CCX
Cannes, February 21, 1860.
Two of my friends have been visiting me, and my duties of guide, which have dragged me into several long excursions, have left me no leisure to reply to you promptly. Besides, it was only day before yesterday that I heard from my cousin about the Byzantine clasps. I send you her literal opinion. She thinks they are charming, too charming for her, and much too young. Nevertheless, for fear that her criticism has been too severe, she adds that she has just ordered a new gown expressly to wear with the clasps. If you are not satisfied with your success, you are difficult to please.
I am still about the same—that is, very far from well. On the one hand, a cold; on the other, a pain in the heart, of rheumatic variety, which is extremely uncomfortable and strange, for it does not prevent me from walking, and causes me suffering only when I sit down. This is what I endure when I draw after sunset on the sea-shore.
The weather just now is not fine. The sun shines, but the air is chilly, and the mornings and evenings are sometimes most unpleasant, on account of the wind blowing from the Alps. Never before have I seen them so covered with snow, from base to summit. Snow fell this morning on the Estérel mountain, and a few flakes even on the square in front of my windows. This is something unheard of in Cannes, which even the oldest inhabitants can not remember having seen before. My only consolation is the thought that you in the north are much worse off. The newspapers make my teeth chatter with their accounts of ten degrees below zero, three feet of snow in Lyons, in Valence, and so forth. Nevertheless, I must leave my oasis and go to shiver in Paris.
I am thinking of starting next week, and as I am obliged to stop on the way to examine some monuments, I shall not reach Paris in time for the Imperial Assembly, which no doubt will lose much of its interest on account of my absence. So far as I can now tell, I shall arrive the 3d or 4th of March, and shall hope to find you in good health. I shall welcome you once more with great joy, so you may expect it.
Write to me at Marseilles, to be called for. It is probable that I shall go to Nice for a day or two, to form an opinion of an annexation, and then return to pack my trunks. You have not sent me your account, which I fear is a formidable one. Whatever the material of the clasps, apparently they are not cheap. I hope, however, to bring back money enough to pay the bill without the necessity of selling my books.
By the way, have you not my copy of the Voyage en Asie, by M. de Gobineau? I looked for it here in vain the other day. If you have it, keep it for me.
I took my friends, day before yesterday, to the pont de Gardonne. It is a natural bridge uniting some of the rocks on a point of the Estérel. Through a small doorway you enter a grotto, from which you emerge by another door which opens directly on the sea. On this day the sea was wild and angry, and the grotto seemed to be a boiling caldron. The sailors had not dared to venture within, and we had to content ourselves with going around the abyss. It was wonderfully beautiful with its color and movement.
Good-bye. Keep well, and do not go out too much at night.
CCXI
Paris, Sunday night, March 12, 1860.
... I find your Paris atmosphere extremely heavy, and I have a continual headache. I have as yet seen no one, and dare not go out at night. It seems to me extraordinary to make calls at ten o’clock at night.
No word about the book of my friend, M. de Gobineau; certainly it must hang heavy on your conscience. Suggest a novel for me to read; I am in deep need of one. While in Cannes I read a novel by Bulwer, What will He do with It? which seemed to me senile to the last degree. At the same time, it contains several pretty situations and an excellent sermon. As for the hero and heroine, they surpass in silliness all that is permissible by custom.
A book which has amused me uncommonly is the work of M. de Bunsen on the origin of Christianity, and about everything else in the universe, to speak more exactly. It is called, however, Christianity and Mankind, and is only seven volumes of from seven to eight hundred pages each. M. de Bunsen calls himself an orthodox Christian; but at the same time he treats the Old and New Testaments with contempt....
I learned yesterday, that at one of the most recent masked balls a woman had the courage to appear in a costume of 1806 without any crinoline, and produced a tremendous sensation.
CCXII
Paris, March 4, 1860.
We had yesterday the first suggestion of the return of spring. It did me a great deal of good, and I felt entirely made over. It seemed as if I were breathing the air of Cannes. To-day it is gray and gloomy. I need you very much, to take life patiently. Day by day it becomes more burdensome. People are so terribly stupid. The most inexplicable thing is the general ignorance one finds in this century of enlightenment, as it calls itself modestly. No one any longer knows a word of history.
You will have read Dupin’s address, which amused me hugely....
I have never succeeded in finding Gobineau, and I know very well why; you also. I made myself a few presents two days ago, at Poitiers’. I bought several beautiful old books, and some others, modern ones, in excellent bindings. Have you read the Memoirs of Holland attributed to Madame de la Fayette? They were very entertaining. I will lend them to you, on good security, when you return. The binding is done by Bauzonnet.
I have had made a black Venetian domino, with a lace biretta, or something of the kind, after the sketch I had drawn in Venice, and which I showed you. Since my return, in this untoward season, I am taking an unusual interest in the weather....
CCXIII
Saturday, April 14, 1860.
... Since Easter I have been leading a very dissipated life. I have been to two balls, and have dined out every night. The ball where I was to appear for the first time in my domino with a Venetian biretta is postponed until the 24th, because the accomplices of Ortega, among whom are two relatives of the empress, are now on trial in Spain. If they are shot, which is quite in accord with the custom of the country, I believe the ball will be entirely abandoned, and I shall be out for my domino. I have met Ortega frequently, and he is, by the way, a charming fellow, and the darling of the fine ladies of Madrid. I have grave fears that he will not be acquitted. However, they say that where a handsome young fellow is concerned there is always some means of release....
CCXIV
Tuesday night, May 1, 1860.
... The ball at Alba’s was magnificent. The costumes were unusually beautiful, many of the women uncommonly pretty, and the audacity of the age conspicuously evident. First, the ladies were uncovered in a most outrageous fashion, both above and below. I saw in the waltz a great number of charming feet and not a few garters. Second, crinoline is on the decline. You may take my word that in two years gowns will be worn short, and those blessed with natural advantages may be distinguished from those who must resort to artificial charms. There were an incredible number of English present. The daughter of Lord ——, a charming girl, came as a dryad, nymph, or something mythological, in a gown which would have revealed her entire bosom if it had not been covered by tights. Her dress seemed to me almost as low as that of her mother, whose entire chest was perfectly visible. The ballet of the Elements was composed of sixteen women, all extremely pretty, wearing short skirts, and covered with diamonds.
