LIV
Thursday morning, February, 1843.
Alas! Yes, poor Sharpe[7] has just been stricken down most suddenly and painfully. I have had no news from him since the 5th, and if you know some one in London who can tell you anything authentic, I beg you to write and learn his condition, and whether there is the least hope for his recovery. You may, perhaps, be acquainted with his sister. It was at her house, I suppose, that you met him.
No matter what you say, second thoughts are only too evident in your letter. A few amiable words, however, slipped from you unconsciously. You go to a great deal of trouble to be disagreeable, and it is only by strenuous efforts that you succeed in being so.
Have you ever reflected that it is an admirable plan to place in a beautiful palace pictures and statuary, and to allow people to go there to enjoy them? Unfortunately, this superb place is to be closed, in order to hang there some hideous modern daubs. Does not this grieve you? Agree with me, and let us go and say good-bye to all those venerable statues. Saturday is an excellent day, for only Englishmen come then, and they do not get in the way of those who like to examine the pictures closely. What do you think of Saturday—that is to say, day after to-morrow? That will be the last Saturday. This word “last” grieves me. So, then, Saturday.
You speak of your remorse on account of my eye. What is the character of your remorse? The accident might have been avoided in two ways: I need not have exposed the eye to danger, and you might have taken care of it for me. It is this last fact that causes you remorse—that ought to do so, at any rate, before your second impulses come to you. If I do not hear to the contrary, I shall await you Saturday, at two o’clock, in front of the Joconde, unless the weather is bad. But it will be fine weather, I hope, and if any disappointment comes it will be most assuredly your fault.
Why do you use such small paper, and why do you write only three lines, two of which are to quarrel with me? What matters it if one’s life is short, provided it has been full of happiness! Is it not better to have rich memories, rather than many years of emptiness which have nothing to recall?
LV
Paris, February, 1843.
Our letters crossed each other, and my suspense has been relieved sooner than I had hoped. I am very grateful. Notwithstanding the ambiguity of its style, I am deeply gratified by what your letter tells me. That verb of which you have such dread has to me a sweet sound, even when it is accompanied by all those adverbs which you understand so well how to weave around it.
Ridicule, if you like, my melancholy mood, aroused by the ruins of Carthage. Marius, sitting beside them as we were, dreamed, it may be, that he would enter Rome once more, while in my future I see little to hope for. You frighten me, dear friend, when you say that you dare no longer trust yourself to write to me, and that you have more courage to speak to me. You say the reverse of this when we are together. Will not the result be that you will neither speak to me nor write to me? You were vexed with me, you say. Was this just, and had I deserved it? Had I not your promise, and, in some measure, your example also? Have you remained blind to this? Have you retained an unpleasant memory? Are you still angry? All this is what I am anxious to know, and what, I am sure, you do not intend to tell me.
I am beginning to know you by heart, and this, I believe, is the cause of my frequent low spirits. There is in you such a strange combination of contrasts and contradictions that it is enough to provoke a saint....
I heard sad news yesterday. Poor Sharpe died last Wednesday. The news of his death came at the moment not only when I believed him out of danger, but about to resume his ordinary occupations. I can not accustom myself to the thought of seeing him no more. It seems to me that if I were to go to London I should certainly find him there....
LVI
Thursday night, March 1, 1843.
I was very much afraid I should not be able to see you Saturday, when I had been promising myself to give you a good scolding for your indifference the other day. But I have succeeded in overcoming all the obstacles. So, then, Saturday. It is a long time since we have had a falling out. Do you not think this very pleasant, and greatly preferable to the quarrels we used to have, the only benefit of which was our reconciliations? You still have one fault, however, that of making yourself so scarce. We see each other hardly once in a fortnight. Each time there seems to be a new crust of ice to be broken. Why do I not find you again just as you were when I left you? If we met oftener this would not happen. To you I am like an old opera which you must needs forget in order to hear it again with any pleasure. I, on the contrary, would love you better, I think, were I to see you every day. Prove to me that I am wrong, and appoint a day in the near future when I may see you.
My fate at the Academy will be decided March 14. Reason tells me to hope, but some vague feeling of presentiment tells me just the opposite. In the meanwhile, I am making calls most conscientiously. People are extremely polite, perfectly accustomed to the parts they are playing, and taking them seriously. I am doing my very best to take mine equally seriously, but that is difficult for me to accomplish. Do you not think it comical that some one should say to a man, “Monsieur, I consider myself one among the forty of the most intellectual men in France—I am quite your equal,” and other remarks equally as facetious? Of course, this must be said in a variety of ways, according to the person to whom I speak. This is my occupation at present, and if it lasts much longer I shall be perfectly exhausted. The 14th corresponds to the Ides of March, the day when my hero, the late Caesar, died. This is ominous, is it not?
LVII
Paris, March 11, 1843.
It is a perfect shame, almost a crime, indeed, not to take advantage of this beautiful weather. What say you to a long walk to-morrow, Thursday? You should be the one to make the suggestion, but you take care not to do it. We must positively go out to salute the coming of the first leaves. You can almost see them grow.
I am thinking, also, that you have told me the sunshine has a happy influence on your mood. I should like to make the test. I love you in all sorts of weather, but I think I am happiest when I see you in the sunshine. Good-bye.
LVIII
Paris, Friday morning, March 13, 1843.
Here is your scarf. It was found last Saturday, in the anteroom of his Royal Highness, monseigneur le duc de Nemours. No one asked for an explanation of its presence in my pocket. I should have returned it sooner, if I had not hoped that the wish to recover your property would lead you to send me some news of yourself. I perceive that, while you were very eager concerning the first point, it has not succeeded in triumphing over your indifference as to the second. Why are you so afraid of the cold? I recollect that we had one experience in the snow which did not result disastrously. Now there will be a thaw which will keep the streets impassable for I don’t know how long. Answer me quickly. I am grieved to see that you love to torment me.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
LIX
Paris, Saturday night, March, 1843.
Your letter does not show the least sign of repentance. I regret the loss of the amber pipe which you selected. There is something particularly agreeable in carrying often in my mouth a gift from you. But let it be as you wish. I say this very frequently, and yet there is never any reward for my resignation.
