I have met. He makes heaps of money, apparently, and spends it nobly. He finds time to engage both in business and politics, for he has been a minister, and will be again, if he wishes it. This man is a typical Andalusian: he is grace itself.
We had, on the 15th, at the French Embassy, a ball in honor of the fête-day of Saint Eugénie. Madame ——, the wife of the United States Minister, appeared in a costume which made every one choke with laughter—black velvet, edged with lace and tinsel, and a theatrical coronet. Her son, who has the appearance of a knave, made inquiries concerning the worth of the persons present, and after having obtained the desired information, sent a challenge to a duke who was very noble, very rich, exceedingly dull, and anxious to live a long time. The negotiations are still going on, but nobody will be killed. Good-bye.
CLVI
Madrid, November 28, 1853.
Your letter crossed with mine, which you must have received at the same time that yours reached me. In it I explained why I have remained here for several days longer than I intended. My friends are insisting that I shall wait until Christmas; but I shall be in France, and probably in Paris the 12th or 15th, if the weather is not too stormy. I shall write to you from Bayonne or from Tours, where I am compelled to stop....
There are a great many balls here, notwithstanding the court mourning. Out of respect, every one wears black gloves. The opening events at the Senate are causing considerable anxiety. People are wondering whether the Ministry will hold on, or whether there will be another coup d’État. The opposition is bitterly incensed, and proposes to give the comte de San-Luis a good cudgelling. The house where I am stopping is neutral ground, where the ministers and leaders of the opposition meet, which is very interesting for those who like to hear the news.
It is a fact, that what is known here as society is composed of such a small number of persons that if they were divided up, they would have no means of gaining a livelihood. Whatever one does in Madrid, provided one goes to a public place, he is sure of meeting the same three hundred persons. The result is a very amusing society, infinitely less hypocritical than elsewhere.
I must tell you a good story. It is the custom here to offer anything that is praised. At dinner, the other day, I was seated next to the Prime Minister’s sweetheart: she is as stupid as a cabbage, and very big. Her beautiful shoulders were bare, and around them hung a garland with tassels of metal or glass. Not knowing what to say to her, I praised both shoulders and garland, to which she replied: “Both are at your service.”
Good-bye. Write me longer letters. I might, in an extreme case, hear from you again here; but I shall hope certainly to find a letter from you at Bayonne. Why is it that I am so anxious to see you again? At the same time, it is excessively irritating to submit to your protocols, which, for contempt of logic and reason, are worthy of those of M. de Nesselrode.
CLVII
Paris, July 29, 1854.
I arrived here day before yesterday, and have not written before because I have been too sad. One of my boyhood friends has taken the cholera. To-day he is considered out of danger. In crossing the Channel, there was an icy wind, which gave me a cold, or something like rheumatism. My chest feels as if it were clasped in an iron band, and every movement is accompanied by severe pain. I am obliged, however, to leave to-night for Normandy, where I am to make a speech to the idlers of Cayenne. This troublesome business finished, I shall hasten home as quickly as possible, and I expect to reach Paris on the evening of August 2d. After that, I have no settled plans. At one time I had formed some idea of spending a month in Venice, but the quarantine regulations, and other annoyances rendered necessary by the cholera, make a journey in that direction almost impossible.
My minister has offered to send me to Munich, as Commissioner of I know not what, in regard to a Bavarian exposition. I have given no definite answer, and shall wait until after my return to Paris to decide. You will probably spend several days in London, and a visit to the Crystal Palace is worth the voyage. With respect to artistic ideals, it is perfectly ridiculous, but in the design of the building and its execution there is something so great, and at the same time so simple, that to form any conception of it, one must go to England and see it for himself. ‘Tis a plaything costing twenty-five millions, a cage in which several large churches could waltz comfortably.
My last days in London were amusing and interesting. I met and associated with all the politicians. I was present at the debate on the subsidies in the House of Lords, and in the Commons, where all the famous orators spoke—very spitefully, it seemed to me. Finally, I had an excellent dinner. They serve such at the Crystal Palace, and I recommend them to you, who are an epicure.
I have brought back from London a pair of garters, which were made, so I am assured, at Borrin’s. I do not know what English women wear around their stockings, nor how they procure this indispensable article; but it must be, I fancy, a very difficult thing to get, and one that is singularly trying to their virtue. The clerk who sold me those garters blushed to his ears.
You write me words of tenderness, which would rejoice my heart if experience had not made me incredulous. I dare not hope for that which I desire most ardently. You are perfectly aware that you have but to move a finger to bring me to you. I wish that in this period of great uncertainty, you would act as if we were in danger of meeting no more. Good-bye. I love you dearly, whatever you may do. Write to me at Cayenne, care of M. Mark, the captain of the steamer. I shall be overjoyed to hear from you.
CLVIII
Paris, August 2, at night, 1854.
I arrived here this morning, stiff, tired, ill, and blue. I am still suffering from this pain in the side and chest, which makes it impossible for me to sleep in a comfortable position. I reached Cayenne day before yesterday, the very day of the ceremony. I saw the Secretary at once, and contrived to escape all the official visits. At three o’clock I entered the hall of the Law School, and found eighteen or twenty women seated in the gallery, and about two hundred men, to all appearances exactly like those of any other city. There was absolute silence. I delivered my harangue without the slightest disturbance, and at the close was politely applauded. The meeting continued an hour and a half after I sat down, and ended with the reading of some verses by a hunchback, two and a half feet high. The poetry was not bad.
I was then conducted by the directors to the Hôtel de Ville, where a banquet, lasting two hours, was given in my honor. There was excellent fish, and the oysters were delicious. I was about to leave, when the President of the Antiquarian Society rose from his seat, all the other guests following his example. He began to speak, saying, that inasmuch as from three aspects I was a man of notable attainments, he wished to propose my health, as Senator, as man of letters, and as a scholar. There was only the table between us, and I was strongly tempted to hurl a plate of Roman punch at his head.