The naiads were powdered with silver, which fell over their shoulders like drops of water. The Salamanders were sprinkled with gold powder. There was a Mademoiselle Errazu, who was marvellously beautiful. The Princess Mathilde came as a Nubian woman, painted a dark brown color, and with a costume altogether too realistic.
At the height of the ball a domino kissed Madame de S——, who shrieked aloud. The dining-room, with its gallery, the servants dressed as sixteenth century pages, and the brilliant lights, all combined to remind one of Belshazzar’s feast, in Martin’s painting.
The emperor changed his domino, but any one could have recognised him a league away. The empress wore a white burnoose and a black mask which did not in the least disguise her.
There were many dominoes, which were for the most part immensely ugly. The duke de S—— strutted about like a tree, and the imitation was really excellent. Considering the story told of his wife, the disguise was a little too conspicuous. If you have not heard the story, here it is, in a word. His wife, who was a demoiselle (whose mother, by the way, was to have been my godmother, so I have heard), went to Bapst and bought a tiara costing sixty thousand francs, saying that she would return it the following day if she decided not to take it. She returned nothing, neither money nor tiara. Bapst demanded his diamonds, and was told that they had departed for Portugal, and, to make the story short, they were found finally at the Mont-de-Piété, where the duchesse de —— reclaimed them for fifteen thousand francs. This is highly commendatory of the times and of women!
Another scandal. At M. d’Aligre’s ball a woman was pinched black and blue by a husband who was not less muddled in his head than M. de ——, but who was more violent. The woman screamed and fainted. A general scene followed! They did not throw the jealous man out of the window, which would have been the only sensible thing to do. Good-bye.
CCXV
Saturday, May 12, 1860.
... I congratulate you on having beautiful weather and sunshine. Here it rains incessantly, and when it is not raining, the heat is full of humidity. There is a storm in the air, and nervous people like myself are as comfortable as violin cords near the fire. To complete my miseries, I am obliged to stay here until the end of the season, which seems to be far from its close. Now you know all about my plans, and I should like to have some information about yours, of which I have not even a suspicion.
An amusing thing happened not long ago. M. Boitelle, prefect of police, supposed to be the best-informed man in Paris, learned through the report of his trusty agents that the Minister of State, M. Fould, had spent the night in the house which he had built in the faubourg Saint Honoré. Very early next morning he called to see the minister, shook hands with him warmly, and expressed his interest in what had just happened. M. Fould explained that the matter concerned one of his sons, who was carrying on foolishly in England. The blunder continued for some time, until the prefect of police inquired the name of his successor; when M. Fould explained that he had given a house-warming in his new house, and had not cared to take the trouble to return to the ministerial residence for the night.
The Carlists here are in despair at Montemolin’s dulness. There is no doubt that he expected Ortega, before his execution, to be overcome by fear, and to renounce his claims. It would have been nobler on his part to have hastened his work, so that no one should be shot. There is a brother living in England who has not abdicated, and who has children. He is called ——, and married a daughter of the duke de ——. He stole his wife’s diamonds, and with the proceeds supports a chambermaid of the aforesaid. This proves him a man of refined taste.
It seems that Lamoricière is already a little tired of all the worries to which he is subjected in papal territory. Cardinal Antonelli said not long ago to a foreign minister that he had never met a more distinguished man than Lamoricière. “I spoke to him of the present situation, and he suggested at once five or six remedies for the difficulty; he is so eloquent that, in an hour’s conversation, he expressed four different opinions on the same question, all of which were so reasonable that I should have found it embarrassing to make a choice.”
Every one here is deeply interested in Garibaldi’s expedition, and apprehension is felt that it will result in a general complication. M. de Cavour would not, I fancy, be greatly grieved if he should “kick the bucket” in Sicily; but in case he succeeds, he will become ten times more dangerous than at present.
You will be astonished, probably, to learn that I am working and writing as in my good days. When I see you, I shall tell you through what singular circumstance I have shaken off my traditional idleness. It is too long a story to write, but it has nothing to do with works for your perusal. You must read Granier de Cassagnac’s book on the Girondins. It contains the most curious passages and the most horrible descriptions of revolutionary massacres and atrocities, all written with intense passion and fervour.
I received a call a few days ago from M. Feydeau, a very handsome fellow, but whose vanity seems to me to be too outspoken. He is going to Spain to complete the work roughly sketched out by Cervantes and Lesage. He has in view still about thirty novels, the scenes of which are laid in thirty different countries; this is why he travels.
Good-bye. I think of you constantly in spite of all your faults....
CCXVI
Château de Fontainebleau, June 12, 1860.
Why have you not written to me? For many reasons you should have done so. I have been held here all this week. I shall hope certainly to find you in Paris on my return, for, if the weather has used you as ill as it has us, you will have postponed, doubtless, your visit to the country. Nevertheless, between the showers we have made several pleasant excursions to the woods; everything is of a uniform spinach-green colour, and when the sun does not shine, it is not bad. There are rocks and heaths which would have some attraction for me if you and I were to walk there together chatting of many things, as we know how to do. But we travel in a long line of waggonettes, in which people are not always paired off for mutual amusement.
On the other hand, in no republic on earth could one enjoy more freedom, nor could host and hostess be more kind to their guests. At the same time, the days have twenty-four hours, four of which at least must be spent in tight pantaloons, which seems a little hard in such muddy, disagreeable weather.
I had a horrible cold when I first came, but, since “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” my other pains ceased as soon as I began to cough.
I shall not admit for an instant that you will not wait for me. It would be absurd to go to the sea-shore before the weather becomes settled, and, above all, warm. Advise your friends to be patient. I have to do the same thing, and, among others, I say this a hundred times to a person who will listen to nothing.... Good-bye....
CCXVII
Paris, Sunday night, July 2, 1860.
I received your letter this morning. The rough sea of which you speak diminishes somewhat my regret for remaining in Paris. It is incredible, however, that this deuced weather should last forever, notwithstanding the sunspots mentioned in the newspapers.
Our session drags out indefinitely, which makes me furious. I have tried to find an excuse to escape, but owing to my supreme importance, which holds me tied here, it is extremely difficult to accomplish. This does not mean that I am not ready at any moment to travel a hundred leagues to dine with you, if I should receive such an invitation, and if some one cared to wait for me. This is a humble suggestion which I take the liberty to make you.