I am completely hardened by my present occupation. The Cathedral presses like a dead weight upon my shoulders, to say nothing of the responsibility which I accepted in a moment of zeal, and which I now repent from the depths of my soul. I envy women their lot, for they have nothing to do but to make themselves beautiful, and to prepare for the effect which they seek to produce on others. The word others has an ugly sound, but I imagine that it engages your attention more than it does mine. I am very much vexed with you, without knowing exactly the reason, still there must be some good reason, for I could not be in the wrong. It seems to me you become more egotistical every day. When you speak of us, you mean only yourself. The more I think of this the more deplorable it appears.
If you have not written to London for that book, do not write; it is absurd to give a woman such a commission. While I value very greatly a rare book, I should not wish you to cause the least shadow of embarrassment by asking for it. The editor of the book is, I am told, a worthy Quaker, who has found some recent proofs that the Spanish Catholics of the fifteenth century were devoid of all morality, notwithstanding the Inquisition, and, it may be, because of it. The original copy, and the only one in existence, cost fifteen hundred pounds sterling. It has a hundred pages and more. I was wrong to mention it to you, and still more wrong to realise so tardily the absurdity of the thing. Good-bye....
I was about to send you this letter when I received yours. I have been so engrossed in my reports and investigations that it has been impossible to write sooner. I proposed a walk for Tuesday, on condition that we should have an hour more together. Tell me if you are unengaged Tuesday. Your absent-mindedness is very attractive, but have I anything to do with it? That is the question. What have you to ask my pardon for? Your sentiments are not at all like mine.
We are so unlike that it is hardly possible to understand each other. All this does not prevent me from anticipating the pleasure of seeing you. I thank you for your last letter; it is very sweet. You did not say where you were going in the country, or when you expected to start. I shall go to Rouen in a few days. Again, good-bye. I hope to see you Tuesday, and that you will be in good spirits, and less downcast than I am to-day.
LX
Monday night, March 21, 1843.
I am terribly blue, and full of remorse for my anger to-day. The only excuse I can offer is that the transition between our delicious stop in that wonderful resting-place and the remainder of our walk was too abrupt. It was like falling from heaven into hell. If I distressed you, I am as repentant as I can be, but I hope I have not caused you to suffer as much as I have myself. You have reproached me oftentimes for being indifferent to everything; I suppose you meant only that I was undemonstrative. When I am not myself, it is because I am in bodily anguish. Admit that it is sad, after so long an acquaintance, and after having become the friends we are, to see you always suspicious of me. The weather to-day has been like our mood. It will clear to-night, I think. The stars shine brighter than I have ever seen them. Let us arrange some less stormy excursion. Good-bye. No more quarrels! I shall try to be more reasonable. Do you try to be ruled more by your first impulses.
LXI
March, 1843.
I was as tired as if I had walked four or five leagues, but the fatigue was so agreeable that I should like to repeat it. All was so successful, that while I am accustomed to the success of a well-arranged plan, nevertheless I share your astonishment. To be so free, and so far away from the world, and that, too, by making use of the benefits of civilisation, is it not amusing?
Do you know why I took only one blossom of those pretty white hyacinths? It was because I wished to save some for another time. What do you think of that? Besides, after consulting my map, I discovered that we had mistaken the distance, and were about a quarter of a league out of the way. We ought to have gone farther on, but we need regret nothing, and next time we shall know better. For the first time it was not bad.
You were charming. You told me nothing I did not know in saying that you returned to me what I had given you; but to hear you say this is a joy to me, for it proves that you did not mean the cruel things you said on one of our ill-omened days. I have forgotten them all to-day. Will you not, also, forget my anger and my rudeness?
You ask whether I believe in the existence of the soul. Not altogether. Nevertheless, when I reflect upon certain things, I find an argument in favour of that hypothesis. It is this: How can two animate substances give and receive a sensation by a union which would be insipid but for the sentiment attached to it? This is an extremely pedantic way of saying that when two lovers kiss each other the sensation they receive is altogether different from that felt in kissing the softest of satin. But the argument has its value. We will discuss metaphysics, if you like, next time I see you. It is a subject which I find very interesting, because it can never be exhausted. You will write to me, will you not, before Monday to say where we shall meet? We must be there on the hour, not on the half hour. Be sure and remember it; consequently, we must start on the half hour. This is clear, is it not?
It is half past four, and I must rise before ten o’clock.
LXII
Friday, March 29, 1843.
I divine, by one of those intuitions of the mind’s eye, that we shall have fine weather for several days, but it will be followed by a long siege of bad weather. On the other hand, our last walk, which was almost a failure, we should consider as not having taken place. The bears alone are the better for it. I envy them the interest you take in their welfare, and I am thinking of having me a costume made which will give me some of their charms. Hitherto, we have always walked from the east towards the south, and it might be a good idea to try the opposite direction. First we should find our starting-point, and the muddy stream that flows near it, and we will end our walk where we usually begin it. It is devilish hard that just now I am uncommonly busy; however, if Saturday, at three o’clock, would be convenient, we could go on our voyage of discovery until half past five; if not, we shall be obliged to postpone it until Monday, which is a long time to wait.
If you knew how sweet you were the other day, you would never again be the tease you are sometimes. I wish you had been less reserved with me. At the same time, while your words were more ambiguous than the Apocalypse, I seemed to read your thoughts clearly. I wish you had the hundredth part of the pleasure which I have in following your thoughts. There are two persons in you, so you see you no longer resemble Cerberus. From three, you have come to be two. One, the better one, is all heart and soul. The other is a pretty statue, highly polished by society, gracefully draped in silk and cashmere, a charming automaton, the springs of which are adjusted with infinite skill. When one thinks he is speaking to the first, he finds he is speaking to the statue. Why must this statue be so attractive? If it were not for this, I should hope that, like the Spanish oaks, you would lose your outer bark as you grow older.
It is better for you to remain as you are, but let the first person take the precedence over the automaton. I am getting all tangled up with my metaphors.
