CLXXXIII
Paris, October 21, 1858.
Here I am back in this city of Paris, where I am furious not to find you. It begins to be cold and dismal, and still no one has returned. I left Cannes in admirable weather, which became greyer and greyer with every step I took towards the North.
Pity me! While in Venice I bought a chandelier, which arrived yesterday broken in three places. The Jew who sold it to me promised to make good any damage, but what power have I to compel him to do so?
I have not yet become accustomed to sleeping in my own bed. I feel like a stranger here, and do not know what to do with my time. It would be altogether different if you were in Paris.
I bought in Cannes that strange animal, the prigadiou, whose portrait I have made for you. It is still alive, but I fear that you will find it no longer in this world. It lives on flies, and flies are beginning to be scarce. I have still a dozen which I am fattening. My friends think I am thinner. It seems to me that my health is a trifle better than before I went away....
CLXXXIV
Paris, Sunday night, November 15, 1858.
... I go to-morrow morning to Compiègne, until the 19th. Write to me until the 18th at the château. I am far from well, and the life I am to lead for the next week will not improve my health. Certain corridors must be crossed with neck and shoulders uncovered, which insure to those who frequent them a fine cold. I can not say what will be the fate of those who have a cold already developed. Pardon this hideous hiatus.
This morning I met Sandeau, in the excited condition of a man who has just made his first appearance in knee-breeches. He put to me a hundred questions of such simplicity that I was alarmed for him. There will be also a number of great men from Outre-Manche, who will, doubtless, contribute much to the animation and hilarity of the occasion. Good-bye.
CLXXXV
Château de Compiègne, Sunday, November 21, 1858.
Your letter drives me to despair....
We are to remain at Compiègne one day longer. Instead of Thursday, we shall return Friday, on account of a comedy of Octave Feuillet, which is to be played Thursday night. I hope this will be the last delay. Besides, I am thoroughly ill. It is impossible to sleep in this place. One is either freezing or roasting, and this has given me an irritation of the chest, which is extremely painful. It is, however, impossible to fancy a host more amiable and a hostess more gracious.
Most of the invited guests left yesterday, and the rest of us make a select little party; that is to say, there are but thirty or forty to sit at table. We took a long walk in the woods, which recalled our rambles of former times. Were it not for the cold, the forest would be as beautiful as in the beginning of the autumn. The leaves still hang on the trees, but of the most lovely yellow and orange tints you can imagine. Deer crossed our path at every step.
To-day a fresh cargo of illustrious guests is to arrive. All the ministers, in the first place, then Russians and other foreigners. The heat in the salons will be intensified, of course. Good-bye.
When I think that I might have seen you in Paris to-day! I am tempted to run away and give them the slip....
CLXXXVI
Château de Compiègne, Wednesday, November 24, 1858.
Decidedly, the devil is taking a hand in affairs. I am to be here until the 2d or 3d of December. I feel like hanging myself when I see you in such a state of resignation. ‘Tis a virtue which I do not possess, and I am in a rage. In spite of obstacles, I had made up my mind to spend a few hours in Paris. Nothing is easier than not to appear at luncheon or a promenade. It is dinner which is the serious point, and when I spoke to the old courtiers of going to dine with Lady —— in the city, they made such a face, that I saw it was not to be thought of.
Our life here is most trying on the nerves and brain. We leave rooms heated to forty degrees, to ride through the woods in an uncovered wagonette. It freezes here at seven degrees. We then return to dress, and find ourselves again in a tropical climate. I do not understand how the women can stand it. I neither sleep nor eat, and spend my nights thinking of Saint-Cloud or of Versailles....
CLXXXVII
Marseilles, December 29, 1858.
I spent my last day in Paris with a crowd of people who did not leave me time to do up my packages and write to you. On my way to the station I left at your house your two volumes unwrapped, sufficient proof of my unusual haste. I hope your concierge will have confined himself to looking at the pictures, and that he delivered them to you promptly.
I was terribly cold on the journey. At Dijon I met the snow, of which I saw the last only at Lyons. Here a slight mistral is blowing, but the sun shines gloriously. They write me from Cannes that the weather is magnificent, although cold for that climate—that is to say, a May temperature. I was shockingly ill in the train from Paris to Marseilles, and all night I thought I should suffocate. This morning I am greatly relieved. It is a pleasure to see the sun once more, and to feel its genuine warmth.
You have found nothing for me to give Sainte Eulalie, and I fancy that I may have forgotten to remind you of that important matter. No more handkerchiefs, no more boxes. I have been giving such things for twenty years. In an extreme case, I might return again to brooches; but if it were possible to select something newer, it would be desirable. I continue to rely on you to choose the books for the Misses Lagrénée. Think of all the responsibility you have taken on your shoulders! I have always found you worthy of my confidence. Your selection of books for young girls has always been exquisite.
When I pass through Marseilles again, I will attend to your commissions, if you have any, as to the purchase of cloaks or eastern stuffs. There is a Jew here, very dishonest, but with an excellent stock of goods, whom I honour with my patronage. I have just seen a recent arrival from Cannes who tells me the roads are atrocious. I feel my flesh beginning to creep from to-night, and think of twenty-four hours, at least, on the road! If you go to Florence next year you must tell me in time. It is my dream to return there with you. I will be your guide in seeing the city.
Good-bye. Let me hear from you soon, and tell me what people are saying in Paris.
CLXXXVIII
Cannes, January 7, 1859.
I am settled here in some sort of fashion. The weather is cold but magnificent. From ten o’clock until four the sun is warm; but hardly has it touched the summit of the mountains of the Estérel, when there arises a keen wind from the Alps which cuts you in two. Nevertheless, I feel much better than when I was in Paris. I have had no paroxysms of pain, and the cough I brought away with me is entirely cured from being in the open air; only I eat nothing at all, and sleep but so-so.
On account of my nervous temperament, I became the other day terribly irritated and was obliged to dismiss my servant, to turn him out on the spot. Persons of that class imagine themselves necessary to you and abuse your patience. I have found a fellow here to take care of my clothes, who is like a cat walking on ice with nut-shells on his feet. I should like to discover a treasure such as I have sometimes seen—some one who would understand my wishes without putting me to the necessity of speaking.
