CCXXXII
Nice, January 20, 1861.
I am here on a visit to my friend Mr. Ellice, who is a cruel sufferer from gout, and whom I have come to cheer. I experienced a feeling of involuntary satisfaction when I crossed the Pont du Var, and found neither customs officer nor gendarme, nor a demand for passports. This annexation is a fine thing, and makes one feel several millimetres taller.
You confuse me terribly with the beautiful things which you describe. It is evident that I must fall back on you and on your judgment to decide on the purchases; but I beg you to consider that as these things are for my personal use, and not for gifts, I shall be much more difficult to please than usual. I urge you, therefore, to proceed with great circumspection. Primo, you are authorised to purchase a gebira at any price you care to pay, provided that it has gold not on the outside, but on the inside, like some of those I have seen.
If you find some pretty silk stuff which may be washed, and does not look like a woman’s gown, make me a dressing-gown, as long as possible, and buttoned on the left side in the oriental fashion. Bring these with you when you return. I have no desire to wear silk gowns while the ice in the Seine is two feet thick. What they write me from Paris makes my hair stand on end—ten degrees of cold during the day, and twelve or fourteen degrees at night. Nevertheless, I am summoned there day after to-morrow. Do not be frightened if you read in the papers that I am ill. It would be, however, only the truth, for I have been not at all well for some time.
If I were to return to Paris at this season I am sure I should be done for in a few days. I am thinking, however, of going about the middle of February. Besides my usual alacrity in attending the functions of the Luxembourg, I have a speech to deliver. A petition is presented for the revision of M. Libri’s trial, and you may be sure that I can not refrain from speaking my mind upon this subject which lies so near my heart.
I have had at Cannes—I might say I am still having—a visit from M. Fould, for I shall find him still there on my return day after to-morrow. He told me many curious things of the men and women who were interested in his affair. I found him much more philosophical than I expected. I doubt, however, if he has the courage to sulk much longer; it is contrary to his habit. It seems that when one has for a long time carried a red portfolio under his arm, one finds himself, on losing it, in exactly the same condition as an Englishman with no umbrella.
Good-bye. I shall leave Cannes, probably, February 8th. Let me hear from you, and tell me something of your plans for returning, if you have made any. We are having fine weather, but it might be warmer. You seem to have weather both clear and warm, for which I congratulate you. Good-bye, dear friend....
CCXXXIII
Cannes, February 16, 1861.
Dear Friend: I am writing you in the blues, and in the midst of my preparations for departure. I am to start to-morrow morning, and, if I succeed in reaching Toulon in time for the train, expect to be in Paris the following night. I had hoped to prolong my stay here until the conclusion of the inquiry; but, on the one hand, I have had conferred on me an honour which I could very well have done without, and which compels me to be punctual. Besides this, I am told that the Senate is papist and legitimist, and that my voice will not be out of place when the vote is taken. This sort of thing is repugnant to me, and if it can be done, I shall keep out of it as long as possible.
These last days I have had quantities of visitors, which has prevented me from writing to you. I have had friends from Paris, and Mr. Ellice, who came to spend several days with me, so that it became necessary to play the cicerone, to take them everywhere in the suburbs, and to hold a plenary court. Contrary to my custom, therefore, I am bringing back with me very few drawings.
Your absence from Paris has been the cause of two misfortunes. The first is, that I forgot entirely the gift of books for Madame de Lagréné’s daughters. In the next place, I forgot also Sainte-Eulalie. There is nothing in this country which could have been sent to Paris, except flowers, and God only knows in what condition they would have reached there. Do advise me what to do. I am as embarrassed as usual, and this time I have not the resource of throwing my trouble on your shoulders.
I am grateful to you for all the trouble you are taking about the gebira. I should like it a little large, because I expect to wear it in my journeys as a night-robe.
The poor duchesse de Malakof is an excellent woman, but not over-clever, especially in French. She seems to be altogether dominated by her frightful beast of a husband, who is boorish from habit, and, perhaps, from choice. They say, however, that she adapts herself to him remarkably well. If you see her, mention me, and our dramatic entertainments in Spain. I was told that her brother, who is a very pleasant fellow, good-looking, and a poet in the bargain, was to spend some time with her in Algiers. Good-bye, dear friend. Keep well, and take care of yourself.
CCXXXIV
Paris, March 21.
Dear Friend: I thank you for your letter. Since my return to Paris, I have been completely besotted. There was, in the first place, our exhibition in the Senate, where like M. Jourdain, I may say that never have I been so satiated with silliness. Everybody had in reserve a discourse to which he had to give utterance. So strong is the contagion of example, that I delivered my speech in a free-and-easy way, without the slightest preparation, like M. Robert Houdin. I was terribly frightened, but succeeded in overcoming it by saying to myself that I was in the presence of two hundred imbeciles, and that there was no occasion to be nervous. The joke was that M. Walewski, to whom I wished to give a fine budget, took offence because I praised his predecessor, and declared openly that he had voted against my proposition.
M. Troplong, beside whom I was seated in my position as secretary, whispered to me his condolences; to which I replied that a minister who is not thirsty can not be compelled to drink. This was repeated immediately to M. Walewski, who took it for an epigram, and who since then has scowled on me, which has not prevented me from going my own gait.
The second vexation of the present time is to dine out, officially or otherwise, on the same fish, the same filet, the same lobster, and so on, and even the same persons, all as tiresome as they were the last time.
But the climax of vexations is Catholicism. You can not conceive of the degree of exasperation which the Catholics have reached. For nothing at all they jump on you—for instance, if you do not, at the mention of the holy martyr, show all the whites of your eyes, and if you ask quite innocently, as I did, who had suffered martyrdom.
I brought on myself another unfortunate affair in expressing surprise that the queen of Naples had had her photograph taken in boots. It is an exaggeration and an absurdity which surpasses anything which you may imagine.
A lady asked me the other evening if I had ever seen the empress of Austria. I said I considered her very pretty. “Ah, she is an ideal beauty!” “No; she has irregular features, which are more pleasing, perhaps, than if they mere more regular.” “Ah, monsieur, she is beauty personified. Tears of admiration come to your eyes!” This is the society of the present day. I flee from it, therefore, as I should the plague. What has become of the French society of the past!