By leaving town so early you will lose a wonderful spectacle, that of observing me pass in fiocchi, and black gloves, down the rue de Rivoli, in the midst of the admiring populace.[23] I do not know how many vacancies this ceremonial will cause in our ranks, but I have grave fears that it will prove advantageous to the undertakers. Thirty thousand persons came yesterday to sprinkle themselves with holy water, and more came to-day; a good demonstration of the simplicity of this magnanimous nation! It is more stupid, even, than is supposed, which is saying a great deal.
The Orleanists pretend that M. Brénier was murdered by an angry husband, which, considering the amplitude of his abdomen, seems to me scarcely probable. It is more reasonable to suppose that the lazzaroni took this means of avenging their ill-used king. The Liberals, in retaliation, have assassinated the police commissioners, which, of course, has been of great advantage to M. Brénier.
The Italians of the north have none of the emotionalism of the Neapolitans. They have common-sense and theological minds, as Stendhal said, while the Neapolitans are only ill-trained, twelve-year-old children. We shall see, probably, some fine examples of this in the fall, for it looks as if I should go there, instead of to Africa.
I am waiting to hear that your salon is full of country curiosities, and that you yourself are wearing a flowered morning-gown and Turkish slippers. You will think longingly of the muddy streets of Paris. However, I do not care to refer again to your expedition. Many things may occur to cause you to change your plans. You are acquainted with mine. I shall remain at the British Museum until the end of July, after which I shall spend a few days at Bath, and then go to Scotland, where I shall stay the month of September awaiting an invitation from you. Good-bye.
CCXVIII
Paris, Thursday, July 12, 1860.
Fine weather has at last come to stay. From all indications, I shall leave the beginning of next week. If you have any idea of visiting Lady —— at the sea-shore early in August, I hope that you will let me know of it. Rural England must be very lovely, I fancy, just at this time, and you would enjoy spending a few days with your friend, doing nothing at all, watching the sea and drinking tea beside the open windows. I am still feeling ill. Yesterday especially, I was very uncomfortable. I have my new friend, however, to entertain me. It is an owl I am raising, and which has taken a fancy to me. After dinner I open his cage door and he flies about in my room. For want of small birds, he has learned to catch flies very skilfully. His physiognomy is extremely comical, and reminds me of self-important people, with his ultra-serious manner and expression.
The funeral was a terrible ordeal. It took us an hour and three-quarters to go from the Palais-Royal to the Invalides. Then there was mass, followed by an oration by the Abbé Cœur, who lauded the principles of ‘89, saying at the same time that our soldiers were ready to sacrifice their lives in the defence of the pope. He went so far as to say that the first Napoleon did not love war, and was always forced into it for self-defence. The most imposing part of the ceremony was a De Profundis, sung in the vaults that you know, and which came to us through a drapery of black crêpe separating us from the tomb. It seems to me that if I were a musician I should profit by the admirable effect produced on tone quality by the use of crêpe, for a grand spectacular opera.
No one is left in Paris. We go at night to the Champs-Élysées to hear Musard’s music, and to see the fine ladies and the lorettes, all there together and difficult to distinguish. We go also to the circus to see the trained dogs roll a ball on an inclined plane, jumping up after it. This age is losing all sort of taste for intellectual amusements.
Have you read the book I lent you, and was it interesting? The History of Madame de la Guette pleased me more than The Holland Jewess, in which there were things that would have shocked you.
I have been asked to suggest an English novel for a sick man who can read nothing else. Perhaps you may be able to tell me of one. I have just completed a lengthy report on the Library of Paris. It is this, I imagine, that has made me so ill. I waste my time bothering with things in which I am not interested, and business which belongs to others is piled on my shoulders. I have at times wished to write a novel before my death, but sometimes my courage fails me, and again, when I am in the mood, some stupid administrative affairs are given me to attend to. I shall write to you before leaving.... Good-bye....
CCXIX
London, British Museum, July 20, 1860.
It is certainly very kind of you not to have given me an intimation of life, or a word of farewell before my departure. I shall not forgive you until the next time we meet. I was delayed by all sorts of hindrances, and not until yesterday morning was I able to leave, and in diabolical weather. However, I behaved with heroism during the passage, and was almost the only passenger who did not deliver up his soul to the angry waves.
I found the weather here eclipses that of Paris. It always takes me some time to become accustomed to the singular light in London. It has the appearance of passing through a brown gauze. This light, and the absence of curtains at the windows, will annoy me for several days. On the other hand, I am feasted with every sort of good thing, and dined and breakfasted like an ogre, which has not happened in a long, long time. My sole regret is that my little owl is not with me, for it plays about the floor at night like the cat you used to know. ‘Tis a pretty creature, I assure you, and has an intelligence out of all proportion to her size, for she is no longer than my hand.
It is distinctly important for me to know definitely, before the end of July, what time you intend to come to Paris, how long you expect to remain, and when you propose to go to Algiers. I must know your plans before forming my own. I need not tell you that you will be the determining motive for me, whether to leave the Highlands earlier, or even whether to go there at all. Do not imagine, and do not even pretend to imagine, that this would be a sacrifice. I should return to-morrow, if you were to send me word that you were in Paris. You may write to me here until the 30th.
Good-bye. I am very cross, indeed, with you.
CCXX
Bath, Wednesday night, August 9, 1860.
I bought you a blue veil before leaving London. I intended to write to you, but had so many commissions to do for my minister, that it would have been on your part an act of charity to come to help me attend to them. I have selected gowns, hats, and ribbons, all of the most fantastic styles I could find. I fear the dogs on the streets of Paris will run after the unfortunate creatures who wear these beautiful objects of my choice.
I am sorry to see you so opposed to a trip to England while I am here. The idea does not strike you. You may be sure that there are no heaths and mountains I should not abandon with delight to see you before your departure. Let us have at least one happy memory ere we leave each other for so long.
The life I have led for a week would make a thorough-bred horse short-winded, running around all day, shopping and visiting; dining out at night with the nabobs, where I always found the same dishes and almost the same faces. I scarcely knew the names of my hosts, and when they are in white cravats and evening clothes, all Englishmen resemble one another.
