CCCXXVII
Cannes, May 15, 1870.
Dear Friend: I have been very ill, and am still. I have been allowed only the last few days to venture out of doors. I am horribly weak, yet am encouraged to hope that by the end of next week I may start on my journey. I shall return, probably, by easy stages, for I could not endure twenty-four hours of steady railroad travel.
My health is irrevocably ruined. I can not yet accustom myself to this life of privation and suffering, but whether I am resigned or not, I am condemned to it. I wish I might at least find distraction in occupation; but, in order to work, I need to have an amount of strength which is lacking. I envy greatly some of my friends who have been enabled to depart this life suddenly, with no suffering, and with none of the vexatious warnings that come to me day by day.
The political turmoil of which you speak has penetrated also to this little corner of the earth. I have seen here plainly instances of the ignorance and stupidity of men. I am convinced that very few voters have any conception of what they are doing. The Reds, who are in the majority here, have persuaded the imbeciles, who are even more numerous, that the matter at stake is the establishment of new taxes. Anyway, the result was fortunate.[47] “It is well cut out; now it is a question of sewing,” as Catherine de Medici said to Henry III. Unfortunately, I can see in this land of ours, just now, scarcely any one who is skilful in the use of the needle.
What do you think of my friend M. Thiers, who, after the experience of the banquets of 1848, has resumed the same tactics? It is said that magpies are never caught, twice running, with the same snare; but men, and men of intelligence, are more easily snared.
I am thinking of giving up my lodging, and I should like to find one nearer the ground, and in your quarter. Can you give me any information and any suggestions on this subject?...
Nothing could be more beautiful than the country about here at this season. Flowers abound everywhere in such profusion, and of such beauty, that verdure in the landscape is exceptional. Good-bye.
CCCXXVIII
Paris, June 26, 1870.
Dear Friend: I have been ill for a month. It is impossible for me to do anything, even read. I am a great sufferer, and have little hope. This may endure, perhaps, a long time.
I have put one of the shelves of my library in order, and am keeping for you the Lettres de Madame de Sévigné, in twelve volumes, and a small Shakespeare. When you return to Paris I will send them to you. I thank you for thinking of me.
CCCXXIX
Paris, July 18, 1870.
Dear Friend: I have been, and am still, very ill. For six weeks I have been unable to leave my room, and almost my bed. This is the third or fourth attack of bronchitis I have had since the beginning of the year. This promises nothing good for the approaching winter. When the heat of summer offers me no protection against colds, how will it be when winter comes?
I think that one must needs be admirably well, and have nerves of singular vigour, not to be too deeply affected by the events of to-day. I need not tell you how I feel. I am among those who believe that the thing could not be avoided.[48] The explosion might have been retarded, perhaps, but it was impossible to avert it altogether. Here, war is more popular than it has ever been, even among the bourgeois. There is a great deal of mouthing, which is assuredly unfortunate; but men are volunteering, and money is being subscribed, which is the essential point. Military men are full of confidence, but when one considers that the whole future hangs on the chance of a bullet or a ball, it is difficult to share that confidence.
Good-bye for the present, dear friend. I am already fatigued from writing you these two little pages. I am ailing to the last degree; still my physicians say that I am better, but I can not perceive it. I have not sent the books to your house, fearing there might be no one there to receive them.
Good-bye once more. I kiss you from my heart.
CCCXXX
Paris, Tuesday, August 9, 1870.
Dear Friend: I think it would be well for you not to come to Paris just now. I fear that in a little while there will be some lamentable scenes here. The streets are full of downcast, discouraged people, and drunken men singing the “Marseillaise.” Great disorder prevails. The army has been, and is, admirable, but is seems that we have no generals. All may still be repaired; but, for that, a miracle would be necessary.
I am no worse, only overwhelmed by the situation. I am writing to you from the Luxembourg, where we do nothing but exchange hopes and fears. Give me some news of yourself. Good-bye.
CCCXXXI
Paris, August 29, 1870.