A final vexation, but a colossal one, was Tannhäuser. Some say the performance was one of the secret conditions of the Treaty of Villafranca; others, that Wagner was sent to us in order to force us to admire Berlioz. The fact is that it is monstrous. It seems to me I might compose something just as good to-morrow, inspired by my cat walking over the piano board.
The performance was very strange. The Princess Metternich got herself terribly worked up to make the impression that she understood it, and to create applause, which came not. Everybody yawned, but at the same time, everybody wished to appear to understand this unanswerable enigma. The people who sat beneath Madame de Metternich’s loge said that the Austrians were taking their revenge for Solferino. It was said also that people were tired of the récitatifs, and that on se tanne aux airs.[26] Try to understand the joke. I fancy your Arabic music is an excellent preparation for this infernal noise. It is an immense fiasco! Auber says that it is Berlioz without melody.
The weather here is frightful—wind, rain, snow, and hail, varied by flashes of sunshine which do not last ten minutes. The sea is still raging, it seems, and I am glad you are not returning immediately.
Did I tell you that I had made the acquaintance of M. Blanchard, who is going to move into the rue de Grenelle? He showed me some charming water-colours, Russian and Asiatic scenes, which seemed to show a great deal of temperament, and which were done with talent and fire.
I should like to send you some news, but know of nothing worth sending across the sea. I am persuaded that the pope will leave before the end of two months, or else that we shall settle him where he can come to terms with the Piedmontese; but affairs can not endure as they are. The devout are making a horrible outcry; but the French people and the bourgeois are anti-papists. I hope and believe that Isidore shares my sentiments on this point.
I shall make a short journey, probably, in the south, in the company of my ex-minister, to spend the dreary Easter season. You tell me nothing about your health, about your complexion. Your health, I trust, is good; as to the other, I fear you have not sunburned at all.
Good-bye, dear friend. I thank you for the gebira. Return well and strong; stout or slender, I promise to recognise you. I embrace you most tenderly.
CCXXXV
Paris, April 2, 1861.
Dear Friend: I have just returned from my holy-week excursion, tired out, after a sleepless and bitter cold night. I find your letter here, and am delighted to learn that you are on this side of the sea....
I have been in better health for two weeks. Some one recommended a very agreeable remedy for my pains in the stomach. It is called pearls of ether. They are small capsules made of I don’t know what, which are transparent, and contain the liquid ether. You swallow them, and an instant after reaching the stomach they break, and let the ether escape. The effect is a queer, agreeable sensation. If you should ever need a sedative, I recommend them to you.
You must have been sadly struck with the wintry aspect of southern France, coming as you did from Africa. Whenever I return from Cannes I am always shocked at the appearance of the bare trees and the moist, dead earth. I am awaiting your gebira with the keenest interest. If the embroidery is as marvellous as that on the tobacco pouch which you sent me, it must be admirable indeed. I hope you have brought back some gowns for yourself, and quantities of pretty things which you will show me.
I do not know whether there are as many good Catholics at —— as there are in Paris. The fact is, our drawing-rooms are no longer inhabitable. Not only have those who were always devout become bitter as verjuice, but all the ex-Voltairians of the political opposition have turned papists. I find consolation in the thought that some of them feel obliged to attend mass, which must be somewhat of a bore to them. My former professor, M. Cousin, who used never to speak of the pope other than as the bishop of Rome, has been converted and does not miss a mass. It is said, even, that M. Thiers is becoming pious, but it is difficult for me to believe this, because I have always been partial to him.
I can understand that you may not be able now to tell me, even indefinitely, when you intend to return to Paris, but let me hear as soon as you know anything to tell. I shall be tied here as long as the session continues....
Tell me, dear friend, how you are after so many fatigues and tribulations on land and sea. Good-bye. Take good care of yourself, and write to me promptly and often....
CCXXXVI
Paris, Wednesday, April 24, 1861.
I am writing the history of a bandit Cossack of the seventeenth century, named Stenka Razine, who was killed in Moscow with horrible tortures, after he had hanged and drowned a great number of boyards, and had maltreated their women in true Cossack fashion. I will let you read it when it is finished, if I ever reach the end of it. Good-bye, dear friend. Give me news of yourself....
I am leading a most disquieting and uncomfortable life, thanks to the Institute affairs and the petition of Madame Libri....
CCXXXVII
Paris, May 15, 1861 (The Senate).
Dear Friend: For several days I have been so busy that I have delayed writing to you. I wished to ask you to return my visit. I am a prey at the present moment of the herrings which the seals of Boulogne have stirred up to torment us, and I am expecting the Maronites to finish us. This means that we, in this establishment,[27] are in the midst of a bitter discussion about herrings, and that we are threatened with daily sessions. However, it can not last much longer, I hope.
I am working every night, and am happy to have reached the tortures which my hero was made to suffer, so you see I am near the end. It is a long work, not very interesting, and most horrible. I will let you read it when it is published. What do you think of Macaulay? Is he as interesting as in the beginning?
Is it true that all the herring fishermen of Boulogne are thieves, who buy herrings caught by the English and pretend to have caught them themselves? Is it true, also, that the herrings have been seduced by the English, and that they no longer pass near our coasts?
CCXXXVIII
Château de Fontainebleau, Thursday, June 13, 1861.
Dear Friend: For two days I have been here, recuperating, with great enjoyment, among the trees, after my tribulations of the last week.[28] I suppose you read of the affair in the Moniteur. I have never in my life seen people so wild, so senseless as magistrates. For my consolation, I say to myself that twenty years from now, when some antiquarian shall poke his nose into the Moniteur of this week, he will say that he has discovered in 1861, in an assembly of young fools, a philosopher full of moderation and calmness. This philosopher is myself, and I say it without vanity.