At this moment I am reminded of a white hand. It seems to me that I wished to scold you, but I can not remember the reason. It is I this time who am suffering with my back. The pain attacked me after my return the other day, but I can not, like you, find relief in a twelve-hours sleep. The fact is, I am not as careful of my strength as you are. I hope to have a letter from you to-morrow, but you must write another also to tell me whether it is to be Saturday or Monday. Here is a third combination: Saturday, until four o’clock, and again Monday, from two until five. This, I think, would be a perfect arrangement. I must not fail to have your reply before noon Saturday.
LXIII
Friday night, April 8, 1843.
For two days I have had a horrible headache, and you write me all sorts of dreadful things. The worst is that you have no remorse, and I had some hope that it would be otherwise. I am so downcast that I have not even the energy to abuse you.
What, then, is this miracle of which you speak? It would be a miracle to make you less self-willed, but I shall never accomplish that. It is beyond my power. I shall have to wait, therefore, until Monday to hear the solution of the enigma, since you can not come to-morrow. Do you know it will have been a week since I saw you? It has been a long time since that has happened before. To make amends, we must take a long walk, and try to avoid disputes. Two o’clock, if that suits you. I shall expect you promptly to the minute. Your idea about Wilhelm Meister is rather pretty, but, after all, it is only a sophism.
One might as well say that the memory of a pleasure is a variety of pain. This is especially true of half-pleasures, by which I mean pleasures unshared with another. You shall have those verses, if you insist upon it. You shall have, also, your portrait in Turkish dress, which I have begun. I have placed a nargile in your hand, to add to the local colour. When I say you shall have all this, I mean, of course, if you pay for it. But if you will not pay up gracefully, I am going to take a terrible revenge. I was asked yesterday for a drawing for an album which is to be sold for the benefit of the earthquake sufferers, and I shall give your portrait. What do you say to it? I ask myself sometimes what I shall do in five or six weeks from now, when I shall see you no longer. I can not realise yet that it is to be.
LXIV
Paris, April 15, 1843.
I have suffered such intense pain in my eyes yesterday and this morning that I could not write to you. I am a little better to-night, and the weeping has almost stopped. Your letter is somewhat amiable, which is most unusual. There are even a few expressions of affection, without any “buts” or second thoughts. We look at many things from different standpoints. You fail to understand my generosity in sacrificing myself for you. You ought to thank me as an encouragement. But you believe that all is due to you. Why is it that we agree so seldom in our point of view?
You acted sensibly in not speaking of Catullus. He is not an author whom one should read during Holy Week, and in his works are many passages impossible to translate in French. It is easy to see what love meant in Rome fifty years before Christ. It was a little better, however, than love at Athens in the time of Pericles. Women had already gained a little importance, and compelled men to do silly things. The position of woman is due not to Christianity, as it is customary to say, but to the influence exerted on Roman society by the barbarians of the North. The Germans were idealists. They worshipped the soul. The Romans cared only for the body. Women, it is true, for many ages had no souls. They have none still in Oriental countries, which is most unfortunate. You know how two souls can hold converse. But yours is not willing to listen to mine.
I am glad to know you enjoyed those verses of Musset. You are right in your comparison of him to Catullus. Catullus, I believe, used better language. Musset made the mistake of denying the existence of the soul, just as Catullus had done. For the latter, however, there was some excuse, on account of the age in which he lived. It is a most unseasonable hour. I must stop in order to bathe my eye. As I write I weep constantly. Good-bye until Monday. Pray for sunshine. I shall bring you a book. Wear your seven-league boots.
LXV
Paris, May 4, 1843.
I am unable to sleep, and am as cross as a bear. There are several things I should like to say about your letter, but I shall say none of them, on account of my bad humour, or rather, I shall try to restrain it a little. Your distinction between the two egos is very pretty, and is a proof of your profound selfishness. You love only yourself, and that is why you feel a sort of affection for the ego which resembles yours. Several times, day before yesterday, I was shocked to see this. I was thinking of it sadly enough, while you were completely absorbed in admiring the trees.
You are right to enjoy travelling on the railroad. In a few days it will be possible to go to Rouen and to Orléans in three hours. Why should we not go to see Saint Ouen? Yet what could be more beautiful than the woods where we were the other day? Only, I think you should have remained there longer. When one has sufficient imagination to give a plausible explanation for that branch of ivy, one should not be at a loss for occupation to last some time. I wonder if you have that ivy in your hair this evening? If you have, I am sure that it will add to your coquettishness.
I am so vexed with you that you will think, it may be, that the I which you admire is too much in evidence. In fact, I am thinking seriously of putting into execution the threat I made you one day.
How did you enjoy the fireworks? I was at the house of an “Excellency” who has a lovely garden, from where we had a good view of them. The crowning piece was fine. They are really far more wonderful than a volcano, for art is always more beautiful than nature. Good-bye. Try to think of me occasionally.
Our walks have now become a part of my life, and I can hardly realise how I lived without them. It seems to me you take them very philosophically. But how will it be when we see each other no longer? Six months ago we resumed our conversation at the very same point where it had been interrupted. Shall we do the same again? I have an indefinable fear that I shall find you changed. Every time we meet you are enveloped in an armour of ice, which melts only after a quarter of an hour. By the time I return you will have amassed a veritable iceberg. Well, it is better not to cross the bridge until you come to it. Let us continue our dreams.
Should you suppose a Roman capable of saying pretty things, and of showing affection? I will show you Monday some Latin verses, which you shall translate for yourself, and which fit our habitual disputes like a glove. You shall see that the ancients are a great deal better than your Wilhelm Meister.
LXVI
Wednesday, June, 1843.
Your letter was so kind and affectionate that it has blown away the last remaining cloud of the recent storm. But I feel that we shall not be sure of having forgotten it until we have buried our quarrel beneath other memories.
Why should we not take a walk Friday? If it will not inconvenience you, it will give me the greatest pleasure. I hope we shall have fine weather. You promised, moreover, to tell me something which must be too important to be deferred. I shall bring along a Spanish book, and, if you like, we will read.