Englishmen are here in great numbers. I dined day before yesterday at Lord Brougham’s, with I don’t know how many misses, freshly arrived from Scotland, to whom the sight of the sun seemed to cause immense surprise. If I had the talent to describe costumes, I should amuse you with the description of theirs. You have never seen anything to equal them since the invention of crinoline.
I am reading the Memoirs of Catherine II. As a representation of manners and customs it is remarkable. This and the Memoirs of the Margrave of Bayruth give a singular idea of the people of the eighteenth century, and especially of the court-life of the period. When Catherine II married the grand duke, who became afterwards Peter III, she had a wealth of diamonds and beautiful brocade gowns, and yet her living apartment consisted of a single room, which served as a passageway to her women, who, twenty-six in number, all slept in one room beside that of the queen. There is not a tradesman’s wife to-day who does not live more comfortably than did empresses a hundred years ago.
The memoirs of Catherine stop, unfortunately, at the most interesting moment, before the death of Elisabeth. She says enough, however, to give the strongest reasons for believing that Paul I was the son of a Prince Soltykof. It is a singular thing that the manuscript in which all these choice incidents are related she dedicated to her son, this same Paul I.
I have learned that you executed conscientiously my commission for the purchase of books. I have even received Olga’s acknowledgments. She seems enchanted with her portion. One book especially, something about Gems of Poetry (?), has produced a tremendous effect. I inclose her eulogies. I hope your fertile imagination will not rest with this success, and that it will find me something for my cousin, Sainte Eulalie.
Good-bye, dear friend. I should like to send you a little of my sunshine. Take care of yourself, and think of me. The prigadiou is remarkably well. After his fast of six weeks he has begun to eat again. He devoured three flies the day of his arrival in Cannes. At present, he has become so fastidious that he will eat nothing but the heads. Good-bye again....
CLXXXIX
Cannes, January 22, 1859, at night.
Marvellous moonlight, not a cloud, the sea as smooth as a mirror, and no breath of wind. From ten o’clock until five it was as warm as a June day. The longer I stay the more I am convinced that it is the light that does me good, more than the warmth and exercise. We had one rainy day, followed by one of gloom and threatening skies. I had horrible spasms of coughing, but as soon as the sun reappeared, Richard was himself again.
How are you, dear friend? Have the dinners of the Kings and of the Carnival fattened you much? As for me, I eat nothing at all. At the same time, a friend who came down from Paris expressly to see me considers my food excellent. We have nothing but some queer-looking fish, mutton, and woodcock. You may believe that Cannes is becoming too civilised, entirely too much so. They are now engaged in destroying one of my favourite walks, the rocks near Napoule, to build the railroad in that direction. When it is completed we can take advantage of it, as we did that of Bellevue; but Cannes will then become infested with the Marseillais, and all its picturesqueness will be lost.
Do you know a creature called the hermit-crab? It is a small lobster, the size of a locust, and has a tail without any scales. He finds a shell which fits his tail, crawls into it, and thus moves himself along the sea-shore. Yesterday I found one, and very carefully broke the shell without injuring the crab, which I then placed in a dish of sea-water. He made there the most piteous appearance. I then put an empty shell on the dish. The little creature approached it, moved around it, then raised one claw in the air, evidently to measure the height of the shell. After meditating a half minute, he thrust one of his claws into the shell to assure himself that it was really empty. Then, seizing it with his foreclaws, he took a somersault in such a way that his tail entered the shell. At once he began to walk about the dish, with the satisfied air of a man coming out of a furnishing shop with a new coat. I have seldom seen such evidences of reasoning in animals as this.
You will observe that I have given myself up entirely to the study of nature. Besides my researches on animals (I have also the story of a goat to tell you), I have painted some landscapes, of which the last one is always more beautiful than the others. Unfortunately, a friend of mine here has filched my two best works. My friend, who is far more of an artist than I, is in a perpetual state of admiration of this country. We spend our days sketching, returning at night utterly exhausted, when I have no courage for writing. Nevertheless, I have written an article on the Dictionary of Personal Property, by Viollet-le-Duc, which I shall send with this letter. I should like you to read it. While it is short, it contains, I fancy, an idea or two.
Did I tell you that my friend Augier wishes to have a melodrama on The False Demetrius, and that I must work also on this? Finally, I have promised the Revue des Deux Mondes an article on Prescott’s Philip II. Good-bye.
CXC
Cannes, February 5, 1859.
... For two days we have had bad weather, which has made me desperately ill. I have formed for my own case a medical theory which is as good as any other; it is, that sunlight is a necessity to me. When the sky is overcast, I suffer; when it rains, I am perfectly good-for-nothing; when the sun reappears at last, I am on my feet again.
It was during the bad weather that the new imperial highness[18] crossed the sea. With us it (the sea) was devilish boisterous, and as wild as the ocean. I thought of the sufferings of that poor princess, married but the night before, her first experience on the sea, and with the expectation of an harangue by the mayor as soon as she should land. Do you not think it preferable in Paris to belong to the bourgeois? I should like to do so in Cannes.
My house is situated in front of the Hôtel de la Poste. My windows face the sea, and from my bed I can see the islands. It is a delicious view. I have about thirty sketches, more or less poor, but which I have enjoyed making. You shall have several, if you make a wise choice; if not, I shall select them for you. The almond-trees are in bloom in every direction, but the winter has been so severe and the summer so dry that the jessamines are almost entirely blighted. If you wish to have any acacias, you have but to mention it.
Yesterday I corrected the proofs of the article of which I spoke to you. As for Demetrius, I have abandoned all thought of it; and it needed your letter to remind me that I had ever thought of it.
A colleague is a useful person to have near one, in that he knows, in the first place, all the tricks of the trade, and, besides, that he can meet all the actors and other unsavory people whom my mightiness does not wish to see. I received a letter this morning from a M. Beyle, of Grasse, who is an admirer of mine, who is twenty-two years old, and who asks permission to read to me several works of his own composition. Can you comprehend such a sudden disaster, when one thinks himself safe from everything literary?