In this country, where magistrates are recruited from the ranks of men too stupid to earn their living as lawyers, they are ill-paid, and to get on with them they are privileged to be insolent and quarrelsome. Happily, it is all ended at last. I have done what I ought to do, and if it were possible, I should reopen the case for the petition of Madame Libri.
I was cordially received here, and have not been laughed at on account of my defeat. I expressed my opinion of the affair very plainly, and have had no intimation of any disapproval of my judgment. After all the excitement of these last days, I feel as if an enormous weight had rolled off my back. The weather is superb, and the air of the woods delicious. There are few people here. My hosts are, as usual, extremely kind and friendly.
We have with us the Princess Metternich, who is very vivacious, after the German fashion—that is to say, she has created for herself a kind of originality composed of two parts of rapid woman and one of great lady. I fancy she has not wit enough to sustain the rôle she has adopted. To-day we are going hunting. The evenings are a little tedious, but they do not last forever. I expect to be here a week longer; my official duties hold me here, however, only until Sunday. If I remain beyond that time I shall let you know.
Good-bye, dear friend. Some one has come for me.
CCXXXIX
Château de Fontainebleau, Monday, June 24, 1861.
Dear Friend: I have not budged from here, and shall remain until the end of the month, thanks, no doubt, to Cæsar. I told you that I had a sunstroke, and for twenty-four hours was in a very dangerous condition. I have entirely recovered now, but am suffering from lumbago, which I caught rowing on the lake....
I am waiting impatiently for news from you, but fear that I am somewhat to blame. I promised to write to you if I left Fontainebleau, but what can I do? One does nothing here, and yet one is never free. Sometimes we are called on to walk in the woods, sometimes to make a translation. Most of the time is spent in waiting. The great accomplishment of the country is to know how to wait—a part of my education which I find it difficult to acquire.
At this moment our chief expectation is centred in the Siamese ambassadors, who will arrive Thursday. Some say that they will present themselves on all-fours, after the custom of their country, crawling on their knees and elbows; others add that they will lick the floor, sprinkled with candy in view of this performance. Our ladies imagine that they are to receive wonderful gifts. I believe they will bring nothing at all, and that they will expect to carry away many beautiful things.
I went last Wednesday to Alise with the emperor, who has become an accomplished archæologist. He spent three and a half hours on the mountain, under the most terrific sun in the world, examining the remains of the siege of Cæsar, and reading the Commentaries. We lost all the skin from our ears, and came back looking like chimney-sweeps. We spend our evenings upon the lake, or under the trees, looking at the moon and wishing for rain. I suppose you have the same weather at N——. Good-bye, dear friend. Take care of yourself; do not expose yourself to the sun, and let me hear from you.
CCXL
Château de Fontainebleau, June 29, 1861.
Dear Friend: I received the cigar-case, which is charming even to my eyes, which have just seen the gifts of the Siamese ambassadors. Our letters crossed. I am so busy here doing nothing that I have had no time to write. At last we are all leaving to-night, and I shall be in Paris when you receive this letter.
We had, on Tuesday, a passably good ceremony, quite like that in the Bourgeois Gentilhomme. It is impossible to conceive of a more singular spectacle than that of a score of black men, with a strong resemblance to monkeys, dressed in gold brocade, and wearing white stockings and patent-leather shoes, with sword at their sides, all flat on their stomachs, crawling on knees and elbows along the Henri II gallery, carrying their noses as high as the backs of those who preceded. If you have ever seen the advertisement on the Pont Neuf, “The Dog’s Good-morning,” you may form some idea of the scene.
The first ambassador had the hardest time. He wore a felt hat embroidered in gold, which danced on his head at every movement, and, besides, carried in his hands a bowl of gold filigree, containing two boxes, in each of which was a letter from their Siamese majesties. The letters were in silk and gold purses, and the whole thing extremely rich.
After having delivered the letters, when they tried to turn around, confusion reigned in the embassy. There were kicks from behind into faces, swords thrust into the eyes of those on the second row, who in turn were putting out the eyes of the third row. The spectacle resembled a troop of cockchafers on a carpet.
The Minister of Foreign Affairs had invented this charming ceremony, and had required the ambassadors to crawl. The Asiatics are supposed to be more guileless than they are, and I am confident that they would have found no fault had they been permitted to walk. The whole effect of the crawling was lost, however, because the emperor became impatient at last, rose, made the cockchafers rise, and conversed in English with one of them. The empress kissed a little monkey which they had brought with them, and which is said to be the son of one of the ambassadors; he ran on all-fours like a little rat, and had an intelligent expression.
The temporal king of Siam sent his portrait to the emperor, and that of his wife, who is hideously ugly. But you would have delighted in the variety and beauty of the stuffs which they brought. They are of gold and silver, woven so delicately that they are perfectly transparent, and resemble the light clouds of a beautiful sunset. They presented the emperor with trousers, the legs of which are embroidered with small designs in enamel, gold, and green; and a waistcoat of gold brocade as soft as a silk handkerchief, the patterns of which, gold worked on gold, are marvellous. The buttons are of gold filigree, with small diamonds and emeralds. They have a red gold and a white gold, which when used together produce an admirable effect.
In short, I have never seen anything more stylish, and at the same time more elegant. What strikes one as singular in the taste of these savages is that, while they use only dazzling silks, gold and silver thread, there is nothing conspicuous in their stuffs. The materials are combined in marvellous taste, producing a quiet, harmonious effect.
Good-bye, dear friend. I expect to make a visit to London, where I have business connected with the Exposition. This will be about July 8th or 10th.
CCXLI
London, British Museum, July 16, 1861.
I see by your last letter, dear friend, that you are as busy as a commander-in-chief on the eve of a battle. I have read in Tristram Shandy that in a house where a woman is in child-birth, all the women assume the privilege of ill-treating the men; this is the reason I have not written to you sooner. I was afraid you would treat me in a manner befitting your lofty grandeur. I hope, however, that your sister is safely delivered, and that you are relieved of all anxiety. Still, I should be glad to have your official opinion, but this does not mean that you are to send me a bulletin of printed information.