You have not yet told me whether you would pay me for my lessons. The time which we spend otherwise than in what you are pleased to call talking nonsense, seems to me so ill-employed that I ought at least to earn something for my pains. Why should I not give you Spanish lessons at your house? I could call myself Don Furlano, or something else, and bring you a letter of introduction from Madame de P. describing me as victim of Espartero’s tyranny.
I am beginning to find our dependence on sunshine and rain somewhat irksome. I want, also, to paint your portrait. You have promised often to invent some plan of meeting. You pretend to govern, but, as a fact, you discharge your duties very badly, and I can judge very unfairly, therefore, of your possibilities and your impossibilities. If you were to reflect upon the delicate problem of how to see each other as often as possible, would you not be doing a worthy action? There are many other things I wish to say to you, but it would be necessary to refer to our quarrel, and I desire to blot it altogether from my memory. I want to remember only our reconciliation, which you seem to regret. That would be unkind in you. I am sorry, indeed, that I must owe so much happiness to such an unfortunate cause.
Good-bye. Consider your statue, and animate without first harassing it.
LXVII
Paris, June 14, 1843.
I am delighted to learn that you are better, and very sorry that you should have wept. You misunderstand invariably the meaning of my words. You interpret as anger or unkindness what is only sadness. I can no longer recall what I said on that occasion, but I am sure that I intended to express but one thing, which was that you had grieved me sorely. All these quarrels prove how very unlike we are, and since, notwithstanding this difference, there exists between us a strong affinity—it is the Wahlverwandschaft of Goethe—there results inevitably a struggle in which I suffer keenly. When I say that I suffer, do not understand it as a reproach against you. Things which a moment ago seemed rose-colour to me, now look black. You know perfectly well how to efface with two words this blackness; and as I read your letter to-night I feel that, perhaps, after all, the sun is not hidden forever.
But your system of government is still the same; you make me lose my temper, after having given me moments of exquisite happiness. One more philosophical than I would enjoy the happiness when it comes, and not trouble himself about the unhappiness. It is my misfortune to have a temperament that remembers all the wretchedness of the past when I am unhappy; but, on the other hand, I recall all the joy when I am happy. For nearly three weeks I have tried hard to forget you, but I have not succeeded any too well. The perfume which your letters breathe has proved a great barrier to my self-imposed task. Do you recollect how I noticed that Indian perfume one day when we had offended each other grievously, and were afterwards reconciled?
I am head over ears in business matters. Write to me promptly. I have been working hard, and upon some absurd affairs. I will tell you about them when I see you.
LXVIII
Paris, Saturday night, June 23, 1843.
I was beginning to be extremely anxious about you. I have been afraid that you had suffered from being in the dampness so long, and blamed myself for being so tedious in telling you that silly story. Since you did not catch cold, and are not angry with me, I can now remember with pleasure every moment that we spent together. I agree with you that on that day we were more perfectly—if perfection can be compared—happy than we had ever been before. Why was it? We said nothing, or did nothing extraordinary, unless it was that we did not quarrel. And observe, if you please, that our quarrels always begin with you. I have yielded to you on an infinite number of points, but for all that I have not been sullen about it. I should be delighted if the pleasant memory of that day would be profitable to you in the future. Why do you not tell me at once what your letter explains only so so, and yet with a certain frankness that pleases me?...
I am flattered to know that my story amused you. At the same time, my author’s vanity is wounded that you are satisfied with my sketchy outline, for I had hoped that you would ask to read it, or to have it read to you. Since you do not care for it, however, I must be resigned. Nevertheless, if the weather is fine Tuesday, what is to prevent our sitting on our rustic bench while I read it to you? It will take but an hour. Better still, let us simply walk. Are you willing? It must be understood that there are to be no arguments. Write me your final decision. I went to the station to meet Madame de M. and her daughters, all three looking splendidly. There is nothing definite as to my departure, although, judging from the indications, it will probably be very soon. You need not expect me, however, to say good-bye next time I see you.
LXIX
Paris, July 9, 1843.
You are right to forget quarrels, if you can. As you say, very sensibly, the closer you examine them the more important they grow. It is best to dream as long as possible, and as we can always repeat the same dream, it becomes almost a reality. I am feeling better since yesterday, and slept all last night, which I had not been able to do for a long time. I believe, too, that my spirits have been lighter ever since I let off steam the other day.
It is a pity we can not meet the day after having a quarrel, for I am sure we should be in a perfectly amiable frame of mind. You promised to appoint a day, but it has not occurred to you to do so, or else, what would be even more unkind, you thought it would be an indecorous thing to do. It is this constant preoccupation of yours which is so often a cause of disagreement between us. As the hour of our separation draws near, I become more discontented with myself, and the result is I behave as if I were discontented with you. I might have said that you hold yourself too much in check in order to please me. I catch myself incessantly flying into a rage against this restraint, which, even in its most agreeable aspect, conceals an underlying basis of sadness. But dream, therein lies wisdom. When? That is the whole question.
You ought to translate for me a German book which gets on my nerves. Nothing is more irritating than a German professor who thinks he has discovered an idea. The title is alluring. It is: das Provocations-verfahren der Römer.
LXX
Paris, July, 1843.
Your letter is very kind, almost affectionate, indeed. I would I were in a less melancholy mood, that I might enjoy it to perfection. The best I can do is to express my appreciation of all that it contains of graciousness, and to repress the somewhat gloomy thoughts that fill my mind concerning it. It is unfortunate that I can not become so completely absorbed in my dreams as you do. But let us leave this subject and talk of something else.
I am going away in ten days. I went to the country yesterday to make a visit, and returned very weary and very blue; weary, because I was tired out, and blue, because of the thought that it was a beautiful day wasted. Do you never chide yourself for a similar reason? I hope not. Sometimes I believe that you feel all that I feel, then come drawbacks, and I doubt everything.
Good-bye. If I write any more I shall say something that you will misunderstand....
LXXI
Thursday night, July 28, 1843.
I have read your letter (the former one, I mean) at least twenty times since receiving it, and each reading has given me a new and a sorrowful sensation, but at no time have I felt the least anger. I have tried in vain to find an answer to it. I have come to any number of decisions, to no purpose, and to-night I am just as uncertain and just as downcast as when I first read it. You have guessed my thoughts well enough, perhaps not entirely. You could never divine them altogether. I am so capricious, moreover, that what is true at one moment ceases to be so a little later.
