hour ago I read your letter, which has been on my table ever since Tuesday, concealed under a pile of papers. Since you did not disdain my gifts, I send you some conserves of roses, jessamine, and bergamot. You might offer a jar of it to Madame de C., with my best respects. It seems that I once offered you a pair of Turkish slippers, and you have persisted in refusing them, so that I should like to send them to you anyway. But since my return I have been robbed. No sign of any slippers; I can not find them high or low. Will you accept this instead? Perhaps this Turkish mirror will please you better; for you seem to me to be even more coquettish than you were in the year of grace 1840. It was in the month of December, and you wore striped silk stockings. That is all that I remember.
It is for you to decide the protocol of which you speak. You do not believe in my gray hair. Here is a sample in proof of it.
I give nothing without expecting a return. Before you go to Naples, you will be good enough to take my directions and to bring me back what I shall tell you. I might give you a letter to the director of the Pompeiian excavations, if you are interested in such things.
You make of your precious self such a dazzling portrait that I see the time of our next meeting postponed to the Greek Kalends. Allah kerim! I am writing in the midst of such an infernal racket that I do not know exactly what I am saying. I have a great many things to say, however, about ourselves, which I shall defer until after I have heard from you. Meanwhile, good-bye, and preserve that splendid bearing, that radiant countenance, which I admired.
XIV
Paris, Saturday, March, 1842.
For two hours I have been trying to decide whether I should write to you. My pride offers many reasons why I should not do so, but although you are perfectly sure, I hope, of the pleasure your letter gave me, I declare I can not refrain from telling you so.
So you are rich; so much the better. I congratulate you. Rich, which is, interpreted, free. Your friend, who had such a happy inspiration, must have been somewhat of an Auld Robin Gray; he was evidently in love with you. You will never confess it, because you are too fond of mystery; but I will forgive you; we write to each other too seldom to quarrel. Why should you not go to Rome and to Naples to enjoy the pictures and the sunshine? You are capable of appreciating Italy, and you will return richer in impressions and ideas.
I do not advise you to visit Greece. Your skin is not tough enough to resist the multitude of hideous creatures that prey on people there. Speaking of Greece, since you take such good care of what is given you, here is a blade of grass which I plucked on the hill of Anthela at Thermopylæ, the place where the last of the three hundred died. This little flower has in its constituent atoms probably a few of the molecules of the late Leonidas. I recollect, besides, that on this very spot, as I lay stretched upon a pile of straw in front of the guard-house (what a profanation!), I spoke of my youth to my friend Ampère, and said that among the tender remembrances which I had preserved there was but one in which there was no touch of bitterness. I was thinking at the time of our beautiful youth. Pray keep my foolish flower.
Tell me, should you like some more substantial souvenir of the Orient? Unfortunately, I have given away all the beautiful things that I brought back with me. I could give you quantities of sandals, but you would wear them for others, thank you. If you wish some conserves of roses and jessamine, I still have a little left, but let me know at once, or I shall eat them all. We hear from each other so seldom that we have a great many things to say concerning ourselves. Here is my history:
I visited my dear Spain again in the fall of 1840. I spent two months in Madrid, where I witnessed a ridiculous revolution, several superb bull-fights, and the triumphal entry of Espartero, which was the most comical parade I ever saw. I was a guest in the home of an intimate friend who is almost like a dear sister to me. In the morning I went into Madrid, and returned to dine in the country with six women, the oldest of whom was thirty-six. In consequence of the revolution I was the only man at liberty to come and go freely, so that these six unfortunates had no other protector. They spoiled me terribly. I did not fall in love with any of them, as I should perhaps have done. While I did not deceive myself as to the advantages which I owed to the revolution, I found it very agreeable, nevertheless, to be a sultan, even ad honores.
On my return to Paris I treated myself to the innocent pleasure of printing a book for private circulation. There were only made a hundred and fifty copies, with superb paper, illustrations, etc., which I presented to people whom I liked. I should offer you this rare book if you were worthy of it; but I must warn you that it is a historical and pedantic work, so bristling with Greek and Latin, nay, even with Oscan (do you even know what Oscan is?), that you could not so much as nibble at it.
Last summer I happened to fall on a little money. My minister gave me three months’ holiday, and I spent five running about from Malta to Athens and from Ephesus to Constantinople. During these five months I was not bored for five minutes. What would have become of you, to whom I was once such an object of terror, if you had met me during my Asiatic journey, with a belt of pistols, a huge sword, and—would you believe it?—a moustache that extended beyond my ears! Without intending any flattery, I should have struck fear into the heart of the boldest brigand of melodrama. At Constantinople I saw the Sultan, in patent-leather boots, and a frock-coat, and again, afterwards, covered with diamonds in the procession of the Baïram. On the same occasion, a handsome woman, on whose toe I had stepped by accident, slapped me severely and called me a giaour. This constituted my only intercourse with the Turkish beauties. At Athens, and in Asia, I saw the most splendid monuments in the world, and the loveliest landscapes possible to imagine.
The only drawback consisted in fleas and gnats as big as larks; consequently I never slept. Meanwhile, I have grown old. My passport describes me as having turtle locks, which is a pleasant Oriental metaphor for saying all sorts of disagreeable things. Picture to yourself your friend as quite gray. And you, querida, have you changed? I am waiting impatiently until you become less pretty, so that I may see you. In two or three years from now, when you write to me, tell me what you are doing and when we are to see each other. Your “respectful remembrance” made me laugh, and also that you should presume to dispute its place in my heart with Ionic and Corinthian columns.
In the first place, I do not care for any but the Doric, and there are no columns, not even excepting those of the Parthenon, which can be compared to the memory of an old friendship. Good-bye; go to Italy, and be happy. I start to-day for Evreux, on a matter of business, expecting to return Monday night. If you wish to eat rose leaves, say so; but I warn you there is only a spoonful left for you.
XV
Paris, Monday night, March, 1842.
I have just received your letter, which has put me in a bad humour. So it is your satanic pride which has kept you from seeing me. It is not for me to reproach you, however, for I think I saw you the other day, and was restrained from speaking to you by a feeling quite as paltry. You say you are better than you were two years ago. It is very well for you to say that. I admit that you are more beautiful, but, on the other hand, you seem to have absorbed a good dose of selfishness and hypocrisy. These may be very useful, but they are not qualities for one to brag about. As for me, I have become neither better nor worse; I am not more of a hypocrite than I was, and I may be wrong. Certain it is that I am not loved more on this account.
Since this purse was not embroidered by your own fair hand, what