People here are talking of nothing but the affair of M. de Vidil. I have known him slightly in London and in France, and considered him a great bore. Here, where they are just as gullible as in Paris, there has been a furious outburst of resentment against him. He is known to have killed his wife, and probably many other persons. Now that he has been acquitted, sentiment has changed completely, and if he has a good lawyer he will clear himself, and we shall weave crowns for him.
You may or may not know that there is a new chancellor, lord B——, who is old, but whose morals are not. A lawyer named Stevens sends his clerk with a card to the chancellor. The clerk inquires for him; he is informed that my lord has no house in London, but that he comes often from the country to a house in Oxford Terrace, where he has a lodging. The clerk goes to the house, and asks for my lord. “He is not here.” “Do you think he will return for dinner?” “No, but to sleep, certainly; he comes here every Monday night to sleep.” The clerk leaves the letter, and Mr. Stevens is now greatly astonished because the chancellor glowers at him. The truth of the matter is, that my lord has there a clandestine establishment.
I have been in London since Thursday, and have not yet had a moment of rest. I am running about from morning until night. Every day I am invited out to dinner, and in the evening there are concerts and balls. I went to a concert yesterday at the marquis of Lansdowne’s. There was not a pretty woman present, which is unusual here, but, on the other hand, they were dressed, all of them, as if the chief dispenser of styles at Brioude had made their gowns. I never saw anything to equal their head-dress. One old woman had a crown of diamonds composed of small stars, with a huge sun in front, precisely like the wax figures at a fair! I think of remaining here until early in August. Good-bye, dear friend....
CCXLII
London, British Museum, July 25, 1861.
... I pass my time here monotonously enough, although I dine out every day at a different house, and see people and things I have not seen before. I dined yesterday at Greenwich with some great personages, who tried to make themselves lively, not, like the Germans, by throwing themselves out of the window, but by making a vast amount of noise. The dinner was abominably long, but the whitebait was excellent.
We have unpacked here twenty-two cases of antiquities from Cyrenaica. There are two statues and several busts which are truly remarkable, belonging to a good period and thoroughly Greek; one Bacchus especially, although a little delicate, is fascinating. The head is in an extraordinary state of preservation.
M. de Vidil is properly and duly committed, and will be tried at the next assizes. He will not be allowed to give bail. It seems, however, that the worst that may happen to him is to be sentenced to two years’ imprisonment, for the English law recognises murder only in the event of the victim’s death; and, as Lord Lyndhurst said to me, a man must be a great bungler in England to allow himself to be hanged.
I went, the other evening, to the House of Commons and heard the debate on Sardinia. It is impossible to be more verbose, more flat, and more insignificant that most of the orators, notably lord John Russell, now simply lord Russell. Mr. Gladstone pleased me. I hope to return to Paris the 8th or 10th of August, and to find you quietly resting in some sort of solitude. I think my health is better than in Paris; nevertheless, the weather is atrocious.
I was interrupted in my letter to visit the Bank of England. I held in my hand four small packages which contained four million pounds sterling, but I was not permitted to carry them away. That would have occasioned the writing of two volumes. I was shown a pretty machine, which counts and weighs daily three million sovereigns. The machine hesitates an instant, and after a brief deliberation throws the genuine sovereigns to the right and the counterfeit to the left. There is one that looks like a little ape. A bank-bill is presented to him, he bends his head and kisses it twice, leaving on the bill certain marks which the counterfeiters have not yet succeeded in imitating.
Finally, I was taken into the vaults, where I fancied myself in one of those grottoes described in the Thousand and One Nights. They were lined with bags of gold and bullion, which sparkled in the gas-light. Good-bye, dear friend....
CCXLIII
Paris, August 24, 1861.
Dear Friend: I have arrived at last, in not too good a state of preservation. I do not know whether it is from eating too heartily of turtle-soup, or from running about too much in the sun, but I have had a return of those pains in the stomach, which for some time had left me in peace. I am taken in the morning about five o’clock, and they continue an hour and a half. I suppose one suffers in somewhat the same way when one is hanged. This does not inspire in me any desire to be suspended!
I found awaiting my return more work than I like. Our imperial commission for the Universal Exposition is in travail; we are exhausting all our eloquence in persuading those who have pictures to lend them to us to send to London. Besides the obvious indiscretion of the proposition, it happens that most owners of private collections are Carlists or Orleanists, who think they are doing a pious act in refusing us. I fear we shall cut a poor figure in London next year, and all the more since we shall exhibit only works done during the last ten years, while the English will exhibit the products of their school since 1762.
How did you find the heat of the tropics? It is a consolation to read, in the papers which I receive, that in Madrid it was forty-four degrees, which is the temperature of the hot season in Senegal. There is no one in Paris, which suits me perfectly. I spent six weeks dining out, and it is a relief now not to be obliged to put on a white cravat for dinner. I visited the duke of Suffolk for a week, however, in a charming castle in almost absolute solitude. The country is level, but is covered with immense trees; and there is an abundance of water, so that the sailing is excellent. The place is quite near some fens, and is the region from which Cromwell sprang. There is an enormous quantity of game, and one can not take a step without running the risk of treading on pheasants or partridges.
I have no plans for the autumn, except that, if Madame de Montijo should go to Biarritz, I shall visit her there and spend a few days. She is still in sorrow, and I find her more desolate than she was last year at the time of her daughter’s death.
It seems to me you have acquired a great fondness for that host of children. I can not understand this. I suppose you allow yourself to assume all the care of them, according to your habit of submitting to oppression, so long as it does not come from me. Good-bye, dear friend....
CCXLIV
Paris, August 31, 1861.
Dear Friend: I have received your letter, which seems to indicate that you are happier than you have been in a long time. I am rejoiced at it. There is in me little disposition to be fond of children; still, I can understand how one should be attached to a little girl as to a young cat, an animal with which your sex has many points of resemblance.
I am still ill and suffering, and am awakened every morning in a state of suffocation, which soon passes. The solitude here is still complete. I happened in at the Imperial Club yesterday and found there but three persons, and they were asleep. The weather is insupportably warm and sultry; as a change, they write me from Scotland that for forty days it has rained in torrents, in consequence of which the potatoes are ruined and the grain killed.