You are wrong in your self-accusations. You have, I imagine, no other cause for self-reproach than that which I myself have. We allow ourselves to dream on, without wishing to awake. You and I are too old, perhaps, to let ourselves dream thus purposely. I, for my part, agree with the sentiment of that Turk; but to be nothing, could anything be worse than that? I have changed my opinion very much on this point.
I have been tempted several times not to write to you, not to see you. This would be quite reasonable, and the reason could be very well supported. The execution would be more difficult. By the way, you are mistaken in accusing me of not wanting to see you. I intimated no such thing. Is this another of my thoughts which you have misinterpreted? You, on the other hand, tell me so most explicitly. There is still another thing we might do: that is, not to write to each other while I am away. We may think of each other, or of any one else, and on my return meet again or not, just as inclination shall counsel. This is reasonable enough, but its execution might be embarrassing. When I am not thinking about your letter, and only of your loveliness, do you know what I should like? I should like to see you once more.
This Hôtel de Cluny affair has retarded my departure. I ought to be now on the way, and am very much afraid that I shall not be able to sign an abominable report, where it is necessary for my name to appear, before Monday. Since you wished to see me Monday, perhaps you would have no objections to saying a final good-bye Saturday. I am wrong, it may be, to suggest this. God only knows in what sort of mood you are! After all, you are free to say yes or no. I promise you not to be angry.
LXXII
Paris, Thursday night, August 2, 1843.
I am not as poetical as you. The χθὡν εὑρυοδεἱη, that is to say, the broad earth, in spite of the mackintosh, was colder even than you, and I caught cold; but I bear no malice. To do that I should have to read all that you say, and that you consider agreeable. How many buts there are always! How clever you are to deprive others of the charm which may belong to them, and to absorb it for yourself! I say charm, but I am wrong, doubtless, for I do not believe that marmots have any. You were one of those pretty creatures before Brahma transmitted your soul into a woman’s body.
To do you justice, you wake up sometimes, and, as you say yourself, it is to fall out with me. Be kind and gracious, as you know so well how to be. Notwithstanding my crossness, I had rather see you with your grand, indifferent airs than not to see you at all. I told you wisely that all that botanical collection was no good, but you will always have your own way. I have discovered things much more curious than those found in country rambles, and from less evident indications too. Take my advice, throw all those faded flowers in the fire, and let us go and look for fresh ones. Good-bye.
LXXIII
Paris, August 5, 1843.
I was awaiting your letter with great impatience, and the longer it delayed the more I expected evidences of second thoughts, with all their unpleasant consequences. As I was prepared for all manner of injustice from you, your letter affected me more favourably than it would have done at another time. You tell me that you, too, have been happy, and this assurance cancels all the others that precede and follow it. This is the best thing you have said to me for an age, and it is almost the only time when I have thought you had a heart not unlike others.
What a glorious walk that was! I am not at all ill, and I was happy enough the other day to store up health and good spirits for a long time to come. If happiness is of short duration, it can be renewed. Unfortunately, the weather is bad, and besides you speak of going away. Perhaps this rainy weather has destroyed your desire to travel. From me it takes even the energy to form new plans. If, however, there should come a good day before you leave, would it not be well for us to take advantage of it, and to say a long farewell to our park and our woods? I shall not see their trees again this year, at least, and the thought saddens me. I hope that you, too, feel the same regret. When you discover a ray of sunshine let me know, and we will visit once more our chestnut trees and our mountain. You gave me and ourselves a passing thought for one brief moment, but will the memory of it not remain for a long, long time?
LXXIV
Vézelay, August 8, 1843, at night.
I thank you for having written a word to me before my departure. It is the kind intention that has pleased me, not what your letter tells me. You say such extraordinary things. If you mean half of what you say it would be the wisest course for us not to meet again. The affection which you have for me is only a sort of mental pastime. You are all intellect. You are one of those chilly women of the North who are governed only by the mind. There are things I could say to you, but you would not understand. I prefer to assure you again of my sincere regret for having caused you pain. It was entirely unintentional, and I hope you will forgive me. Our temperaments are as unlike as our stamina. How can it be helped? You may divine my thoughts sometimes, but you will never be able to understand them.
Here I am in this horrible little town, perched on the top of a mountain, bored to death by the townspeople, and hard at work on a speech that I am to make to-morrow. I am in politics, and you know me well enough to realise how odious I find the business of a political campaign.
For consolation, I have a most congenial travelling companion, and an admirable church to look upon. The first time I saw this church was soon after having seen you at.... I asked myself to-day whether we were more foolish then than we are now.
What is certain is that we had formed, probably, a very different impression of each other from the one we have to-day. If we had known then how often we should quarrel, do you suppose we would have cared to meet again? It is frightfully cold, with rain and lightning at intervals. I have a ream of official prose to spin off, and will leave you all the more cheerfully because the things I should write to you are not particularly affectionate. It is, however, the force of circumstances that irritates me most.
I go to Dijon in a few days. It would please me if you would write to me there, especially if your pen could find something less cruel to write than it did last time. You can not form an idea of one of our evenings at the inn. One of the most charming plans of which I have thought is to go somewhere in Italy to spend the time that must intervene between my political tour and the trip to Algiers. You, I fancy, are thinking of some way to be in the country when I return to Paris. What will be the result of all these plans?
As I was leaving Paris I met M. de Saulcy, who had just received a letter from Metz. Your brother was spoken of in the highest terms, which is very gratifying to those who recommended him. I should have written this earlier but for the thousand and one annoyances incident to my departure.
Good-bye. I believe this little talk with you has made me feel better. If I had more paper, and not so many reports to prepare, I think I might be capable now of saying something affectionate. As you are aware, my attacks of temper usually end in that way.
At Dijon, General Delivery, and do not forget my titles and degrees!
LXXV
Avallon, August 14, 1843.
I expected to be in Lyons the 10th, and am not within sixty leagues of that place. I shall not have any news from you until I reach Autun. If you want to be kind you will write to me again at Lyons.