We are cordially detested here, and feared even more. Nothing is more amusing than their mistrust of us, which they do not take the trouble to conceal. The volunteers are more stupid even than our National Guard in 1830, because everything in this country is taken with a seriousness found nowhere else. I know a gallant man seventy-five who exercises every day in Zouave costume.
The Ministry is weak and does not know what it wants, and the opposition is no better off; but all, great and small, agree in their belief that we desire to take all we can get. At the same time, every one believes that war will be impossible so long as there is no question of annexing the three kingdoms. I was not specially pleased with the letter of the emperor to M. de Persigny. It would have been better, it seems to me, to say nothing at all, or else to have said merely what I repeat every day, that they are fools.
I advise you to write to me immediately, for I am full of melancholy, and in need of consolation. I shall return to London next Monday. Write to me: 18 Arlington Street, care of Mr. Ellice. I shall remain but a short time, and shall go with him probably to Glenquoich.
This city is very pretty; there is little smoke, and one sees in every direction hills covered with grass and trees. It is not too cold. The friends with whom I am stopping are people of intelligence, and the baths are doing me good. Good-bye....
CCXXI
London, August 8, 1860.
I received your letter just as I was leaving for Glenquoich. It is unnecessary to tell you that it gave me no pleasure; but I shall not reproach you. At this moment I am preoccupied with something else, and that is, to find some means of bidding you farewell. You also must try to manage it so as to gain a little time; and I have no doubt that if we both set our wits to work we shall succeed in meeting and spending a few hours together.
The more I reflect on your expedition to Algeria the more foolish it seems to me. It is evident that with affairs in the Orient complicated as they are, and becoming every moment still more complicated, your brother may be obliged to leave at a moment’s notice, and you would find it embarrassing to remain alone among your Arabs. It seems to me highly probable that the landing of the French troops in Syria will be followed by a general outbreak of robberies and massacres throughout the Orient. It is equally reasonable to suppose that the Turkish provinces of Greece—that is, Thessaly, Macedonia, and Christian Albania—will make some movement in retaliation. Everything in the Orient will be on fire this winter. To go to Algiers at such a time, I repeat, seems to me the height of folly. Still, you might find during this journey some special attraction! Yet you seem now to hesitate about going....
The weather is atrocious. The sun shone yesterday for the first time since I arrived in England, but this morning, on awakening, I heard the beating of the rain upon my window. The barometer indicates a heavy rain, and I can not see a hundred feet away. With all this wind and rain and cold, I do not understand what will become of the wheat. The Times says four feet of snow has fallen at Inverness, where I am to spend next Monday night. Do you suppose there will be coal enough and tartans heavy enough to remedy all these miseries?
In spite of the gloomy, cold weather in Bath and its suburbs, I liked the country immensely. I saw hills standing out in clear outlines against the sky, magnificent trees, and a richness of verdure unequalled elsewhere, unless it is in the valleys of Switzerland. But all this is not to be compared with Saint-Cloud or Versailles in fine weather.
Good-bye, dear friend. I am very sad, and I should like to be angry, but I have no energy, so I shall not accuse you....
I send my Glenquoich address, but I shall not be there for several days: In care of the Right Honourable E. Ellice, Glenquoich, Fort Augustus.
CCXXII
Glenquoich, August 22, 1860.
I am without any news of you....
It is no easy matter to leave this place. Besides the people who detain you, there are certain other difficulties, such as special days for the steam-boats, which carry you over the lakes to the railroad stations. The weather here is almost always abominable, but it does not keep people indoors. They are so accustomed to rain, that if it is not pouring cats and dogs they think they must take a walk. The paths are sometimes torrents; you can not see the mountains a hundred feet away, but you always return, saying, “Beautiful walk!”
The worst thing in this country is a small fly called a midge, which is extremely poisonous. They are very partial to my blood, and devour my face and hands. Stopping here also are two young girls, one a blonde and the other auburn-haired, both with skins like satin, and yet the horrible midges prefer to attack me! Our principal amusement is fishing, which has this advantage, that the midges fear the water and do not venture upon the lake.
There are fourteen persons here. During the day each one goes his own way, and at night, after dinner, we each take a book or write letters. To talk, and to try to entertain one another, are things unknown to the English.
I should be glad to know something of your plans. Write to me in London as soon as you receive this letter. Tell me when you expect to leave, and whether I shall be able to bid you good-bye. I take it for granted that you will do your best that we may spend a few hours together before your long journey.
The Highland air is doing me good. It seems to me that my breathing is better than it was before I came. I can not reconcile myself to eating, which is the principal amusement in this rainy, foggy weather. Our hunters kill mountain deer, and sometimes grouse, for us, and every day we have choice birds. I am pining for a thin soup, or to dine at home alone, or at Saint Chéron with you; the last wish will not be realised, I fear.
I forget whether I told you that I have a blue veil for you. I have had the courage not to wear it, in order to bring it to you fresh; and if you knew what mountains the midges raise on my face, you would appreciate the strength of mind of which I have given signal proof. Good-bye.
CCXXIII
Paris, September 14, 1860.
I received your letter, dear friend, and confess that I think you might have remained one day less at Lestaque and spent it in Paris....
For nearly two weeks Panizzi has been here with me. I am acting as his guide, and showing him everything worth seeing, from the cedar unto the hyssop. There is not a living creature in Paris, which pleases me mightily; however, the evenings begin to lengthen.
I should like to tell you something of the huge muddle that has just begun, but I know and understand nothing about it. My guest believes the pope and the Austrians will be driven out. So far as the first is concerned, the chances look very gloomy; as for the Austrians, if Garibaldi interferes with them I fear he will repent of it. Some one in Naples wrote me of a philosophical remark of the king, who was receiving every five minutes the resignation of a general or an admiral: “To-day there are too many Italians to fight against Garibaldi; in a month there will be too many Royalists to fight against the Austrians.”
It is impossible to picture the rage of the Carlists and the Orleanists. A very sensible Italian tells me that M. de Cavour entered the Papal States with the Sardinian army because Mazzini was preparing to organise a revolution there. To my mind, this has a semblance of probability.