While he was speaking, I racked my brains for a suitable response, but it was impossible to think of a word. When he had ceased, I knew that it was absolutely necessary for me to say something, so I began, without an idea of what I should say next. I rambled on in this way for several minutes, with plenty of assurance but without giving any thought to what I was talking about. I was congratulated for my eloquent response, but this was not to be the end.
Captured by the Mayor, I was conducted to a concert given by the ladies and gentlemen of the Philharmonic Society for the benefit of the poor. They put me in a conspicuous seat, facing a large gathering of well-dressed people, the ladies very pretty and very fair. Their gowns were Parisian in mode, except that there was visible less expanse of shoulders, and that with their ball-dresses they wore russet boots. Airs from some of the comic operas were sung abominably, and then an overdressed society woman took up the collection in a cut-glass dish. I gave her twenty francs, which won me a most gracious spreading curtsey. At midnight I was escorted to my rooms, where I slept very badly, or rather I did not sleep at all.
Next morning, at eight o’clock, they came to request me to preside at a business meeting, where I listened to the minutes of the proceedings of the night before, in which it was stated that I had delivered a most eloquent address. I made a speech, to urge that all the adverbs be omitted from the report, but my request was not granted. Finally, I got into the mail-coach, and here I am. Everything would be tiptop if I could spend a whole day with you; it would refresh me more than anything else.
I do not believe in your impossibilities. I reserve my doubts and my chagrin. My minister wishes me to go to the Exposition at Munich. It is a matter of indifference to me; but where shall I go this summer, if not to Germany? Good-bye. No matter what you do, I still love you, and I think you should be a little more touched by this than you are. You may continue to write to this address.
CLIX
Innspruck, August 31, 1854.
I am very weary, and still feel inclined to write to you. My brain is tired, bewildered with the magnificent landscapes and panoramas on which I have gazed for four days. I went from Bâle to Schaffhausen, where we take the steamer for the Rhine journey. On both sides of the river rise mountains that are enchanting, of far greater beauty than those, so called, bordering the lower Rhine, between Mayence and Cologne, and so much admired by the English. From the Rhine we entered Lake Constance and landed at the town of the same name, where we ate some excellent trout, and heard the zither played by Tyroleans. We then crossed the Lake to Lindau, where a railway train awaited us, and from which we enjoyed a magnificent view of the loveliest forests, lakes, and mountains which the country can show. The railway carried us to Kempton, and by that time we were spent with fatigue, as if we had been for hours in a beautiful gallery of pictures. Instead of resting, however, we left Kempton the same night, and reached Innspruck yesterday, a few minutes before midnight. The country through which we travelled was even more enchanting—no, not that, but more sublime—than that which we had just visited. Our only annoyance was in settling our accounts and in changing horses at every post-house. There were a dozen of these, at least, between Kempton and Innspruck.
As an aid to recover my strength, I am eating delicious woodcock and soups of extraordinary concoction, which one learns to enjoy with the appetite that comes to him so many feet above the level of the sea. The drawback to this journey is my ignorance of the manners and thoughts of the people, and these things would interest me far more than all the scenery. The women of the Tyrol, it seems to me, are treated as they deserve. They are harnessed to carts, and succeed in drawing very heavy loads. I considered them very homely, with enormous feet. The fine ladies whom I met on the railway trains or steamboats are not much better. They wear hats that are a desecration, and sky-blue half-shoes with apple-green gloves. It is such characteristics as these that make up what the natives call their gemüth, of which they are so vain.
After seeing the works of art which are the product of this country, it seems to me that the quality thereof is fundamentally destitute in imagination. At the same time, they pride themselves upon this very quality, and in their attempt to prove their claim, fall into the most pedantic extravagances. I have just been sight-seeing in the city. Everything there is new, except the tomb of Maximilian. The site of this is admirable. No Parisian costumes here! Everybody I meet is homely, and ordinary in appearance.
One can turn in no direction without seeing a mountain, and what a mountain! To-morrow we are to climb a glacier. The weather is superb, and promises to continue so. In short, I am glad I came. I should like to have you here with me, for I fancy you would find more to entertain you in this place than you do among your sea-lions.
When shall you return to Paris? Write to me at Vienna, and do not lose any time about it. Write a long, affectionate letter.
Wait; here is a flower from the Brenner.
CLX
Prague, September 11, 1854.
My companions left me this morning in order to return to France. I am ill and out of spirits, and the gloomiest thoughts come to my mind. If I feel better to-morrow morning, I shall leave for Vienna, where I shall arrive at night. I am beginning to be horribly tired. This city is quite picturesque, and the music is excellent. I visited yesterday two or three public gardens and concerts, where I saw the national dances and waltzes, all of which were executed with the utmost propriety and composure. There can be no music, however, more captivating than that produced by a Bohemian orchestra.
The faces here are entirely unlike those I saw in Germany; very big heads, broad shoulders, small hips, and no legs at all, is my description of a Bohemian beauty.
We brought into play, to no purpose, yesterday, our knowledge of anatomy, to try to understand how these women walk. Aside from this, they have unusually beautiful eyes, and black hair that is often very long and silky, but hands and feet of a length, width, and coarseness that are a source of wonder to travellers best accustomed to the most extraordinary sights. Crinoline is unknown to them. In the evening, at the public gardens, they drink a jug of beer, and afterwards take a cup of coffee, which gives them an appetite to dispose of three veal cutlets with ham, so that there is room enough left only for several light pastries, somewhat like our tipsy cakes. Such are my observations on manners and customs.
My bed is made up with a spread of the most beautiful colors, about forty inches in length, and to this is buttoned a napkin, which serves as a sheet. When I have adjusted this over me, my servant spreads over the whole an eiderdown, which I spend my entire night in tumbling up and replacing in position. On the other hand, I eat all sorts of remarkable things; among others preserved mushrooms, which are delicious, and wild fowls, delicious also. All this does not prevent my longing for your presence.