I am taking advantage of my solitude to work on something which I promised my master, and which I should like to take to him at Biarritz, but I am making slow progress. I have the greatest difficulty in doing anything at all, as the least excitement causes me intense suffering. I hope, however, to finish before the end of next week....
I have for you a copy of Stenka Razine. Remind me to give it to you when I see you, and also to show you the portrait of a gorilla which I drew in London, and with whom I was on terms of intimacy; ‘tis true, he was stuffed.
I am reading little but Roman history; nevertheless, I have read with great pleasure the nineteenth volume of M. Thiers. It seems to me to be more carelessly written than the preceding volumes, but it is full of curious things. In spite of his desire to say ill of his hero, he is continually carried away by his involuntary affection for him. He tells me that he will finish the twentieth volume in December, and that he will then make a trip around the world, or else go to Italy.
There are stories of Montrond which interested me immensely; only I regretted that he could not have heard them told while he was in this world. It seems to me that M. Thiers describes him fairly enough, as an adventurer in love with his trade, and honest in his dealings with his principals so long as he was in their employ—quite like Dalgetty in the Legend of Montrose.
Judging by what I can see, our artists accept kindly the little rule which we have outlined for the Exposition in London; but when they shall see the position given them, I am not sure but they will throw baked apples at us. I have succeeded in extracting from M. Duchâtel the promise to lend us The Spring of M. Ingres. Good-bye, dear friend.
CCXLV
Biarritz, September 20, 1861.
Dear Friend: I am still here, like the bird on the branch. It is not the custom to form plans in advance; on the contrary, never until the last moment does one make a resolution. Nothing has been said as to the time of our departure, yet the days are growing shorter. The most tedious time of the day is the evening; it is cold after dinner, and with the arrangement of doors and windows invented here it is impossible to keep warm. All this makes me think that we shall not stay here much longer.
I am thinking of making a visit to M. Fould, at Tarbes, so that I may profit by these last beautiful days; after that I shall return to Paris, where I shall hope to find you settled. The sea air is doing me good. My breathing is better, but I sleep badly. ‘Tis true, I am immediately on the sea-shore, where the slightest wind makes a terrible uproar.
As in all imperial residences, the time is spent here in doing nothing, while waiting for something to happen. I work a little; I sketch from my window, and walk a great deal. There are few people stopping at the Eugénie Villa, and they are people whom I like well enough. While the days here have twenty-four hours, as they have in Paris, I find that the time passes without much difficulty....
We took a charming walk yesterday along the Pyrenees, near enough to see the mountains in all their glory, yet not near enough to suffer from the incessant inconvenience of climbing and descending them. We lost our way, and met no one who understood our beautiful French language. This always happens as soon as one passes beyond the outskirts of Bayonne.
The Prince Imperial yesterday gave a dinner to a flock of children. The emperor himself made champagne for them out of seltzer-water, which had the same effect as if they had drunk real wine. In a quarter of an hour they were all tipsy, and my ears still ache from the racket they made.
Good-bye, dear friend. I have had the temerity to promise to translate for his Majesty a Spanish memoir on the site of Munda, and I have just made the discovery that it is terribly difficult to translate.
You may write here until the 23d or 24th. Send your letters after that to M. Fould, at Tarbes. Good-bye.
CCXLVI
Paris, November 2, 1861.
My eyes are so bad that I did not recognise you at once the other day. Why do you come into my quarters without forewarning me? The person who was with me asked who the lady was with such beautiful eyes.
I spend all my time working like a negro slave for my master, whom I shall go to see in a week. The prospect of eight days in knee-breeches is somewhat terrifying. I should prefer to spend them out in the sunshine, and I begin to long for that time. On the other hand, the session with which we are threatened is maddening to me. I can not understand why Government business is not transacted in summer....
I have for you a book which is not altogether stupid. My memory is failing, and I have had a volume bound, when I already had a copy. You see what you will gain by it.
I have recovered almost entirely from my stiff neck, but for several nights I have been up so late that I am extremely nervous and exhausted. When we meet we will converse on metaphysics. ‘Tis a subject for which I cherish a great fondness because it is inexhaustible. Good-bye, dear friend.
CCXLVII
Compiégne, November 17, 1861.
Dear Friend: We are to remain here until the 24th. It is the fault of his Majesty, the king of Portugal, that the fêtes, for which we have been making ready, were not given. They were postponed, and we have been kept here in consequence. We are comfortable enough, inasmuch as we are all well acquainted, and as independent of one another as it is possible to be in such a place.
For lions we have four Highlanders in kilts, the duke of Athol, lord James Murray, and the son and nephew of the duke. It is most amusing to see these eight bare-knees in a salon where all the rest of the men are in knee-breeches or tight trousers. Yesterday, his grace’s piper was brought in, and all four danced in such a way as to cause general alarm when they turned around. But there are ladies whose crinoline is still more alarming when they enter a carriage. As ladies invited as guests are not permitted to wear mourning, one sees legs of all colours. Red stockings I think very stylish.
Notwithstanding walks in damp, icy woods, and drawing-rooms heated red-hot, to the present time I have not caught cold; but I suffer from suffocation, and do not sleep. I was present at the great ministerial comedy, where one or two victims more were expected. The faces were interesting to observe, the addresses still more so; so that M. Walewski, the Excellency on trial, directed his grievances without any discrimination against friends and foes alike. There is nothing like an intense preoccupation to make people say stupid things, especially when they are accustomed to saying them. Oh, the dulness of mankind!
The woman, on the contrary, was perfectly calm and self-possessed, and the lawyers’ speeches and other proceedings excellent. The battle, it seems to me, is only postponed, and at the slightest provocation is inevitable.
What is said of the emperor’s letter? I approve of it thoroughly. He has a way of his own of saying things, and when he speaks as a sovereign, he has the art of showing that he is not made of the same common dough as others. I think this is exactly what is needed by this noble nation, which does not like the commonplace.