I have had another misfortune. My prigadiou died suddenly during the stormy weather. I am thinking of raising a monument to his memory on the rock where I found him. I continue my investigations of the habits of hermit-crabs. The study of instinct in dumb creatures is extremely interesting, I assure you. I have also a dog, who belongs ostensibly to my servant, but who has attached himself to me. He understands everything that is said to him, even in French, and since he has seen his master serving me he holds him in contempt.
I should be glad if you would read Caesar, by Ampère, which has just appeared. It is possible that I may be obliged to write a critique concerning it, and since it is written in Alexandrine metre, the possibility terrifies me. I should like to take your opinion of it cut and dried, for I never could criticise verse.
I am beginning to count the days. The month will not come to an end, I hope, without seeing you. I suspect that in Paris you feel no longing for mountain air or legs of mutton. I myself am living in the open air. I sleep no better than ever, but I have good legs, and I can climb without losing my breath.
Good-bye. Write once more and tell me the news and the novelties of Paris. I am so rusty that I have taken to reading Mormon leaflets; to reach this point one must come to Cannes.
CXCI
Paris, March 24, 1859.
Were you free to-day? To my distress, I supposed I was engaged for the whole day, which prevented me from writing and asking to see you. At the last moment I found myself perfectly free, with all the chagrin that you may imagine.
I am glad if my article on Prescott’s work has pleased you. I am not too well satisfied with it myself, because I have not said half of what I wished to say, in accordance with the aphorism of Philip II, that one should speak only well of the dead. The work is really mediocre, and not even interesting. It seems to me that if the author had been less of a Yankee he might have done something better....
CXCII
Paris, April 23, 1859.
The news has made me ill, although I was not at all surprised. Everything now is given over to chance. I suppose your brother is ready to be off. I wish him all the good luck possible. The war,[19] I fancy, will be violent enough at first, but it will not last long. The financial condition of every one concerned will not allow its continuance. While strolling yesterday in the woods, where there were multitudes of birds, it seemed extraordinary that in such weather as this people should be amusing themselves fighting.
I hope you find the Memoirs of Catherine entertaining. There is a flavour of local colour which I find delightful. What a ridiculous creature was a great lady of that period, and how clear as day does it appear from this story that nothing but strangling could have had any effect on a beast like Peter III!
Some one gave me to read a novel by Lady Georgina Fullerton, written in French, with a request that I should note the passages that are imperfect. There is nothing in the book but Béarnese peasants who eat bread and butter and poached eggs, and who sell peaches at thirty francs a basket. I might as well try to write a Chinese novel. You ought to take this book and correct it for me for the trouble I have taken to lend you so many books which you have never returned. I went to the Exposition yesterday, and it seemed to me shockingly commonplace. The tendency of art is to a low level which amounts to positive flatness.
CXCIII
Paris, Thursday, April 28, 1859.
I received your letter last night. You will stop at ——, I imagine. It would be folly on your part to attempt to go farther. I shall not repeat what you already know of the sympathy I feel for your anxieties. When one is the sister of a soldier, one must become accustomed to the sound of cannon. Since last night, moreover, the signs of peace are brighter than they were several days ago. It appears, even, that there is a probability of the acceptance by Austria of the proffered arbitration by England, and also by France. Nevertheless, many troops are departing, and two regiments have already landed at Genoa, beneath a deluge of flowers. I believe there will be war, but it will not continue long, and I hope that after the first conflict all Europe will interpose between the belligerent parties.
Austria, moreover, for lack of means, would be unable to maintain a long struggle, and it is thought by many persons that the principal object of her rash act is to offer a pretext for pleading bankruptcy. It seems to me that the feeling here is better than it was. The people are bellicose and over-confident, the soldiers in high spirits and full of assurance. The Zouaves departed, after being away from their barracks and sleeping under the stars for a week, saying that in time of war there was no such thing as home comforts. On the day of their departure not a man was missing.
There is in our army a gaiety and ardour absolutely lacking among the Austrians. Although scarcely optimistic, I have firm confidence in our success. Our former reputation is so well and widely established, that those who fight against us do so with faint hearts. Do not use your imagination in creating tragic possibilities; remember that very few bullets strike, and that the war in which we are to engage will prove tremendously interesting to your brother. Do not intimate to your sister-in-law that the fascinating Italian ladies will throw themselves at the heads of our soldiers. You may rest assured that they will be petted, and will be fed on macaroni stupendi, while the Austrian soldiers are likely to find verdigris sometimes in their soup. If I were your brother’s age, a campaign in Italy would give me the agreeable opportunity of observing one of the most splendid spectacles, the awakening of an oppressed people.
Good-bye, dear friend. Let me hear from you promptly, and keep me informed of your plans.
CXCIV
Paris, May 7, 1859.
I have not replied to your letter immediately, because I have been waiting to hear of your new address. I can not believe that you are still at ——; yet I am in hopes that this letter will overtake you somewhere, even in Turin, if you decided to go so far. Now that war is declared, remember that all bullets do not hit their mark, and that there is a great deal of space above and around a man. If you have read Tristram Shandy, you will have learned that every ball carries its message, most of which, luckily, are intended to fall on the ground.
Your brother will return with his epaulets, and will have taken part in the noblest campaign since the Revolution and General Bonaparte. I wish the latter could have been in the field in person; it would give us absolute certainty of success. In considering the pros and the cons, however, the appearances weigh rather in our favour. If, as I imagine, we are victorious in the beginning, after the custom of the furia francese, it is probable that strenuous efforts will be made by all the European powers to arrest hostilities. Austria, who is already at the limit of her resources and ready to declare bankruptcy, will not need much persuasion, and on our side also, there will probably be moderation. If the war is prolonged, it will become a war of revolution, which will circle the globe, but this seems much more improbable than the other supposition.
If you care to know the news, every one is surprised at the announcement of the names of the new ministers; one tries to discover some reason for them, but without success. The English are becoming tranquil; the Germans quite the contrary. I fear the former far more than the latter. There is still talk of a Russian alliance, but I do not believe it will come to anything. The Russians have nothing to lose in the quarrel, and, no matter what the result, they will always contrive to work to their own advantage. Meanwhile they amuse themselves making Panslavic intrigues among the Austrian subjects, who regard the Emperor Alexander as their Pope.