Apparently, you are getting on amazingly at D., with no thought of the miserable people who are roaming in Bohemia. Your sublime indifference, whether sincere or assumed (I have never been able to discover which), is extremely irritating. With you, it is out of sight out of mind. I am in great uncertainty as to my future course. If I were absolutely sure of provoking you by remaining a long time in Vienna, I should settle down here for goodness knows how many months; but you would not miss a single meal on my account, and besides, I fear I should become mortally bored with their gemüth. It is probable, therefore, that I shall remain in Vienna only long enough to enjoy its novelty; that is, until towards the end of the month. I may be in Berlin about the first of October, and by the 10th or 12th in Paris.
I suppose you have already sent me a letter here in Vienna, to tell me what you are doing and what you expect to do: all this will have its influence on my plans. I have just seen some autographs of Ziska and John Huss. Considering that they were heretics, they wrote very well indeed.
CLXI
Vienna, October 2, 1854.
Really and truly, this good city of Vienna is an agreeable stopping-place, and now that I have friends here, and have learned the joy of being an idler, it requires an unyielding strength of mind to tear myself away from it. Besides this, I have the advantage of hearing the news from the Crimea several minutes before you. Since day before yesterday we have suffered every stage of excitement.
Has Sebastopol fallen? When this letter reaches you, all doubt will be at an end. Here, it is believed, but in my opinion with a certain incredulity. Excepting a few of the old families, whose sympathies are with Russia, the Austrians are offering congratulations. I was congratulated day before yesterday by a cabman as I was leaving the Opera House. God grant that this is not some of the news that the electric telegraph sends out when it has nothing else to do. However that may be, I consider it admirable that our soldiers, six days after landing, should have given the Russians a vigorous drubbing.
Stopping in our house is Lady Westmoreland, sister of Lord Raglan and mother of his aide-de-camp. She has been in a terrible state. She received yesterday a line from her son, written after the battle. We are amused at the countenances of the Russians in Vienna. Prince Gortchakof remarked that the battle was a mere incident, but that it did not alter the principle involved in the war. The Belgian Minister, a man of fine wit, retorted that Gortchakof was right to retrench himself behind his principles, since they could not be captured at the point of a bayonet. Speaking of wit, I am designated here as a lion, whether I will or not. You must pronounce this laïonne in English so that you may have no misconception of the rôle I am made to play.
A few days ago I visited Baden. It is charmingly situated in a valley, only a stone’s throw from Vienna, but one would fancy himself a hundred miles from a large city.
My keeper has presented me to a number of beautiful ladies. Society here being so gemüthlich, everything that a Frenchman says is accepted as clever. They consider me uncommonly amiable. I have written sublime thoughts in their albums. I have made them drawings; in a word, I have made myself perfectly ridiculous, and it is on account of a sense of humiliation for having been up to such a trade that I am leaving to-day for Dresden. I shall stop there but one day, and then go on to Berlin. After visiting the Museum I shall start for Cologne, where there will be a letter from you.
Did I tell you that I went to Hungary? I was in Pesth for three days, and imagined I was in Spain, or rather in Turkey. While there my modesty was excessively shocked, for I was taken to a public bath, where I saw the Hungarian men and women helter-skelter in a court-bouillon of hot mineral water. I noticed there a lovely Hungarian woman who concealed her face in her hands, not having, like Turkish women, a covering with which to veil her face. This spectacle cost me six kreutzer, namely, four half-pennies.
I went to the Hungarian theatre to see La Dame de Saint-Tropez, not having wit enough to recognise a French melodrama under the title Saint-Tropez à Unôz. I heard some Bohemian musicians play Hungarian melodies, which were strange beyond measure. This music sets the natives mad. It begins with something intensely mournful, and ends in an allegro con spirito, which completely captivates the audience, who stamp on the floor, break their glasses, and dance on the tables. Foreigners, however, are not so affected by this marvellous music. Finally, and I have reserved the best for the last, I have seen a collection of very old Magyar jewels of exquisite workmanship. If I could have brought you one of these you would have come to meet me at Cologne in order to have it the sooner.
During my entire journey I have been unusually well. The weather is delightful, but cold at night. I have no dread of the cold during my travels, for I have bought an enormous pelisse that cost me seventy-five florins. You could find here magnificent furs for nothing. They are, I think, the only things in this country that are cheap. I have gone bankrupt on cabs and dinners down town. The custom is here to pay the servants for one’s dinner: upon leaving you pay the porter; indeed, you pay at every step, but only a trifle at a time.
Good-bye. I am not any too well pleased with your last letter, except when you tell me of your approaching return to Paris. Although I am bringing you no Magyar chains, I hope you will give me a welcome. I am beginning to long for my own hearthstone, and the evenings seem to me a little tedious. I expect to reach Cologne in less than a week, and to be in Paris from the 10th to the 15th.
CLXII
Paris, Sunday, November 27, 1854.
It is very sad to lose one’s friends, but it is a calamity which may be avoided only by a greater calamity, which is to love no one. Moreover, one must not forget the living for the dead. You should have come to see me instead of writing. The weather is magnificent. We could have conversed philosophically on the vanities of the world. I have remained all day by my fireside, in a despondent and misanthropic mood, and, still worse, in great bodily suffering. I feel somewhat better to-night, but I shall be worse again if I do not see you to-morrow.
CLXIII
London, July 20, 1856.
I received your letter last evening, and it was very welcome. If I were not afraid that I was dreaming, I might say something affectionate at this time. I shall go in a few days to Edinburgh, where I am to consult a Scotch wizard. My friends wish to take me to see a real chieftain, who wears no breeches, and has never worn them. He has no stairway in his house, and he has his bard and his wizard. Is all this not worth the trouble of making the journey?
I have found people here so cordial, so friendly, so engrossingly interested in me that it is evident they are extremely tired of one another.
Yesterday I met again two of my old sweethearts: one has become a victim of asthma, and the other is a Methodist. I have also made the acquaintance of eight or ten poets, who impressed me as even more ridiculous than our own. It was a pleasure to visit once more the Sydenham Palace, although it has been entirely spoiled by a number of huge monuments erected in memory of the heroes of the Crimea. The heroes in question are to be seen on the street drunk every day.