Vézelay pleases me more and more. The view from there is superb, and besides it is sometimes a pleasure to be alone. As a usual thing I find myself rather dreary company, but when I am depressed, with no good reason for being so, and when this depression has in it no vestige of anger, it is then that I enjoy complete solitude. This was my mood during the last few days of my stay at Vézelay. I took long walks, or lay down on the edge of a natural terrace, which a poet might well call a precipice, and there I philosophised on the Ego, and on Providence, on the hypothesis that there be a Providence. I thought of you also, which was more agreeable than thinking of myself. But even the thought of you was not the most cheerful, because no sooner did it come to me than it occurred to my mind how happy I should be to see you here in this obscure corner of the world. And then—and then, it all ended with this other disheartening thought, that you were far, far away, that it was not easy to see you, and not even certain that you would care to see me.
My presence at Vézelay greatly mystified the population. Whenever I sketched, especially in a well-lighted room, large groups of people would assemble around me, and every one had some conjecture as to my occupation. This distinction proved a great bore, and I should like to have had a janissary beside me to keep back the curious. Here I have become once more one of the multitude. I came to visit an old uncle whom I scarcely knew, and with whom I am obliged to stay two days. To entertain me, he has taken me to see several mutilated heads found in the excavations made nearby. I am not fond of relatives. You are compelled to be on familiar terms with people you have never seen, simply because they happen to be descended from the same grandfather that you have. My uncle, however, is a most worthy man, not especially provincial, and if we had two ideas in common I might even find him agreeable.
The women here are as homely as the women in Paris; and they have, moreover, ankles big as stumps. At Nevers the women had extremely pretty eyes. They wear no national costumes. Besides our moral perfections, we have the advantage of being the most stunted and the ugliest people of Europe.
I send you an owl’s feather which I found in a gap of the Abbot’s Church of the Madeleine at Vézelay. The former owner of the feather and I found ourselves for a moment face to face, each one equally startled by our unexpected encounter. The owl was less brave than I, and flew away. She had a formidable beak, and eyes that were terrifying, besides two feathers shaped like horns. I am sending this feather to you that you may admire its softness, and also because I have read somewhere in a book of magic that when one gives a woman an owl’s feather, and she places it under her pillow, she dreams of him. Will you tell me your dream? Good-bye.
LXXVI
Saint-Lupicin, August 15, 1843, at night.
Six hundred metres above the sea-level;
in the midst of an ocean of lively and
famished fleas.
Your letter is diplomatic. You practise the axiom that language has been given to man that he may conceal his thoughts. Fortunately for you, your postscript disarmed me. Why do you say in German what you think in French? Is it because you think only in German, that is, that you do not think at all? I am unwilling to credit it. At the same time, there are things in you which irritate me to the last degree. Why are you still shy with me? Why have you never wished before to tell me anything that would have given me so much pleasure? Do you suppose that there are synonyms in a foreign language?
You can not form any conception of this place. Saint Lupicin is in the Jura mountains. It is extremely ugly, dirty, and inhabited by fleas. In a little while I shall be obliged to go to bed, where I shall repeat my experience of the nights spent at Ephesus. Unfortunately, however, when I awake there will be neither laurels nor Grecian ruins to meet my eye. What a hideous country! I think often that if the railroads were more comfortable we might go together to some such place, and then it would seem beautiful. There are flowers here in the greatest profusion; the air is remarkably pure and vigorous, so that the human voice can be heard at a distance of a league.
To prove that I am thinking of you, here is a little flower which I plucked in my walk at sunset. It is the only kind that I can send. All other varieties are colossal.
What are you doing? Of what are you thinking? You never tell me what you really think, and it is folly for me to ask you. I have had but few comfortable moments since I came away. Skies of leaden gray, all sorts of accidents, and all sorts of discomforts; a broken wheel, a bruised eye—but they are all patched up now in some sort of fashion. But what I find most difficult to become accustomed to is solitude. I believe this year it is more unendurable than ever before. I mean solitude in the midst of life and animation. It seems to me that if I were in prison I should be more comfortable than I am tramping over the country. Nothing is more depressing. I long for our walks more than anything else. It cheers me to have you say that you still love our woods. Although my tiresome absence is to be prolonged indefinitely, nevertheless I hope we shall visit them again.
The Department of the Jura, with its mountains and cross-cuts, delays me more than ten days. I have one disappointment after another. It is as if I were still crossing my first mountain. I have not the least desire to go to Italy. It is pure imagination on your part. Your letter pleased me at times, and at others enraged me. I read sometimes between the lines the sweetest things in the world, and again you seem more chilly than usual. It is only the postscript that satisfies me. I saw it only the last thing. It is at such a great distance from the rest of the letter! If you write immediately, send it to Besançon; if not, address it to me in Paris. I do not know where I shall be a week from this time.
LXXVII
Paris, September, 1843.
I am terribly dull without you, to use an expression that you affect. I did not realise the other day, clearly at least, that we were saying farewell for a long, long time. Is it true now that we shall see each other no more? We separated without speaking, almost without looking at each other. It was almost like a former occasion. I felt a sort of calm happiness, which is not usual to me. It seemed to me for a few moments that I desired nothing more. Now, if we can experience that happiness again, why should we refuse it? It is true that we may quarrel again, as we have done so many times. But what is the memory of a quarrel compared to that of a reconciliation? If you feel about this half as I do you must be anxious to go again for one of our walks. I am going away on a short journey next week. Saturday, if you like, or even the Tuesday following, we might meet.
I have not written sooner because I had persuaded myself that the suggestion to revisit our woods would come from you. I was mistaken, but I am not very much offended. You possess the secret of making me forget many things, and of making sentiment take the place of reason. Let me see you once more. I shall have no reproaches for you. One is fortunate to be able thus to dream.
LXXVIII
Paris, September, 1843.
Our letters crossed. You realise now, I hope, that my anger, which I now regret deeply, was not caused by what you imagine. Your letter proves, however, that it is impossible for us not to quarrel. We are too unlike. You are wrong to repent of what you have done. I was wrong to wish you to be other than what you are. I beg you to believe that I have not changed. I regret more than all having left you as I did, but there are moments when one can not be composed. I want to see you now that we may repeat one of our beautiful dreams of last summer, and to bid you a long farewell, leaving you with a sweet and tender mood.