General Klapka left Paris three weeks ago, to found a bank in Constantinople. Many other Hungarian officers have followed the same road, which seems to me a bad sign. A Hungarian revolution is not an impossibility, but it would, I think, do us more harm than good.
Nothing new from the seat of war. The Austrians appear to be somewhat shamefaced and bashful. It is expected that before the end of the month there will be an encounter. Our soldiers are in high spirits and splendidly enthusiastic. Here, the common people and small tradesmen are belligerent. The great mass of people take a keen interest in the crisis, and are praying for our success. The salons, particularly those of the Orleanists, are absolutely anti-French, and, moreover, stark-mad. They fancy that they will return on the tide, and that their burgraves will resume the thread of their discourses, interrupted in 1848. Poor creatures! they do not realise that following this, there is nothing but the Republic, anarchy, and division of property.
I should like to know your plans. It seems to me that in Paris you would be at the centre of news, and in a time like this that is essential. For this reason I think I shall not go to Spain; I shall bite my nails to the quick, probably, waiting for despatches.
If you went as far as ——, which I think scarcely probable, I do not doubt that you will soon return. In the midst of all your tribulations, are you thinking of a retreat for several days in some oasis?
You and I, it seems to me, need very much to rest peacefully for a few days, as a preparation for the warlike emotions which we shall be obliged to suffer. Nothing at this time would be easier for you, if you wished to do a kind act. If you will warn me a little in advance, I shall be ready to bring you here, or somewhere else, wherever you will; I can easily manage to get away for a week. Be good enough to give the matter your careful consideration, and let me know your decision; I shall await it with the utmost impatience.
Good-bye, dear friend. Be of good courage. Do not create spectres, and have faith. I kiss you tenderly, as I love you.
CXCV
Paris, May 19, 1859.
It seems to me that in your place I should be in Paris, for it is here that all the news comes first. I run after it all day long. The loan has been negotiated, not for 500,000,000, but for 2,000,000,000 francs, besides several cities whose value I do not know. During the last three weeks, 54,000 volunteers have been enrolled. These figures are authentic. The Austrians are retiring, and the stakes are open on the question of whether they will give battle before abandoning Milan, or whether they will proceed at once to form an unbroken triangle bounded by Mantua, Verona, and Peschiera. Our officers speak in the highest praise of the reception accorded them. The Germans are howling at us, just as they did in 1813. Some think it is due to their inveterate hatred of us; others, that beneath it all is a definite amount of red-hot liberalism, which to-day takes the Teutonic form.
The Russians are arming vigorously, which causes general food for thought. A certain grand duchess Catherine has just made a visit to the Empress; the significance of this is either auspicious or otherwise. Russia is a powerful ally, who could swallow Germany alive, but who would also procure for us the enmity, and, perhaps, the hostility of England. We have lived for so long a life of sybaritism that we have forgotten the sentiments of our fathers. We must return to their philosophy of life. We danced in Paris while we fought in Germany, and this continued for more than twenty years! In the present age wars can not drag on so long, because revolutions interfere, and because they are too costly. This is why, if I were young, I should be a soldier.
But let us have done with this hideous subject. The misfortune which is to come can not be avoided and the wisest plan is to think of it as little as possible; and it is for this reason that I wish so ardently to take a walk with you, far, far from the scene of war, where we shall think only of the leaves and the blooming flowers, and of other things no less agreeable. Whatever may happen, is not this course the most sensible? If you have read Boccaccio, you will have learned that after all crushing misfortunes one comes to that point. Is it not wiser to begin thus? Great truths and reasonable facts do not find ready access to your brain. I shall never forget your astonishment when I told you there were woods in the suburbs of Paris.
I took dinner at the home of a Chinese, who offered me an opium pipe. I was suffering from suffocation; at the third puff I was cured. A Russian who tried the pipe after me was completely transformed in less than ten minutes; from a very homely man, he became a truly handsome one. This continued fully a quarter of an hour. Is it not singular, the effect produced by a few drops of poppy juice?
Good-bye. Answer me quickly.
CXCVI
Paris, May 28, 1859.
You have a way of announcing bad news that is maddening to me. You take a great deal of pains in order, perhaps, to smooth them over; better to tell me all that you would have done, if ... It is like Roland’s horse, who had every good quality, but who was dead. If he had not been dead, he would have run faster than the wind. I do not care at all for that kind of pleasantry, because, in the first place, you are suspicious of me; and, again, because it is exasperating enough to have you so far away, without being obliged to regret the hours I might have spent with you. The time of your return, probably, is not far distant. Meanwhile, keep me informed of your actions and your projects, for I can not imagine that you will not be up to all sorts of mad tricks.
Not a word of news. We are told not to expect any before twelve days or thereabouts. Germany is still in a tremendous state of fermentation, but the indications tend to show that there will be more beer drunk than blood shed. Prussia will resist to the utmost the pressure of the Franzosen-fresser. They say now that they must recover not only Alsace, but also the German provinces of Russia. This last bit of facetiousness seems to indicate that the Teutonic sentiment of enthusiasm is both inconsiderate and wanting in seriousness.
M. Ivan Tourguenieff, who has just arrived in Paris, direct from Moscow, says that we have the sympathy of all Russia, and that the army would be charmed to settle with Austria. The popes are preaching that God intends to punish them for the persecutions which they inflict on the Orthodox Greeks of Slavic race, and a subscription has been opened to send tracts and Slavonic Bibles to the Croatians, to save them from papist heresy. All this is somewhat like a political propaganda of Panslavism.
At this moment a serious attack against the Derby ministry is being organised. Lord Palmerston and Lord John would become reconciled (a condition most improbable), or, what would seem even more so, would agree on the resignation of the present cabinet. The Radicals promise to lend their support to the movement. The Whigs claim to have 350 votes against 280. Whatever be the outcome of the affair, I think we have very little to gain by a change. Lord Palmerston, although the original promoter of the Italian agitation, will not support it any more than Lord Derby. At the same time, he will be scarcely likely to temporise with Austria, and he will not seek an opportunity to create embarrassing situations for us.