Yesterday the princess of ——, who was drinking tea, ordered the footman to bring her ti sel bour le bain.[29] After half an hour the footman returned, with twelve kilogrammes of coarse salt, supposing that she wished to take a salt bath.
Some one presented to the empress a picture by Müller representing queen Marie Antoinette in prison. The Prince Imperial inquired who this lady was, and why she was not in a palace. It was explained to him that she was a queen of France, and what a prison was. Then he ran to the emperor and asked him please to pardon the queen whom he was keeping in prison.
He is a strange, sometimes a terrible, child. He says that he bows to the people always, because they deposed Louis Philippe, whom he did not like. He is a charming child. Good-bye, dear friend.
CCXLVIII
Cannes, January 6, 1862.
(I no longer remember dates.)
Dear Friend: I shall not tell you of the sunshine of Cannes, for fear of causing you too great distress amidst the snows in which you must be at this moment. What is written to me from Paris makes me cold just to read. I suppose you must be still at R——, or on the journey therefrom; so that I shall take my chances in addressing this to your official residence, as the surest place for you to be found.
I have here, as companion and neighbour, M. Cousin, who came to be cured of laryngitis, and who talks like a one-eyed magpie, eats like an ogre, and is astonished not to recover under this beautiful sky, which he now sees for the first time. He is, moreover, very interesting, for he possesses the gift of being witty to everybody. When alone with his servant, I fancy that he talks to him as he would to the most coquettish Orleanist or Legitimist duchess. The native Cannais are fascinated by him, and you may imagine how they will stare when they are informed that this man, who talks well on any subject, has translated Plato, and is the lover of Madame de Longueville. The only inconvenience is that he does not know when to stop talking. For a philosopher of the Eclectic school, it is a pity not to have adopted the good features of the Peripatetics.
I am not doing much of anything here. I am studying botany in a book and with the plants which fall under my hand, but every instant I bewail my bad sight. It is a study which I should have begun twenty years ago, when I had my eyes. It is, however, very amusing, although supremely immoral, since for one lady there are always at least six or eight gentlemen, all eager to offer her what she accepts with much indifference from the right and the left. I regret exceedingly not to have brought my microscope; still, with my spectacles I have seen stamens making love to a pistil without showing any embarrassment at my presence.
I am sketching also, and am reading in a Russian book the history of another Cossack, a much better soldier than Stenka Razine, named, unfortunately, Bogdan Chmielnicki. With a name so difficult to pronounce, it is not astonishing that he has remained unknown to us Occidentals, who remember only names of Latin or Greek derivation.
How has the winter treated you? and how do you manage the little children who absorb so much of your time? Apparently you find the bringing up of children an amusing occupation. I have had experience only in raising cats, who have given me scant satisfaction, excepting the last one who had the honour to know you. The intolerable thing about children, it seems to me, is that you must wait so long to know what they have in their brains, and to hear them reason. It is a great pity that the trouble taken in cultivating the youngsters’ intelligence can not be undertaken by the chits themselves, and that new ideas come to them almost unconsciously. The principal question is, to know whether they should be taught silly things, as we were, or whether we should talk to them reasonably. There is something to be said for and against both systems.
Some day, when you pass Stassin’s, kindly look in his catalogue for a book by Max Müller, a professor in Oxford, on linguistics; unfortunately I do not recollect the title of the book. You must tell me if it costs very much, and if I shall be obliged to forego my fancy to possess it. I am told it is an admirable analysis of language.
I have made the acquaintance of a poor cat who lives in a hut back in the woods. I take him bread and meat, and as soon as he spies me coming he runs a quarter of a mile to meet me. I regret that I can not take him away with me, for he has marvellous powers of instinct.
Good-bye, dear friend. I hope this letter will find you in as good health and as flourishing condition as last year. I wish you a prosperous and happy New Year....
CCXLIX
Cannes, March 1, 1862.
... You are very good to think of my book in the midst of all your cares. If you can have it for me by the time I return I shall esteem it a great favour, but do not give yourself much trouble about it.
My cousin’s fête-day went completely out of my head, and I recalled it the other day only when it was too late. When I return we will talk the matter over, if you please. Every year it becomes more embarrassing, and I have exhausted the possibility of rings, pins, handkerchiefs, and buttons. It is deuced hard to invent something new!
As for novels, the difficulty is equally great. In this class of books I have just read a few rhapsodies that deserve nothing less than corporal punishment. I am going to spend three days in the mountains, at Saint Césaire, beyond Cannes, at the home of my doctor, who is a man of the kindest impulses. Upon my return I shall begin to think seriously of starting for Paris.
I do not regret in the least having been absent from all the hubbub that has gone on in the Luxembourg, and which was worthy of fourth-form schoolboys. Even less do I regret that I took no share in the elections or, rather, the preliminary elections, which were held at the Academy the other day.
We are at this time in subjection to the clericals, and soon, in order to be recognised as a candidate, it will be necessary to produce a certificate of confession. M. de Montalembert gave such a certificate of Catholicism to a friend of mine, who, to be sure, is from Marseilles, but who had the good sense to offer no objection. Up to the present these gentlemen are not troublesome, but with time and success they are in danger of becoming so.
You can imagine nothing prettier than our country in fine weather. This is not the case to-day, however, for something extraordinary, it has been raining since morning. All the fields are covered with violets and anemones, and with quantities of other flowers whose names I do not know.
Good-bye, dear friend. Soon I shall see you, I hope. I wish to find you again in the same excellent condition in which I left you two months ago. Do not grow thin or stout, do not worry too much, and think of me now and then. Good-bye.
CCL
London, British Museum, May 12, 1862.
... So far as the Exposition is concerned, frankly, it cannot compare to the first: to the present time it is much of a fiasco. It is true that all the goods are not yet unpacked, but the building is horrible. Although of vast size, it does not appear so. One must walk about and lose himself in it before he realises its extent. Every one says there are many beautiful things to be seen. As yet I have examined only Class 30, to which I belong and of which I am the reporter.