You have seen, perhaps, the fête at Marseilles. It was, I am told, unusually beautiful, and the enthusiasm was both circumspect and tumultuous. I hear also that, notwithstanding an immense multitude of people excited to the highest degree, and of hot Southern temperament, perfect order prevailed. To find something to eat seemed to be the greatest problem, and somewhere to sleep almost as difficult. The spectacle of the Marseillais in their ordinary condition always amuses me; to see them in a state of enthusiasm must be still more entertaining. On this account, and for another reason which you may guess, I regret not having been in Marseilles or in the neighbourhood.
Panizzi, who is an ardent traveller, is thinking of going to Turin for a week, and urges me to accompany him. It is a great temptation, but I dare not yield. It seems to me a delicate matter to make a visit to M. de Cavour, and, perhaps, Garibaldi, and in the uncertainty I shall decide wisely to decline.
I shall give you a great many commissions to do for me at Algiers, when you have settled down there. You know the sort of things that suit me, and whenever you come across any such things do not lose the chance of a bargain. I suggest, especially, that you find me a characteristic dressing-gown. I should like, also, for you to make the acquaintance of the women of the country, and tell me frankly all you have seen and heard.
My owlet is still very friendly, but, to my sorrow, most untidy. When put in her cage, she becomes despondent, but she abuses her liberty. I do not know what to do about it. She does not wish to escape and fly away.
I am going with Panizzi to-morrow to Disdér’s to have my photograph taken. I will send you one of my pictures. They tried it at Glenquoich, but there is so little light in that land that the result was nothing but a shadowy something surmounted by a well-outlined cap. I am not specially pleased with your photograph.
Good-bye, dear friend. For a week we have had lovely weather, but chilly. From noon, however, until four o’clock the sun shows his face, which is such a rare spectacle this year that we consider ourselves fortunate.
Good-bye. Keep well, take care of yourself, and think sometimes of me.
CCXXIV
September 17, 1860.
I write at once to tell you that I have just received your letter of the 13th of this month. I notice that you complain of not receiving any letters from me, and this I do not understand at all. There is something mysterious in the matter, which I am unable to explain.
I congratulate you on having had a successful voyage. Mine was not so good, because it was shorter, I suppose, but this applies only to the letters from Marseilles. Everybody lost his head, I fancy, during the emperor’s visit, and service of all kind was suspended. A Marseilles merchant, to whom I wrote for a very pressing order, replied yesterday, that on account of the fêtes he had not had time to attend to my consignment. No one, apparently, went to his business house.
For several days the weather has been delightful. I should have taken advantage of it, probably, to say farewell to the country, but for the fact that my friend Panizzi has been with me. I packed him off yesterday to Turin, where he will remain only a few days. He will return by the end of the week.
Since my visit to Scotland I have been in better health, only I sleep badly. I envy you the spectacle you will see—the Arabian excursion which will have a certain element of strangeness. You must give me a minute description of it.
Good-bye, dear friend. Will you kindly write to me as soon as you have received my letter? Tell me what you think of those lost or retarded letters, and give me your orders in regard to the small package I have to send you. I have refrained from trying to find a way of sending it, because I felt confident that you would suggest one. Good-bye. Take good care of yourself....
CCXXV
Paris, October 7, 1860.
Dear Friend: Your letters have arrived finally, and reassure me concerning the fate of mine. You are right to accuse the Marseillais of losing their heads during the emperor’s visit. They lost also two small casks of Spanish wine which had been sent to me, and which have remained in the warehouse, goodness knows how long! The Marseillais wine-merchant who was to receive them wrote me naïvely that he had been too busily engaged with the celebration to think of my wine, and that he could not attend to it until he had taken a little rest.
I understand perfectly the fascination and interest with which you are inspired by a first view of oriental life. You say very truly that at every step you discover some things that are comical and others that are admirable. There is, indeed, something comical always in the Orientals, as there is in certain strange and pompous animals in the Jardin des Plantes. Descamps has seized exactly this grotesqueness of the oriental, but he has failed to catch the noble and beautiful side of their character.
I thank you very much for your descriptions, only they are rather incomplete. You have enjoyed the rare privilege of seeing Mussulman women, and you do not tell me that which I should like to know. Do they make in Algeria, as in Turkey, a generous exhibition of their charms? I remember to have seen the bust of the present Sultan’s mother as plainly as I have seen your face. I should like to know, also, the character of the dances which you saw, if they were modest, and, if not, explain why not.
If you will suggest a way of sending the package I have for you, I will despatch it at once; if you have not received it by the time you return to Marseilles I will send it off by the first steam-boat to leave. I should be glad if you would buy something for my use. You know what I like, and I leave the choice, therefore, to your powers of divination.
I have been to Saintonge for a few days, and returned only yesterday. The weather was uninterruptedly abominable, and I brought back an extinguished voice and a frightful cold. I found the people there profoundly distressed, and weeping their eyes out over the misfortunes of the Holy Father and General Lamoricière. General Changarnier has given a description of his colleague’s campaign, in which, I am told, after praising him to the skies, he shows him to have been guilty of huge blunders. In my opinion the only one of the martyr heroes who is not ridiculous is Pimodan, who died like a brave soldier. Those who pose as martyrs because they were taken prisoner are rascals on whom I waste no pity. The present times, moreover, are perfectly absurd, and it does me good to read my newspaper every morning to learn of some new catastrophe, to read the remarks of Cavour or the encyclicals. I see that Walker was shot in America, which caused me some surprise, for his case is similar to that of Garibaldi, whom we all admire.
Did you think my photograph a good resemblance? I enclose a better one, or, at least, one with a less lugubrious expression. I should be glad to give you some news of Paris, but no one is here. I envy you for being in the sunshine.
If you have any commissions for me, I shall be in Paris still a month or more. You do not mention the cooking of the country. Do you have anything good to eat? If so, get the recipe.
CCXXVI
Paris, October 16, 1860.
Dear Friend: I received yours of the 5th by slow transportation. I imagine there was one of those wind-storms of which the newspaper tells every morning. The Mediterranean is playing tricks, it seems, this year. I envy you the sunshine and warmth which you enjoy. Here there is constant rain or fog; sometimes it is warm and humid, more frequently cold and humid, but always as disagreeable as possible.