London is still full of people, but everybody is preparing for flight. I am to go Monday for a visit to the Duke of Hamilton, where I shall stay until Wednesday, on which day I make my entry into Edinburgh. In two weeks probably I shall return to London, where I shall see you again. Try to be here by that time; you can not give me a greater proof of affection, and you know the happiness that I shall experience in seeing you.
Good-bye. You may write to me at the Douglas Hotel, Edinburgh, where I shall remain several days before venturing into the North.
CLXIV
Edinburgh, Douglas Hotel, July 26, 1856.
I hoped to have a letter from you either here or in Edinburgh, but none has come. To make it worse, I am to be buried in the North, and I know not where to tell you to address your letters. I am going with a Scotchman to see his castle far beyond the lakes, but am unable to tell you where we shall stop on the way. He promises to show me no end of castles, ruins, fine views, and so forth. As soon as I have made a halt I shall write again.
I spent three days with the Duke of Hamilton in an immense castle, situated in a very beautiful country. Near the castle, less than an hour’s journey, in fact, there is a herd of wild bulls, the last that exists in Europe. They seemed to me as tame as the deer of Paris. In every part of this castle there are paintings by the great masters, Grecian and Chinese vases that are magnificent, and books with bindings by the most noted amateurs of the last century. No taste is shown in the arrangement of all these things, and it is evident that the owner derives but little enjoyment from them.
I understand now why a Frenchman is a welcome guest in foreign lands. It is because he takes the trouble to entertain himself, and in so doing he entertains others. I felt quite sure of being the most entertaining of any of the numerous guests of the house, and realised at the same time that it was an honour which I scarcely deserved.
I have found Edinburgh entirely to my taste, with the exception of the execrable architecture of the public monuments, which pretend to be Grecian, justifying their pretence just as an Englishwoman does her claim to appear Parisian, that is, by having her gowns made by Madame Vignon. The accent of the natives is odious. I ran away from the antiquaries after seeing their exposition, which is really beautiful.
The women are, as a rule, very homely. Short dresses are worn here, and the women conform to the fashion and to the exigencies of the climate by lifting their gowns with both hands a foot higher than their skirts, leaving visible their muscular legs, clad in half-boots made of rhinoceros leather, with feet idem. I am amazed at the proportion of red-headed persons I meet.
The scenery is charming, and for two days we have enjoyed warm, clear weather. In short, I am tolerably well off, except that I should like to have you here. When I am bored, and the blue devils get the better of me, I think of our days of friendly and intimate merriment, and can think of nothing to compare to them. Upon reflection, write to me at the Douglas Hotel, Edinburgh. I shall have my letters forwarded, if I do not return soon.
CLXVI
Sunday, August 3, 1856.
From a country-house near Glasgow.
I am weary for you, as you used to say so gracefully. Nevertheless, I am leading a pleasant life, going from one castle to another, and welcomed everywhere with a hospitality which I can find no words to describe, and which would be impossible anywhere else than in this aristocratic land. I am getting into bad habits. Arriving at the home of these poor people, who have an income of hardly more than thirty thousand pounds, I scarcely recognised myself at dinner when I found there was no wind band and no bagpiper in Highland costume.
I spent three days at the Marquis of Breadalbane’s, driving in a barouche all over his park. There are nearly two thousand deer, besides eight to ten thousand more which he keeps in his forest at some distance from the castle of Taymouth. There is also, as something unusual, a thing to which every one here aspires, a herd of American bison. They are perfectly wild, and are kept on a peninsula, where they are seen through the gaps in the enclosure. Everybody there, Marquis and bison, looked as if they were bored. Their only pleasure, I fancy, consists in making people envy them, and I doubt if that is a compensation for the drudgery of entertaining all the world and his wife.
From time to time, in the midst of all this luxury, I see evidences of petty stinginess which are extremely amusing. Yet, after all, I have met none but excellent people, who get along with me, with all my difference in temperament, without the least misunderstanding.
I have just heard a story which amused me, and which I wish to share with you. An Englishman is walking in front of a poultry-house in a castle in Scotland one Saturday night. He hears a great commotion inside and outcries among the cocks and hens. Thinking that a fox has found his way there, he gives warning, but is told that it is nothing, that they are only separating the cocks from the hens so they will not profane the Lord’s Day.
Before my return you might write to me at 18 Arlington Street, care of the Honourable E. Ellice. Your letters will be forwarded from there, or else will be held until my arrival in London.
Good-bye. It is needless to tell you to write to me as often as possible.
CLXVII
Kinloch-Linchard, August 16, 1856.
I was not too well pleased with your letter, which I received just as I was leaving Glenquoich. You are aware that you have an impetuous way of looking at things, which makes you regard the simplest actions as impossibilities. Now, reconsider what I have said, and after mature reflection tell me yes or no. Send your reply to London, care of the Right Honourable E. Ellice, 18 Arlington Street....
I am beginning to be heartily sick of grouse and venison. The truly majestic scenery which meets my eyes daily still has the power to charm, but I am tired of wonders. What I can never cease to admire is the seclusiveness of these people. They might be sent to penal servitude together, and they would continue to retain their unsociable habits. As Beyle says, this comes from their dread of being caught saying or doing something stupid, or else it is due to their temperament, which makes them prefer selfish pleasures. Solve it who can.
We reached here in company with two middle-aged men and a woman, all of high life and familiar with the world. At dinner the ice had to be broken. After dinner the husband buried himself in a newspaper, the wife in a book, and the other man began to write letters, while I played alone against the host and hostess. Observe, if you please, that the people who isolated themselves thus had not seen their hostess for even a longer time than I, and they had, necessarily, many more things than I to tell her. I am told, and from the little I have seen am inclined to believe it, that the Celtic race know how to talk. ‘Tis a fact that on a market day one hears an uninterrupted sound of animated voices, of laughing and shouting. The Gaelic tongue is very soft and smooth to the ear. In England and the Lowlands there is absolute silence.