I have received a letter from Leghorn. We made our entry there beneath a flood of flowers and gold powder, which the ladies threw from the windows.
Good-bye. Write to me soon, sensibly, without any diplomacy. I am particularly anxious to know what you intend to do, for this will influence my own plans.
CXCVII
Paris, June 11, 1859.
I do not expect to stir from the city. If your brother is still at the head of a besieging battery, I fancy he will not leave Grenoble until the Austrians are driven back into their famous triangle or rectangle, whichever it is. According to the opinion of the soldiers, this will not occur until after another battle near Lodi, for it appears that there are certain places which have the privilege of attracting the armies. But no one seems yet to understand the meaning of war with the aid of railroads, telegraph lines, and rifled guns. I have lost faith in everything and am consumed with anxiety.
The great politicians, burgraves, and others, people as imbecile as the old military men, announce that all Europe is preparing to interfere, with entreaties and threats, between the Adda and the Mincio. This, indeed, is highly probable; yet I do not see very well how it is going to mend matters. After the famous phrase, Sin all’ Adriatico, how is it possible to abandon Italy half delivered? How can one expect that an emperor of twenty-four, obstinate and under Jesuit influence, beaten, moreover, will confess that he has acted like a fool, and plead for forgiveness? Is it not to be expected that the Italians also, who up to the present have acted with discretion, pending the negotiations, will commit every folly imaginable?
If we have all Europe at our heels, how shall we get out of it without having recourse to our last trump, which is a general revolution, supposing even that such a proposition would meet with approval? It appears that Austria intends to send her last soldier to Italy. Everything looks very gloomy, with little to reassure us, but it is one reason more why we should gather strength and courage for the misfortunes which may befall us....
I am thinking of this warm weather and of the green leaves. This time last year I was in Switzerland, far from imagining all that has happened and all that is still to happen.
Good-bye. You know that I am waiting impatiently for your letters. Do not fail to be precise and clear in explaining your intentions.
CXCVIII
Paris, July 3, 1859.
Why are you such an age sending me any news of yourself? Since it appears evident that you have no intention of leaving ——, I am extremely anxious to go there to see you. We might arrange with Lady —— for an excursion into the mountains of Dauphiny. Think over this proposition. You can not conceive of all the visions I have seen since the return of warm weather—visions sometimes of Abbeville, sometimes of Versailles....
I am considered a prophet here, for having announced three days ago that peace would be made between the two emperors only at the expense of the neutrals. I confess that the last part of the prophecy seems to me somewhat difficult to realise. It is not, however, impossible, and it would be entirely reasonable for Solon said that the man who does not take part in civil war should be declared a public enemy.
My poor devil of a servant was shot in the leg and received a fracture, at the battle of Solferino. As he wrote me nine days after the battle, and the leg had not been amputated, I hope he will come out of it safely. Everybody at my house is in tears, and I do not know how I am to get anything to eat. I am, besides, far from well. I can not sleep, and have frequent spasms of choking. I am longing for you, to take care of me in your own way. Good-bye.
CXCIX
Paris, Tuesday night, July 20, 1859.
You alone give me resignation to accept peace. It may have been necessary; but we ought not to have commenced so bravely, only to end by getting things into a worse muddle than they were in the beginning. After all, why should we concern ourselves in the liberty of a pack of bricklayers and musicians?
To-night we listened to that which you will read in the Moniteur.[20] It was finely delivered, and its tenor was one of nobility, frankness, and sincerity. The address was full of good sense and truth. The returning officers say that the Italians are a set of brawlers and cowards, and that the Piedmontese alone can fight, but pretend that we interfere with them and that without us they would have been more successful.
The empress asked me, in Spanish, how I liked the address; from which I infer that she did not like it. I replied, in order to reconcile court-flattery and truth, “Muy necessario.” To tell the truth, it pleased me, for it takes a brave man to say, “Do you believe that it has not cost me?” etc.
When I make you a proposition I am always perfectly serious about it. All depends on you. I am invited to visit in Scotland and England. If you return to Paris, I shall not budge a step. I shall be under an extraordinary obligation to you, and if you had any idea of the pleasure you would give me, I can not believe that you would hesitate. I shall await your decision.
I had a horrible fright this morning. There came to see me a man, dressed in black, with an abundance of white linen and an attractive manner. He had an unusually handsome and noble face. He said he was a lawyer. After taking a seat, he told me that he was inspired by God, whose unworthy instrument he was, and whom he obeyed in all things. He had been accused of attempting to kill his porter with a dagger, but he had only shown him a crucifix. This devil of a man rolled his eyes in the most terrible way, and held me truly spellbound. While speaking, he kept his hand constantly in the pocket of his coat, and I expected to see him draw out a dagger. Unluckily, he had only to select one on my table. I had no weapon but a Turkish pipe, and I was calculating the moment when prudence would indicate that I should break it over his head. At last he drew from his terrible pocket a rosary, and fell at my knees. I preserved a glacial composure, but I was afraid, for how can one protect himself against a madman?
He then left, making many apologies, and thanking me for the interest I had manifested in him. Notwithstanding my terror, inspired by the sight of the animal’s brilliant eyes—frightful, I assure you, and penetrating—I made a curious observation. I asked him if he was quite certain that he was inspired, and if he had made any experiments which would give him assurance on this point. I reminded him that Gideon, when called of God, had taken the precaution to require a few trifling miracles as a test.
“Do you understand Russian?” I asked him.
“No.”
“Very well. I am going to write two Russian sentences on these slips of paper. One of these sentences contains an impious thought. From what you have told me, one of these papers will horrify you. Will you make the test?”
He accepted. I wrote the sentences. He kneeled down and prayed; then suddenly he exclaimed:
“My God is unwilling to accept a frivolous experiment. It would have to be something of serious importance.”
Do you not admire the prudence of this poor lunatic, who feared that, unknowingly, the experiment would not turn out favourably?
Good-bye. I await a prompt reply.
CC
Paris, July 21, 1859.
My letter of yesterday crossed with yours. That is to say, it was no letter that you sent me, but a most exasperating curl-paper. I can readily fancy the frivolous life you are leading, now that you are reassured as to your brother’s safety.