I find that the English have made great progress in taste and in the art of decoration. We make much better furniture and wall-paper than they, but we are in a deplorable position, and if it continues we shall soon be outdistanced. Our jury is presided over by a German who thinks he can speak English, and whom it is well-nigh impossible to understand.
Nothing is more absurd than our meetings; no one has an idea of the subject under discussion; nevertheless, we vote. The worst is, that in our department we have several English manufacturers, and we shall be compelled to give these gentlemen medals which they do not deserve.
I am besieged by invitations to addresses and receptions. I dined day before yesterday with Lord Granville. There were three small tables in a long gallery, which arrangement was intended to make the conversation general; but as the guests were scarcely acquainted with one another, there was very little talking.
At night I went to Lord Palmerston’s, where were present the Japanese embassy, who got caught on all the women with the immense sabres which they wore at their belts. I saw some very beautiful women, and some very abominable ones; all of them made a complete exhibition of their shoulders and bosoms, some admirable, others extremely hideous, but both shown with the same impudence. I think the English are no judges of such things. Good-bye, dear friend....
CCLI
London, British Museum, June 6, 1862.
Dear Friend: I begin to catch a glimpse of the end of my troubles. My report to the International Jury, written in the purest Anglo-Saxon, without a single word derived from the French, was read by me yesterday, and the matter is concluded in that quarter. There remains another report for me to make to my own Government. I think I shall be free in a few days, and I may be able, probably, to leave for Paris from the 15th to the 20th of this month. It will be well for you to write to me before the 15th, where you will be then and what your plans are.
I think, decidedly, that the Exhibition is a fiasco. In vain do the Commissioners advertise extensively and sound the trumpet; they cannot succeed in attracting a crowd. To pay expenses, they need fifty thousand visitors a day, and they are far from realising their expectations. Fashionable people do not attend since the admission has been reduced to a shilling, and common people do not seem to feel any interest in it. The restaurant is detestable. The American restaurant is the only one that is interesting. There you may order drinks more or less diabolical, which are taken with straws: mint julep, or “corpse reviver.” All these drinks are made of gin, more or less disguised.
I have invitations to dinner for every day until the 14th. After that I shall make a visit to Oxford, in order to see Mr. Max Müller, and to examine some old manuscripts in the Bodleian Library. I shall then leave. I am tired to death with British hospitality and with its dinners, all of which seem to have been prepared by the same inexperienced cook. You cannot imagine how eagerly I long to eat my own plain soup. By the way, I do not remember if I told you that my old cook was to leave me, to go to live on her property. She has been with me for thirty-five years. This is exasperating to the last degree, for nothing is so disagreeable to me as new faces.
I do not know which of two important events of the last few days has produced the greater effect: one, the defeat of two favourites at the Derby by an unknown horse; the other, the over-throw of the Tories in the House of Commons. These have overspread London with gloomy countenances, all extremely unpleasant to behold. A young lady in a box swooned away on learning that Marquis was beaten a head’s length by a rustic horse minus a pedigree. M. Disraeli puts on a better countenance, for he shows himself at all the balls. Good-bye, dear friend.
CCLII
Paris, July 17, 1862.
I shall not try to express all the regrets I feel. I wish that you might have shared them. If you had had half as much as I, you would have found a means of making others wait for me.
Since your departure I have endured some painful experiences. My poor old Caroline died at my home, after great suffering; so now I am without a cook, and do not know exactly what I shall do. After her death her nieces came to dispute her estate. One of them, however, took her cat, which I intended to keep. She left, it seems, an income of twelve or fifteen hundred francs. It has been demonstrated to me that she could not have saved that amount from the wages which she earned with me, and yet I do not believe she ever robbed me. If she did, I would agree willingly to be robbed in that way always. I have had a strong desire to have a cat like the late Matifas, who approved of you so heartily, but I am going soon on a journey to the Pyrenees, and I shall have no time to train him.
They tell me the waters of Bagnères-de-Bigorre will do me the most good. I have no faith in their curative powers, but the surrounding mountains are beautiful, and I have friends in the vicinity. M. Panizzi will come for me the 5th of August, and we shall return together by way of Nîmes, Avignon, and Lyons. I shall hope to reach Paris the same time that you do.
Madame de Montijo arrived last week: she is greatly changed, and distressing to see. Nothing consoles her for the death of her daughter, and she seems to me less resigned than when the shock came. I dined last Thursday at Saint Cloud, with a few intimate friends, and enjoyed it not a little. They are less popish, I fancy, than is generally supposed. They allowed me to be as critical as I pleased, without calling me to order. The little prince is charming. He has grown two inches, and is the prettiest child I have ever seen.
To-morrow our work on the Campana Museum will be finished. The sympathisers of the purchasers are enraged, and hurl abuse at us in the papers. We should have a long story to tell if we wished to bring to light all the absurdities they have committed and the rubbish which has been palmed off on them for genuine antiques.
It is horribly warm here, but I do not find it uncomfortable. They say it is good for the grain. Good-bye, dear friend....
CCLIII
Bagnères-de-Bigorre, Villa Laquens,
Hautes-Pyrénées, Saturday,
August 16, 1862.
Dear Friend: I have been here for three days with M. Panizzi, after a most fatiguing journey under a frightful sun. He left us (it is the sun of which I speak) day before yesterday, and we are now having weather worthy of London, with fog, and an imperceptible, drizzling rain, which soaks through to your very bones.
I have met here one of my friends, who is the resident physician. He has made a thorough examination of me, punched me in the back and chest, and discovered that I have two mortal diseases, of which he has undertaken to cure me, provided that I drink every day two glasses of warm water, the taste of which is not bad, and which does not give me palpitation of the heart, as ordinary water does. I am to bathe, moreover, in a certain spring of which the water is hot, but which is very agreeable to the skin. It seems to me that the treatment is doing me much good. I have rather disagreeable palpitation in the morning, and I sleep badly, but have a good appetite. According to your manner of reasoning, you will conclude that I am going to have a marvellous cure.
There are few people here, and almost no one of my acquaintance, which pleases me to excess. The crops of Englishmen and prunes have been this year a complete failure.