It is not kind of you to have written to me but once. I have sent you two letters, at least, to one of yours. Still I have no desire to scold you from so far away. These are my plans: I shall leave here to-morrow to go to Inverness, where I shall remain one day; from there to Edinburgh, then to York, Durham, and possibly Derby. I expect to reach Paris the 23d.
CLXVIII
Carabanchel, Thursday, December, 1856.
(I have forgotten the date.)
It is pouring rain. Yesterday was the loveliest day imaginable, and another like it is predicted to-morrow. I took advantage of this beautiful weather to sprain my wrist, and I am able to write to you only because I have been taught the American method, in which the fingers are not moved. The accident happened through the fault of a horse, who insisted on choosing an inconvenient moment to speak to Lord A.’s mare, and then, indignant at my objections to his guilty passion, treacherously flung me over his head as I was lighting my cigar. This occurred in a pathway beside the sea, which was only a hundred feet below. Fortunately, I chose the path on which to fall. I was not hurt at all, except my hand, which to-day is very much inflamed.
I hope to go next week to Cannes, where you will kindly write to me, general delivery. To bring to a close the chapter on my health, I think I shall soon feel much better. Nevertheless, I have had another of those attacks of dizziness, which upset me a good deal, but not so much as in Paris. A physician here tells me that they are nervous convulsions, and that I must take much exercise. This I am doing, but am sleeping no better than I did in Paris, although I go to bed at eleven o’clock. I should have only to say the word to be a lion (in the English sense); every one here is bored. I have been besieged with English cards and Russian cards, and some one wished to present me to the grand duchess Hélène, an honour which I promptly declined.
To furnish us gossip, we have a countess Apraxine, who smokes, wears round hats, and keeps a goat in her drawing-room, which she has had covered with grass and weeds. But the most amusing person here is Lady Shelley, who commits some new absurdity every day. Yesterday she wrote to the French consul: “Lady S. informs Mr. P. that she will give to-day a charming English dinner, and that she will be delighted to see him afterwards, at five minutes after nine.” She wrote to Madame Vigier, formerly Mademoiselle Cruvelli: “Lady Shelley would be charmed to see Madame Vigier, if she would kindly bring her music along.” To which the ex-Cruvelli replied: “Madame Vigier would be charmed to see Lady Shelley if she would kindly come to her house, and conduct herself there like a well-bred woman.”
And now, you—how are you spending your time? I am quite sure you seldom think of Versailles, because you have no souvenirs to recall it to you. I hope we shall go there in March to see the first primroses. Was it all real, that wonderful evening and morning at Versailles?
Good-bye. Write to me soon at Cannes.
CLXIX
Lausanne, August 24, 1857.
I found your letter at Berne on the evening of the 22d, because my excursions in the Oberland have been prolonged far beyond the limit I had set. I am uncertain where to address this. You must ere this have left Geneva. I am going to send it to Venice, where you will probably stop longest.
You might, I think, have varied your enthusiastic effusions on the delights of travelling by one or two words of flattering commendation, by way of consolation for those who are not privileged to accompany you. I forgive you, however, on account of your inexperience in travelling. You anticipate being on your way three weeks only; this seems to me to be almost impossible, and I will give you a month. I beg you, however, to consider that September 28th is an inauspicious anniversary for me, because it dates from so far in the past. It was the 28th of September that I came into the world. It would be signally agreeable to me to spend that day in your company. A word to the wise is sufficient.
I have enjoyed my little excursion very much indeed. It has rained but one day. I did not escape a drop of it, to be sure, during the two hours I was making the descent of the Wengern Alp on a jade that slid over the rocks, and did not advance a step. I drank some champagne which we had brought over the Mer de Glace, and which I iced on the very glacier. My guide assured me that I was the first one to have that brilliant idea. I am at this moment in the presence of the Gemmi and the Valois range, which are lacking in the superb outlines of the Jungfrau and her associates. We might have met at Geneva, I believe, and have made some excursion together. It is sad to think of this. I shall expect to find a letter from you in Paris, where I shall be the 28th.
Good-bye. Enjoy yourself, and do not over-fatigue yourself. Think sometimes of me. If you will give me your exact itinerary, I will write to you from Paris. It is deuced hard to write here. The pens of this country are what you see.
I send you a little leaf which grew six thousand feet above the level of the sea.
WORKS OF
PROSPER MÉRIMÉE
EDITED BY
Prof. GEORGE SAINTSBURY, M.A.
LETTERS TO
AN UNKNOWN
BIGELOW, BROWN & CO., Inc.
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1905
By FRANK S. HOLBY
———
All Rights Reserved
PRINTED BY C. H. SIMONDS COMPANY BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A.
LETTERS TO AN UNKNOWN
CLXX
Paris, September 8, 1857.
WHILE you are devoting yourself to the cultivation of enthusiasm, I continue to cough, and am very ill with a frightful cold. I hope you will be touched by this. I do not understand why you should remain three days in Lucerne, unless you spend your time on the lake. But it is useless to give you advice which will reach you too late. My only word of admonition, and one, I trust, by which you will profit, is not to forget your friends in France, in the beautiful country you are now visiting.
There is positively not a soul in Paris, but I am not averse to the solitude. I am spending my evenings comfortably enough, doing nothing. If I were not feeling really miserable, I should find this quiet extremely pleasant, and I should like it to continue the whole year. The surprises which you encounter in your travels must be amusing, and it is a source of regret to me that I am unable to witness them. If you had exercised a little strategy in arranging your plans, we might have met somewhere in the course of your journey and made an excursion or two together, and caught a glimpse of some chamois or, at any rate, some black squirrels.