Dear Friend: I thank you for your letter. I am still very ill and nervous. One would be so with less cause. The situation looks black to me. For a few days, however, it has mended slightly. The military men manifest confidence. The soldiers and the militia are fighting perfectly together; it appears that the army of Maréchal Bazaine has accomplished prodigies of valour, although it has always fought one against three. Now, to-morrow, perhaps to-day, another great battle is looked for. These last engagements have been frightful. The Prussians conduct war by hand-to-hand fighting. Until the present, this method has been successful for them, but it seems that near Metz the carnage was such as to give them cause for reflection. It is said that the young ladies of Berlin have lost all their partners in the dance. If we could escort the rest back to the frontier,—or bury them here, which would be better—we should not have reached the limit of our troubles. This terrible butchery, we must not deceive ourselves, is but the prologue to a tragedy of which the devil alone knows the catastrophe. A nation is not shaken like ours has been without suffering for it. It is inconceivable that from our victory, as from our defeat, a revolution will not come. All the blood which has been shed, or which will be shed, is to the profit of the Republic—that is, of organised disorder.
Good-bye, dear friend. Remain at P.; there you are safe. We are still very calm here, awaiting with great composure the arrival of the Prussians; but the devil will not be the loser thereby. Again good-bye....
CCCXXXII
Cannes, September 23, 1870.[49]
Dear Friend: I am very ill—so ill, that it is a difficult matter to write. There is a slight improvement. I will write to you soon, I hope, more in detail. Send to my house in Paris, for the Lettres de Madame de Sévigné, and a Shakespeare. I should have had them taken to you, but I went away. Good-bye. I embrace you.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] One would suppose that in Saint Clair, a character in The Etruscan Vase, he has drawn himself: “He was naturally tender-hearted and affectionate, but at an age when lasting impressions are too easily formed, his over-transparent sensitiveness subjected him to the derision of his companions.... From that time he made it his business to conceal all appearances of what he regarded as a contemptible weakness.... In society he gained the unfortunate reputation of being unfeeling and indifferent.... He had travelled widely, and read much, yet he spoke of his travels and reading only when it was absolutely necessary.” Darcy, in The Double Mistake, is another character resembling his own.
[2] The following is one of his generous and delicate actions; Béranger, in a similar experience, did the same: “When I went to Spain, I was on the point of falling in love. It was one of the beautiful acts of my life. The woman who was the cause of my voyage never suspected it. Had I remained, I might have committed, possibly, a great blunder—that of offering a woman worthy of enjoying every happiness that one may have on earth, in exchange for the loss of all that was dear to her, an affection which I realized was far inferior to the sacrifice that she would probably have made.”
[3] The Résident in The Spaniards in Denmark, the Count and other gentlemen in The Conspirators, Kermouton and the Butter Merchant in The Two Heirs. But on the other hand, what true analyses are the characters of Clémence, of Sévin, and of Miss Jackson!
[4] Letters to an Unknown, Vol. II, p. 294.
[5] Letters to an Unknown, I, p. 7. “Abandon your optimistic ideas and realise that we are in this world to struggle and contend with our fellows.... Learn, also, that nothing is more common than to do wrong merely for the pleasure of doing it.”
That he may be sure of living until to-morrow.
[7] Mr. Sutton Sharpe, a highly distinguished English advocate.
[8] Upon the occasion of his nomination to membership in the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres.
[9] His election to the French Academy occurred the 14th, two days after this letter was written.
[10] His election to membership in the French Academy.
[11] The occasion of his reception at the French Academy.
[12] This letter was written originally in English. It is given unchanged.—Translator.
[13] The trial of the suit relating to Libri.
[14] M. Nogent Saint-Laurens.
[15] Loa, a sort of conversational dithyramb, in honour of the person for whom the celebration is given.
[16] Implicated in the Orsini affair. The French Government requested his extradition, which England refused to grant.
[17] Marshal Pélissier, the duc de Malakoff.
[18] The Princess Clotilde had just married Prince Napoleon.
[19] The war in Italy.
[20] The address of the emperor, on his return from Italy.
[21] The last Letters of Madame du Deffand, which had just been published.
[22] The visit of the emperor and empress.