You will, of course, consider my idea ridiculous. Yet it pursues me, and I can not help telling it to you. You will be quite justified in refusing. I think I now have sufficient self-control not to lose my temper. I am not sure, however; yet whatever you decide will be right. I can only promise that I have the very best intentions to be calm and patient.
LXXIX
Avignon, September 29.
I have not heard from you for many days, and it has been almost as long a time since I have written to you. But I have a good excuse. The business in which I am engaged is extremely fatiguing. All day I must walk or drive, and at night, no matter how tired, I must despatch a dozen pages of prose. I speak of commonplace writing only, for, from time to time, I have some extraordinary piece of work to do for my minister. But, since those things are never read, I can safely indulge in all manner of nonsense.
The country that I am exploring is charming, but the people are stupid to the last degree. No one ever opens his mouth that he does not sound his own praises, from the man who wears a frockcoat to the porter. There is no sign here of the tact which distinguishes the gentleman, and which it gave me so much pleasure to discover among the common people of Spain.
Except for this, it is impossible to find a country more like Spain. The general aspect of the landscape and of the town is the same. The workmen lie down in the shade and wrap themselves in their cloaks with an air as tragic as that of the Andalusians. Everywhere the odour of garlic and oil is mingled with that of oranges and jessamine. The streets are protected by canvas during the day, and the women have small, well-shod feet. Even the patois has in it a suggestion of the Spanish accent. Late in the season as it is, there is still a tremendous buzzing of gnats, fleas, and bugs, which are fatal to sleep. I must endure this life for two months still before looking on human beings again! I am thinking constantly of my return to Paris, and in imagination I enjoy no end of delicious moments spent with you. Perhaps the very best thing for which I long is to see you coming in the distance, and to win from you a little nod in token of recognition....
You ask me for a drawing of a Roman capital. I have not a single one left. I have sent all my sketches to Paris. Besides, you would find a capital very uninteresting. The decoration consists of either devils, or dragons, or saints. The devils belonging to the early period of Christianity have in them nothing attractive. As for the dragons and the saints, I am sure you have very slight regard for them.
I have begun to draw for you a Maçonese costume. It is the only one that I have seen which possesses any grace. Even the girdle is arranged so oddly that the most slender waist could not be distinguished from the stoutest. One must have a special kind of physical organism to wear such a costume. The cheapness of cotton-stuffs, and the ease of communication with Paris, have caused the national costumes to fall into disuse.
I gave myself a sort of sprain last night. I am writing now with one foot stretched on a chair, in a state of impatience difficult to describe. When will the swelling leave my foot? That is the question. If I were obliged to spend five or six days more in this position I do not know what would become of me. I believe I should prefer to be seriously ill rather than to be tied down as I am by such a trifling thing. At the same time, this causes me no little pain.
Avignon is full of churches and palaces, all surmounted by high towers, with machicolated battlements. The great Palace of the Popes is an example of Middle-Age fortifications. It shows the friendly security that reigned in this land about the thirteenth or fourteenth century. In the Palace of the Popes you ascend a hundred steps of a winding stairway and then find yourself suddenly facing a wall. Turning your head, you see, fifteen feet above you, the continuation of the stairway, which can only be reached by means of a ladder. There are, also, subterranean chambers, which were used during the Inquisition. You are shown furnaces where the irons were heated to torture the heretics, and the remains of a complicated instrument, also used for torture. The inhabitants of Avignon are as proud of their Inquisition as the English are of their Magna Charta. “We,” they say, “invented the auto-da-fé, the Spaniards only imitated us!”
At Vienna a few days ago I saw an antique statue which overthrew all my previous opinions concerning Roman statuary. I had always seen the conventional ideal of beauty exert its influence on the imitation of nature. In this instance it was altogether different. The statue represents a huge, fat woman, with enormous hanging throat, and folds of fat covering her ribs, just as Rubens painted his nymphs. It is all portrayed with a fidelity to nature amazing to see. What would the gentlemen of the Academy say to it?
Good-bye. It is time for the post to leave. Write to me at Montpellier, and again at Carcassonne. I hope it will not be long before I shall go to find your letter, which always makes me happy.
Good-bye once more.
LXXX
Toulon, October 2.
It has been a long time, dear friend, since I wrote to you. As soon as my foot returned to its normal size, I felt that I must make up for lost time by touring the county of Avignon. I have learned, also, how to appreciate the difference between the gnats of Carpentras, Orange, Cavaillon, Apt, and other places. Nearly all of them possess in common the characteristic of preventing an honest man from going to sleep. I shall not tell you about the beautiful things I have seen, or the humbugs I have discovered.
But do you know what a draquet is? It is the same thing as a fantasy. I will explain the meaning of these two barbarous words. You must know, in the first place, that the wealth of the Department of Vaucluse consists principally in silks. In every peasant’s lodge silk-worms are cultivated, and silk is spun, from which arises a disagreeable odour. Very frequently, skeins of silk are found hanging on the bushes. Towards evening, there are peasant women imprudent enough to come and gather these skeins of silk, hiding them in their baskets. The basket gradually becomes heavier, with constantly increasing weight, until it puts one in a perspiration to carry it. When, after a long and fatiguing journey, the bank of a stream is reached, the basket has become absolutely insupportable, and is placed on the ground. Immediately there jumps from the basket a tiny creature, with an immense head, who moves himself by a sort of lizard’s tail. Chuckling and giggling, he plunges into the stream, saying: “M’as ben pourta!” which signifies in Provençal, or in the idiom of the draquets, “You have carried me very well!” I have met more than one woman who had been hoaxed in this way by these mischievous demons, and am extremely sorry not to have made the acquaintance of one myself. I should have enjoyed it enormously.
My journey lengthens as the days grow shorter. I go to-morrow to Fréjus, and from there to the islands of Lérins, where I may find, perhaps, the remains of the first Christian church of the West. I am more than half inclined to believe I shall find nothing at all. But one must follow one’s profession conscientiously, and examine everything of historical significance.