Were I not so ill that it is impossible to form two consecutive ideas, I should take advantage of your absence in order to work. I have a promise to fulfil with the Revue des Deux Mondes, and a Life of Brantôme to write, in which I have quantities of rash things to say. It amuses me to arrange and rearrange the sentences in my mind, but when it comes to the point of leaving my easy-chair and of going to my desk to put them on paper, my courage fails me. I am sorry you did not take with you a volume of Beyle on Italy, for it would have entertained you on the way, and it would have given you, besides, some knowledge of social conditions there. Beyle was especially fond of Milan, because it was there he fell in love. I have never been there, but I have never cared for the Milanese whom I have met, for they have always reminded me of French provincials.
In Venice, if you should come across any old Latin book from the printing-house of Aldus, with a wide margin, if it does not cost too much, buy it for me. You will recognise it by the letters in italics, and by the trade-mark, which is a unicorn wrestling with a dolphin. Travelling with such a large party as you are, I fancy you will write to me very seldom. You might, however, grant me the delight of an occasional letter, and give me renewed patience, for, as you are aware, I do not possess your virtue.
Good-bye. Enjoy yourself, and see as many beautiful things as you can, but do not conceive the idea of seeing everything. You must say to yourself, “I shall return.” Your memory will always be stored with reminiscences enough to keep you from being dull. I should like to ride in a gondola with you. Once more good-bye. Above all things, take care of yourself, and do not overtire.
CLXXI
Aix, January 6, 1858.
And so you imagine that tree-trunks grow like those in bracelets, and that the silversmiths will understand your comparisons! I purchased something that resembles a collection of mushrooms, but the price was somewhat disconcerting. Did you shop in Genoa? I doubt it, otherwise you would have bought something. But no matter. You did not know, perhaps, that there is a duty on filigree work of eleven francs a hectogram, for which reason it costs in France twice as much as in Genoa. Notwithstanding, I have resolved to pay nothing to the customs, and to leave to you the pleasure of sending on the duty money, which will be inserted in the Moniteur as a restitution to the Government.
It is freezing, snowing, and atrociously cold. I do not know whether it will be possible to go to Burgundy; at all events, I shall start for Paris to-morrow night. I hope that you will come in person to wish me a happy New Year.
Good-bye. I am tired out from the journey, and depressed from the weather. I met at Nice all sorts of smart people, among others the Duchesse de Sagan, who is perennially young, and as audacious as ever.
CLXXII
Paris, Monday evening, January 20, 1858.
It is a century since I saw you. ‘Tis true that many things have happened in the interval. I am consumed with the wish to know what you think of it all. My cold and influenza are somewhat improved, and the credit of my cure I attribute to our last walk. It is not unlike the lance of Achilles.
Have you read Doctor Antonio? It is an English novel which has achieved no little success among English fashionable society, and which I read while at Cannes. It is the work of M. Orsini. There will be, no doubt, a new edition in London, and you must read it. To tell the truth, it is not very clever.
Write to me soon, I pray you, for I need to see you to make me forget all the miseries of this world.
CLXXIII
London, British Museum, Tuesday night, April 28, 1858.
Time flies so rapidly in this country, and the distances are so enormous, that one does not accomplish the half of what he wishes. I have just been through the Museum with the duc de Malakoff, and there are but a few minutes left to write to you. I must tell you in the first place, that for two days I was really very ill, an effect always produced on me by breathing coal smoke. Since then, however, I have felt entirely made over. I eat ravenously, and walk a great deal, but I do not sleep as much as I should like. I am in society constantly, which I do not enjoy any too well. Crinoline is not worn here as universally as it is with us; but so quickly do one’s eyes become accustomed to fashions, that I am scandalised, and the women all look as if they were dressed up in chemises.
You can have no conception of the beauty of the British Museum on Sunday, when there is absolutely no one there but M. Panizzi and me. There is about it a marvellous atmosphere of devotion; only one fears that the statues may all descend from their pedestals and begin to dance the polka.
I discover here not the slightest feeling of animosity against us. The general sentiment is that Bernard[16] was sentenced by small tradesmen, and that it is not extraordinary that a tradesman should embrace every occasion to harass a prince. The Maréchal[17] was cheered tremendously when he arrived.
CLXXIV
London, British Museum, May 3, 1858.
I shall be in Paris, I think, on Wednesday morning.
I fell, last Wednesday, into a pretty kettle of fish. I was invited to a dinner of the Literary Fund, presided over by Lord Palmerston, and just as I was starting, received notice that, inasmuch as my name had been placed opposite a toast on the literature of Continental Europe, I must be prepared to make a speech. I yielded, with the pleasure that you may imagine, and for a long quarter of an hour talked nonsense in bad English, to an assembly of three hundred men of letters, or so-called such, and more than a hundred women, admitted to the honor of observing us eat tough chicken and leathery tongue. I was never so surfeited with silliness, as M. de Pourceaugnac said.
I received a visit yesterday from a lady and her husband, who brought me some autograph letters from the emperor Napoleon to Josephine, which they wished to sell. They are very singular, for their entire subject is love. They are perfectly authentic, being written on stamped paper and bearing the post-marks. What I fail to understand is why Josephine did not burn them as soon as she had read them....
CLXXV
Paris, May 19, 1858.
We are compelled to lead a tiresome existence at the Luxembourg. I am worn out with it, and I am dismayed, also, at the weather; I am told that it is good for the pease. I congratulate you, therefore, but it seems to me that the rain should fall only on the farms. I have been accusing you strongly of having taken one of my books—they are my sole possession—for which I have searched as if it were a needle. I discovered it finally, this morning, in a corner where I had hid it myself for safe-keeping; but it caused me more irritation than the book was worth.
I have been ill ever since my return—that is to say, I can neither eat nor sleep. Before you leave for so long a time, I must positively make a second portrait of you. For that, it is a question only of a half hour of patience, if patience is needed when one realises that one is giving people pleasure. I am to be in the party to go to Fontainebleau, and shall not return before the 29th. I wish we might have a long talk before I go. It seems a century since that has happened with us.
CLXXVI
Fontainebleau Palace, May 20, 1858.
... I am dreadfully cross, and half-poisoned from having taken an over-dose of laudanum. I have, besides, composed some verses for his Netherland Majesty, played charades, and made a fool of myself. This is why I am absolutely stupefied.