Paris is still completely empty of people. I spend my evenings reading, and sometimes sleeping. Night before last, wishing to hear some music, I went to the Italian opera. They gave The Barber of Seville. This music, which is the gayest ever written, was sung by people who acted as if they were returning from a funeral. Mademoiselle Alboni, who was Rosine, sang admirably, with the notes of a bird. Gardoni sang like a gentleman who was afraid of being mistaken for an actor. If I had been Rossini, it seems to me I should have shaken them all. The Basile was the only one (I can not remember his name) who sang as if he had any appreciation of the words.
You have promised to give me a minute and circumstantial description of quantities of interesting things which I am unable to see. Thanks to the privileges of your sex, you have access to the harems and may converse with the women. I should like to know how they are dressed, what they do, what they say, what they think of you. You have mentioned, also, the dances. I fancy they are immensely more interesting than those one sees in Paris ball-rooms, but you will be obliged to describe them with the utmost exactness. Do you understand the significance of what you see? You are aware that everything which bears on the history of mankind is full of interest to me. Why will you not put on paper all you see and hear?
I do not know whether we are to go to Compiègne this year. They tell me the empress, whom I have not seen, is still in the depths of woe. She sent me a charming photograph of the duchess of Alba, taken more than twenty-four hours after her death. She appears to be sleeping tranquilly. Her death was very peaceful. She laughed at the Valencian dialect of her waiting-women five minutes before she died. I have heard no direct news from Madame de Montijo since her departure, but I have grave fears that the poor woman will not recover from this blow.
I am deep in a great academic intrigue. It has nothing to do with the French Academy, but with the Academy of Fine Arts. A friend of mine is a preferred candidate, but his Majesty has compelled him to decline, to give place to M. Haussmann, the prefect. The Academy is indignant, and wishes to nominate my friend, notwithstanding his withdrawal. I am giving it all the encouragement in my power, and should like to be able to tell the emperor the harm he is doing in meddling in affairs that do not concern him. I hope I shall succeed in the end, and that the big colossus will be black-balled in good fashion.
Italian affairs are most amusing, and what is said among the few honest folk in Paris is still more diverting. We are beginning to see the arrival of a few of the martyrs of Castilfidardo. As a general thing they do not speak too enthusiastically of Lamoricière, who could not have been as great a hero as he was advertised.
I saw, a few days ago, the aunt of a young eighteen-year-old martyr who had been made prisoner. She told me that the Piedmontese had treated her nephew abominably. I waited to hear her relate something horrible.
“Only fancy, monsieur, five minutes after being made a prisoner the poor boy had his watch taken from him—a gold hunting-case watch, too, that I had given him!”
Good-bye, dear friend. Write to me often. Tell me what you are doing, and many details.
CCXXVII
Paris, October 24, 1860.
Dear Friend: I received your letter of the 15th. I have delayed a reply because I have been in the country, at my cousin’s, where I walked during the day and played backgammon at night. In fact, I have been very lazy. I thank you for the descriptions you gave me, but they need a running commentary and illustrations, especially what you say concerning the native dances; from what you tell me, they must resemble somewhat the dances of the gitanas of Grenada. The idea is probably the same as that represented by the Moors. I have no doubt that if an Arab of the Sahara should see a waltz in Paris, he would conclude, very reasonably, that the French also use pantomime. When one goes to the bottom of things one discovers always the same original ideas. You have observed this when you studied mythology with me.
I do not at all acknowledge the timidity of your explanations. You have at your disposal euphemisms enough to tell me everything, and you act as you do only that I may plead and insist. Come, be more communicative in your next letter.
I am becoming worse and worse every day. I begin to be resigned to my fate, but it is a lamentable thing to see one’s self growing old and dying by inches.
You ask me to explain the present disorders. Are you not sick of it? Unfortunately, no one understands anything of it. Read the Constitutionnel of to-day. There is an interesting and inspired article by Guéronnière. He says, in substance: “I can not approve the attack made on innocent people; yet, on the other hand, I have no interest in those who are being skinned, and do not desire to see them aided in any way save in advice.”
I went yesterday to Saint Cloud, where I had lunch most informally with the emperor, the empress, and “Monsieur fils,” as they say in Lyons. Everybody was in good health and high spirits. I had a long conversation with the emperor, particularly on ancient history and Cæsar. The facility with which he grasps the meaning of erudite subjects, for which he has found a taste only recently, is most astonishing.
The empress related several curious incidents connected with her trip to Corsica. The bishop had told her of a bandit named Bosio, whose history might have been copied from Colomba. He is a worthy fellow, who has been persuaded by the advice of a woman to commit two or three trifling crimes. For several months they have been trying to capture him, but in vain; women and children suspected of furnishing him food have been imprisoned, but it is impossible to lay hands on him. No one knows where he is. Her Majesty, who has read the novel that you know, had become interested in this man, and said she would be delighted if some one should give him the wherewithal to leave the island and go to Africa or elsewhere, where he might become a good soldier and an honest man. “Ah! Madame,” said the bishop, “will you permit me to send this message to him?”
“Then, monseigneur, you know where he is?” As a general rule, the very worst scamps in Corsica are always connected in some way with the most respectable men. They were greatly surprised to find that, while they were besought to grant a prodigious number of favours, no one asked for a sou. The empress has returned full of enthusiasm.
The meeting at Warsaw is a fiasco. The Austrian emperor went uninvited, and discovered an example of the kind of courtesy shown presumptuous persons. He pretended to demonstrate that if Austria was in danger from Hungary, Russia also had an enemy in Poland; to which Gortchakoff replied: “You have eleven millions of Hungarians, and you are three million Germans. We are forty million Russians, and need no help to bring to reason six millions of Poles. Consequently there is no mutual confidence.”
It seems to me that, so far as Germany is concerned, things look peaceable, and it is possible, nay, even probable, that she might make us overtures to pursue the same course in respect to Italy. If this should occur, war, I think, would be impossible, unless, however, Garibaldi should make an attack upon Venice; yet the Italians are more prudent than is supposed.
I hear from Naples that the turmoil there is at its climax, and that the Piedmontese are expected with the same impatience that we experienced in 1848, when we were looking for the arrival of the regular troops in Paris. It is for order that they sigh, and which they will not realise except under Victor Emmanuel. Garibaldi and Alexander Dumas have prepared the way for it, just as a journey in the cold and rain prepares one to enjoy a warm dinner.