I am really ill, from the effects of the intense heat, and from the absolute lack of sleep and appetite. I doubt not that in both respects you have nothing of which to complain. It seems to me at times that I am making rapid strides towards the tomb. This thought is sometimes most persistent, and I should like to be diverted from it. This is one reason why I wish so eagerly to see you. You will receive both of my letters at the same time. I hope you will answer explicitly and literally.
I am reading the Letters of Madame du Deffand, which will amuse you tremendously. It gives a picture of a society which is agreeable, and not altogether frivolous, much less so, indeed, than is generally supposed. That which impresses me as entirely unlike the present time, is, in the first place, the universal desire to be agreeable, and the trouble that each one thinks himself obliged to take; in the second place, it is the sincerity and fidelity of the affections. These people were much kinder than me, and than you, whom I love no longer.
Good-bye. I am in too bad a humour to write more. For several days I have been again troubled by palpitation, and I am horribly weak and nervous.
CCI
Paris, Saturday, July 30, 1859.
I shall remain in Paris until the 15th of August, after which I shall go, probably, to the Highlands for a few days. But it must be understood, of course, that you shall have the preference over everything else, and any day that you indicate you may expect me without fail. You will notice that I am definite; see if, in your letters, you can not be a little so yourself. It seems that you can no longer exist away from mountains and venerable forests. I imagine that you are browned by the sun and have gained in flesh. No matter how you look, I shall certainly be charmed to see you, and you may be sure of being treated with the most tender affection.
I see from your letters that you are spending your time merrily in promenades and amusements of all kinds. I try to imagine what may be the relative merit of an inhabitant of Pas-de-Calais compared to one from Grenoble. Everything considered, I have leanings toward the former, for the reasons that he is less noisy, and has never had any parliament to persuade him that he has a mind, and that he has a political importance. I knew, however, two intelligent men from Grenoble, but they had spent their life in Paris. I can not conceive of what the women can be like. It is not very long since I abandoned imaginary pictures of the human heart, so that I might cease to interest myself in the mental status of the present age....
I am still ill, and suspect sometimes that I am travelling on the grand railway which leads beyond the tomb. At times the idea is painful to me, at others I find in it the consolation which one feels in a railway train: the absence of responsibility before a superior and irresistible power....
CCII
Paris, August 12, 1859.
I shall visit you before the end of the month. It is very probable that before going to Spain I shall make a short journey to Germany. I am not even sure that I shall go to Spain at all, for I hear the cholera has broken out there, and that will drive away the friends whom I wish to see. Tell me, therefore, when I may go to see you. When you wish to delay negotiations you are more clever than the Austrian diplomats in finding dilatory excuses. Send me a prompt answer. It is understood, of course, that I shall always accept good reasons, sensible objections, but they must be explained definitely and frankly. You are well aware that whenever it is a question of deciding between the greatest happiness for me and the least inconvenience for you, I shall never hesitate.
I told you—did I not?—that I was reading the Letters of Madame du Deffand,[21] that is, the last ones. They are most interesting, and give one a good idea of the social life of that period. There is, however, a great deal of tiresome repetition. You shall read them, if you wish.
CCIII
Paris, Saturday, September 3, 1859.
I fear very much that we shall meet no more this year on this side of the Acheron, and I am unwilling to leave without bidding you farewell, and telling you something of my peregrinations. I shall start Monday—that is, day after to-morrow—for Tarbes, where I shall remain, probably, until the 12th, when I shall return to Paris for several days, and leave again soon afterwards for Spain. If I believed in presentiments, I should not cross the Pyrenees; but it is too late to change my mind, and I must make my visit, which will probably be the last, to Madrid. I am too old and too ill to undertake another such journey. If I did not feel in duty bound to go bidding good-bye to some of my best friends, I should not budge from my hole.
While I am not ill, I am so nervous that it is worse than illness. I neither eat nor sleep, and have, besides, the blue devils. My only consolation is the knowledge that you are enjoying yourself, and are rapidly gaining in flesh among your mountains and country-folk.
I have just received from London the Memoirs of the Princess Doschkoff, and am not yet entirely reconciled to the thirty francs which it cost me. I am promised on my return from Tarbes a novel written in Little-Russian dialect, and translated into Russian by M. Tourguenieff. It is said to be a masterpiece, superior to Uncle Tom. There are, besides, the Letters of the Princess of Ursins, which are highly spoken of; but I have a horror of that woman, and do not care for the book. As for interesting books, I know of nothing new; I have dipped into several, in order to beguile the lonely evenings, and I have found none worth the trouble of cutting the leaves.
I met M. About the other day. He is always delightful. He has promised me something. He lives in Saverne, and spends his time in the woods. A month ago he came across an extraordinary-looking animal walking on all-fours. He wore a black coat and patent leathers, but was minus socks. It was the professor of rhetoric at Angoulême, who, having had conjugal differences, went to Baden, where he promptly lost all he had, and returning to France through the woods, had got lost, and for a week had had nothing to eat. About carried, or rather dragged, him to a village, where he was provided with clothing and food, but he died, nevertheless, at the end of a week. It appears that after the animal-man has lived for a certain time in complete solitude, and has reached a certain condition of physical wretchedness, it seems, I repeat, that this noble creature walks on all-fours. About assures me that he makes a hideous-looking animal.
Write to me in care of the Minister of State at Tarbes.
Good-bye. I hope the autumn opens more benignly for you than it has for me. It is cold and rainy, with much electricity in the air. Take care of yourself, eat and sleep, since you are able to do it.
CCIV
Paris, September 15, 1859.
I should have written to you from Tarbes immediately after receiving your letter, but I was out all the time and in a constant state of excitement. First came a letter from Saint Sauveur, where I was obliged to go to spend a day; and the following day my visit was returned at the home of M. Fould.[22] Consequently, there was a tremendous commotion, and Madame Fould had to contrive a dinner and breakfast, which, in a town like that I have just left, is no small undertaking. Besides, as lodgings had to be provided for eight persons, I, as well as M. Fould’s son, was obliged to give up my room and go to the inn. In the midst of all this august upheaval, it would have been impossible to find paper and pens in the house.