What shall I tell you of the life which we lead here? We went on a deer hunt yesterday, and ate our dinner on the grass. The other day we were drenched by the rain, and I took cold. Every day we eat too much, and I am half dead. Destiny did not intend me for a courtier.
I should love to walk with you in this beautiful forest and talk of fairy scenes. I have such a headache that I can not see a thing. I am going to take a nap before the fatal hour when I must get into my armour—that is to say, into skin-tight trousers....
CLXXVII
Paris, June 14, 1858—At Night.
I have just found your letter here on my return from the country, where I visited my cousin in order to tell him good-bye. I am more desolate to know that you are so far away than I was to leave you. The sight of the trees and the fields have recalled our walks. I felt sure, moreover, and had a presentiment that you would not go so soon, and that I should see you once more, so that the post-mark on your letter vexed me extremely.
I am irritated even more by your prudish ridicule, and by all you say concerning that book. It has the misfortune to be badly written—that is, in an emphatic style which Sainte-Beuve praises by calling poetic. So diverse are tastes! It contains sensible statements, and it is not flippant. When one has as much good taste as you, you should not exclaim that it is frightful, that it is immoral; you should realise that what is good in the book is very good. Never judge of things with your prejudices. Every day you become more prudish and more conformed to conventionality. I can forgive you for wearing crinoline, but I can not forgive you for prudishness. You must learn how to recognise the good where it exists.
Another cause of chagrin against you is that I do not possess your last portrait. It is your fault, for I have frequently asked you for it. You pretend that it does not resemble you, while I insist that it has that expression of countenance which I have seen on no woman but you, and which I have often recalled in my mind’s eye. The day of my departure is not certain, but I shall endeavour to be in Lucerne about the 20th, in which event I shall leave the 19th. ‘Tis needless to say that I shall expect to hear from you before that date. It is frightfully warm here, on account of which I am unable to eat or to sleep.
Good-bye. Before leaving, I shall inform you where you must write to me. I am in no mood to say pleasant things. I am very displeased with you, but, as usual, I must forgive you in the end. Try to keep well and do not catch cold in the cool of the evening.
Good-bye again, dear friend; it is a word which always saddens me.
CLXXVIII
Interlaken, July 3, 1858.
I have come out of the eternal snows, and upon my arrival here find your letter. You do not give your address at G...., and yet it seems to me that it is at that place I should write to you. I hope you will have the wit to go to the post-office, or that the post-office will have the wit to carry the letter to you. To the present time our travels have been favoured by the weather. We had rain nowhere but at the Grimsel, which compelled us to spend two nights in that magnificent funnel. The journey had its difficulties. There was a great deal of snow, and it continued to fall. I had a tumble into a hole with my horse; but we pulled ourselves out without other inconvenience than rather too much coolness for an hour or two. A Yankee lady whom we met made at the same spot a picturesque somersault. I am sun-blistered, and my skin is peeling from my forehead to my neck.
I have visited the glacier of the Rhone, which I do not advise you to do; nevertheless, it is the most beautiful place I have seen up to the present time. I have made a fairly accurate sketch of it, which I will show you. I shall hope to meet you in Vienna in October. It is an attractive city, containing some Roman ruins which I shall have the pleasure of explaining to you and of revisiting in your society.
Give me your commissions for Venice. I have not determined by which route I shall go to Innsbruck, whether by Lake Constance, or through Lindau, or perhaps Munich; but I shall certainly pass through Innsbruck, for I am to go to Venice by way of Trent, and not by vulgar Splugen. Write to me, therefore, at Innspruck without dilly-dallying too long about it....
CLXXIX
Innspruck, July 25, 1858.
I arrived here last night, where I found your letter of ancient date....
My itinerary has changed altogether. After having travelled entirely through the Oberland, I went to Zurich. There I was seized with the desire to see Salzburg, and I crossed over Lake Constance to Lindau, and thence to Munich, where I lingered several days visiting the museum.
Salzburg seems to me to deserve its reputation, by which I mean its German reputation. Happily, to most tourists it is an unknown country. Near by there is a mountain called the Gagsberg, standing in almost the same position as the Righi, from which one sees spread before him the same panorama of lakes and mountains. The lakes are poor affairs, to be sure, but the mountains are infinitely more splendid than those surrounding the Righi. Add to this the fact that there are no English tourists to bore you with their faces, and that you are in the midst of the most absolute solitude, knowing to a certainty—which is an important consideration—that at the end of a three hours’ walk you will enjoy a good dinner at Salzburg.
I went yesterday into the Zitterthal, which is a charming valley, one end of which is inclosed by a great glacier. The mountains to the right and the left rise sharply before you, which is the same inconvenience that one suffers in Switzerland: there is no foreground, no means of determining the real height of surrounding objects.
In the Zitterthal, it is said, are the most beautiful women of the Tyrol. I saw, indeed, many very pretty ones there, but they were too well fed. Their legs, which they show to the garter (it is not as high as you might imagine), are of startling bigness. While I was dining at Fügen, our host entered the room, with his daughter, formed like a cask of Burgundy, his son, a guitar, and two stable-boys. All these people yodeled in a marvellous fashion. The cask, who was but twenty-two years old, has a contralto voice worth fifty thousand francs. For all that, the concert was free. Singing, with these people, is a pleasure, which they do not include in the bill.
To-morrow I start for Verona by a round-about way in order to see Stelvio. I shall have to travel in a coach seven or eight thousand feet above sea level. If I do not fall into some hole, I shall be in Venice by the 5th or 6th of August, perhaps before then. I shall attend to your commission, which seems to me intricate. I shall choose for you the prettiest hair-net possible to find. I thank you for your information concerning Aldus. I should have preferred, however, that you should give me some about your travels. Good-bye.
CLXXX
Venice, August 18, 1858.
You have been roving over the mountains, making unseemly comparisons of Mont Blanc with a loaf of sugar, while I was working myself to death searching for gimcracks for you. I have never seen anything uglier than the things I am bringing you. It is probable that they will be seized by the custom-houses which I must encounter, or else that they will be smashed on the journey. I rejoice at this possibility, for never was such a commission given to a man of taste.