Good-bye, dear friend. I am thinking of starting soon to Cannes. Upon reaching Marseilles, about the middle of November, I shall intrust your package to the office of the steamship company. Give me details of the customs, and have no fear of shocking me. Take good care of yourself, and do not forget me.
CCXXVIII
November 1, 1860, at night.
I have received yours, No. 7, dear friend, and it is evident that the country and the climate still please you. I dread the time when the sight of a man in a burnoose will seem to you such a matter of course that you will pay no attention to it. The French colony, of which you make mention, must be as interesting as that one which went out from France during the first Under-Prefecture. Do they wear much crinoline at the Government Palace? or is it going out of fashion, as in Paris? It seems to me that I can foretell your reply.
You have given me only sketches of Algerian customs, when I desire the most exact details. I can not conceive why you will not enter into all the explanations for which I ask. There is nothing you need hesitate to tell me, and, besides, you are justly celebrated for your use of euphemism. Your style is truly academic. I shall understand your allusions, only I should like to have details; otherwise I shall be no wiser than the rest of the world. I wish to know all that you have acquired, for this, I am sure, is well worth the trouble of telling. If you really learn Arabic, I congratulate you on your courage; it requires a vast amount of it. I stuck my nose once in M. de Sacy’s Grammar, and withdrew in dismay. There were, I recollect, lunar letters and solar letters, and verbs of I know not how many conjugations. Besides, it is a dull language, which one can pronounce just as well gagged. My cousin, who is one of the most learned of Arabists, and who has spent twenty-five years in Egypt, told me that he never opened a book without learning a new word, and that there were, for instance, five hundred words signifying lion.
A week ago I sent you a lengthy dissertation on the political situation. It seems that no change in conditions has occurred. To date, the facts in the case are: First, that the conference at Warsaw was a complete fiasco; second, that Austria feels herself in no condition to assume the offensive, in spite of the fact that her enemy is making fine sport of her.
Everything is complicated by the situation in the East. It is so bad that our ambassador at Constantinople believes the old machine may crack any day at all from top to bottom. The Sultan is selling his valuables; he does not know whether he shall be able to buy his dinner next month. Have you heard what were the first words of emperor Francis Joseph to the emperor Alexander? “I bring you my sinful head!” This is the formula used by the Russian serf who approaches his master expecting and dreading a beating. He said the words in good Russian, for he speaks all the European languages. His humility was not eminently successful; he received from Alexander only the most unpromising coldness, and, following the latter’s example, the Prince Regent of Prussia also carried his head high. After the departure of the emperor Alexander, the Austrian emperor remained in Warsaw alone for four hours, and not a single great Russian or Polish lord came to pay their respects to him. The conservative Russians are immensely pleased at all this, for they detest the Austrians even more than they do the English or ourselves.
You will hear of our victory over those poor Chinese. How ridiculous it seems to go so far away to kill people who have done nothing to us! ‘Tis true, however, that the Chinese, being a variety of the orang-outang, there is none but the Grammont law which may be invoked in their favour.
I am preparing for our conquests in China by reading a new novel, which has just been translated by Stanislas Julien, the Chinese patentee of our government. It is the story of two young ladies, Mademoiselle Cân and Mademoiselle Ting, who are very clever, for they make verses and rhymes about everything. They meet two students who write with the same facility, and there follows an endless combat of quatrains. In all these quatrains there is nothing but white swallows and blue lotus flowers. It is impossible to find anything more whimsical and more destitute of passion. Evidently people who enjoy that style of literature are abominable pedants, who deserve to be thoroughly conquered and whipped by us, who take precedence over the beautiful Greek literature.
We had several summer days—Saint Martin’s summer, I think they call it—then cold weather set in. I am beginning to dream of Provence, where, according to the local astrologers, we are promised a beautiful winter. I shall soon inform you of my change of residence. For three days I have been unable to breathe.
You have told me nothing of the cooking of the country. How do you like couscousson? Do you find in the bazaars any unusual curiosities, and are the prices reasonable? I dined yesterday at Prince Napoleon’s. Princess Clotilde admired my cuff-buttons, and asked the jeweller’s address. I told her “rue d’Alger, No. 10.” Is that right? Good-bye, dear friend.
CCXXIX
Marseilles, November 17, 1860.
Dear Friend: I have just arrived at Marseilles, and find that a boat for Algiers leaves in an hour. I shall confide to it the little package for you. I have only time to say good-morning. My cold is giving me horrible distress. In a few days I shall be in Cannes, and shall make a visit in the suburbs. Write to me at Cannes when you have received the little package.
I am too hurried to tell you any news. The visit of the empress[24] is giving rise to a great deal of gossip, and no one understands its significance. The outlook is for peace, which is highly probable, until we find out which is the stronger, Garibaldi or Cavour.
Marseilles, November 18, 1860.
Unfortunately, it was too late! The boats are advertised to leave at four o’clock, and they leave at noon. My small package will leave without fail next Tuesday, and my letter will leave, probably, by the same steamer.
And now that this important business is terminated, I resume my questions. Have you been to see the Moorish baths? What kind of women did you see there? I imagine their habit of sitting with crossed legs must give them horrible knees. If you do not approve of their fashions in dress, I suppose that you will adopt their kohl for the eyes. Besides being very pretty, its use is also said to be an excellent preventive of ophthalmia, a disease which is frequent and dangerous for European eyes in warm climates. I give you, therefore, my authority to use this article.
I am sorry to hear of the death of poor Lady M——, who was a good woman notwithstanding her opinions on people and things. Is it a fact that she has written a book, a volume of travels, or a novel? I do not know which, but I heard it well spoken of in England.
My Glenquoich friend, Mr. Ellice, is to be my neighbour this winter. He has just bought for one hundred and twenty thousand pounds sterling, an estate in Scotland adjoining his own, or, rather, it consists of leagues of lakes, rocks, and heaths. I can not imagine what he expects to gain by the purchase, except grouse and deer in the hunting season. It seems to me, if I had three millions to put in land, I should prefer to spend them in the south rather than the north.