I left the 13th, to spend the night at Bordeaux, and arrived here last night, without any other mishap than losing my keys, and among minor misfortunes this is one of the most serious. I am still hoping to come across them again, or else I must call in the locksmith. As for my visit to Spain, I am depending on a friend who is to go with me. He is a member of the Cortes, and his establishment is to open October 1st. We shall go, probably, the 25th; I do not know his final decision. We shall take the Marseilles route, in order to go by sea to Alicante....
This short trip to the Pyrenees has done me good. At Bagnères I took a bath, which had a wonderfully soothing effect on my nerves, quieting them for two days as I have not known for twenty years. The doctor there is an old friend of mine, who urged me strongly to spend a season at the baths next year. He guarantees that I shall come away a perfectly well man. I am somewhat sceptical, but it is worth trying.
Their majesties were in good health and excellent spirits at Saint Sauveur. I admired the behaviour of the natives, who had the good taste not to follow them about, and wherever they went to leave them the most complete liberty. While there the emperor bought a dog of the ancient Pyrenean race. It is a little larger than a donkey, and is a beautiful animal, which climbs over the rocks like a chamois.
It had been a long time since I had associated with the provincials. At Tarbes they are an endurable class, and are exceedingly obliging. Nevertheless, it passes comprehension how any one can remain with them for a month. I had plenty of ortolans and quail pâtés to eat, which is, perhaps, a matter of more importance. You never mention your health. I suppose it is excellent.
Good-bye.
... I shall write again before leaving.
CCV
Paris, September 20, 1859.
There is certainly an evil genius who interferes in our affairs. I fear that I shall have to go without seeing you. I had planned to leave Paris the 30th, in order to be in Bayonne the 1st. It turns out that in the Madrid diligences and mail-coaches, every place is engaged until October 16th. There is nothing to do, therefore, but to go by sea—that is, to go by steam-boat from Marseilles to Alicante. If some new difficulty does not arise, I shall reach Marseilles the evening of the 28th (my birthday, parenthetically), and the 29th I shall be on the way.
Although you have kept me in a shocking rage this summer with your ifs and your noes, it makes me very miserable, I assure you, to go without bidding you good-bye. After living such an age without seeing you, to enter again on another term of absence almost as long! Who knows if you will be in Paris when I return? I am starting with all sorts of dismal thoughts; I hope yours are more rose-coloured.
My little visit to Tarbes did me good, and I imagine the air of the suburbs of Madrid will complete my cure. As always happens when I am about to go on a journey, I have an inclination for work, which I should never feel, doubtless, if I had remained at home. I am taking paper with me in order to write in Madrid. Think of me the 29th of this month. I shall in all probability be ill, while you will be in consultation with your dressmaker on the subject of your fall gowns. The Gulf of Lyons is always abominable, and it will probably be worse than ever at this equinoctial season, which was created for my express annoyance.
To turn to the bright side of the prospect, I shall find, on my arrival in Alicante, a railroad which will take me to Madrid in one day, instead of being obliged to spend three days being jolted in the worst of coaches, over the roughest ruts that one can imagine. During my absence I shall probably have some commissions to give you. However, we have plenty of time to speak of them, for I do not like to form plans long in advance, especially with you, who, as you know, sometimes forget them.
You will find Paris entirely empty. I know of a good many persons who are leaving, but, except yourself, I know of none who are returning. The trees are parched, the peaches are all gone, and the grapes are good for nothing. If you have been eating ortolans in Dauphiny, you will not think much of the game which you will find in Paris. I am not guilty of the sin of gluttony and am never hungry any more, and pay no attention to what I have to eat.
I regret Paris; I should have seen you there. That is its only attraction for me. Good-bye. You might write me once more here, until the 27th. I fancy—think of the absurdity of it!—that you may surprise me by arriving the 26th.
CCVI
Madrid, October 21, 1859.
I received with great pleasure your little letter, and especially your amiable souvenir. I reached here exceedingly weary, not from the sea, which was perfectly calm, but on account of the multitude of small worries and annoyances which pile upon one just about to start on a journey. Through an excess of zeal on the part of my friends, your letter preceded me to Madrid. It was lost for several days, and it was only with difficulty that it was at last recovered, safe and sound.
I find all here greatly changed. The ladies, whom I left slender as spindles, have become elephantine, for the climate of Madrid is uncommonly fattening. You may expect to see me expanded by a third. Meanwhile, I eat hardly anything, and do not feel at all well. It is very cold, raining intermittently, and the sun seldom appears. I spend nearly every day at Carabanchel. At night we go to the Opera, which is all that is deplorable.
I came this morning to Madrid to attend an academic meeting, and return to-morrow to the country. Customs seem to have changed notably, and politics and parliamentary procedure are singularly lacking in their former picturesqueness. At this moment there is talk of nothing but war. It is a question of avenging the national honour, and there is a general atmosphere of enthusiasm that reminds one of the crusades. It is thought that England regards the African expedition with disapproval, even that she wishes to prevent it. This but adds fuel to their warlike ardour. The army wishes to lay siege to Gibraltar, after having first taken Tangiers. This state of affairs is no impediment to the speculation carried on on the Bourse. The mania for gain has made immense strides since my last visit—another French importation most disastrous for this country.
I went to a bull-fight Monday, and was not at all interested. I had the misfortune to learn too early the perfect type of beauty, and now, having seen Montès, I can no longer endure his degenerate successors. Beasts, as well as men, have degenerated. The bulls have become oxen, and the spectacle is a little too suggestive of the slaughter-house. I took my servant along. He has suffered all the emotions of a novice, and for two days has been unable to eat meat.
What I have seen again with all the pleasure of former years is the Museum. As I looked at each familiar picture, it seemed to me that I was meeting an old friend! These, at least, do not change. Next week I expect to go to La Manche, to visit a venerable château belonging to the empress. From there I shall go to Toledo, in search of some old book advertised in a sale to be held there, and I shall then return to Madrid for the end of the month. I am trying to arrange my plans so that I may be in Paris about the 15th of November.
Good-bye.
CCVII
Cannes, January 3, 1860.