As for beauties, we have Mademoiselle A. D——, who made at one time a tremendous impression on Prince ——, and on the swells. I do not know what disease she has, I have seen only her back, and she has the most immense crinoline in all the place.
There are two balls given every week, to which I have no intention of going, and amateur concerts, of which I have heard and shall hear but one. Yesterday, I had to undergo high mass, which I attended accompanied by a body-guard; but I declined the invitation of the under-prefect at night, so as not to suffer too great an accumulation of catastrophes in one day.
The country is very lovely, but I have as yet had only a glimpse of it. I shall paint as soon as there is a ray of sunshine. What has become of you? Write to me. I should love to show you the incomparable verdure of this country, and especially the beauty of the waters, with which crystal would not be a worthy comparison. It would be pleasant to talk with you in the shade of the great beech-trees. Are you still under the charm of the sea and the sea-monsters? Good-bye, dear friend.
CCLIV
Bagnères-de-Bigorre, September 1, 1862.
Dear Friend: I thank you for your letter. I shall send this to N——, since you do not intend to stop in Paris, and I fancy that you have already arrived there.
Speaking of the quarrels of the fisher folk, you have experienced that which happens inevitably to a resident of Paris. The little disputes and the little interests of the provinces seem so petty and so pitiable, that one deplores the condition of people who live there. It is certain, however, that after a few months in the country one does as the natives do: one becomes interested in local affairs, and finally completely provincial. This is sad for human intelligence, but it accepts the nourishment offered, and makes the best of it.
Last week I made an excursion into the mountains to visit a farm belonging to M. Fould. Situated on the border of a small lake, before it lies the most superb panorama imaginable, and immediately surrounding it is a forest of noble trees, something rarely seen in France. One can live there in admirable comfort. M. Fould owns a great many superb horses and cattle, all cared for in the English fashion. I was shown, besides, a jack used for the breeding of mules. He is an enormous beast, as tall as a gigantic stallion, black, and wicked-looking, as if he were enraged. It seems that it is with the greatest difficulty that he can be prevailed upon to show any attention to the mares. A jenny is brought near him, and when his imagination has become fired, the mare is then produced. What do you think of human ingenuity, which has invented all these fine industries? You will be furious with my stories, and I can see your expression from here.
Society becomes every day more stupid. In this connection, have you read Les Misérables, and heard what is said of it? This is another instance in which I find the human race inferior to that of the gorilla.
The waters are doing me good. I sleep better and have some appetite, although I do not take much exercise, because my companion is not very active. I expect to remain here almost a week still; I may then go to Biarritz, or else into Provence. We have abandoned the plan of making a visit to Lake Majeur, since the house where we were going cannot entertain us at this time. I shall be in Paris, at the very latest, by October 1st.
Good-bye, dear friend; good-bye, and write to me.
CCLV
Biarritz, Villa Eugénie, September 27, 1862.
Dear Friend: I am writing to you still at ——, although I know nothing at all of your movements, but it seems to me that you were not to return so soon to Paris. If, as I hope, you have such weather as ours, you should take advantage of it, and not be in too great a hurry to return to the odours of the asphalt streets of Paris.
I am here beside the sea, and breathing more freely than I have in a long while. The waters of Bagnères were beginning to make me very ill. I was told that this was all the better, as it proved them to be taking effect. The fact is that as soon as I had left Bagnères I felt made over. The sea air, and perhaps also the royal food which I eat here, have finished my cure. It must be admitted that the cooking in the Hotel de —— at Bagnères is the most abominable I have ever seen, and I believe verily that Panizzi and I were undergoing slow poisoning.
There are few people at the villa, and those only agreeable people whom I have known for a long time. In the city there is no crowd, very few French especially; the Spanish and the Americans predominate. On Thursday, when we receive, it is necessary to put the Americans from the North on one side and the Americans from the South on the other, for fear that they will devour each other.
On this day we dress. The rest of the time we make no attempt at a toilette; the ladies come to dinner in high-necked gowns, and we of the ugly sex in frock-coats. There is not a château in France or England where there is such freedom and absence of etiquette, nor a hostess so gracious and so kind to her guests.
We take charming walks in the valleys that skirt the Pyrenees, and return from them with prodigious appetites. The sea, which ordinarily is extremely rough here, has been for a week surprisingly calm; but it is nothing compared to the Mediterranean, and especially to the sea at Cannes. The bathers appear in the strangest of costumes. There is a Madame ——, who is the colour of a turnip, and she dresses in blue and powders her hair. It is pretended that she puts ashes on her head because of the misfortunes of her country.
In spite of the walks and the food, I manage to work a little. I have written, while at Biarritz and in the Pyrenees, more than half a volume. It is the history of a Cossack hero, which is destined for the Journal des Savants. Speaking of literature, have you read Victor Hugo’s speech at a dinner of Belgian booksellers and other swindlers in Brussels? What a pity that this fellow, who has at his command such beautiful fancies, has not the shadow of good judgment, nor the decency to restrain himself from uttering platitudes unworthy of an honest man! In his comparison of a tunnel with a railway, there is more poetry than I have seen in any book I have read in five or six years; but, for all that, it is all merely fancy. There is no depth, no solidity, no common-sense; he is a man who becomes intoxicated with his own words, and who no longer takes the trouble to think.
The twentieth volume of Thiers pleases me, as it does you. There was, to my mind, a tremendous difficulty to be met in extracting anything tangible from the immense medley of conversations of Sainte Helena reported by Las Casas, and in this Thiers has succeeded marvellously. I like, also, his views of Napoleon and his comparison of him with other great men. He is a little severe on Alexander and on Caesar; yet there is much truth in what he says of the absence of virtue on the part of Caesar. Here, everybody is intensely interested in the book, and I fear there is far too much affection for the hero; for instance, they are unwilling to admit the truth of the anecdote of Nicomedes; nor you either, I fancy.
Good-bye, dear friend. Take good care of yourself, and do not sacrifice yourself too much for others, because it will become a habit with you, and that which you do to-day with pleasure you may be obliged some day to do with pain. Good-bye again.