I am bringing with me a new edition of Pushkin’s works, of which I have promised to write a review. I have begun to read his lyric poems, and find in them many superb things, quite after my own heart—that is to say, in their sincerity and simplicity they are modelled after the Greek. Several of them are deeply passionate, and I should like to translate them, for in these, as in many others, in precision and clearness, the work seems to me of a very high order. Something in the style of Sappho’s ode, Δἑδυχε μἑυ ἁ σελἁνα, reminds me that I am writing at night, in an inn chamber, and my mind is full of reminiscences of the good old days. Of all the petty miseries of the present, the worst for me is insomnia. All my thoughts grow pessimistic, and I become absolutely disgusted with myself.
Good-bye, dear friend. Try to keep well and to sleep. You have much finer weather than we, and much more cheerful companions. Do you eat any bananas in Algiers? To my mind, it is the best fruit in the world, but I should like to eat it with you. With this thought, dear friend, I bid you good-night. I shall reach Cannes about the 25th of this month.
CCXXX
Cannes, December 13, 1860.
You write with a conciseness quite Lacedemonian, and you use, moreover, a paper manufactured, doubtless, expressly for you. At the same time, there are many interesting things, for you to tell me. You are living among barbarians, where there is always something worth observing; and you have the best kind of a chance to see them, because of the woman’s skirts you wear, which are a valuable passport. In spite of this, you have told me but one thing in detail, and that I had already suspected, but you have not said what you thought of it and whether you considered it worthy of imitation. You must have seen in the bazaars a tremendous number of trinkets, and you might have examined them and have given me some idea of what you thought would suit me. In fact, you are not acquitting yourself at all well in your rôle of traveller.
I am living in my hole, and have nothing to tell you except that we had, in the beginning of the month, the most diabolical weather. The Siagne, a small stream flowing between the Estérel Mountain and Cannes, overflowed its banks and covered the adjacent fields, which gave them the most curious and picturesque aspect. The sea, too, driven by the south wind, beat against my balcony, and my house during the night was transformed into an island. All these disasters were effaced by one day of sunshine. I am warm, and am tolerably well, but I sleep badly, and have lost entirely the habit of eating. All the same, I take more exercise than I did in Paris.
The political disturbance early in the month gave me some apprehension, notwithstanding my indifference to the questions involved. You are aware of my intimacy with the principal victim. I know nothing positively as yet concerning the reasons for his disgrace. It is evident, however, that a fair lady figures in the case, and that she persisted in remaining in his apartment, which she had occupied for a long time. He took the thing less philosophically than I believed he would, and than I should have done in his place. I fancy, though, that he was cut up by some of the proceedings.
As for the measures of the Liberals, I have not made up my mind what to think; we must wait, and see the result. I do not believe they were necessary; but, on principle, it is better to grant a favour unsolicited than to give only what is asked, and after delaying so long that everybody concerned grows impatient. It may be, on the other hand, that the emperor[25] is seeking support in the Chambers in order that we may abandon our false position with Italy, defending a pope who excommunicates us in petto, and on the point of becoming embroiled with our friends, that we may flatter the vanity of a youngster who has never wished us any good. It is clear that, if the Chambers recommend the doctrine of non-intervention, it would be ground sufficient to recall General de Goyon from Rome, and to leave the Piedmontese to fight their own battles as they like and as they are able to do.
Here, meaning throughout France, people who dress well and consider themselves somebody are loyal to the pope and the king of Naples, as if they had not been at the bottom of the Revolution in France. At the same time, their love of the papacy and of legitimacy does not reach to the extent of contributing an écu in their behalf. If a positive explanation were demanded, I do not doubt that the doctrine of intervention would be extolled in enthusiastic terms. But what will be the effect of the recrudescence of eloquence which the recent concessions will bring on us? I can not guess the result; but the old parliamentarians are beginning to prick their ears. M. Thiers, I am told, will stand for election to a seat in the Senate from Valenciennes, and his example, I think, will be followed by many others. I can not conceive what will become of the deposed ministers, who were appointed by the oratorical party in the legislative body of the Senate, but it will be amusing to see orators like M. Magne and M. Billault on the side of the Jules Favre and tutti quanti.
Good-bye, dear friend. Let me hear from you often, and send me longer letters. Do not forget the details of Algerian customs, about which I am exceedingly curious. Tell me what sort of weather you have, and how you are.
CCXXXI
Cannes, December 28, 1860.
Dear Friend: I wish you a happy ending of the old and a happier beginning of the new year. I thank you for the pretty purse which you sent me. Did I say purse? I do not know exactly what it is, or what it is to be used for; but it is very pretty, and the gold embroidery, in different colours, is in exquisite taste. It takes the barbarians to make such things. Our artificers have too much acquired skill and too little sentiment to make anything equal to them.
I thank you for the offer of the dates and bananas. If I were in Paris, I should not refuse, but you can not conceive of the carelessness of our transportation. I waited a whole week for a pair of trousers, begging your pardon, which went from Marseilles to Nice, and from there God knows where, before they finally reached me. Things to eat would be still more uncertain. When you return you may bring them with you, and we shall eat them together, which will be much nicer.
You have not told me if you saw M. Feydeau in Algiers. I met him in the railway train coming from Africa, where he had gone, he told me, to write a novel. Although I have said no more about it, you promised me to collect data for me, and to gather a multitude of facts for my use in the future.
You have confined yourself to giving me the most superficial information, without telling me even your own opinion of things. Have you seen in Algiers a sort of pouch which comes from Constantine, I think, something like the sabretache worn by our hussars, and embroidered in a marvellous fashion? About how much do they cost? I mean the most beautiful ones.
Cannes is filled with English and Russians, all of whom are exceedingly ordinary specimens. My friend Mr. Ellice is in Nice, and comes to see me from time to time. He complains of having no intellectual associates.
I see that you have had a visit from Mr. Cobden. He is an intelligent man and very interesting, not like an Englishman, in that he is never heard talking commonplaces and has not many prejudices. It seems that Paris is entirely absorbed in M. Poinsot. They say that he himself is responsible for his misfortune.
I should be glad to give you some political news, but my correspondents tell me nothing, except that affairs are quiet. It is the characteristic of our age to set in motion a turmoil, and to amuse one’s self while it is in progress.
Good-bye. Keep in good health, and enjoy your sunshine.