I wish you a prosperous and happy New Year. I should be glad if you had the weather that I am enjoying. As I write, all my windows are open, and yet a north wind is blowing, strong enough to make funny little waves on the sea. I thank you for getting the books. Evidently they gave satisfaction, for I received a complimentary letter from Olga. I suppose, in accordance with my wishes, you took special pains in your selection for her. The choice for next year will certainly be embarrassing, for you must have exhausted the catalogue of moral literature.
I am writing to you in a most inconvenient position. Three days ago, while sketching on the sea-shore, I was attacked by lumbago, which came on me like a flash, without so much as saying “By your leave.” Since that moment I have been all askew, although I rub with every sort of herb known to Saint John. The sun proving my best remedy, I roast myself in it all day.
We have stopping here baron Bunsen and his two daughters, both tired of waiting for some one to come along, and with shanks resembling Hercules’ club, but one of whom sings very well. The baron is an intelligent man, and knows all that is going on, of which you keep me slightly informed. He told me of the discomfiture of the congress, which scarcely astonishes me.
I have read the brochure of the abbé. It impresses me as more unskilful than violent. He shows his hand so plainly, that he must certainly be considered an awful plague in Rome, where common-sense and shrewdness are not disregarded. The priests there are clever intriguers. Ours have the blustering instincts of the nation, and do all sorts of irrevelant things. The way he shelters himself behind his catacombs made me laugh, and also the martyr airs he assumes concerning the money which was offered him. You will see that he will ask for it in the end.
Here is a pretty story of this country. A farmer in the suburbs of Grasse was found dead in a ravine into which he had fallen, or had been thrown, in the night. Another farmer went to see one of his friends, and accused him of killing the man.
“How and why did you do it?”
“Because he cast a spell over my sheep. When he did this I went to my shepherd, and he gave me three needles, which I put to boil in a little pot, and repeated over the pot some words he taught me. The same night that I put the pot on the fire, the man died.”
Do not be astonished that my books were burned at Grasse, on the square in front of the church.
I am going next Tuesday to this place for several days, in spite of its manners. I am promised monuments of all sorts, and some beautiful mountains. I shall bring you some acacia flowers, since you always enjoy their perfume.
Good-bye, dear friend. I am tired to death from having written you three pages, for I can lean on but one elbow, and my back suffers with every movement of the body. Good-bye again. I thank you once more for the books....
CCVIII
Cannes, January 22, 1860.
I found your letter awaiting me on my return from the country, or rather, the village, where I have spent a week almost under the eternal snows. Although situated on an elevated plateau, I did not suffer from the cold. I have seen rocks, cascades, and precipices of wonderful beauty; a great cavern containing a subterranean lake, the extent of which is not known, and which one may easily suppose to be the dwelling-place of all the gnomes and imps of the Alps; another huge cavern, three kilometres in length, from the interior of which there was a display of fireworks for my benefit. In fine, I have spent my week in admiration of pure nature.
I returned from my trip with horrible pains, and for two days I have been laid up, without being able to eat or sleep. I see decidedly that the machine is out of order, and is no longer worth anything at all. I hope it is quite otherwise with you, and that you have suffered no return of the fever. As you did not mention it, I fancy you are entirely cured of this distress. I am trying to be patient under my sufferings, and succeed well enough during the day; but at night my patience deserts me, and I rage.
You have not told me what you paid for those moral books you bought for the Demoiselles de Lagrénée. It pleases me to believe that you remained within the limit of prudence which you observe in all your transactions. I shall have probably another debt to contract with you soon.
Some one lent me a pamphlet written by my confrère Villemain, which seems to be extraordinarily full of platitudes. When one has undertaken to write a book against the Jesuits, and has boasted of being the champion of liberty of the conscience against the omnipotence of the Church, it is amusing to see how he recants, and what poor arguments he employs. I believe everybody, except the emperor, has gone mad. He resembles the shepherds of the middle ages, who, by the power of their magic flute, compelled the wolves to dance. I have received a letter from Paris, with the news that the Academy Française, which, a few years ago, was Voltairian, wishes to elect the abbé Lacordaire, as a protest against the indignities to which the Pope is subjected. However, ‘tis all the same to me. So long as I am not compelled to listen to their sermons, they may elect every member of the Sacred College to the Academy.
Good-bye.
CCIX
Cannes, February 4, 1860.
You cause me great perplexity of mind concerning Sainte Eulalie, whom I had forgotten entirely. I am sure it is either the 11th or 12th. I accept with much gratitude your kind offer, but I know very little about those Byzantine affairs, and fear that what you suggest is far too modern a trinket for my cousin. We must remember that she seldom goes anywhere, and dresses in harmony with her age and in an eminently respectable fashion. Perhaps you are thinking of some buckles, or oxidized silver clasps, such as come from the Caucasus and elsewhere.
Anyway, you have full liberty, bearing in mind the following instructions: 1st, That your selection must not be too conspicuous, too modern, or too frivolous; 2d, that it does not cost much more than a hundred francs, and that it has the appearance of being worth much more; 3d, and, finally, that it does not give too much trouble. I am sure you will attend to this commission with your usual promptness and good judgment, and I thank you most heartily in advance.
This reminds me of something else, and that is, that I have never sent you my good wishes on your fête-day. When does it come? and, in the first place, what sort of a name have you? It seems to me it is a Lutheran or an heretical name. Is your patron saint the Evangelist, or the Baptist? And when is his fête-day? You may imagine that I wish to give you a surprise—a difficult thing to do.
I am at this moment lying on my couch in great distress. When I sit up it seems as if my chest were being scorched with hot iron. Doctor Maure advises me to apply some soothing lotion; but it does not in the least ease the pain.
I am expecting two of my friends who are coming to spend a week with me, and I am anxious lest the weather should be bad. Just now the sun shines magnificently, but this is an exceptional year, and one can not count on anything. The wind yesterday blew with such an icy blast that it seemed to come from Siberia.
Like you, I find politics very entertaining. To see certain people rage makes my heart rejoice. Good-bye. Next month I shall see you again. Meanwhile, I am ill, melancholy, and bored. My eyesight is failing, and I could no longer sketch, even if my health would permit it. How sad it is to grow old! Good-bye.