It is impossible to find anything dirtier and prettier than Marseilles. Dirty and pretty applies equally to the women of Marseilles. They all have expressive faces, lovely black eyes, beautiful teeth, tiny feet, and imperceptible ankles. On their little feet they wear cinnamon stockings, of the colour of Marseilles mud, coarse in quality, and darned with twenty different shades of cotton. Their gowns are badly made, and are always shabby and soiled. Their beautiful black hair owes its glossiness almost entirely to the use of candle tallow. Add to this an atmosphere of garlic mixed with the fumes of rancid oil, and you have a picture of the Marseilles beauty. What a pity it is that in this world nothing should be perfect! Ah, well, they are charming, the Marseilles women, in spite of it all. It is a veritable triumph.
My evenings, which are now long, begin to be horribly tiresome. ‘Tis true that I have usually volumes of letters to write and reports to prepare for two or three ministers, but these pleasant occupations have not kept me from having the blues for the last three weeks. My dreams are as dismal as they can be, and my waking thoughts are no brighter. Not a single word from you, when I need it so sadly! If you write to me promptly, address your letter to Carcassonne. I must hear from you to cheer me up....
After leaving Carcassonne I shall go to Perpignan, to Toulouse, and to Bordeaux. I hope I may find there some souvenir from you. The sketch I am making for you is not yet finished. I shall give it to you when I return to Paris. I wish you would tell me if there is something more you should like me to bring you. Here is a flower from a prickly shrub which grows near Marseilles, and which has the perfume of sweet violets.
Good-bye.
LXXXI
Paris, Friday morning, November 3, 1843.
Is it possible that you mean all you write me? What, then, is this strange diffidence which prevents you from being frank, and which makes you try to invent the most extraordinary lies, rather than let escape from you one word of truth, which would please me so much to hear? Among the good sentiments of which you speak there is one, you say, that I do not understand; and, since you do not try to make me understand it, I am unable even to guess it. I confess I am no more clever with the two others.
Do you believe in the devil? To my mind the whole thing hinges on that. If you are afraid of him, take care that he does not carry you off. If, as I imagine, the devil is out of the question in this case, it remains only to inquire whether one harms or wrongs some one else. I am telling you my catechism. I think it is better than yours, but I will not vouch for it. I have never made an effort to convert any one, but neither has any one, to the present time, been able to convert me. You reproach yourself, moreover, much more severely than I have ever reproached you. Sometimes, ‘tis true, I yield to sadness and impatience; but I accuse you with nothing, except occasionally that lack of frankness which keeps me in an attitude of almost continual suspicion, forced as I am to seek for your meaning under a disguise. If I were convinced of the truth of what you said the other day I should be very unhappy, for I could not bear to make you suffer. You see, however, that from saying sometimes one thing, sometimes another, you make me doubt everything. I no longer know what you think, what you feel. For once, at least, write to me openly.
LXXXII
Paris, November 16, 1843.
I can see you now in imagination with the expression you wear sometimes; the expression of your bad days, I mean. I fear that you are not only cross with me, but also that you have taken cold. Relieve my mind at once on these two points. You were so kind and gracious that I could forgive you, I think, even a return of your bad humour, if you would but tell me that our walk did you no harm. I have slept almost all day, in that condition of semi-unconsciousness that you like. This cold weather is most discouraging. There used to be Martinmas summer, which was some consolation for the death of the leaves, but I fear that this has passed away, like so many of the things of my youth.
Write to me, dear friend. Tell me that you are well, and that my grumbling has not vexed you. You will not correct me of this fault. If I were not accustomed to think aloud when I am with you, I should be almost tempted to be angry always, because you are then so sweet that one can not regret having caused you sorrow. However, I will think only of the moments when our thoughts were in accord, and when it seemed to me that you forgot my plaguing and your own pride.
Your letter has just been delivered to me. I thank you most heartily for it. You are just as kind and charming, as you were day before yesterday, and this is doubly appreciated, for the pleasant things that you say I know are sincere, and are not dictated by any fear of my anger. If you only realised the delight I take in one word of yours that comes from the heart, you would be less stingy of them. I hope your present mood may continue.
I suppose you enjoyed yourself tremendously at your ball last night. I went to the Opera. Ranconi was either drunk or imprisoned for debt, so it was proposed to shut the doors against us. At last, however, after continued protests on our part, they gave us “The Elixir of Love.” I then returned, and corrected proofs until three o’clock in the morning.
So you fancy that the Academy fills my thoughts? I find this is the first thought I have given to it to-day. There is but scant chance of success there. Do you know of any witchcraft that will draw my name out of the pine coffer known as a ballot-box?
LXXXIII
Paris, Tuesday night, November 22, 1843.
I have learned on good authority of your exhaustion. It is the reaction from a moral to a physical attitude of obstinacy. It is difficult for me to believe that your wilfulness is altogether involuntary. Even if it were so, you would be in the wrong. What is the result? By giving ungraciously, the sacrifice that you are making is deprived of all its merit. You suffer from the pain of this sacrifice all the more keenly because you have not the consolation of knowing that it is appreciated. In your own words, you are suffering a double remorse. I have told you this more than once. You accuse me of injustice, but I think the reproach undeserved. You do not judge me fairly.
It is true that we have such different temperaments, especially such different points of view, that we can never be able to agree in judgment. I have tried not to give way to anger, with but poor success, I fear, and I ask your forgiveness. At the same time, I have made some improvement, you will admit. Why do you wish to dispute the subject: “Which one loves the better?” The first thing to do would be to agree on the meaning of the verb, and that we shall never do. We are both too ignorant ever to be of accord, especially too ignorant one of the other. I have thought several times that I understood you, but you have always eluded me. I was right when I said you were like Cerberus: three gentlemen at once.
I am never sure whether your head or your heart is in the ascendant; you yourself do not know, but you decide always in favour of the head. It is better to quarrel than not to see each other. This seems to be the only thing entirely demonstrated. When shall we quarrel again? Do not forget that Friday is my reception day. During the last four days I have embraced about thirty of my fellow-members, principally those who, having promised me their support, have broken their word.[8]