[23] On the occasion of the burial of Prince Jerome.
[24] To Scotland.
[25] The emperor of Austria.
[26] They were bored with the melodies. It is impossible to translate the pun into English.—Translator.
[27] The Senate.
[28] The Libri matter, and the sessions of the Senate.
[29] Le sel pour le pain: Salt for the bread.
[30] Bogdan Chmielnicki, published in the volume entitled The Cossacks of the Past.
[31] Troplong—Too long.—Translator.
[32] Bousingots. Slang expression: wineshop, “lush-crib.” Also, a Republican or Literary Bohemian of the first years of Louis Philippe’s reign.—Translator.
[33] Report on musical copyright, which he was appointed to present to the Senate.
[34] Le Lion Amoureux.
[35] On his nomination as Grand Officer in the Legion of Honour.
[36] Une Passion dans le Grand Monde.
[37] On popular libraries, at the session of the Senate, June 25, 1867.
[38] Distribution of prizes to the exhibitors.
[39] The death of Maximilian.
[40] For Biarritz.
[41] This is the novel which was afterwards published under the title of Lokis.
[42] Lokis.
[43] The sessions of the Senate were going to be public.
[44] Adoption of the plan of the Senate Council, session of September 6, 1869.
[45] Victor Noir.
[46] For the French Academy.
[47] The vote of the plebiscite.
[48] The war with Prussia.
[49] Last letter, written two hours before his death.
| Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: |
|---|
| vol. I |
| kiss your hands must humbly=> kiss your hands most humbly {pg 55} |
| a heard of American bison=> a herd of American bison {pg 313} |
| vol. II |
| beautiful Greeek literature=> beautiful Greek literature {pg 117} |
| I can not concieve=> I can not conceive {pg 124} |
| Bagnéres-de-Bigorre=> Bagnères-de-Bigorre {pg 172} |
| his views of Napoleon and and his comparison=> his views of Napoleon and his comparison {pg 177} |
| I have even seen=> I have ever seen {pg 169} |
| Saturady=> Saturday {pg 170} |
| Antionette=> Antoinette {pg 272} |
| I am begining=> I am beginning {pg 305} |
Letters To An Unknown, Volume I: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII, XIX, XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII, XXIV, XXV, XXVI, XXVII, XXVIII, XXIX, XXX, XXXI, XXXII, XXXIII, XXXIV, XXXV, XXXVI, XXXVII, XXXVIII, XXXIX, XL, XLI, XLII, XLIII, XLIV, XLV, XLVI, XLVII, XLVIII, XLIX, L, LI, LII, LIII, LIV, LV, LVI, LVII, LVIII, LIX, LX, LXI, LXII, LXIII, LXIV, LXV, LXVI, LXVII, LXVIII, LXIX, LXX, LXXI, LXXII, LXXIII, LXXIV, LXXV, LXXVI, LXXVII, LXXVIII, LXXIX, LXXX, LXXXI, LXXXII, LXXXIII, LXXXIV, LXXXV, LXXXVI, LXXXVII, LXXXVIII, LXXXIX, XC, XCI, XCII, XCIII, XCIV, XCV, XCVI, XCVII, XCVIII, XCIX, C, CI, CII, CIII, CIV, CV, CVI, CVII, CVIII, CIX, CX, CXI, CXII, CXIII, CXIV, CXV, CXVI, CXVII, CXVIII, CXIX, CXX, CXXI, CXXII, CXXIII, CXXIV, CXXV, CXXVI, CXXVII, CXXVIII, CXXIX, CXXX, CXXXI, CXXXII, CXXXIII, CXXXIV, CXXXV, CXXXVI, CXXXVII, CXXXVIII, CXXXIX, CXL, CXLI, CXLII, CXLIII, CXLIV, CXLV, CXLVI, CXLVII, CXLVIII, CXLIX, CL, CLI, CLII, CLIII, CLIV, CLV, CLVI, CLVII, CLVIII, CLIX, CLX, CLXI, CLXII, CLXIII, CLXIV, CLXVI, CLXVII, CLXVIII, CLXIX.
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