Venice had a most depressing effect on me, from which feeling I have been unable to rally for nearly two weeks. The architecture is convincing, but lacking in taste and imagination. It has made me indignant to recall the commonplaces written about some of the palaces. The canals bear a striking resemblance to the Bièvre River, and the gondolas to an incommodious hearse. The pictures of the Academy pleased me, although none were above the rank of second-rate works. There is not a Paul Veronese to be compared to The Marriage at Cana, not a Titian comparable to Caesar’s Coin, in Dresden, or even The Crown of Thorns in Paris. I searched for a Giorgione, but there was not one in Venice.
On the other hand, I found the faces of the people attractive. The streets swarm with charming young girls, barefooted and bareheaded, who, if they were bathed and scrubbed, would be Venuses Anadyomenes. What I dislike above all else is the odor in the streets. On certain days the air was full of the smell of fritters frying, and it was insupportable.
I attended a funzione in honor of the Archduke, and found it very entertaining. He was given a serenade from the Piazzetta to the iron bridge. Six hundred gondolas followed the colossal boat containing the music. Every one carried lanterns, and many burned red or blue Bengal lights, which threw on the palaces of the Grand Canal tints of fairy-like hue. The passage of the Rialto was extremely amusing. No one could turn around or withdraw from his place, and the result was that for an hour and a quarter the entire space between the Loredan palace and the Rialto was an immovable bridge. The instant a crevice as wide as one’s hand appeared between two sterns a prow slipped into it like a coin. Every instant was heard the cracking of planks, and now and then the cracking of an oar. It is most extraordinary that in all this throng, which, in France would be the occasion of a free-for-all scrimmage, not an oath was heard, not even a word of ill-humour. These people are a compound of milk and maize. I saw yesterday, in Saint-Mark’s Place, a monk fall on his knees before an Austrian corporal who obstructed his way. I have never seen anything so distressing, and in full view of the Lion of Saint-Mark, too!
I am waiting here for Panizzi. I go in society sometimes. I visit the libraries and spend my time in a tolerably agreeable way. I saw yesterday the Armenians, and very handsome chaps they are, whom the mere sight of a senator transformed into Armenians from Constantinople. They presented me with an epic poem by one of their Fathers.
Good-bye. I shall reach Genoa, probably, the 1st of September, and Paris certainly in October. I shall go to Vienna as soon as I have heard from you. For the last few days I have been fairly well, but for more than a fortnight I was miserably ill. Good-bye again.
CLXXXI
Genoa, September 10, 1858.
On my arrival here I found your letter of the 1st, which I acknowledge gratefully. You make no mention of one which I wrote you from Brescia about the first of this month. In it I said that I had left Venice with regret, and that I was thinking of you constantly.
Lake Como was charming. I stopped at Bellagio. In a little villa by the lake shore I found Madame Pasta, whom I had not seen since the days of her triumphs in the Italian Opera. She has increased singularly in width. She is now cultivating her cabbages, and says she is as happy as when we used to throw crowns and sonnets to her. We talked of music, the drama, and she said something that struck me as very true, which was that since Rossini no one had written an opera of any unity, of which all the parts held together. All that Verdi and his associates have done resembles a harlequin’s costume.
The weather is magnificent, and this evening the boat leaves for Leghorn. I am tempted strongly to go to Florence for a week, returning by way of Genoa, and probably by the Corniche. If, however, I should receive any letters of importance, I might take the Turin route, and reach Paris in thirty hours. In any case, I shall expect to see you there October 1st. Be kind enough not to forget, or you will put me to the necessity of going to search for you along your sea-shore.
You say nothing about Grenoble spinach, or the fifty-three ways of serving it, customary in Dauphiny. Is any one left who used to know Beyle? I received some time ago a very witty letter, full of anecdotes about him, from a man whose name I have forgotten, but who, I believe, is registrar of the Imperial Court. Formerly, there was still some sense of humour in the provinces, as in the period of the president de Brosses; now, however, not even an idea is to be found there. The railroads are hastening the process of mental paralysis, and I am confident that, in twenty years from now, reading will be a lost art....
CLXXXII
Cannes, October 8, 1858.
Your gimcracks have arrived here without accident. I shall be in Paris next Wednesday or Thursday. When you want your trinkets, you can come and get them. I returned from Florence by land, and am glad to have decided on that route. After leaving Spezzia the scenery is magnificent, as fine, if not finer, than that found from Genoa to Nice. I am bringing with me a lovely souvenir of Florence. It is a beautiful city. Venice is only pretty. As for works of art, there is no comparison possible. In Florence there are two unexcelled museums.
When you visit Pisa, I would advise you to stop at the Hôtel de la Grand Bretagne. It is the perfection of comfort. I committed the egregious folly, on the recommendation of a Nice newspaper, of going to see a cave of stalactites, which was discovered by a rabbit. It is in the suburbs of a town named Colle, in France, but only a step from the frontier. I was obliged to crawl over the ground for an hour, in order to see a few crystallisations more or less ridiculous, in the form of carrots or turnips, hanging from the roof.
I found here a complete desert; all the hotels are empty, not an Englishman in the street. It is just the time, however, to spend a few days here. The weather is superb, just warm enough to be comfortable in the shade, but the sun is no longer dangerous. In two months everything will be crowded, and there will be a north-wind of the most disagreeable kind. Travellers are stupid sheep.
Did I tell you of the quail served with rice, which I ate at Milan? It was the most remarkable thing I discovered in that city, and is worth the journey. I return to this country with delight, after having visited so many others which are considered grander. The mountains of the Estérel impressed me as smaller than the Alps, but their outlines are as graceful as any that one can see. Enough said on the subject of my travels.
What are your intentions for this autumn? Do you intend to bury yourself in your Dauphiny mountains? Where you are concerned, one never knows what to expect. You look one way and row another. Good-bye....